Free Keep Calm and Kill Your Wife by Lucky Stevens Page B

the job.
    Something told him to get the hell out of there, and that’s just what he did.
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    Hart decided to stay off the beaten path. He’d cut through the forest, needing time to think. Maybe there was some advantage to not being seen. He didn’t know what that might be right then, but once the genie was out of the bottle, there’d be no recorking it. So better that he work things out on his own without the possibility of anyone being able to contradict whatever scheme he may have to conjure up.
    Summer was dead. That much he figured. And now that his original plan was no longer necessary, he’d be a very rich man a little sooner than he thought. Serendipity had smiled on him and whatever he did, he didn’t want to be responsible for messing it up.
    If nothing else, he needed a story. Why was he so lucky as to not be at the car during the explosion? The bathroom was a certainly plausible, not to mention true , alibi, to be sure. He just wished now that he had asked Whitman where the bathroom was. Get it on record. But it probably didn’t matter. It wasn’t like some incendiary device would be found at the scene. At least he didn’t think one would be. It seemed unlikely that someone blew up the joint on purpose. Of course, if anything fishy was found, he was sure he’d be a prime suspect.
    Reaching for a tree branch, he almost slipped as he heard another explosion echoing minutes behind him. This was soon followed by two more. That should be the rest of the pumps, he thought. What a mess. He paused to look at the sky which was now filled with black clouds. They seemed to obstruct the ambient light, making things seem even darker.
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    Using the location of the sun as a guide, Hart thought himself the true boy scout as he attempted to make his way back to the cabin. Of course the fact that the road was within a hundred yards of him helped tremendously as well.
    His goal was a simple one: get back to the cabin before dark. The problem was he wasn’t quite sure why that was his goal. When his plan regarding Summer’s demise had first been hatched, if nothing else, he had felt in control. It may not have been the perfect plan— perhaps unnecessarily elaborate even—but it was his plan. The details were his. They were workable. But now, things were different. What had happened to Summer was out of his grasp. He didn’t know the whole story and it scared the hell out of him.
    But maybe his bewilderment was a good thing. If questioned, he could truthfully, and therefore convincingly, plead ignorance. Why then did he leave? If he was so innocent, why flee the scene, so to speak? Why not stay and help his wife? He wondered if he should go back to Huncke’s.

EIGHTEEN
    H ART STARED AT THE giant pine that loomed over him. He felt a buzzing in his head. He was no longer moving. He had to come up with something. He needed a story, but he felt blocked.
    He let his head drop forward, his brow grazing the sturdy tree. And then in one quick motion he spiraled down, twisting his body so that his back landed at the base of the tree. And there he sat, picking at the grass, staring straight ahead, blinking only when necessary. Finally, his forehead crinkled and he let a little smile creep onto the lower part of his face.
    He realized that he was acting like a criminal. A guilty criminal. He hadn’t done anything. Not one thing. Who cared that he had wanted to kill his wife? He hadn’t killed her—that was the point.
    He had to start thinking like an innocent man. After all, he was an innocent man. And innocent men don’t think this much. They simply tell the truth . I went to the bathroom, goddammit. So what? You think I killed her? Good for you! Prove it.
    Obviously, they’d have nothing on him because there was nothing on him. The idea emboldened him. But still he felt that buzzing in his head. It was getting louder and he finally focused enough to recognize it. They were sirens. They were fire