Prey #19 - Wicked Prey by John Sandford

Author:John Sandford [Sandford, John]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2011-06-30T21:46:05+00:00

Chapter 13

* * *

Randy Whitcomb sat in the back of the van as they cruised Davenport’s place, the sun going down across the Mississippi Valley. They went around and around the neighborhood looking for the girl, until Ranch said, “Man, she ain’t here. We been doing this for hours.” They’d been doing it for half an hour.

“Gotta be a better way,” Whitcomb said. As he looked out the van window, he saw a woman who’d been digging in a garden stand up to look at them as they went by. They’d gone by her a half–dozen times, and were starting to attract attention. “We need a plan.”

Juliet Briar didn’t say anything; she just drove.

“I thought you were gonna bullshit her over to the house,” Ranch said.

“I don’t think the bullshit was working,” Whitcomb said. He’d read the distance in Letty’s eyes during their few words at the McDonald’s. Whitcomb wasn’t the sharpest knife in the dishwasher, but he had an exquisite sense of class, and Letty was several class steps above him. The chances that she’d fall for his bullshit were fairly thin, he’d decided. She was like one of the prom queens back in high school — they’d look right through him. They couldn’t even see him; they couldn’t even hear his bullshit. He was like a mosquito buzzing around their heads.

He scratched his nose, breaking open a scab left by the Pollish twins, when they rolled him down the front steps onto the sidewalk. He looked at the blood on his fingertips, shook his head and wiped it on his pants leg.

Ranch said, “Maybe we just oughta do it.”

“Do what?”

“Just grab her,” Ranch said. “Me not Juliet. See her on the street, pick her ass up, throw her in the van.”

“She’d scream and moan and piss and fight.”

“Whack her on the head,” Ranch said. “Put a bunch of pennies in a sock, punch her out or whack her on the head. Throw her in the van.”

“You ever done anything like that?”

“Used to whack fags down on Hennepin,” Ranch said, a lie so transparent that his voice wavered halfway through it.

“You never whacked a fag in your life,” Whitcomb said.

“Well — I heard about it,” Ranch said. “Swat them with a sock full of pennies, you don’t kill them, you knock them out. Hit them with a pipe, you kill them.”

“You probably are a fag,” Whitcomb said.

“I’m not a fuckin’ fag, man, you seen me fuck Juliet.”

“Yeah, well, when we get this chick, you’re gonna have to fuck her.”

Ranch nodded. “I can do that.” Ranch would use any drug he could find, but methamphetamine was his drug of choice. He could no longer fuck on reefer or cocaine, but crank would still do it for him. Enough crank, and Ranch tipped over the edge into sexual insanity, and other kinds of insanity, for that matter: Whitcomb once saw him run full–tilt, face–on into a garage door, as a joke. He’d never flinched or slowed down. The impact had knocked him out, and somebody had to call an ambulance to come get him.

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