I Married the Third Horseman (Paranormal Romance and Divorce) (10 page)

The elevator slowed, and the doors slid open.
Outside, the quartet of security guards snapped to attention as
their employer appeared. A bestial bellow from far above. The
scrape and squeal of bending metal. A
twang
, and the car
shuddered as we stepped off of it.

“Get going!” Circe shouted. “We shall buy you
as much time as we can!”

I squeezed her arm in thanks and ran for my
car. My shoes clacked and scraped on the rough concrete as I
skidded to a stop. Groped for my keys. Threw the door open and my
handbag in the passenger seat.

A series of
snap-crackles
. I got in,
shoved the key home and turned it as I watched Circe use a wand
she’d pulled out of her jacket pocket to transform her guards. When
the men had stood a moment before, a pair of tigers, a sleek puma,
and a midnight-black panther ringed the elevator’s exit.

I winced as a
boom
echoed through the
garage. A pair of hellishly long taloned hands tore the elevator’s
roof wide open. In a flash, Mitchel erupted from the hole. A roar,
and his bear-tiger form smashed his way out of the cramped confines
of the elevator car and into the garage.

I threw my Porsche into reverse as Circe’s
man-animals flung themselves onto Mitchel’s body. Swung the car
around, shifted into drive. The sorceress looked up at me, mouthed
‘go on!’ and plunged into the fray, emerald beams of energy
shooting from the tip of her wand like an Old West six-shooter.

I floored the gas pedal. Shriek of rubber on
concrete. The lung-choking smell of burning tires flooded the
garage as I accelerated up the spiral ramp and out into the
night.

After that, I think I just went into
autopilot mode. For the life of me, I can’t imagine how I got out
of the city without a) being stopped for speeding, b) running over
someone, or c) getting nabbed by a supernatural tiger-bear
nightmare of a husband. All I know is that I came to my senses
sometime later, when a truly wicked cramp shot up my calves and
wrists. From driving the past forty, fifty minutes gripping the
wheel and keeping the pedal close to the floor. From the fear which
had kept my muscles tense enough to bounce a quarter off of.

I looked around. The highway was well and
truly black with the fall of night, and it would have been generous
to say that the road lighting was sparse. Eventually, I passed a
road marker. No listing of nearby exits or towns. Only a metal
rectangle and shield that said:
NORTH – INTERSTATE 15.

I pulled over at the next highway rest stop.
The place was reasonably well lit, and a crisp, refreshing night
breeze had picked up. I usually didn’t chance taking a break at a
rest stop, especially after dark. Something definitely unsavory
about places like these for a single woman on the road.

But the half-dozen or so parking spaces were
empty. And as far as I could see into the three hundred and sixty
degrees of blackness, I didn’t spot so much as a porch light on a
distant house. If anyone was waiting to grab me in the public
restroom, they’d have had to cross a couple dozen miles of desert
to get there.

The most pressing business, shaking the dew
off the lily, got taken care of first. Then I spent a little time
removing the makeup from my face. Something told me that I wasn’t
going to going anywhere glamorous from now on.

My stomach remained in knots, so I avoided
the junk in the vending machine and went back to my car. I cracked
the windows open and savored the sweetness of the night air. So
clean and dry that it tasted metallic on my tongue.

Circe’s package lay jammed in the bloated
mass of fabric I called a handbag. I didn’t want to even think
about messing with its mystical contents until the morning. But I
pulled the card she’d given me from out of my jacket pocket and
gave it a look.

No logo, no fancy printing, no phone number.
Nada. Zip.

Only the address, which listed a road and
number combination for the city of Taos, in the state of New
Mexico. A thought occurred to me. A half-turn of the key in the
ignition, and I switched on the car’s GPS. I plugged in the address
and had the device plot some suggested courses from my current
location.

My destination lay at the end of a long,
winding road somewhere just to the north of Taos proper. As to my
starting point…I let out a groan. Just as I had thought: in my
panic, I’d hopped back on the I-15 and headed north out of Vegas.
The good news? I could still make it to Taos, as long as I kept the
Porsche fed regularly with premium gas. The bad news?

If I kept going on I-15 North and stayed on
the major freeways, then I’d end up passing close by Salt Lake
City. Too damned close by half to the town of Sundance. Too damned
close by three-quarters to the Thantos ranch. But if I turned
around to head south…Mitchel was there, in Vegas. Waiting for me to
run right into his arms. Right into his taloned claws.

I rested my forehead on the edge of the
leather steering wheel for a moment. Dammed if I went forward,
damned if I headed back. So abso-friggin’
perfect
.

God, I was tired. So very tired.

A tremor ran down my arms, the precursor of
more to come.

I rolled the windows back up, locked the
doors. Then I reclined the seat all the way back, flipped a switch,
and watched the moon roof slide open. The stars above burned
bright. Brighter than I’d ever seen them in my life.

My life…

That’s when the awful, uncontrollable shaking
in my arms really began. When the tears really began to flow,
scalding hot along my cheeks, dripping into my ears. I groped for a
travel pack of tissue I’d stored in the door compartment and did my
best to keep up with my brimming eyes. A racking sob came from my
throat, followed by another and another and another…

Freeze Frame.

Sorry to break down on you like this, therapy
buddy.

I guess this is the two-hankie part of the
film right now. I wish it weren’t. I wish you were here, right now,
to cry with me and tell me that it’s okay, and that I will get
through this. I wish I’d never agreed to go out with Mitchel. I
wish I’d never made
Machupo
. I wish…hell, I wish that my Mom
hadn’t died in the first place.

I couldn’t make the tears stop. Because of my
guilt. Because no matter what the logical, Xena High-Heeled warrior
princess side of me said, I felt responsible.

I was the reason that thousands of people lay
dead, all over the world.
It was my fault.

Every time I closed my eyes, I saw bodies.
Emaciated, fly-blown, sprawled like some bloody, obscene puzzle
design that stretched from Bali to Sydney, Mexico to China, with
stop-overs in Seoul and South Dakota.

At the very last, as I slid the moon roof
closed and curled up in a fetal position, praying for sleep to
come, I had a strange thought. I’d cried myself out by then, but
the thought still burrowed in, gave me a twinge between the
eyes.

All those dead people proved one awful,
gut-churning thing.

That in his own twisted way, Mitchel really
did love me.

***

Dawn woke me.

Well, if you want to be precise, the
cold
woke me. I just happened to sit up around the time that
the gray light of the early morning desert began to blossom into
the orange furnace of the day. Someone hadn’t turned the pilot
light on the furnace yet, though. The condensation that had beaded
the inside of my windows was chilly. I dug out my remaining
tissues, used a wad of them to wipe the windows clean. Fog from my
breath hung in the air in little cotton puffs.

The Boxster’s motor roared to life, and I let
the engine warm up for a moment as I cupped my hands. Breathed into
them.

I felt hollow inside, fragile, like a bell
jar. As if I’d let out an empty-sounding chime if someone touched
me. But as I looked at my options, I realized that my plans were
surprisingly simple. That is, once I faced up to the fact that I
really only had one option available to me.

I had meant what I said back at the Odyssey.
I’d go through Hell itself to get my divorce now. And I’d pour
gasoline on my best Alberto Guardiani pumps and light them on fire
before I went crawling back to Mitchel.

So a quick glance back at the GPS maps, and I
pulled out onto I-15 North. Another two hours watching the sun rise
as I drove. I left Nevada and breezed through a tiny chunk of
Arizona, on the way into Utah. Not to head towards Salt Lake,
though. Instead, I planned to strike out due east, take the smaller
state highways through the state’s southern edge and on down
through Colorado and into New Mexico.

Both the car and I needed refueling again.
Just over the state line from Arizona, I stopped at the town of St.
Christopher’s when I spotted signs for gas and a diner called the
Pork N’ Flapjack
. The town’s name sounded promising, as it
was the name of the saint who protected travelers. The diner
sounded even more promising. It sounded like they served bacon.

One tank of premium later, a set of little
silver bells dangling from the front door jingled cheerily as I
entered the diner. On the inside, the
Flapjack
looked like a
bright island of the 1950’s. Black and white Formica counter,
chrome-rimmed stools, checkerboard tile, and the warm smell of
bacon on the grill mixed with sweet, cinnamon apple pie.

A waitress in a striped uniform showed me
over to a booth by the window. It didn’t take me more than a few
seconds to put my order in. Sunny-side up eggs, hash browns, and
extra bacon. Coffee, strong as they could make it and with a bunch
of sugar and cream on the side.

I don’t think it needs saying that the
calories weren’t going to count today.

I savored the warmth radiating from the heavy
crockery mug of coffee when it came. Then began wolfing down the
eggs and hash browns as soon as the waitress had set the plate
down. The empty bell-jar feeling went away as I plowed through one
egg, then another, following up with the most milkfat and
sugar-laden drink I’d had in quite a while.

It was so good, I almost didn’t notice it.
The jingle of the bell as someone came in.

A heavy tread to the step. Menacing. I
lowered my coffee mug. Stupidly, I’d taken the seat that faced away
from the door. I began to work my nerve up to turn around and take
a look.

But I didn’t need to. A tall, slender man
walked up to my booth.

My insides froze. Mitchel’s brother Uri
cracked a reedy smile and took the seat opposite mine without so
much as an invitation.

“Well, now,” he said, gloating. “Look at what
a pretty fly just wandered into my web.”

Early morning sunshine is supposed to make
everything better.
Supposed
to.

At least it’s supposed to make it a bit more
cheery. That’s why I always relied on shots taken right after
sunrise for commercials and music videos. Everything from maple
syrup to family restaurants to rock ballads just went better with
that extra golden touch. But Uri’s thin build and pale complexion
seemed impervious to warmth, to heat. The dark cast around his eyes
seemed to swallow the light, turning his sockets into unsettling
pits.

“My brother Mitchel’s gotten to be such a
bore lately,” Uri said, absently brushing a mote of dust from the
shoulder of his khaki-colored jacket, as if there was nothing more
important on his mind. “He’s been pestering all of us to get off
our collective duffs and bring you back to him. As if we didn’t
have more important things to do on a daily basis.”

“Don’t let me stop you from getting back to
your job,” I replied. My hand slipped down to where I’d placed the
handbag on the booth’s seat, next to me and out of sight. I’d
brought it in with me, out of habit more than anything else. Though
I doubted that Uri was going to sit there quietly while I rummaged
through it.