At First Sight

Chapter 43

I FOLLOWED PAIGE'S TRACKS UP THE HILL, SAW THAT she had made her way over and was coming back down. She was heading toward the main road, trying to get into town.

I had two Yamaha snowmobiles in the shed by my garage, one red, one yellow. I stripped off the covers, grabbed some snow goggles and a parka, and then checked the gas tanks. I tried to start each one, but both the batteries were dead. I had to jump the red one with a wall plug to get the damn thing going. Then I got on and raced it down the drive, the treads throwing a white rooster tail high in the air behind me.

She'd left an easy trail in the snow, her footprints pointing the way. I turned left at the driveway entrance and headed in the direction of town, roaring after her.

I felt at loose ends, out of control, frightened.

As I roared down that snow-covered highway, with the undercarriage of the Yamaha eating up Paige's footprints like a deranged Pac-Man, I knew I had to come up with a plan to end this. It was already a disaster, but before committing a third murder, I had to chart a course. I had to take stock of my options.

I'd killed Evelyn and Chandler, but how much could the cops really prove? Could they prove I'd run Chandler down? Even though they'd found the Bondoed fender on the Hertz Taurus, would the story about hitting the deer still hold up? It might. And Evelyn's murder wasn't exactly a prosecution slam dunk either. I'd certainly framed the shit out of Delroy Washington. His fingerprints were on the murder weapon and in the car. He had half a dozen priors. I still had Melissa as an alibi.

I was pretty sure Delroy would go down for Evelyn, which meant Paige was my only real problem. I had all but confessed to her. I had to take care of her first and then assess the damages. L. A. juries were notoriously thickheaded. If O. J. Simpson and Robert Blake could walk, why not Chick Best?

As I zapped along in the darkness, these thoughts swirled, sticking in my head like the snow on my windshield. If I was going to kill Paige Ellis, I knew one thing. It had to look like an accident.

Then I saw something moving in my headlights up ahead. I slowed and steered the Yamaha in that direction. It was Paige. Her hair was soaked. Dripping ringlets hung in her face. Her blouse clung to her like a second skin. She didn't look like a goddess anymore. She looked like a half-drowned cat-cold, wet, and totally at my mercy.

I pulled the snowmobile to a stop a few yards away, then walked up and crouched over her. She looked up, fear and supplication finally where they belonged, right there on that bitch's snow-wet face. Chick Best was the victor. The Chickster was finally back in control.