Violet Darger (Book 3): The Girl In The Sand by Vargus L.T. & McBain Tim

Author:Vargus, L.T. & McBain, Tim [Vargus, L.T.]
Language: eng
Format: azw3, epub
Tags: Crime | Thriller | Mystery | Suspense
Publisher: Smarmy Press
Published: 2018-03-19T04:00:00+00:00

Chapter 36

Nothing like a nice, drunk drive to clear the mind, Mark thought. He chuckled a little at this, but in some ways it was true.

He tossed the empty can out the window of his Jeep. The can hovered next to him for a beat and then dropped out of sight, falling behind the speeding Jeep. He watched it tumble in the rearview, the yellow tube of aluminum somersaulting and bouncing before finally disappearing into the dust and scraggly plants.

Out here, he could forget about her for a little while. He could focus on the road.

With the dancing object gone, the desert landscape went back to the still, beige emptiness it usually was. Oppressive in both its monotone and its flat expanse that stretched out to the horizon.

Mark didn’t know why anyone would choose to live in a place like this — all brown and dead. He and Claire lived there because they couldn’t afford to move, couldn’t escape the jobs they had and start over somewhere else. They were trapped here. Stranded in the suburbs in the desert. Surrounded by a sea of asphalt and sand with massive casinos towering over everything, the gaudy lights blinking all night every night.

His eyes flicked from the mirror back to the road — an empty stretch of blacktop cut through the level swath of sand. Cacti and desert scrub poking up from the plains.

Out here, he was alone. No other cars on the highway. No gas stations or fast food joints. No signs of any life at all, in fact.

He could open the throttle up. Push his little Jeep as hard as he wanted. The vehicle rode higher when he jammed the pedal to the floor. It stood up taller on the wheels, and he liked the feel of it. It topped out within a few mph of 100, the fenders beginning to shake and shimmy. He backed off, let the speedometer hover closer to 88.

He kept one eye on the road as he fished a hand into the box on the passenger seat. Cold cylinders met his fingertips there. He secured one and plucked it free.

The fresh can cracked like a gun when he opened it, the metallic sound somehow louder and more percussive out here on the road, out here in the emptiness.

He’d grabbed a twelve-pack of Coors Banquet at the party store. They were out of Pabst. These cold yellow dogs were his second favorite, so it wasn’t so bad, though they did cost a little more.

He took a drink, long and deep. It was cleaner tasting than the PBR, just a touch heavier, too.

Without warning, the image popped into his head, made him cringe. He saw Claire cowering on the bed, the blanket falling away to reveal her scar. His fist hovered there next to his head, ready to strike.

Damn. He’d tried to avoid that memory and had mostly done so up to this point. Apparently fourteen beers weren’t enough to keep it away. Not quite enough to kill the proper brain cells, even if they’d turned in a valiant effort.

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