Crown Vic by Goldberg Lee

Author:Goldberg, Lee
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Cutting Edge
Published: 2023-10-09T00:00:00+00:00

The water was freezing, but other than that, the swim back to shore wasn’t so bad. He arose from the water, shivering, and made his way up the beach and through the woods to Cabin #6. He found the black Hefty bag under the deck and cursed that asshole Wheeler for not including a towel with the dry clothes.

Ray stripped, shook himself like a dog, and got dressed, transferring his wallet, belt and the belt-clipped Granite Point keyring from his wet pants to his new pair. The digital recorder was in a front pocket of his dry pants, just like Wheeler, the Deer Lake Columbo, said it would be. He tested the device by saying a few words and playing it back:

“Ray Boyd isn’t stupid.”

It worked fine.

He stuffed the wet clothes into the Hefty bag, cinched it shut, and headed along the gravel path to the store. He figured that Joe and Deputy Wheeler had plenty of time to take the boat back to the Pell place and drive over to Granite Point, park the police cruiser out-of-sight, and creep up on the store themselves.

Ray was still wet and cold, his shirt sticking to his skin, and he thought about how warm and comfortable it would be if he went to Meg’s trailer and nestled with her in her pillows. His gaze drifted to his right, to her trailer in the trees, and he saw the soft glow of her candles behind the drawn drapes. The urge to go there was tempting, if only to warm up, but his desire to live, and get the hell away from this goddamn place, was much stronger.

The store was dark, lit only by the occasional spark of a fly or moth getting killed in the electric trap. He stepped onto the porch, aware of every creak his weight made on the old boards. The restaurant door was unlocked. He reached into his pocket, clicked on the recorder, and went inside.

He dropped his Hefty bag on a table and stepped behind the counter into the store. The stench of years of French fry oil and burger grease, caked on the ceiling walls and floors, filled his nostrils. His stomach growled, his primal urges awakened.

Isabella peeled out of the shadows of the kitchen. She wore the same peasant top as the first day he’d seen her.

“Is it done?” she whispered.

That wasn’t very incriminating and he wasn’t sure if the recorder in his pocket picked it up. “Is what done? Did I plunge the toilet in cabin three? Clean up the dog shit in the picnic area?”

“Is Joe ever coming back?”

“Not unless Stephen King knows his shit and that’d be terrifying.”

“Who is Stephen King?”

“Never mind,” Ray said. “Let’s see the money you promised would be ours when he’s dead.”

“What’s your hurry?”

“I’ve never seen a hundred grand in cash.”

“Taking a look couldn’t hurt,” she smiled, turned to a counter, and opened a cabinet door below, revealing a safe hidden inside.

“Neither would taking a few dollars now,” Ray said.

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