Cava didn’t really give a shit what it was. He had been watching the house for a day and a half and the only thing that mattered was that it had been easy. One round each from a.22 pistol stuffed inside an empty half-gallon Pepsi bottle to dampen the noise. They never did see the gun. Just the Pepsi bottle. Just Cava’s friendly smile and wave.
But even better, Cava was certain that West didn’t remember that he had actually talked about this place six months ago when they discussed what might happen if things went wrong. West had talked it up and even pointed it out on a map. An oasis, he called it. A safe haven with maid service, satellite TV, access to the Internet, and all of the amenities a U.S. senator in hiding might require.
Cava lifted the KitchenAid Pro mixer out of the box and set it down on the table. Attaching the meat grinder, he estimated that he would be working with more than seven hundred pounds of raw product and hoped that the 325-watt motor was up to the job.
He could hear the senator singing a show tune now. West seemed to know all the words to “Singing in the Rain,” but couldn’t quite manage to stay in key. Cava shook it off, setting a box of butcher’s paper beside the meat grinder and laying out a fresh roll of masking tape.
He was ready. Everything he needed was here. And the senator sounded like he was in a good mood.
He looked down at his lucky shoes. The cheap pair of sneakers that Lena Gamble had given him not knowing that they would play a crucial role in his escape. He wiggled his toes and smiled.
He wouldn’t be using the.22 this time. It wasn’t tactile enough and the moment had too much meaning. West had needed him and lied to him about everything. After the good senator killed that reporter and his little dog, he turned on him and gave him up. When that didn’t work, he made a run for it.
Alan West was a worm.
Cava thought about what he had just said to Lena Gamble on the phone. That he didn’t like killing. He knew in his heart that his words rang true. But maybe not this time. Not when it came down to Alan West. He wouldn’t even be using a knife because the moment was so special. So important to his psychological recovery.
The senator finally stopped singing and turned off the water. Cava pulled out his razor-sharp scalpel and wiped it on his shirt sleeve. Satisfied that the instrument was nearly sterile, and if not sterile, clean to anyone who might be observing, he glanced at the two dead guys on the floor and pushed open the bathroom door. He could see the senator through the steam. His hair matted down and his loose body dripping wet. He could see the man’s beady eyes on him penetrating the tempered glass. The shock and awe on his face. The fear and loathing. Although Cava had only been here for a short time, the people living in town looked hungry. Beef tacos were everywhere, but he noticed many people eating cheeseburgers as well. .