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    The Drive-By Wife, Books 1, 2 & 3
    The Drive-By Wife, Books 1, 2 & 3
    The Drive-By Wife, Books 1, 2 & 3
    Ebook503 pages7 hours

    The Drive-By Wife, Books 1, 2 & 3

    By Mike Wells

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    About this ebook

    In this explosive psychological thriller, Allen and Cynthia Hunt are an upper middle-class San Francisco couple who make one small but serious mistake. This momentary lapse in judgement plunges them into an endless nightmare that threatens to destroy not only their marriage, but their very lives.

    From Rabid Readers Reviews:
    The Drive-By Wife is a wonderful psychological thriller in the vein of "Cape Fear" and "Misery." If you like Stephen King, Dennis Lehane and Gillian Flynn, you will like Mike Wells.

    "This book is a gripping, absorbing and disturbing portrayal of domestic strife leading to a violent nightmare." - Emma Hunneyball, Book Reviewers (UK)

    "Excellent character development, plot line is through-the-roof original, and the whole premise is marvelously bizarre and intimidating." - The Word Verve, Alpharetta, GA (USA)

    "If you are into psychological crime thrillers grab this book." - Reviewer CristiAk, Juneau, Alaska

    "I have read most of the great thrillers and this is right at the top with them. Wells does not disappoint." Sheena Jennings, Butte, Montana (USA)

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherMike Wells
    Release dateSep 6, 2013
    ISBN9781301504602
    The Drive-By Wife, Books 1, 2 & 3
    Author

    Mike Wells

    Mike Wells is an author of both walking and cycling guides. He has been walking long-distance footpaths for 25 years, after a holiday in New Zealand gave him the long-distance walking bug. Within a few years, he had walked the major British trails, enjoying their range of terrain from straightforward downland tracks through to upland paths and challenging mountain routes. He then ventured into France, walking sections of the Grande Randonnee network (including the GR5 through the Alps from Lake Geneva to the Mediterranean), and Italy to explore the Dolomites Alta Via routes. Further afield, he has walked in Poland, Slovakia, Slovenia, Norway and Patagonia. Mike has also been a keen cyclist for over 20 years. After completing various UK Sustrans routes, such as Lon Las Cymru in Wales and the C2C route across northern England, he then moved on to cycling long-distance routes in continental Europe and beyond. These include cycling both the Camino and Ruta de la Plata to Santiago de la Compostela, a traverse of Cuba from end to end, a circumnavigation of Iceland and a trip across Lapland to the North Cape. He has written a series of cycling guides for Cicerone following the great rivers of Europe.

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      The Drive-By Wife, Books 1, 2 & 3 - Mike Wells

      Prologue

      Somewhere in the Midwestern United States, a lone tractor-trailer truck roared through the night, its twin chrome exhausts spewing diesel smoke.

      The driver sported a snakeskin cowboy hat and matching snakeskin boots, and was clad head to toe in faded denim. As his weathered hand clutched the gearshift knob, four small faded tattoos were visible across the knuckles:

      D-E-A-D.

      A forlorn-sounding Grateful Dead tune emanated from the truck’s interior speakers. The driver sang along with it, his lips moving behind his beard. The lyrics held special meaning for him.

      He could see her now, clear as the lines on the road ahead of him. Her ethereal, feminine form hovered above the pavement. She was wearing a knee-length satin dress, black pumps, and silk gloves that came almost up to her elbows. She was beckoning to him, smiling, drawing him towards her.

      Mesmerized by the vision, he drove onward, the massive tractor-trailer rig roaring into the night.

      Book 1

      Chapter 1.1

      San Francisco, California

      Two weeks later and a thousand miles away, another man sat behind the wheel of a high end BMW, gazing out the windshield.

      He was wearing a tailored Brooks Brothers suit, a Valentino tie, and a pair of Allen Edmonds wing tips.

      Allen Hunt was a 32 year old C.P.A. He was parked a few doors down from his own home, a majestic Victorian residence in Pacific Heights. From his vantage point, he had a clear view of the master bedroom windows.

      Every now and then he glimpsed his wife’s shadow as it passed back and forth across the curtains. She was preparing to go out. In his mind, Allen carefully scripted what he was about to say to her, then picked up his phone and called his home number.

      He saw his wife’s shadow sweep across the curtains one more time as she went to pick up the handset on the nightstand.

      Hello? she said.

      Hi, sweetie, Allen said, still watching the windows. I’m afraid I have to work late again tonight.

      I have my French class. Remember?

      Oh, I forgot. Your French class. Allen tried to keep the sarcasm out of his voice, but he couldn’t help it.

      She didn’t seem to notice. I left you a tuna salad in the fridge.

      I’ll probably just grab a burger on the way home.

      Suit yourself. Don’t wait up—some of us will probably go out for drinks afterwards.

      Have a good time.

      Cynthia hung up, and Allen scowled as he watched her shadow pass back across the curtains.

      French class, my ass, he muttered.

      * * *

      Moments later, Allen was following Cynthia as she headed down Fillmore Street in her Toyota.

      When she failed to turn right, in the direction of the Fort Mason Center, where her adult education class supposedly met, Allen knew that his hunch had been right.

      He followed her west through the Marina District. They were soon crossing the Golden Gate Bridge. The fog had started pouring in, a sliding river of gray that engulfed all but the structure’s illuminated rust-red towers. For a moment Allen panicked, thinking he might lose her in the heavy rush hour traffic. But when he reached the other side of the bridge and began to climb the hill, he emerged from the mist. He caught sight of the Toyota’s taillights again, just before she entered the tunnel into Marin County.

      That figures, Allen thought. Marin County was one of the most expensive parts of the entire United States. Pacific Heights, where Allen and Cynthia lived, was hardly a slum, but Marin paled it by comparison. The guy she was banging was probably rich and a little artsy, Allen mused angrily, the type with family money who didn’t have to work at all.

      Cynthia pulled off at the Mill Valley exit and drove towards the center of the quaint little town. She took a sharp left and began to head up Mount Tamalpais. Allen knew the road well. It snaked its way over the mountain and led to Stinson Beach, which—ironically—was where he and Cynthia had spent their honeymoon together, ten years ago.

      About halfway up the mountain, Cynthia suddenly pulled over to the right side of the road. As he drove past her Toyota, he saw that she had parked it at the head of a hiking trail.

      Allen waited until he rounded the next curve, then quickly pulled into a driveway and turned around. When he passed the hiking path again, he glimpsed his wife just as she was getting out of her car and stepping towards the trailhead.

      Now he was confused. Where the hell was she going at this time of night on a hiking trail? While it was true that she enjoyed hiking, and sometimes she went for a long trek alone, she never hiked at night. Plus, she was dressed to the nines, in a leather jacket, short skirt, and high heels. Hardly the kind of outfit one wore hiking.

      Allen quickly turned his car around again, parked at the trailhead, and got out. The trail ran behind a row of expensive contemporary homes.

      He quickly walked over to the trailhead, glancing around in the darkness, trying to catch sight of his wife. Wisps of fog clung among the tops of the eucalyptus trees lining the path, gray patches illuminated by the lights of the houses on the right-hand side. Mansions was a better word. Sleek, wood and glass California contemporaries, all perched on the mountainside and affording prime views of the North Bay. Five million apiece, Allen guessed.

      It finally occurred to him that his wife must have been meeting him there, whoever he was. That was the only explanation.

      The fog was so thick that Allen couldn’t see much ahead. His wing tips slipped on the bed of pine needles that covered the path. He was already out of breath. He’d started his own accounting firm two years ago, since that time all he did was work, and he’d let himself get badly out of shape.

      After Allen had trudged about one hundred yards, he thought he could see Cynthia. Yes. He could just make out her silhouette in the faint light from the back side of the houses.

      At that instant, another figure emerged onto the path, from the right-hand side.

      Enter the Lover, Allen thought.

      He slowed a bit, puzzled. This was a strange way for two people to meet, out here in the dark on a hiking trail.

      Then Allen noticed that there was something about the gait of the shadowy figure that he didn’t like…

      It was a man, Allen could tell that much, and whoever it was moved stealthily…

      The figure seemed to be sneaking up behind Cynthia.

      Allen had the distinct feeling the man intended to do his wife harm.

      Cynthia, he shouted, all thoughts of keeping himself hidden tossed aside.

      He broke into a run and dashed up the path.

      The man broke into a run, too.

      Cynthia, watch out!

      She was too far away to hear.

      At that instant, Allen saw the figure rush up behind his wife and shove her to the ground.

      Hey, Allen screamed, now flying up the trail, adrenaline flooding his veins.

      Cynthia let out a small yelp as the attacker threw himself on top of her. All Allen could see in the semi-dark was a flash of faded denim.

      Allen dove headlong into the big man, knocking him on his side. He landed in the pine needles at the man’s feet.

      As Allen scrambled to get up, a foot slammed into the middle of his chest. He found himself on the ground again, this time partially in the woods, gasping for breath.

      Cynthia screamed again. Allen…Allen!

      He watched in horror as the big man rolled on top of her, this time trying to pry her legs apart with his knees. Cynthia was scratching and clawing at him—he was muttering something unintelligible. The man, whoever he was, seemed out of his mind.

      Allen pushed himself to his feet. As he did so, his fingers brushed against a rock. A big rock. It was partially buried in the undergrowth. He quickly pried it free of the dirt.

      He came at the attacker from behind.

      The man seemed oblivious to Allen’s approach, grunting and pawing at Cynthia while she struggled against him.

      Grimacing, Allen slammed the rock into the back of the man’s head with as much force as he could muster.

      At first, the attacker merely seemed stunned. His torso wobbled as Cynthia scrambled out from underneath him, shaking. He collapsed in a kind of squatting position, on his knees. He slowly sank backwards, with his eyes closed. He finally came to rest with his back against the ground, his legs folded awkwardly underneath him.

      Allen helped her to her feet.

      What…happened? she said, in between gasps of breath.

      I hit him with a rock. Allen felt a swelling sense of victory—the man was big and tough, and Allen had stopped him cold. He grabbed Cynthia’s hand. Come on—we better get out of here before he comes around.

      Allen tried to pull her away, but she hesitated. Are you sure he’s just—?

      He’s knocked out, that’s all.

      The man lay perfectly still. Now Allen was beginning to wonder himself. He cautiously moved closer, then squatted down and placed two fingers on the man’s neck, just below the ear.

      Allen could feel no pulse.

      He’s dead, Allen whispered, swallowing. The feeling of victory faded and was replaced by a dark, unreal sensation, like he was having a bad dream and couldn’t wake up. He’d killed the man. He’d actually killed the man.

      Oh my god, Cynthia said. What—what are we going to do?

      Grunting, Allen rolled the body over, his nostrils flaring at the stench—the man reeked of a combination of perspiration, soured clothes, stale cigarette smoke, beer...

      In the dim light Allen could see that he was dressed in torn blue jeans, a ratty flannel shirt, and an even rattier denim jacket.

      Allen started rifling through the man’s pockets, one by one. There was nothing on him but a small roll of money—perhaps thirty dollars, mostly in singles—and a little bag of white powder.

      What is it? Cynthia said.

      Cocaine or something, Allen muttered. He felt something else at the bottom of the pocket and pulled it out.

      A straight razor. Old, perhaps an antique. It had a pearl handle.

      Allen quickly wiped his fingerprints off the razor and put it and everything else back into the man’s pockets.

      We have to call the police, Cynthia said, her voice shaking.

      Allen glanced dully up at her. What?

      We have to call the police, Allen.

      He glanced up and down the dark, deserted trail. Are you crazy? Do you have any idea what kind of trouble that would get us into?

      Cynthia blinked once, looking down at the body. But—

      No way are we calling the cops. If you think I’m giving up everything I’ve worked so hard for because of some… Allen motioned vaguely to the man lying in front of them. …bum, you better think again.

      His mind raced ahead as he tried to decide what to do.

      He hastily squatted again and went through the rest of the man’s pockets. He’s got no wallet, no ID, no nothing. Allen looked up at his wife’s ashen face. He’s a drifter, Cynthia. Nobody will miss him.

      But we can’t just leave him—

      Yes we can!

      Cynthia looked frantically up and down the trail. What if someone heard?

      Who would have heard?

      When she didn’t answer, Allen eyed her suspiciously. What were you doing up here—meeting somebody?

      Cynthia was in such a state of shock it seemed that it only now occurred to her that Allen had come out of nowhere.

      She said, "What are you doing here…did you follow me?"

      Allen glanced up and down the deserted trail again and looked back at the body. She was right—it would be too risky to leave the body here for someone to stumble across…there might be evidence.

      Go home, Cynthia—I’ll handle this.

      But—

      I said go home!

      Cynthia stood there for a moment, shaking, watching him, her face pale in the muted light.

      When it was clear he wasn’t going to change his mind, she finally turned and unsteadily headed back down the trail.

      Chapter 1.2

      A few minutes later, Allen was slowly backing his BMW up the hiking trail, the lights turned off. The path was so narrow he was afraid one wheel might slide off into a gully—then he would be stuck there, with the man he had murdered only a hundred yards away.

      When he reached the spot where he’d hidden the corpse, he stopped the car and turned off the engine. He pulled his flashlight from the glove compartment, then quietly opened the door and got out.

      Looked up and down the hiking trail.

      Listened.

      The only sound he heard was the far off whoosh of the traffic on 101. The highway was barely visible through the woods, several miles away. Now, the fog had settled a little lower, with patches occasionally wafting across the trail, completely obscuring it from view. He was lucky this was a Tuesday night. He hadn’t seen a soul up here.

      Allen stepped through the brush, squatted, and grabbed the dead man’s ankles. Just as he was about to start dragging the body towards the car, he heard a twig snap somewhere nearby.

      He let go and slowly rose.

      He strained to listen over the sound of his pulse thudding in his ears.

      Hello? he said uneasily.

      There was no response.

      Allen stood perfectly still for a full minute, sweat running down to the small of his back.

      Just some animal, he thought. A squirrel or a chipmunk.

      Grunting, he squatted again and dragged the body out of the bushes, onto the trail, and around to the rear of his car. The man was heavy, must have weighed 300 pounds, but so tall that he didn’t appear fat, just bulky.

      Allen opened the trunk and began grappling with the cumbersome heap of flesh and bones, dragging the torso upwards, over the bumper…and finally into the cramped space. Crouching and using his shoulder for leverage, he finally managed to push the bulk of the corpse inside the car.

      Rolling the body onto its side, Allen fought with the two thick legs, trying to fold them into a position so that the trunk lid would close. God, the man stinks, Allen thought. He held down a gag reflex, afraid he might puke.

      The silence was broken by voices.

      Allen whirled around, anxiously peering up the trail.

      From the direction of the mountain, a flashlight beam arced back and forth through the fog. He heard laughter—teenage-sounding laughter.

      Somebody was coming!

      He turned back to the trunk and tried to close the lid, the dead man’s knees or smelly sneakers blocking it each time. The body was too big for the trunk.

      Allen roughly twisted one of the ankles, mashed the lid down. Heaving all his weight on the trunk lid, he finally forced it closed.

      Hey, there’s a car down there. It was a girl’s voice.

      Allen rushed around to the driver’s door and got inside. As he started the engine he could clearly see a flashlight beam behind him, but the kids were still obscured by fog.

      Hey, asshole, no cars on the hiking trail, a boy called out.

      There was muffled laughter.

      Allen snapped the car in gear and drove back down the narrow path with the headlights off, hoping that he had been far enough away that they could not make out his license plate number.

      That was close. Too damn close.

      Now he had to get the car off the trail and back onto the street without anybody else seeing him...

      * * *

      Cynthia was driving back across the Golden Gate Bridge, her whole body shaking.

      Only one thought ran through her head, over and over again.

      Allen killed a man.

      We should have called the police, she thought. Allen was right—it would get them both in lots of trouble and probably turn into a scandal—but trying to cover it up would be even worse, she was sure of it.

      Cynthia was so frightened that she had trouble keeping the car on the road. She could almost see the headlines splashed across the tabloids. PROMINENT SAN FRANCISCO ACCOUNTANT MURDERS HOMELESS MAN! When she thought about the details—the why and how—she shuddered: WIFE CLAIMS MAN ATTACKED HER WHILE EN ROUTE TO SECRET RENDEZVOUS WITH LOVER!

      The fact was, she hadn’t ever cheated on Allen—this was the first time she had even taken a baby step in that direction. And look what had happened! It served her right for even thinking about such a thing. It had been her mother’s silly suggestion, to let Allen know she was still attractive and desirable to other men, so he would pay more attention to her, and she should have known better than to listen.

      As Cynthia finally neared her house, her cell phone rang. She jumped, glancing over at her purse.

      The police are already calling, she thought. Somebody saw us.

      Keeping an eye on the road, she fumbled with her purse and pulled out the ringing phone. She glanced at the display.

      Miles.

      He was probably wondering where she was, why she hadn’t yet shown up at his back gate. It had been his juvenile idea for her to come over to his house and enter through the back yard, from the hiking trail, for the sake of privacy. Now she was furious at herself for doing such a thing, and for giving Miles her number, and for listening to her mother’s idiotic advice.

      As her cell phone kept ringing, she wondered if the call would be logged by her service provider, even if she didn’t answer it.

      Stupid, stupid, stupid! she thought. She pushed the button to cancel the call.

      A horn blared.

      Cynthia let out a little scream—she had veered into the other lane and was about to hit an oncoming car. She yanked the steering wheel to the right, barely missing it. The driver on her left was yelling at her, shaking his fist.

      She wiped her sweat-slick hands on her skirt, and then glanced at herself in the rearview. She looked half out of her mind, her hair tousled, a wild cast in her eye.

      Just get home in one piece, she told herself, gripping the wheel tightly. Just get home and let Allen handle this.

      * * *

      When Cynthia arrived at the house, she climbed the stairs that led from the garage and stopped short, staring at herself in the hallway mirror. Under the bright interior lights, she was even more appalled by her appearance—her face was pale and cheesy, her skirt ripped, her stockings torn. Her normally bright green eyes seemed strangely lifeless, her thick, black hair, which usually had a healthy sheen, was tousled and dull-looking...

      She glanced down at her wool sweater, and she gasped.

      A single pine needle was stuck to the material.

      She plucked it between her still-trembling fingers, staring at it with horror.

      It would be impossible for Allen and her to get away with this…she had read enough crime novels to know there were a million little details that forensic experts could find that would land them both in prison!

      Fighting panic, Cynthia slipped out of her high heels and hugged them to her chest, then slowly walked up the stairs and into the bathroom. She carefully set the shoes down and then dropped the pine needle into the toilet and flushed it away. She padded back down both flights of stairs to the garage, checked the concrete floor for more pine needles…and looked inside her car. She found another one of the stiff brown slivers on the floor mat, under the accelerator pedal.

      Oh Jesus, she moaned.

      Cynthia carried it back upstairs and flushed it down the toilet. She inspected both her shoes to make sure that they had not picked up any more debris from the hiking trail. She didn’t think they had, but it was hard to know for sure—couldn’t those forensics people even match the dirt from one location to another? She shuddered at the thought—it was terrifying.

      She took off the rest of her soiled, tattered clothes and piled them on the love seat by the tub. Unable to stop shaking, she started a bath. She was freezing cold now. The muscles in her legs and arms were already aching from her struggle with the attacker, and her neck was sore—she could see ugly purple bruises in the mirror.

      She poured in some bubble bath and lowered herself into tub until the suds came up to her chin. Her tremors sent ripples through the hot bathwater, making the small mountain of foam jiggle.

      When the tub was full, she turned off the water and scrubbed herself from head to toe with lavender soap. The rancid smell of the man lingered…or at least she thought it did…

      She had to calm down. She forced herself to do the breathing exercises she’d learned in her yoga class.

      After a few minutes, her muscles began to loosen. She was exhausted, both physically and emotionally—the fight with the attacker, and the terror of thinking that she was about to die, had sapped every last ounce of her energy.

      She was lucky Allen had been there. If he hadn’t followed her, she probably wouldn’t be alive right now.

      * * *

      Cynthia heard the faint grinding sound of the automatic garage door opening two stories below.

      Allen was home.

      She sat up a little bit in the tub, the water only lukewarm now. Her mind had completely shut down—she had lapsed into a kind of daze. She was in shock, she dimly realized. She flipped on the hot water faucet with her toe just as Allen’s footsteps creaked on the stairs.

      At least, she hoped they were Allen’s footsteps...

      Cynthia sat up a little straighter. The police would have to knock first, wouldn’t they?

      There was a creak out in the hallway.

      Cynthia’s heart was in her throat. She couldn’t breathe.

      The bathroom door opened.

      Allen was standing there, his face as pale as chalk. His suit was soiled and wrinkled, his hands dirty. She glanced down at his trousers—there was a crusty patch of what looked like dried blood above one pocket.

      He quickly turned towards the sink, obscuring it from view, and started washing his hands.

      Cynthia finally found her voice. What did you—

      He’s in my trunk, Allen muttered, glancing up at her through the mirror. He seemed amazingly calm.

      She shuddered. "Your trunk?"

      Yes, my trunk. There seemed to be an accusing tone in Allen’s voice. He flipped off the water and turned to her, drying his hands on a towel. He motioned to her. Do we have any jumbo garbage bags? I looked under the sink, but I couldn’t find any.

      Cynthia couldn’t answer. This was all too grisly. And Allen’s cool, pragmatic attitude made it all even worse…he behaved as if he was cleaning up after mowing the lawn.

      I said, do we have any large garbage bags?

      Yes!

      Where?

      In the broom closet.

      He glanced over at the pile of clothes on the love seat. "Is that everything you were wearing?

      Yes.

      All of it? Panties, bra, everything?

      Yes, yes!

      Allen bent and scooped it all up, including the high heels.

      Just as he turned away, one sheer black thigh high stocking fell to the floor.

      Allen looked at the flimsy garment, then up at her face. He bent down and retrieved it. He said nothing.

      Allen, we have to call the police.

      It’s too late to call the police, and you know it.

      We could explain everything…we could just tell the truth…that we both panicked because we were afraid of the repercussions…they would understand…

      The expression on Allen’s face told her how ridiculous that sounded.

      He pointed menacingly at her. "You’re not to say a word about this to anyone. Not to your friends, and not to your mother. Especially your mother. Do you understand?"

      Yes.

      Allen watched her for another second, and then carried the soiled clothes out the door.

      Chapter 1.3

      No body, no crime, Allen kept telling himself.

      He repeated this phrase over and over like a mantra.

      No body, no crime.

      He was in his BMW, driving on the interstate, heading southeast, towards Las Vegas.

      He had dreamed up a good cover story for his trip and had called Cynthia a few minutes ago to tell her to memorize it. They had both come home from work at about six o’clock today. He showered, changed clothes and decided to drive up to Las Vegas to call on an important client there.

      It so happened that to get to Las Vegas from San Francisco, you had to pass through the Mohave Desert...

      Being an accountant, Allen had absolutely no experience with the disposal of dead bodies. But in a movie he’d seen, the bad guys had buried a corpse in the desert and gotten away with it. This seemed like a good idea. The sun and heat were harsh, and common sense said that a body would quickly decompose. And if buried in a remote enough place, it might be years before anyone found the remains.

      He’d been careful to clean up everything each step of the way. After the attack, before he had gone to retrieve his car, he had made sure there was no sign of a struggle on the hiking trail. He had hurled the rock he’d clobbered the man with far into the woods. Fortunately, there had been very little blood, only a small cut on the back of the dead man’s head.

      Before he left the house, he’d changed into a pair of old jeans and a sweatshirt. After he got rid of the body, he would change into a new set of clothes and burn the old ones, along with Cynthia’s clothes, too.

      The only other physical object he had to worry about was the shovel. Once he was finished with the burial task, he would simply wipe the implement completely clean of prints and ditch it somewhere.

      No body, no crime.

      Tomorrow he would call on Michael Hammersmith, a real client he had in Las Vegas. He had a great relationship with Michael, so he would spend a couple of hours there and make sure that a few of Michael’s staff saw him there, too.

      As he drove along, he kept trying to convince himself that all his actions were justified. He was sure it would have been a terrible mistake to call the police. His company, an upscale accounting firm, focused on servicing wealthy, conservative clients. If he was involved in any kind of scandal, it would destroy his business, which was just getting off the ground. People only trusted their financial information to those with squeaky-clean reputations.

      He was certain that Cynthia’s career and reputation would be destroyed, too. She worked for an old and respectable rare bookstore, which also served a wealthy and conservative clientele. He had no doubt that the snobby owner, Ms. Bartholomew, would fire Cynthia without hesitation if her name were splashed all over the newspapers.

      Allen was once again convinced they had done the right thing by not calling the cops.

      No body, no crime, he repeated aloud, wiping the sweat from his brow. No body, no crime.

      * * *

      After another hour of driving, Allen reached the Mohave Desert. He slowed a little, scanning the sandy, rocky terrain. There was nothing on either side of the interstate now but boulders and cactus plants. It looked like just the right kind of territory to get rid of a corpse.

      A sign said CLIFTY – 5 MILES.

      Allen glanced in his rearview and there was only one pair of headlights, a safe distance behind. It was almost one o’clock in the morning now, and the traffic was light.

      He pulled into the right hand lane, slowing the car…but then was bothered by the headlights in the rearview, which had grown a lot brighter. The vehicle behind him was approaching fast. He prayed it wasn’t a cop. He had been driving at five miles under the limit, using the cruise control to make certain he wasn’t speeding. The last thing he needed was to be pulled over with a dead body in his trunk.

      He kept looking in the rearview, watching the lights. They were coming up on him like a rocket.

      Allen slowed down a little more—he was approaching the exit to Clifty, and he would miss it if he didn’t turn in the next few seconds.

      The headlights were bearing down on him now.

      Coming right at him!

      Allen was now only traveling about 30 mph and slowed a little more.

      Shit, he screamed, swerving onto the shoulder of the road.

      For the next two seconds he was sure he was about to die—he saw the big, silver grill expanding in his rearview. At the last moment he realized it was a tractor trailer truck…

      He cringed, waiting for the impact. He clearly thought: I should jump into the floorboard, but his seatbelt was still fastened and he was unable to move.

      The huge vehicle roared past, missing his car by inches, so close the wind blast rocked the BMW to and fro.

      Jesus, Allen gasped.

      He watched the truck hurtle into the distance. There was no trailer attached, just a cab.

      Allen was stunned. The idiot was coming down off amphetamines and fell asleep at the wheel, he thought.

      He shakily pressed on the accelerator and soon was rolling down the exit ramp.

      * * *

      Allen drove out into the middle of the desert, turning onto smaller and smaller roads until he reached a dirt road that became less and less distinct and finally melded into the sand.

      He made sure no one was following, glancing out the rearview several times. He even stopped the car and turned off lights and engine for a few moments to be absolutely certain.

      He drove a little farther into the desolation and finally parked the car. He got out, the dry desert wind blowing through his hair, and looked around. There wasn’t a manmade object in sight for miles around, not even a light—only the faintly glowing haze on the horizon from the nearest town. Clifty, he assumed.

      This was the place.

      Allen opened the trunk. Holding his breath to avoid inhaling the stench, he hoisted the heavy body over his shoulder, his legs trembling under the weight. He awkwardly grabbed the shovel and carried the corpse out deeper into the desert. Even though there was a brisk, cool breeze, he was soon sweating from the strain.

      He chose a spot in the middle of a triangle made between two boulders and a cactus plant, and he collapsed, letting the body tumble into the sand. He made absolutely sure he memorized the exact location, just in case. The cactus plant had a silhouette that looked like a hitchhiker sticking out his thumb—it would be easy to find again, if he ever had to. When he got back in the car, he would jot down the GPS numbers, jumble them somehow to disguise them, and hide them somewhere.

      Allen dug with the shovel for only a few minutes before it clanged against solid rock—the hole wasn’t more than a couple of feet deep.

      He wiped his forehead with his sleeve and gazed over at the lifeless body. What I ought to do, he thought, is knock out all the man’s teeth, chop off all his fingers, so that dental records and fingerprints could not be used to identify the body, and bury them all in different places.

      But he didn’t have the stomach for anything like that. He was an accountant, for god’s sake.

      Anyway, who would ever miss this lowlife drifter?

      Allen glanced back at the sloppy, shallow grave. During the day, the intense desert heat would quickly decompose the body. In a matter of a few short weeks nothing would be left but a dry skeleton. Who the hell would come out to this godforsaken place and discover it? Nobody.

      Allen glanced up at the heavens—he had never seen the night sky from the middle of the desert before. The sight was truly spectacular, the stars like diamonds scattered across a black cloth. He paused, trying to lose himself in the view, and trying to get his mind off the horror of what he was doing tonight. It was impossible.

      He finally forced himself to look back at the dead body. The man who had tried to rape his wife and who he had been forced to kill.

      He dropped the shovel and then angrily kicked the corpse into the hole, watching the arms and legs flail as it rolled over itself.

      Picking up the flashlight, he shined it downwards. The body had landed sideways in the shallow grave, the arms bent and extended together in a way that made it seem like he was praying.

      "You better pray for your soul, you son-of-a-bitch."

      With no further adieu, Allen tossed the first shovelful of sand over the dead man’s face.

      A few minutes later, he arrived back at the car, utterly drained of energy. After he climbed inside, he just sat there for a long time, staring straight ahead through the windshield, thinking about the gravity of what he’d just done.

      Chapter 1.4

      Three Months Later

      Allen was sitting at the dining table, eating a hearty breakfast of eggs, bacon and toast he had just made for himself. He was wearing a crisp white shirt and had a Louis Vuitton striped tie draped back over his shoulder, so as not to get it dirty. He was relaxed, reading a copy of the Examiner.

      Cynthia dragged herself into the kitchen. She was in her housecoat and fuzzy slippers. In the three months that had passed since the fateful attack on the hiking trail, she might have aged ten years. There were bags under her eyes, and her skin was pale. She’d lost at least ten pounds.

      Allen watched out of the corner of his eye as she shakily poured herself a cup of coffee. He thought he caught her giving him a resentful glance. It was

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