Never Count Out the Dead by Boston Teran

Author:Boston Teran [Teran, Boston]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Tags: Thrillers, Suspense, Mystery & Detective, General, Fiction
ISBN: 9780312980207
Publisher: Macmillan
Published: 2002-10-13T05:00:00+00:00

THIRTY EIGHT

dee is at the bar when Shay returns. Light from the den leaks past her shoulder and onto the photograph she’s holding of Shay on the hood of Burgess’ car outside the Franklin Canyon house. “I was almost a functioning human being then.” There is deep hurt in Dee’s eyes, and a tongue pressed against the inside of her cheek, but all that is soon replaced by more pressing realities. Dee puts the photo down, she pours herself some Southern Comfort.

“Why did you bring him into this?” Shay asks. “Whatever he is, or isn’t, once he gets into the car, he belongs to us. He is compromised. It will be too late. Remember that.”

“You just won’t tell me the truth.”

“There’s what I know. There’s what I think. Then, there’s what I do. All that counts is what I do.” Dee leans against the bar for support. She does not look at Shay. “I am sorry I have exploited you. I have done it selfishly. And with the full knowledge of who I am and how . . . how it would hurt you.”

“Viva Verboten.”

“I’ll take the slits girl, okay. Just don’t fell me.” Dee reaches into her back jeans pocket. “Get it all out. All that hateful Tinkerbell shit. Give me the whole bloodthirsty package you ripped off from the few books you read. ’Cause this is the last of it.”

“There is no imperfection you won’t use to move me, is there? You think I’ll stand here and let you get self-incriminating. This is just another version of the wine and dine. You’re working me. Say it, you’re working me.”

“That’s right,” comes the vehement response, “for your own good. For my own good. For our own good! Yours . . . mine . . . ours. Get it!” Dee holds out a key ring. On it are two safe-deposit-box keys. “You’ll need these later.”

Shay grabs the ring and flings it into the living room where it

199 caroms off a lamp shade and pings against the glass patio door. Dee’s mouth closes, she breathes heavily through her nose. She walks into the living room. Shay follows at a distance. Dee scoops up the ring, from her back pocket comes a folded-up, handwritten note. Dee wraps the keys in the squared-down paper.

“I have a name here and a number. This character is fuckin’ A-one when it comes to getting you a new identity. I mean government approval shit. I’ve taken care of everything. Paid the freight. He’ll be expecting a call from you in a few days.”

The moment as visitation. Glimpsed through the barwork of a lifetime. Off-kilter and odd, shaped by unbelievability. Shay can only stare at that small packet of identity.

“Oh, yes,” Dee whispers, “we are here. The moment,” she says with disdainful trepidation, “we have all been waiting for.” She turns away. Leaves her daughter with a handful of futures. Dee opens the patio doors and steps out into the night. Shay follows her. Dee marshals up a cigarette.

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