Cherry Bomb

CHAPTER 34

ALEX CLIMBS OFF THE BED. Naked. Satisfied. Bloody.

The blood isn’t hers.

Jack’s husband held up pretty well. The erection pills probably helped, but twice in an hour was more than Lance ever managed.

“Not bad, loverboy. If you enjoyed yourself, don’t say anything.”

Alan stays quiet. The duct tape gag has a lot to do with it, but it makes Alex feel good just the same.

In the shower, she lathers up and plans her next few moves. Alex is good at planning. Thinking things through. Anticipating problems. It’s one of the reasons she’s been such a successful killer, caught just one time in a career lasting well over two de cades. Being careful doesn’t just happen. It requires deliberation. One must consider every possible contingency, and then predict probable outcomes.

Though genetically she’s a predator-something she got from Father-she can also thank him for her plotting capabilities. Growing up in a house hold ruled by fear and abuse can turn the most innocent child into a cold, calculating machine. Alex never learned how to play chess, but guesses she’d be good at it.

She playfully swishes a toe through the blood-streaked suds swirling down the drain, and decides to find some time in her busy schedule today to paint her toenails. She likes how the red looks.

The hair dryer is even worse than the one at the Old Stone Inn-Alex bets her hair is growing faster than it’s drying. She gives up after a few minutes, putting it into a ponytail while still damp. Makeup is a chore. She’s going out in public, so that means caking on the thick scar cover. The product comes with a tiny spatula, and it goes on like flesh-colored Spackle. Alex fusses with her bangs, letting them hang down over the bad half of her face, and then chooses to walk away before she starts to get angry again.

Back into the bedroom, naked. No real room for any serious exercise. But then, she probably got enough exercise in the last hour. She dresses in the cop uniform again, pleased that Alan is watching her. He’s gone from looking scared to looking devastated. Like a kicked dog.

“I’ll be back soon, dear. Don’t wait up for me.”

He doesn’t answer. She spends ten minutes online, giving Alan’s credit card a little workout. She remembers his e-mail address from his Web site, but she does have to give him a few gentle slaps to get him to spill his preferred Internet password. It gives her tremendous plea sure to hear his password is Jacqueline. What a sap.

When she’s finished with the computer, she sits on the bed and opens up the defibrillator, pretending to press a few buttons.

“I’ve activated the automatic motion sensor. So if you struggle, or try to scream, it will give you a nasty jolt. Plus, it will make me really angry. Trust me, I’m much easier to get along with when you’re on my good side.”

She runs a finger along his forehead, wipes the blood off on a pillowcase, and leaves the hotel room, making sure to put the Do Not Disturb sign on the door.

It’s a bright day, bright and painfully sunny, a sharp contrast to the cool wind chilling her scalp. Alex stands in the parking lot, pretending to search her pockets for her keys but actually getting the lay of the land. No one loitering. No parked cars with tinted windows or with the engines running. She knows that the authorities have by now found the Hyundai’s own er, dead in the ditch, and are looking for his car and his murderer.

She heads on to the car, climbs in, and drives twice around the parking lot. No tails.

Using the onboard GPS, she searches department stores in the area, and heads for the closest. She finds the superglue, the floss, the half-inch screw eyes, the inkjet printer and specialty paper, the socket set, the road flares, and the five-gallon gas canister easily enough, but has to walk up and down several aisles before finding the outlet timer. In the cosmetics department, she chooses a fire engine red nail polish. Standing in the checkout line, Alex notes that people are avoiding looking in her direction. She’s used to that-people tend to be repulsed by deformities, and after one glance they turn away. But in this case, people aren’t even giving her that first look.

It’s the uniform. People naturally distrust cops. In a weird way, it’s almost like being invisible. Alex watches a mother in line ahead of her, repeating over and over that she isn’t going to buy her son the toy he’s clutching and whining about. It reminds Alex of Samantha, the stripper with the little girl from yesterday, and Alex digs out her cell.

“Sammy? It’s Gracie.”

“Gracie?” Samantha sounds groggy. It’s lunchtime, but dancers work late hours.

“We met yesterday at the bookstore. You offered to take me clothes shopping.”

“Oh, hi! Glad you called.”

Alex’s eyes flick to a woman, Caucasian, mid-fifties, wearing jeans and a sweatshirt that she probably bought at this store. Short hair, brown with blond streaks. Gym shoes. Strangely, no purse. She’s beelining in this direction, face frantic, arms pumping.

“I’m free to night,” Alex says. “What’s your schedule look like?”

“I have off. I can call my neighbor, have her watch Melinda.”

The woman is a few steps away now, so close Alex can see the trickle of blood leaking from her nose.

“Officer!” the woman calls.

“That would be so cool,” Alex says into the phone. “You’ve got my number, right?”

“Yeah. I’ll call you. Awesome!”

“See you later.”

She hangs up just as the woman is tugging on her arm.

“He hit me and took my purse!” The woman’s voice is high-pitched, tinged with hysteria. Her cheeks glisten with tears.

“I’m off duty, ma’am.” Alex points at her cart with her chin. “You should call 911.”

“You have to help me! Please! There he is!”

Alex follows the woman’s finger in the direction of a teenager sporting gang colors, heading for the exit. He’s about forty yards away, young, moving fast. He’ll be out the door in a matter of seconds. A challenging target.

The holster on Alex’s hip has an unfamiliar snap holding the gun in place, and she loses half a second fumbling with it. But the draw is smooth, her aim is sure, and the kid flops to the ground minus his right knee.

There’s a moment of shocked silence, then pandemonium, people diving and ducking and screaming and shouting. Alex drinks in the reaction.

“I can’t see from here, but it doesn’t look like he has your purse.” Alex talks louder than normal; her ears are ringing, and so are everyone else’s. “But he probably has your cash and credit cards on him. I’m guessing he ditched your purse someplace in the store.”

The woman’s jaw is hanging open. Alex tips her cap, holsters her gun, and pushes her cart toward the exit.

The gangbanger is on the floor, clutching his knee, face wrenched with pain. Early teens, peach fuzz on his chin. His running days are over. And from the amount of blood on the floor, his walking days might be over as well. He sees Alex approach and fumbles for something in his loose-fitting jeans. Alex draws again, pointing the barrel at his groin.

“I blew off your kneecap from over a hundred feet away,” she says. “You want to see what kind of damage I can do this close to you?”

He shakes his head, his whole body twitching, and slowly raises his empty hands. Alex digs into his pocket, takes out a battered.22. She tucks it into her belt.

“Do yourself a favor, kid, and quit crime. You suck at it.”

She walks out of the store with a cop swagger and a cart full of merchandise she didn’t pay for.