Literally.
So Rachel was painfully slow by my standards, a good thing, since her bi-polar personality dysfunction had become more pronounced each day of our vacation, occasionally leading to sudden violent outbursts. I love dating her, but my life could be in danger with a live-in relationship. As long as I remain conscious, she can't seriously harm me. But if we were to live together I’d eventually have to sleep, and all bets would be off.
“You’re a fucking bastard and I don’t want to see you, ever again!” Rachel shrieked.
She jumped off my lap and launched her hand toward my face. I could have easily avoided the slap, but it had been weeks since I’d sparred, and I missed the physical contact. She smacked me two, three times, grabbed her purse, slung it over her shoulder, and stomped off into the dusk.
Rachel had been slightly unstable even before she’d been locked in a Lucite container for two days and nights. I busted her out, what, two weeks ago? Since then we’d been on vacation, making our way down the Atlantic coast, hitting all the beaches of consequence, while her mental condition steadily deteriorated.
You may be wondering how I managed to catch a few hours of sleep while traveling with Rachel.
Simple: I drugged her.
So sure, I could move in and live with Rachel, bring my pills and knock her unconscious every night, but in the long run that’s no basis for maintaining a healthy relationship.
I closed my eyes and listened to her cuss a blue streak as she moved down the road. Her fury was almost poetic, as sudden and dangerous as a cyclone. She was heading north on A1A toward Amelia Island Plantation, the place where my associate, Callie Carpenter, and I killed a woman named Monica Childers five years ago.
Chapter 2
ANGRY OR NOT, Rachel was kick-ass sexy in that mouth-watering, leave-your-wife sort of way, with long brown hair; blonde highlights, and eyes the color of tupelo honey.
I let her get a half-mile down the road before starting after her. When we’d gone about a mile, I moved to within three feet and remained behind her, matching her pace, giving her space in case she wasn’t ready to talk. I shadowed her like that until I suddenly felt something that’s hard to describe. It was a type of serene presence, like a drug-induced high, but calming and blissful. One minute I’m normal, the next I’m practically euphoric, and then it passed.
Rachel felt it too.
She stopped abruptly, but didn’t turn around.
“Am I crazy, Kevin?”
“You might be the sanest person I know,” I said, thinking that was a sad thing to have to admit.
“I’m sorry I hit you.”
“That was a million years ago.”
She turned and put her arms around me and kissed my mouth. Then we turned it into a full body hug, right there in the middle of the highway.
It was a quiet night, the cars few and far between, and we headed back toward the bed and breakfast. The tall grass on the shoulders swayed in the breeze, and I kept us in the middle of the road so the ticks wouldn’t get on her legs.
The feeling of serenity—or whatever it was—lasted maybe ten seconds, and yet it had been powerful enough to make me want to pursue its source. Could there have been something in the air? Some type of flower whose aroma was intoxicating? Either we had moved through a space where it was, or it had invaded our space and moved on. I made a mental note to thoroughly check the area the next morning when I went on my run.
Rachel said, “You remember a couple of weeks ago when Karen said you were a killer, not a thief?”
“Her real name is Callie,” I said.
Rachel didn’t respond, so I added, “Yeah, I remember.”
“What did she mean?”
Rachel knew I worked for Homeland Security, but so far I hadn’t felt the need to tell her that my job involved assassinating suspected terrorists. Nor did I happen to mention that in my spare time I was a contract killer for the mob.
“She was probably talking about my killer smile,” I said.
“I wonder.”
I looked at her but didn’t say anything.
She said, “The way you handled yourself when you saved me and Sam from those guys. Not to mention Lou.”
“Lou Kelly? What about him?”
“You can tell Lou’s a tough guy.”
“He is.”
“But he was afraid of you and Karen. And Karen hit Sam with one punch and nearly killed him.”
“So?”
Rachel took my hand in hers, put it to her lips.
“I’m not wearing panties,” she said.
I took a moment to marvel at her facility for random discourse.
“Always useful information for a boyfriend to have,” I said.
At that moment, for no apparent reason, she bit the shit out of my hand. I wondered briefly if she was really crazy or just messing with me.
“I never wear panties,” I said.
“Did you feel it just now when I bit you? ‘Cause you never yelled or anything.”
“Was that you?” I said. “Yeah, I felt it.”
“That’s why I love you so much,” Rachel said.
“Because I don’t yell when you bite me?”
“No, ‘cause you’re funny.”
“Good to know,” I said, rubbing my hand.
“I bet you’ve got a hell of a history, Kevin.”
“I won’t deny it.”
“Maybe someday you’ll tell me,” she said.
“Maybe I’ll write a book.”
She smiled. “If you do, will you put me in it?”
“Of course.”
“You promise?”
“If I write a book, I’ll put you in it. I’ll call it Now and Then.”
“I hope you’re not married to that title,” she said, “or you’ll never make the first sale.”
It was getting dark. Lights in the beach rentals up and down the highway began popping on. In front of us, to the left, a little boy with a buzz cut raced onto the balcony of a two-story, pulled his pants down to his ankles and tried to pee through the rail. His mother yelped and caught him in the nick of time and dragged him back through the sliding glass door. By then they were both laughing.
Rachel and I smiled at each other.
“Kids,” I said.
“Boys, you mean.”
I looked at her. “What, you’re saying girls don’t pee outdoors?”
“Not from heights.”
We walked in silence while I pondered the validity of her remark.
Rachel said, “I haven’t told my mom.”
“Told her what?”
“About us.”
“What about us?”
“About us getting married, silly.”
“Oh, that.” I said.
“Maybe I should tell her in person,” she said.
“That’s probably a good idea.”
We’d come to an open area, maybe eighty yards from the nearest house. I heard a car coming up behind us, moving slowly. I instinctively moved Rachel to the left side of the road.
“You dudes need a ride?”
Several of them in the car: blue, 69 Camaro Super Sport, dual white racing stripes on the hood.
The driver had done the talking. He was Rachel’s age, meaning late twenties. He had a chipped front tooth, and greasy, stringy hair. His eyes had the glazed look of a pothead who took his weed seriously. When the back window zipped down, a cloud of smoke leaked out and swirled in the breeze.
An alarmingly ugly guy with thick lips said, “We’ll give the girl a ride.” Addressing Rachel, he said, “Hey chica, you want a little strange? Climb in. We’ll give you a ride you won’t never forget!”
“Back off, fuck wad,” Rachel said. “Or my fiancé will kick your ass.”
The ugly guy’s eyelids were at half-mast. He showed me a dull, vacant stare. “That right, pops?”
“Move along,” I said.
“You believe this shit?” he said to someone in the back seat. “Bitch turning down our sweet ride. Pops prob’ly got a Oldsmobile nearby. Maybe we drive around, see we can find it. Maybe we torch that motherfucker for you, eh pops?”