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long hot shower. When he came out the room was dark. He felt his way over to his bed, then stripped down to his briefs and climbed under the covers. |
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''You're good at what you do, right?" Kyna's voice sounded very small. |
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Good at tossing drunks, he thought. Good at tracing skips. Damned good shot at anything under fifty yards. |
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"Yeah. You can count on me." |
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Kyna lay awake for a long time, trembling like a frightened doe each time some car's headlights swept over the ceiling tiles. It had finally happenedBryan had hung her out to dry. It was the only thing that made any sense. First he vanished and now Morales had been murdered. The bastard had hung her out to dry. So much for love! Fuck love! she fumed, so much for loyalty. She glanced over at Cyrus's sleeping form and whispered, "Count on me. That'll be the day." |
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Kyna navigated the Lincoln through the construction maze outside Salt Lake City with judicious applications of anti-lock brakes and invectives. Cyrus had been in the midst of a dream about lacy black garter belts until he suddenly found himself testing the limits of the car's shoulder restraint system. He leaned forward and patted the head of the plastic Jesus that some farsighted Avis employee had thoughtfully left on the dashboard. |
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"Sorry," Kyna said. "That fucking flagman back there is as blind as a syphilitic bat." |
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Her tone made it clear that she was anything but sorry and Cyrus wondered what was wrong with her. Her eyes were red and swollen and all morning she had been as pleasant as a grizzly bear trying to pass a kidney stone. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes and noticed they were weaving in and out of a corridor of orange construction barrels, their safety lanterns blinking like tiny runway lights. Kyna had evidently turned off onto I-15 sometime during his nap and she asked him to |
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