Free The Burning Man by Christa Faust Page B

conveniently stashed around the house, but he did have plenty of ammo for the .38, and a nice buck knife that might come in handy.
    He also took 500 dollars that he found hidden in a sock drawer, a tan, summer-weight blazer, and a brand-new pair of those Air Jordan sneakers that the kids were crazy for all of a sudden.
    Tony walked through an open archway and into the kitchen, carrying the liquor store bag. He emptied two bottles of vodka down the sink and left them, empty, on the counter. Then he took the third bottle, dumped out a little more than half and used it to prop the apartment door open on his way out.
    If anyone came looking, they’d notice the bottle, assume Jimmy had gone off on another bender, and wouldn’t give it a second thought.
    In the meanwhile, Jimmy would be in Massachusetts, hunting down a juvenile arson suspect from Jacksonville.

11
    It had taken Tony three days to drive a series of stolen cars from Florida to snowy Westley, Massachusetts.
    Having grown up in north Florida, snow was something he’d rarely seen outside of illustrated Christmas cards, and driving through it was a real challenge. But thoughts of Olivia kept him warm.
    They also distracted him from the road. The snow turned to rain, and by the time he realized that his tires were sliding uselessly sideways on the icy tarmac, he was unable to avoid plowing into a sign that advertised the local Butchie Burger. When he hit the front leg of the billboard, the large anthropomorphic Boston terrier came crashing down on his hood, shattering the windshield and peppering Tony with cubes of glass.
    He struggled to unfasten his seatbelt, but every bone in his body felt like it had been replaced with razor wire. He could taste blood, and feel it burning in his eyes.
    Freezing wind clawed at him through the broken windshield, spitting icy rain in his face. He tried the door and found that it had been crushed closed.
    Rage welled up in the back of his throat. He was furious at himself for letting something like this happen.
    Then the passenger side door was wrenched open and a guy bundled up like a flannel Michelin Man stuck his pink face into the car.
    “Had yourself a hell of a crash,” he said loudly. “You all right, mister?”
    Tony reached out with his prosthetic arm, catching and twisting the man’s scarf with the hook on the end. The guy’s astonished look would have been funny if Tony wasn’t in such a bad mood. He pulled the knife out of his pocket, thumbed it open, and jammed it into the Good Samaritan’s thick, wattled neck.
    At least his blood was warm.
    Tony stabbed the guy way more times than he needed to, but it felt good. Like each stab was draining away not only the man’s pointless life, but also Tony’s rage. By the time the guy was dead, Tony felt calm and centered again. He kicked the body out of the car and climbed over it.
    It was still horribly cold, but now the wind felt almost bracing, even invigorating. There was no sign of civilization that he could see. No houses or buildings. No people anywhere. There was the Samaritan’s empty car up on the side of the road. The door was hanging open, and the interior of the man’s car seemed warm and inviting in the frozen night, lit by the friendly yellow glow of the automatic overhead light.
    Tony grabbed his duffle bag and his map, and got into the man’s car. It was a brand-new Mystique, green with a tan interior. Still had that new-car smell. The guy must’ve just been down to the Butchie Burger and there was a warm sack of chow on the passenger seat. The radio was on, playing “golden oldies.”
    Like any time was really golden. Like the world wasn’t always like this.
    He twisted the knob until he found a generic rock station. He’d never really cared one way or the other about music, but it made the long drive seem less lonely. He helped himself to a Butchie Burger and drove away.

12
    “Hey, Han,” Chelsea said as she whirled with a dramatic flourish into