Page 69 of The Grave Artist (Sanchez & Heron #2)
Damon appreciated a beautiful woman who knew how to handle a fast car.
He thought again about the place.
Part of him was heartbroken, given the Demeter and all the other artwork he’d have to leave behind.
But there was no choice. Flight was his only salvation. Besides, he had plenty of hidden money. He’d settle somewhere out of the country—South America, probably—and begin his collection anew.
His avocation too.
Bludgeon, drowning, grave sites.
Bludgeon, drowning, grave sites . . .
They were barreling along one of the California highways—not a camera-rich freeway, of course—headed south. He glanced over at Maddie’s profile as she whipped the vehicle through a curve. “You like speed.”
“I dated a race car driver once,” she said.
“He taught me how to take a curve without losing velocity. You start on the outside edge of the roadway, then ease to the inside lane at the apex, then accelerate to the outside again.” She gave him a wink.
“He’d tell me, ‘Go in slow and out fast—like sex.’”
Damn. Could she get any hotter? “I’m just glad you’re putting distance between me and—”
He stopped short, unsure how to finish the sentence. He didn’t want her to worry that an array of troopers would materialize in her rearview.
“I’ll take care of you,” she said. “Don’t worry.”
He began to relax. And was thinking maybe a miracle had happened—and he’d finally found the right woman. Not twisted like Miss Spalding, and not innocent like Felicia. No, Maddie was that perfect mix of sexy and cunning and homicidal that would complement his cold-blooded nature.
Overcome with uncharacteristic emotion, he turned to her. “Hey, a thought?”
“Hm?”
He was oddly reluctant to continue. It was as if a lot—a huge amount—was riding on the question. Then he blurted, “Let’s run away together. Keep heading south to Mexico. Then figure out a way to get to a country without extradition.”
Maddie didn’t answer, and he began to worry that he’d stepped over some boundary. Then she said, “You know, I’ve always liked Latin America. Great food. Nice people. Beautiful villas.”
After a moment she added, “As long as there’s somebody to share it with.”
“It’ll take some time to access my accounts,” he said, thinking in practical terms about life on the run.
But Maddie said, “I keep a go bag in my trunk. Fifty thousand. That’ll tide us over till you can get your money.” She looked at GPS on her phone and took the next left, onto a much smaller road, sand-swept asphalt.
“This is safer, back roads. I know a way to La Rumorosa.”
He barked a laugh. Maddie was a constant source of surprise. He asked, “From here?” It was a long way to that dusty town in Sonora.
“I’ve had plans in place for a long time. I always thought someday the murders might catch up to me and I’d have to book on out of the country. Why not now?”
For a time, they chatted amiably, enjoying each other’s company as the scenery blurred by. It was like their felonious pasts were forgotten, and they were just another couple.
Damon had an unfamiliar sensation he couldn’t pinpoint. It took him a few minutes to realize that this must be what others referred to as ... joy. He felt like they were a newlywed couple starting their lives together—their future as wide open as the road stretching before them.
Newlywed.
Some irony there. He smiled.
He wouldn’t be alone anymore.
Maddie turned southeast, in the general direction of Sonora in Mexico, steering onto yet an even smaller and rougher road. “CHP troopers don’t come this way often, and the local cops? Never.”
She had made quite the study of her escape route.
He glanced around at the landscape that had become increasingly rugged and desertlike, filled with scrub oak and green-and-brown ground cover. No other cars, no homes.
As they bounded along the increasingly rough road, he joked, “Are we going to trade the car for a burro when we get to the border?”
She chuckled. “Not a burro, a Bronco —as in Ford. We need something that can go off road. I’ve got a contact here in Topanga.”
She turned down a long drive and ahead he spotted a shed with a rusty tin roof. He held his questions as she drove through the open gate of a split rail fence and parked in the dusty front yard.
He saw no one and no structure that seemed to be fit for a residence.
“It’s parked around back.” She got out and beckoned him. “C’mon, I’ll introduce you. If you’re nice, he’ll give you a beer. If he hasn’t finished them all, anyway.”
Who the hell was this contact of hers? A small part of him felt a splinter of jealousy.
Then told himself to chill. She was escaping with him , wasn’t she?
He climbed out and joined her. They walked to the front door of the shed.
Several sharp raps with her knuckles were met with silence. She tried the handle, which twisted freely. “Looks like he might’ve gotten a head start on the beer,” she said, glancing up at him. “Let’s go roust him.”
“Who exactly is this guy?”
“You’ll see.”
She pushed the door open and stepped over the threshold.
He followed her in, eyes straining to see in the gloom. He turned, looking all around. “I don’t see anybody—”
Something crashed into the back of his skull. Hard.
Darkness engulfed him.