Free Hollow Man by Mark Pryor Page A

I'm not going to rape you.
    â€œReally? If you had a fast-enough car and were sure no one would catch you?”
    Gus gave a gentle laugh. “Even if you got caught, this is liberal Travis County. You'd get a slap on the wrist, if that.”
    They were actually being logical, persuasive, but it was still a road I didn't need to go down. “Then it's done. We know how easy it is to steal a 1995 Ford Transit van, so we can all go home.”
    No one moved. That vein of curiosity still pulsed in me, and I moved past them both to the car where the boy sat slumped in the front seat, plugged into his tunes. I looked to the ignition and saw the yellow handle of a screwdriver jammed into the key slot. He glanced up at me, then looked away as if he didn't want to be seen, didn't want to be there.
    I knew how he felt. I was at a crime scene that I wasn't going to report, standing next to a juvenile delinquent who'd stolen a car and broken curfew to do it. I was, legally speaking, at the sharp end of a conspiracy to commit a felony, which I also was not planning to report. I looked over my shoulder and found myself the hub of this little prank, two pairs of eyes on me as if the next move were mine, and mine alone. Normally I would want to take the lead so I could manipulate the situation to make sure my own ends were met. As it was, I just stood there staring back at them. And wondering.
    Could it really be that easy?
    My job had taught me many things, but that night the two that came to mind were the facts that criminals got away scot-free a lot more than they got caught, and that as a general rule, even the ones who got away were pretty stupid. I'd also been wayward enough as a youth to know that it wasn't necessarily the criminal act itself that determined whether or not you got caught, it was the planning. That was my bypass mechanism, the route I took to avoid my own nature.Because if I planned carefully enough, I could follow the rails of my own logic like a train and not be sidetracked by impulse.
    I watched as she climbed into the minivan with her brother, and it struck me that I didn't even know her name. I couldn't imagine what it would be, either, because ever since we'd met I'd thought about her as one would a dream. Or maybe a ghost in a nightmare—real enough to make me react, to entice and intrigue me, but in the end not a real person, and not with a real name.
    She drove without turning on the headlights, the van's tires spitting out dust and pebbles as it rocked and bounced along the dark track away from us.
    â€œSo who lied about the gun to the head, you or her?” I asked.
    â€œHer,” he said, still staring down the track. “I wouldn't make that up.”
    â€œFigures.” We were silent for a moment, then I looked at him. “So what's her name?”
    â€œI have no idea,” he whispered.

Sixteen days after my gig was canceled, that was also how long it took Marley to call. He phoned midmorning, as I was scribbling some lyrics on a notepad, and I wanted to ignore him. The words were flowing, soft and manipulative verses that girls would swoon over. Words that my sweet little sadist would fucking hate. And yet I wanted to sing them in a crowded bar with her right there in front of me, so I could watch the irritation on her face, watch her roll her eyes at the sap I was singing, and have her see all the other girls lap it up.
    I answered, though, as the name on my phone's screen told me who it was, and I listened as he hedged and stammered, the quiver in his voice giving me advance notice of what he was going to say. He apologized for taking so long and got halfway through firing me permanently before his spine kicked in and he switched to mild outrage that I'd try to deceive him and my audience.
    â€œI'd like to think this was accidental, Dom, but that's not possible. Parts of it are a carbon copy—chords, rhythm, even some of the damn lyrics are the same.”
    â€œWho