When She Was Bad Page 15

  “What was I gonna do? Let them shoot you? You’re my ride.”

  “There is that.” He looked like he was going to say something else, but the bimbo brought the food and both of us practically inhaled the late lunch, shoveling the food into our bodies in the shortest amount of time. I didn’t think either of us wanted to linger.

  While we waited for the check, I wanted to test out a theory.

  “What color dress is the woman two tables over wearing?”

  He didn’t even turn his head.

  “The blonde is wearing a blue dress, the brunette one of those print dresses you like.”

  “Lilly Pulitzer. What’s the man by the register drinking?

  “A glass of Chardonnay. And that’s not a man.”

  I craned my neck, and sure enough, it was a woman dressed as a man.

  “You’re good.”

  The waitress left the check along with her number. Ryder left cash and we made our way through the tables of people.

  “I’m not a trained seal to perform at your amusement.”

  “I know but it is a rather impressive skill. I thought you noticed everything, and now I know you do.”

  “Come on, let’s go. There’s an art forger I know, does docs for immigrants. The Organization doesn’t know about him. We’re meeting him in two days.”

  “Wait. Can I have a few minutes to go in that store?”

  He looked at the store and then at me. “Ten minutes.”

  There were trays of charms on the counter when Ryder surprised me by entering the shop.

  He handed me a new phone. “Got us each one.”

  I’ve already put one charm aside. It was called Wildflowers, and reminded me of the meadow and all that I’d left behind. This charm and the teacup I’d bought before were to commemorate the two men.

  The salesclerk had gone to the far counter to get another charm she thought I’d like. Ryder stepped in close and leaned down by my ear.

  “What the fuck? You’re buying jewelry when we have assassins on our tail?”

  “You wouldn’t understand.”

  Ryder looked at me, we had one of our wordless conversations, then he turned and stalked out of the store.

  “Oh my, I hope your husband wasn’t upset you’re spending all his money?” The woman looked at me with a smile on her face. “If you don’t mind my saying, that man of yours, he’s very intense and sexy.”

  “He’s used to me by now.” I handed her three more charms. “Better give me those as well. That’s what he gets for stomping out.”

  She held up the first charm. “This one’s called Oceanic Starfish. It’s always reminded me of the beach.”

  “Me too. And I love to read, so I had to have this one.”

  I held up the one called Love Reading, admiring the cute little glasses attached to the book. And the final charm I picked was called Adventure Awaits. Completely appropriate, given my situation. It wasn’t that I planned on killing three more people, but with the way my life had gone, you never knew. And after this, Ryder would probably make me pee in a bottle in the truck.

  “Shall I put them on for you?”

  “Just the Wildflowers one. I’ll save the others for later.”

  I paid her, the charms tucked away in my new messenger bag. Ryder had bought it for me along with the phone, making me feel the slightest bit guilty.

  Back in the truck, he drove out of town without speaking, but the tiny twitch in his cheek told me he was having a full-blown hissy fit.

  An hour later, he grabbed my wrist. The bracelet and charms sparkled in the sunlight coming through the window of the truck.

  “If we had a trunk, I’d lock you in. Want to tell me what the hell is the deal with the bloody charms?”

  CHAPTER 33

  AS WE PASSED WIDE OPEN fields, I thought about how to tell Ryder about my bracelets. A few songs later, I thought I could articulate what I wanted to say.

  “After the first one, I felt a need, not to keep a memento, but some way to mark what I had done. To never forget the animals who had suffered. I’d never owned one of these bracelets before, they’re really popular, and I’d seen a lot of women wearing them, so I figured they wouldn’t draw attention. I don’t know, the bracelet and first charm just called out to me.”

  We stopped to get gas, and while he filled up, I ran inside and bought water for him and Pepsi for me.

  “Why aren’t we moving?”

  Ryder reached out and took my hands in his, using his thumb to spin the bracelet around.

  “Nineteen. If I hadn’t been blacklisted, I’d take you to the Organization. They’d hire you in a heartbeat.”

  “I only kill those who deserve it.”

  “Many people deserve to die.”

  I shrugged. “I leave them to you and others. What I do is get justice for those without a voice or anyone to stand up for them.”

  He pulled onto the road. “You could make an awful lot of money. Then again, it’s not like you’re hurting for money.”

  “From my gram. But isn’t it lost? Won’t they be watching it?”

  “The guy we’re going to see will take care of it. Those bastards aren’t getting a cent of your money.” He was wearing sunglasses, so I couldn’t see his eyes.

  “Sometimes I wish I could be more like you, but I feel compelled to help the underdog, as you would call them.”

  “We’re not so different. What I do is a job, nothing more. Found I was good at it at a young age.” He shook his head. “I’m not sharing my troubled past with you.”

  Several songs later, he spoke again, his voice soft as afternoon turned to evening. “I read every one of the cases. They all deserved to die. What you did, taking out those who preyed on children or animals or people weaker than them, every one of them deserved their fates.”

  He couldn’t have surprised me more if he’d told me he’d been a clown in the circus growing up.

  “You know, you’re really rather charming when you aren’t killing people.”

  Ignoring the comment, he continued. “Most people sleepwalk through their lives, believing they live in a nice, sanitized world. They don’t want to know the truth. They just want to go on with their lives. But you, Hope. You leaned over the edge, looked into the abyss, and had the balls to do something about it.”

  One of those freak rainstorms that happen in the afternoons in the South opened up. Ryder pushed his sunglasses up on his head, and I noticed the fine lines around his eyes—not smile lines; no one would ever call them smile lines, not on him. More like lines from squinting into the scope of a gun for years and years.

  “Hell, I admire you. Though I have to ask, you want to tell me who the three guys are you’re planning to off?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The other three charms you bought.”

  “Not at this particular moment.”

  And that comment earned my second smile. I felt like we’d crossed some kind of line, moved to the next level with each other, maybe not as far as trust, but perhaps mutual respect.

  While Ryder checked us into the motel, I picked up a pizza and beer. Managed to eat two slices before I passed out, exhausted.

  Five days later, my wound was pink, and I thought it would heal without leaving more than a thin line. My inner seamstress appreciated the tiny stitches Ryder used. Thank the stars I was unconscious when he did it; I didn’t know if I could have stood watching a needle go in and out of my flesh.

  The next day we didn’t check out. Ryder had changed the meeting location to Brownsville, so with a whole day and nothing to do, I convinced him to go with me to one of those beach shops that charged too much. The kind where the swimsuit would fall apart after a week or two. As long as it lasted the day, I was happy.

  While we were out, I purchased a tablet. There was an umbrella over my chair, a cooler at my feet, and I spent my time trying to find out more about Gier and their competitors.

  Given everything I’d been
through, nothing should shock me, but here I was, mouth hanging open at the article I’d found.

  A quarter of the American population was officially overweight, not just overweight but medically labeled as obese. That was more than forty million adults. And the kids, there were more fat kids than skinny. I tore my gaze from the screen to look at the kids at the pool. It was Saturday and there were eight or nine swimming around. Two chunky, one overweight, two huge, two average, and two thin. When I was little, there might have been one chunky kid in class, but everyone else was average.

  The cost to society was incredible. The estimates I found ranged from a low of forty billion to a high of two hundred billion, yeah, billion. A year. Talk about giving weight to my conspiracy theory.

  Especially when I factored in all the issues. Not just the commercials that dominated TV, hawking drugs for all kinds of conditions, diseases themselves: breast cancer, colon, and other types of cancers all going up. Heart disease, arthritis, hypertension, diabetes, and osteoarthritis, all citing obesity as a root cause. And who was suffering the most? Middle- and lower-class America. People spending their time working one or more jobs trying to make ends meet. So busy they didn’t have time to think about what they ate, trusting the companies to provide food that wouldn’t kill them.

  The media talked about how fat America was growing, and yet no one bothered to say hey, let’s subsidize fruits and vegetables. Give tax credits to people who plant gardens. I ran across a PBS Frontline report where they had some big university guy heading up their nutrition department, and he pointed the finger at big food. Talked about how the over-processing took away the nutrients, how sugar, salt, and fat all contributed to the deterioration of people’s health.

  It was absolutely ridiculous. While the American Cancer Society, the American Heart Association, and the World Health Organization criticized big food, it was like no one gave a damn. Inexpensive, huge portions that tasted good. That was what consumers wanted. And that was what the industry gave them.

  “Why can’t people see big food is just like the cigarette industry?”

  Ryder sat beside me, out of his uniform of a t-shirt and jeans or dark suit. Before I could continue my rant, I glanced at him and almost dropped my beer.

  “Wow, call the eighties. They want their neon back.”

  He was wearing the most obnoxiously bright board shorts I’d ever seen. My eyes flicked to various scars across his chest and arms, some long faded, others more recent. He certainly was built. Photoshop out the scars on his chest and arms, and the scar at the corner of his eye and he could be a male model. Look out, David Beckham.

  “Don’t be dramatic. I brought you lunch.” He handed me a huge container of salad. “What? You’ve been complaining about big food. Eat your greens.”

  “If I wasn’t as pissed as a kid who’s just mistakenly poured buttermilk instead of milk on her Lucky Charms, I’d thank you.”

  “Eat your lunch and let me think.”

  “But—”

  “Hope. Stop talking.”

  The corner of his mouth quirked up, and I smiled, ate my salad, and enjoyed my beer. After I’d gone for a swim, I was lying on my stomach reading and muttering.

  “I knew I shouldn’t have let you buy that thing. Quit making yourself crazy.”

  Rolling over, I glared at him. “People don’t care. They want to wake up, flip on the light switch, and go about their daily lives.”

  Ryder stated matter-of-factly, “Forget it. Food companies advertise the hell out of their products, especially to kids. If the tobacco industry tried that shit now, people would be marching in the streets. Nobody cares. I don’t think it’s a conspiracy, Hope, I think it’s just apathy.”

  I shook my head. “You’re wrong. These companies would have to completely reengineer their foods to make them truly healthy. Get rid of many of the products altogether. There’s too much money at stake. They’re too powerful and they won’t do it.”

  “Even you can’t fix everything that’s wrong with the world.”

  “Maybe not, but if I can help the small corner of whatever part of the world I live in, at least that’s something.”

  Ryder took the tablet from me and turned it off. Then he handed me a beer, his sunglasses firmly in place as we sat there in companionable silence.

  And with that, I knew the conversation was over, I turned onto my stomach and closed my eyes, soaking up the rest of the afternoon sun.

  We had decided to eat dinner by the pool before going back to the room. I was in the shower when I heard him swear.

  “Hope, get your ass out here.”

  A towel wrapped around me, I stopped in front of the news, looking at pictures of us front and center. There was no mistaking us.

  “Fuck, that’s the Organization’s doing. We have to go.”

  After dressing in minutes, we were out the door. The news said we were fugitives wanted by law enforcement for our suspected involvement in a terrorist plot. While people today might not care about murderers or bank robbers, everyone cared about terrorists. It was the perfect way to find us. Everyone would be looking.

  We drove into Brownsville and found one of those private rentals where we didn’t have to talk to anyone. Simply paid online, punched in the code, and we were in. It was a house in a decent neighborhood, and as I wandered through the rooms, I heard a buzzing noise.

  I followed the sound to find Ryder in the bathroom, dark hair all around him. My mouth fell open. The man was totally bald.

  “You better sit outside in the sun. It’s obvious that your head is a completely different color than the rest of your body.”

  He flicked a glance to me but didn’t bother to answer.

  While I watched him finish up, I wanted to ask him something. He had been trained to kill; had he become desensitized to the point where he did his job and then went about the rest of his life? I opened my mouth to ask, but saw the set of his jaw and thought better of it.

  He went out to the patio and sat in one of the chairs, the moonlight making his head look even whiter than it had in the bathroom.

  “You going to join me or stand there staring at my head all night?”

  The night deepened, and we heard coyotes calling to each other. I’d worked up enough nerve, and turned to him.

  “How do you do it? Soldiers kill for their country and for patriotism. You’re hired to kill people for money. How do you not agonize about what you’ve done? The taking of life.”

  “This something you want to discuss right now?”

  “Please, Ryder. I’ve thought about it since the first one, and it’s not like I’ve had anyone I could ask.”

  “And that’s why you’re not a serial killer or psychopath, Hope. You’re what I’d call a social vigilante. You take life because you become justice, righting wrongs for those who can’t get it themselves. I kill for a paycheck, though if you think about it, a soldier, he kills for his country and he’s paid for his service. Eventually, you learn to compartmentalize. Those that can’t suffer from PTSD and a host of other issues. Not everyone is mentally equipped to carry the weight of taking a life around all the time.”

  He was quiet as the sound of coyotes filled the night, and then he said, “Then again, maybe those of us that can compartmentalize are the sociopaths and we just don’t know it.”

  CHAPTER 34

  BROWNSVILLE, TEXAS WAS PRETTY MUCH as I pictured it: mostly Hispanic, lower-income, and I wondered if these were people who would turn us in for the reward, or if they would go about their own business, ignoring the strangers in town?

  We were meeting the art forger, near the port of Brownsville. As we drove through town I saw the Rio Grande. How many people had crossed the border this year alone? Did they find what they were looking for?

  Near the port was a warehouse district, and it was where we were meeting the contact. When we pulled in the building, the door rolled shut, effectively turning it from day to night. I had flashbacks to the last w
arehouse and what went wrong. Light filtered in through dirty windows. How could an art forger work without plenty of natural light?

  The sound of someone clicking the safety off a gun had both of us pulling out our own guns, crouching down beside the truck.

  “Come now, there’s no need for that silliness.” A man with a splotch of yellow paint on his chin and white on the back of his hand took the metal stairs down to us, barefoot and not making a sound. “Come on up, Ryder. And you, Cara. You’re much prettier than your picture on TV.”

  “This is Hope. Let’s go.” Ryder had the gun in a loose grip. He was watchful but not tense, so I put my own guns back in the messenger bag, though I left the flap open. Just in case.

  “I’m Maximilian. It’s a pleasure to meet you, my lovely Hope.” He took my hand and kissed each knuckle, earning a smile from me. Ryder let Maximilian lead the way, with me in the middle. At the top of the stairs, I turned to look, and counted four men: one stationed at a back entrance, two by the entrance we came in, and another near the base of the stairs, no doubt protecting the entrance to the forger’s lair.

  The juxtaposition of the interior, all dirt and rusted metal, and the heavy metal doors we walked through into Maximillian’s space was jarring. It was like stepping into a faraway, lush, exotic locale. Silk cushions scattered across a beautifully tiled floor, the walls painted a stark white, and the floor-to-ceiling windows let in tons of light. There were huge paintings dominating every inch of space. Everything from abstracts to old masters. I couldn’t help it; I stepped closer for a look at the ones to my left.

  “A Monet, Kandinsky, and a Matisse.” I flipped through the frames leaning against the wall. “You’ve got quite the range. These are amazing.”

  He smiled, brown eyes wide and lively, a shock of brown hair falling over one eye. He was long and lean, with a long, pointed nose, and looked like he’d be at home in the country club as well as here in his domain, dressed like some kind of sultan of old.