False Memory Part 63

"A simple hump and dump," said Zachary.

"You hear that, girl? With the emphasis on simple. simple. Nothing to it. A walk in the park. A piece of cake." Nothing to it. A walk in the park. A piece of cake."

"You know, Kevin, for me," Zachary said, "the emphasis is on hump. hump."

Kevin laughed. "Girl, since you're the humpee and you and your husband are the dumpees, it's naturally a big deal to you. But it's no big deal to us, is it, Zachary?"

"No."

"And it won't be to the cops, either. Tell her where she's going, Zachary."

"With me, to o.r.g.a.s.mo City."

"Man, you're delusional but fun. And after o.r.g.a.s.mo City?"

"You're going down an old Indian well," Zachary told Martie, "and G.o.d knows how deep into the aquifer under it."

"Been no Indians living there or using it for more than three hundred years," Kevin explained.

"Wouldn't want to contaminate anybody's drinking water," said Zachary. "Federal offense."

"n.o.body'll ever find your bodies. Maybe after your car crash, you just wandered off into the desert, got disoriented and lost in the storm, and froze to death."

As the speed of the car dropped, eerie shapes appeared in the snow on both sides. They were low and undulant, pale formations reflecting the headlights, gliding past like ghost ships in a fog. Weathered ruins. Fragments of buildings, the stacked-stone and adobe walls of a long-abandoned settlement.

When Kevin braked to a stop and put the car in park, Martie turned toward Zachary and jammed the .45 Colt into his side so hard that his face clutched in pain.

His eyes revealed a man who was both fearless and pitiless, but not a stupid man. Without her saying a word, he dropped the machine pistol onto the floor between his feet.

"What?" Kevin asked, instinct serving him well.

As the driver sought Martie in the rearview mirror, she said, "Reach behind and put your hands on the headrest, you sonofab.i.t.c.h."

Kevin hesitated.

"Now," Martie screamed, "before I gut-shoot this moron and blow out the back of your head. Hands on the headrest where I can see them." Martie screamed, "before I gut-shoot this moron and blow out the back of your head. Hands on the headrest where I can see them."

"We have a situation here," Zachary confirmed.

Kevin's right shoulder dropped slightly, as he started to reach for the machine pistol on the front seat.

"HANDS ON THE HEADREST NOW, NOW, YOU f.u.c.kER!" she roared, and she was shocked to hear how totally psychotic she sounded, not like a woman merely playing at being tough, but like a genuine crazy person, and in fact she probably was crazy right now, totally psychotic with raw fear. YOU f.u.c.kER!" she roared, and she was shocked to hear how totally psychotic she sounded, not like a woman merely playing at being tough, but like a genuine crazy person, and in fact she probably was crazy right now, totally psychotic with raw fear.

Sitting up straight again, Kevin reached behind himself with both hands and gripped the headrest.

With the Colt jammed into his gut, Zachary was going to behave, because she could pull the trigger faster than he could move.

"You got off that plane with nothing but carry-ons," Kevin said.

"Shut up. I'm thinking."

Martie didn't want to kill anyone, not even human garbage like this, not if it could be avoided. But how to avoid it? How could she get out of the car and get them out of the car, too, without giving them a chance to try anything?

Kevin wouldn't leave it alone. "Nothing but carry-ons, so where did you get a gun?"

Two of them to watch. All that movement getting out. Moments of imbalance, vulnerability.

"Where did you get the gun?" Kevin persisted.

"I pulled it out of your buddy's a.s.s. Now shut up! Now shut up!"

Going out of the driver's side, she'd have to turn her back on one of them, at some point. No good.

So then ease backward out of the pa.s.senger's side. Make Zachary slide across the seat with her, keeping the gun in his belly, looking past him to Kevin in the front.

With the windshield wipers off, the snow began to spread a thin coverlet on the gla.s.s. The motion of the descending flakes made her dizzy.

Don't look outside.

She met Zachary's eyes.

He recognized her irresolution.

She almost looked away, realized that would be dangerous, and jammed the muzzle of the Colt even deeper into his gut, until he broke eye contact.

"Maybe it's not a real gun," Kevin said. "Maybe it's plastic."

"It's real," Zachary was quick to inform him.

Feeling her way backward, out of the car, would be tricky. Could hook her foot on the doorsill or hook up on the door itself. Could fall.

"You're just d.a.m.n housepainters," Kevin said.

"I'm a video-game designer."

"What?"

"My husband's the housepainter."

And after she was out, when Zachary followed her, he would for a moment fill the open door, her gun in his belly, and Kevin would be blocked from her sight.

The only smart thing to do was shoot them while she had a clear advantage. Smilin' Bob hadn't told her what to do when intelligence and morality collided head-on.

"I don't think the lady knows what's next," Zachary told his partner.

"Maybe we got a stalemate here," Kevin said.

Action. If they thought she was incapable of ruthless action, then they they would act. would act.

Think. Think.

68.

A winter scene frozen in a liquid-filled gla.s.s globe: the soft and rounded lines of ancient Indian ruins, silvered sage, a midnight-blue BMW, two men and one woman therein, another man unseen in the trunk-two dumpers and two dumpees-and nothing moving, everyone and everything as still as the empty universe before the Big Bang, except for the snow, a windless blizzard, which falls and falls as though a giant's hand just shook the globe, an arctic winter's worth of fine white snow.

"Zachary," Martie finally said, "without turning away from me, using your left hand, open your door. Kevin, you keep your hands on the headrest."

Zachary tried the door. "Locked."

"Unlock it," she said.

"Can't. It's the childproof master lock. He has to do it up front."

"Where's the lock release, Kevin?" Martie asked.

"On the console."

If she allowed him to operate the lock release, his hand would be within inches of the machine pistol that was no doubt lying on the pa.s.senger's seat.

"Keep your hands on the headrest, Kevin."

"What kind of video games you design?" Kevin asked, trying to distract her.

Ignoring him, Martie said, "You have a pocket knife, Zachary?"

"Pocket knife? No."

"Too bad. If you so much as twitch, you'll need a knife to dig two hollowpoints out of your intestines, because you'll never live long enough to get to a hospital where a real doctor could do it."

As she slid backward across the seat, to a point at which she would be midway between the front headrests, Martie kept the pistol trained on the redhead, although the weapon would have been more intimidating if she could have continued to press the muzzle hard into his abdomen.

"In case you're wondering," she said, "this piece isn't double-action. Single-action. No ten-pound pull. Four and half pounds, crisp and easy, so the barrel won't wobble. Shots aren't going to go wide or wild."

She couldn't see well enough into the front while sitting in the back, so she eased forward, rising off the seat, legs bent in a half squat, feet splayed and braced, twisted toward Zachary but her right shoulder against the back of the front seat, with a cross-body grip on the pistol. Awkward. Stupidly, dangerously awkward, but she couldn't figure any other way to keep the weapon trained on Zachary and be able to watch Kevin's hand as he lowered it to the console.

She didn't dare reach into the front seat herself. She would be unbalanced, completely distracted from Zachary.

Two angry Orcs and one Hobbit locked in a car. What are the chances that all three get out alive? Poor.

Either the Hobbit wins and moves on to the next level of play, or the game ends.

To peer into the front seat, she'd have to turn her head away from Zachary, leaving him visible only in her peripheral vision. "One sound of movement, one glimpse out of the corner of my eye, and you're dead."

"If you were me, I'd already be dead," Zachary noted.

"Yeah, well, I'm not you, s.h.i.thead. If you're smart, you'll sit tight and thank G.o.d you have a chance of coming out alive."

Heart beating so hard it felt like it was tearing loose. That was okay. More blood to the brain. Clearer thinking.

She turned her head and leaned to look into the front seat.

As she expected, Kevin's machine pistol was on the pa.s.senger's seat, within his easy reach. Big magazine. Thirty rounds.

"Okay, Kevin, carefully use your right hand to pop the lock release, with the emphasis on carefully, carefully, and then put it back on the headrest." and then put it back on the headrest."

"Don't get nervous and waste me for nothing."

"I'm not nervous," she said, and the steadiness of her voice astonished her, because she was shaking inside if not out, shaking like a field mouse in the shadow of an owl's wings.

"Gonna just do what you say." Kevin slowly lowered his right hand from behind his head.

Martie glanced quickly at Zachary, who was keeping his hands high, beside his face, in order not to alarm her, even though she hadn't told him to do that-and she should should have told him-and then she looked into the front seat once more. have told him-and then she looked into the front seat once more.

As Kevin's hand seemed to float down toward the lock release, he said, "I like to play Carmageddon Carmageddon. You know that game?"

"I'd figure you for Kingpin, Kingpin," she said.

"Hey, that's some cool action, too."

"Easy now."

He pressed the rocker switch.

What happened next seemed to have been planned between the two men telepathically.

The locks released with an audible sound.

Instantly, Zachary threw open the back door and rolled out, and from the corner of Martie's eye, she saw him reaching down to scoop the machine pistol off the floor as he went.

Even as Martie squeezed off two shots at the departing redhead and sensed that at least one might have hit its mark, Kevin dropped sideways onto the front seat and grabbed his weapon.

Her second round still booming like cannon fire in the confines of the car, Martie went to the floor, out of Kevin's line of sight, pointed the Colt at the back of the front seat, and rapid-fired a horizontal spread of one-two-three-four rounds into the upholstery, not sure if the slugs would punch through all that padding and support structure.

Vulnerable from the front and above. Nothing preventing Kevin from returning fire through through the seat, and him with thirty rounds to find her. If unhit, he might rise up, shoot down on her. Vulnerable, too, from the open door, from Zachary outside with the second machine pistol. Couldn't stay. the seat, and him with thirty rounds to find her. If unhit, he might rise up, shoot down on her. Vulnerable, too, from the open door, from Zachary outside with the second machine pistol. Couldn't stay. Move, move. Move, move. Even as she fired the fourth round into the seat, she scrambled for safety. Even as she fired the fourth round into the seat, she scrambled for safety.

She dared not waste time backing up to open the door behind her, so she went out of the door that Zachary had opened, maybe straight into a hard barrage, with only one round remaining in her seven-round magazine.

No barrage. Zachary-for me, the emphasis is on hump-wasn't waiting for her. He was. .h.i.t, down, though not dead. With at least one and possibly two bullets in his broad back, the rugged beast was struggling onto his hands and knees. hump-wasn't waiting for her. He was. .h.i.t, down, though not dead. With at least one and possibly two bullets in his broad back, the rugged beast was struggling onto his hands and knees.

Martie spotted what he was crawling toward. His pistol. When he'd gone down, the piece had tumbled out of his hand. It lay about ten feet in front of him on the snow-dusted ground.

All survival mechanism now, Sunday school and civilization no match for the savage in her heart, she kicked him in the ribs, and he grunted in pain, tried to grab her, but then he fell forward onto his face.