Kill Me Again. Maggie Shayne
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even theirs. But he was doing it anyway. He didn’t really know how she expected him not to. It was the Funkmaster Flex Edition, not just any SUV. And it was freakin’ sweet. Checkered flag design on the dashboard and console, unique black-and-red paint job, sound system to die for. Better yet, it had a 300 horsepower, 5.4-liter iron-block, 24-valve V-8 in it. Hell, this thing was a dream vehicle. Car-show worthy.
Besides, he didn’t have any reason to think his mom would find out.
Kyle Becker, Sam’s best friend, cranked up the music, and Sam shoved his hand away from the dial and turned it back down. “It’s distracting.”
“It’s Metallica. You don’t turn down Metallica.”
“Then turn it off.”
“No way. It’ll do you good to get used to distractions,” Kyle said, with the wisdom that came from being a licensed sixteen-year-old, and a whole six weeks older than Sam. “And while you’re at it, you might want to go faster than thirty-five.”
Sam pressed on the gas pedal, picked up speed and sent a cloud of dust up behind them. They’d taken a back road where there would be little traffic, so he could practice driving a car that had a little more guts than his mother’s minivan.
He felt a little ping and knew he was throwing up pebbles in addition to the dust cloud. Shaking his head, he hit the brakes and pulled over. “This is stupid. This dirt road’s no good for a cherry ride like this.”
“I told you, we’ll wash it before we take it back,” Kyle insisted. “No one will ever know.”
“Right, unless I end up dinging it or something. Professor Mallory will notice that when he comes back from Europe, even if Mom doesn’t.” Sam sighed, frustrated with himself as he slowly realized there was almost zero chance he was going to get away with this undetected. Mom always found out. “I must have been a moron to have let you talk me in to this.”
“No, you weren’t. You’ve got to practice on something, right? How are you going to pass your test next week if you don’t? And you can’t take your mother’s minivan when she has it parked outside the damn hospital all day every day.”
“Yeah, well, I can’t keep taking Mallory’s dream machine out, either. I mean, I shouldn’t. He left it with Mom for safekeeping while he’s away. I doubt this is what he had in mind.”
“Why the hell not? You’re not hurting it any. And he did ask your mom to drive it once in a while to keep it loose, right? You’re helping him, dude.”
“You wouldn’t be saying that if it was your dream machine I was driving over a cow path,” Sam said. “If Mom finds out, she’ll have a freakin’ breakdown.”
“She’s not gonna find out.” Kyle said it as if he were offering his personal guarantee that it was true.
The dust was clearing, and Sam sighed. “Let’s just go. We still have to gas it up and wash it, and hope to hell nobody sees us driving it back.”
“Yeah,” Kyle said. “We probably better get on that. But we can take it straight back to your mom’s garage, bring the gas in a can and wash it right there, so we don’t draw notice. You want me to drive it back?”
Sam nodded. “Just in case we meet a cop or something,” he said. “Mom would be even more pissed if I got a ticket for driving on a learner’s permit without a licensed over-eighteen driver along.” He opened his door, getting out of the SUV to go around to the passenger side.
Kyle got out his own side, but then he just stood there, staring toward the side of the road a dozen or so yards ahead of them.
And then he went really tense all of a sudden, and his mouth opened.
“What?” Sam asked, trying to see what he was looking at.
Kyle lifted a finger and pointed. “Holy shit, is that a body?”
“No way!” Sam turned and spotted the lump that had caught his friend’s attention. Something that, he had to admit, looked like a person lay in the deep grass at the bottom of a patch of a slope.
The two boys headed for the human-shaped lump of clothing. When they got as close as they could without leaving the road, Kyle said, “Sure as shit, Sam, there’s a guy down there. And he isn’t moving.”
Elbowing his friend, Sam said, “Go see if he’s alive.” Then he tugged his cell phone out of his shirt pocket. “Screw you, you go see if he’s alive!”
“Fine.” Sam held out the phone. “You can call 911…and my mom at the hospital.”
Sighing, Kyle shook his head. “I’m not calling your mom. I’ll go see if he’s alive.”
When her telephone finally rang, Olivia had all but given up on her special guest. He was known to be rabid about his privacy. She should have trusted the instinct that told her to distrust his promise to appear. But at the time she’d been convinced that the director of special events would never agree to Aaron Westhaven’s terms anyway. No press, no announcement, no photographs, no hotel. But he had conceded to all of it. Westhaven had even accepted Olivia’s offer to let him stay in her guestroom, allowing him to forego any of the far more public local inns or B and Bs. The fundraiser was by invitation only, so the invited guests had been told only that it would feature a “secret guest speaker” guaranteed to be worth their donations. The tickets had sold out in record time.
And now it looked as if he wasn’t even going to show up.
She never should have believed he would keep his word. People seldom did. Especially men.
When the phone rang, her hopes climbed in spite of her doom-and-gloom realism, though she scolded them back into place even as she snatched the receiver up so fast that she didn’t even look at the caller ID first.
“Professor Dupree,” she answered.
A female voice came from the other end. “Hi, Olivia. It’s Carrie Overton. How are you?”
“Carrie?” It took her a moment to process the name, since she had been expecting her errant guest speaker to be calling with a huge apology and a fistful of excuses. Frowning, she held the phone away and looked at the ID screen. Shadow Falls General Hosp, it said, before it ran out of room. She lifted her brows and brought the phone back to her ear. “I’m fine, a little frustrated right now, but—is everything all right?”
Carrie was one of the few women she’d built something of a friendship with over the past sixteen years—and even then, only a casual one. Olivia knew it didn’t pay to let too many people get too close when you had as many secrets in your past as she did.
“I’m calling from—”
“The hospital, I know,” Olivia said, a tiny kernel of concern beginning to form in her chest. Carrie had no earthly reason to be calling her today—especially not from her job, which she took very seriously. “What’s going on?”
Carrie drew a breath. “Okay, it’s—I have a patient here. Male, mid-thirties maybe. Dark hair and eyes. Six feet or so, pretty buff. No ID.”
“Sounds like you’re looking for a home for a stray, Carrie.”
“Sort of. He had your business card in his pocket, so I thought you might be able to help us identify him.”
Olivia closed her eyes slowly as her mind fit Tab A into Slot B. God, was it Aaron Westhaven? Was that why he was so late? “Is there anything written on the back of the card?” she asked.
“Yeah. Your home phone number. Address, too. Do you know who he is?”
“I think so,” Olivia whispered. It was him. It had to be. She didn’t give anyone her home address. Ever. But she’d made an exception for the semifamous recluse with the direct line into her brain. “Is he all right? I mean how bad—”
“I really can’t discuss that—”