Born To Die (Alvarez & Pescoli)

“Good girl,” Pescoli said.

“Always.”

CHAPTER 21

In the eighty-year-old sheep shed the next morning, he checked his truck. Parked near the old John Deere tractor that still dripped oil, the pickup was hidden away in this drafty, graying outbuilding that was nearly a hundred yards down the hill from the main house. As far as he could tell, there was no damage that looked new or out of place. Was there any transfer of paint that might link his vehicle to that stupid bitch’s minivan? He didn’t think so.

Quickly, he unscrewed the solid steel specialty bumper from the dark truck. He’d welded the bumper together himself, built it like a cattle guard, and made sure that when it was bolted to the Chevy, it partially hid the Idaho plates he’d stolen years before. He’d picked a truck with Idaho plates because those plates were common in this area. And he prided himself on finding a pickup that was the same make and model as the one from which he’d lifted the plates.

God, it was cold.

Inside this insulation-free shed, his breath fogged and his fingers felt a little numb. He worked quickly. As he had so often in the past, he replaced those old stolen license plates with the current Montana plates. He also removed the white sheepskin cover to his seats, exposing the black leather, just in case anyone caught a glimpse inside the window as he was doing his “work.” The final step was to peel off the fake bumper stickers on the back of the truck. He’d made his own, though they were really magnets that he could remove at will. The truck, he knew, always needed to be disguised, even though during the day he drove his silver Lexus, bought at a dealer in Missoula, registered in his name, and sporting current Montana plates.

Once satisfied that the pickup, if ever found, would appear innocent enough, he carried the bumper to the other side of the shed, set up a drip cloth, and, after sanding off any traces of paint transfer, used a rattle can of dull black paint and restored the bumper to new. He’d have to let it dry for a while; then he could put it, along with the seat covers and metallic “stickers,” in a hiding spot beneath the old manger, which still, if there wasn’t any breeze, smelled of long-forgotten Suffolks and Targhees and other breeds popular half a century earlier.

He knew he was being overly cautious, but he didn’t want to make the mistake of underestimating the police. He hadn’t run his missions for over a decade without being careful; even so, he’d encountered a few problems along the way. Though he was a genius, his IQ scores had proved as much, and he was a damned sight smarter than his father, he still couldn’t afford overconfidence.

So far, so good.

And then he felt it.

A crinkling of the skin on his nape—a warning.

That odd sensation that he was being observed by unseen eyes in this frigid shed.

His pulse skyrocketed and he turned quickly, looking over his shoulder, checking the cobwebby corners and shadowy doorways, but there was no one spying on him. He squinted, glancing through the one dirty window to the snowy fields beyond.

There was nothing out of the ordinary.

He was just jumpy.

Because he was stepping things up.

His work was more dangerous than ever.

The moan of the wind in the rafters sounded like eerie laughter, mocking him.

Sweat suddenly dappled his hairline.

Don’t let your imagination run away with you. He took in a deep breath. You’re the one in charge. You decide who dies. Do not forget that.

He talked himself down, found his equilibrium once more.

Satisfied that his secret was safe, he locked the shed and jogged back to the house, where he intended to shower, shave, and face the day. There would be news of the “accident” near the bridge, and he wanted to catch what the reporters and sheriff’s department were saying.

He lived for these moments when he’d neatly removed one of the Unknowings, and there was still some buzz about it. Soon enough the interest faded and the story slipped off the headlines.

A good thing, he reminded himself as he took the steps two at a time. The more disinterest, the better. Shelly Bonaventure had proved that. She’d gotten a helluva lot more press dead than she ever did during her lifetime. And yet he reveled in the recapping of the deaths, loved seeing the bafflement on the faces of the investigating officers, felt a sense of pride that he’d managed, once again, to outwit the authorities while working toward his ultimate goal.

But he had to be careful. Always. Time was of the essence. The problem was that most of the remaining Unknowings lived in and around this part of Montana, where they would be more likely linked. Oh, he’d taken care of some early on, years before, all deemed unfortunate accidents, but now, it seemed, most of his work would be here. He needed to be doubly careful as a cluster of deaths would now arouse more suspicion.

Again, he felt as if someone were surveying him, even seeing into his mind, but that was nuts. Crazy.

He closed his eyes and centered himself.

Pull yourself together! Do not fall victim to the paranoia. It’s nothing. Nothing!

Finally, again, his pulse was normal.