Survivor in Death (In Death 20)

“It’s a beast.” McNab trailed his fingers over the hood. “Man, this baby’s gotta wing.”

“Bet your ass.”

But when she started to open the driver’s-side door, he took her arm. “Wait. Who says you get to pilot?”

“My partner’s primary.”

“Not good enough.”

“Her husband provided the transpo.”

“Not even,” he said with a shake of his head. “I’ve got a grade on you, Detective Baby.”

“I wanna.”

He laughed, and dug into one of the many red pockets on his baggy pants. “I say we flip for it.”

“Let me see that credit first.”

“This level of trust is sad,” he said, but handed it over.

She studied it, turning it over, and back. “Okay, you call, I flip.”

“Tails, due to how much I like yours.”

“Fine, I’ll take heads due to the fact yours is so empty.” She tossed the credit, snatched it out of the air, and slapped it on the back of her hand. “Damn it!”

“Woo-wee! Strap it in, She-Body, ’cause we’re going to orbit.”

She sulked as she walked around to settle in the passenger’s side. Not that it wasn’t bodacious, even in that position. The seat molded to the tail McNab admired, like a lover’s hands, and the dash was a gleaming curve armed with enough gauges to make his claim of going into orbit not out of the realm.

Still pouting, she engaged the map, programmed the desired location. And was told in the computer’s melodious male voice the most direct route, given an ETA of twenty minutes at posted speed limits.

Beside her, McNab put on black-framed sun shades with hot red lenses. “We gonna beat that down cold.”

He was right, she thought. The beast did wing. The thrill of it infected her enough to order the sky roof open.

“You pick the tunes,” McNab shouted over the roar of engine and wind. “And pump it up!”

She went for trash rock—it seemed to fit—and screamed along with the song as they tore south.

The insanity that was McNab cut the travel time nearly in half. She took a portion of the time saved to rake at what was now a bird’s nest on her head, and tame it down to her usual ruler-straight bowl cut. McNab pulled a folding brush out of another pocket and whacked at his knotted ponytail.

“Nice place,” he commented, looking around the yard, the field of corn that ran alongside it. “If you go for rural.”

“I do. To visit anyway.” She studied the neatly painted red barn, the smaller, trimmer outbuilding, and the pasture where a few spotted cows grazed. “Somebody takes good care of this.”

She got out, looked at the narrow patch of lawn, the ordered beds of fading fall flowers that led to a two-story white house with a covered porch.

There were festive pumpkins, two with grinning faces carved out, on the steps, reminding her Halloween was only days away.

“Do some dairy,” she observed. “Some row crops. Probably got some chickens out back.”

“How do you know?”

“This stuff I know. My sister’s farm’s bigger than this, and she does okay. Hard work, you have to love it to do it, I think. Place like this is small, but well-run. Mostly they self-provide, sell some of the harvest and the by-products at a local market for transport. Maybe they got a hydro out back, too, so they can grow through the winter. But that costs.”

He was out of his element. “Okay.”