Cherry Bomb

CHAPTER 14

ALEX SITS IN A BOOKSTORE CAFÉ, dressed in her funeral best.

The WiFi is free, and her laptop is open. Her back is to the wall so no one can see her screen.

She uses a search engine to find her next victim. First the name. Then the town. It takes less than three minutes to get a phone number, and another two minutes to find the address. Scary how easy it is to find someone, Alex muses. People should pay closer attention to protecting their privacy.

The drive will take a few hours. Alex decides to wait until morning before leaving. She can’t go back to the Old Stone I

He’s asleep. Or unconscious. The burns have stopped bleeding, begun to scab over. It makes the symbols easier to see. She saves a picture of her laptop screen as a JPEG, crops it in Photoshop, and uploads it to her cell, viewing it from various angles, and judging it clue-worthy.

It’s all Greek to me, Alex thinks.

Jack will get a copy later to night.

Alex hits the hibernate key, blanking out her screen, and lets her eyes prowl around.

The bookstore is one of those large chains, ten times bigger than the library in the town where she grew up. Alex’s father hated libraries. Believed that people only needed one book, the Bible, and that all others led to Satan. But according to Father, pretty much everything led to Satan. He blamed the dev il for his appetites. He should have learned to embrace them. Indulge them without remorse.

Like she does.

Alex yawns, stretches out her long legs, and leans back in the chair to scope out women.

One walks by, wiggling her hips, getting in line for coffee. The right build. Right age. She orders something called chai tea. Alex doesn’t know what that is. It would be a good thing to use as a way of introduction. But when Alex stands she notices how short the woman is, and doesn’t bother. She sits back down.

Another woman, tall enough, but too young. Some men, whom Alex barely glances at. Then, a brunette. Age and height fine. A big ass, but people can lose weight. Alex gets into line behind her.

The woman orders a large vanilla latte and a pecan Danish, neither of which will help narrow her gluteus maximus.

“Are the Danish good here?”

The woman glances over her shoulder.

Alex doesn’t smile behind the veil. She knows how it contorts her face, makes her look even more freakish. It’s a definite handicap. Smiles disarm people. Taking a smile away from a recreational killer is like taking a pinky from a major league pitcher.

“They’re pretty good. Not as good as the coffee place on Prospect.”

The woman faces the cashier again. She’s either in a hurry, not wanting to chat, or Alex’s veil has set off subconscious warning bells. Strangers aren’t to be trusted. People who hide their face are hiding something else.

Alex moves in a little closer, watches as the woman digs into her purse for a wallet. Though her clothes are decent, expensive, her handbag looks more like a backpack than an accessory. Alex catches glimpses of a tissue pack, some children’s Tylenol, and a large key ring attached to a Lucite-encased family photo.

No good. Alex returns to her table, and is surprised to find a little girl standing next to it. She’s blond, perhaps eight years old, and staring at Alex’s laptop screen.

“Is that man hurt?”

She points at the live feed of the hotel room. Lance has woken up, and he’s thrashing around on the bed like Linda Blair in The Exorcist. The child must have pressed a key, brought the computer back from hibernation mode.

Alex closes the cover, then looks around to make sure no one else saw anything.

“It’s a movie. He’s pretending to be hurt.”

“My favorite movie is Toy Story. Have you seen Toy Story? It’s about a cowboy named Woody, who is really named Tom Hanks. There’s also Toy Story 2, but we don’t have it anymore because it got stuck in the DVD player and Mommy threw it out.”

Alex stares at the girl. So small and fragile. Father would have liked her. Alex prefers adults to children. Nothing can induce a migraine like a little kid screaming hour after hour. Even gagged, the high pitch is piercing enough to call stray dogs.

“Melinda!”

A woman hurries over, her expression a mix of concern and disappointment. She’s tall, thin, pretty, platinum blond. Alex notices how she moves, in an easy, assured way. Athlete. Possibly a dancer.

“What have I told you about wandering off? You were supposed to stay by the picture books.”

“The lady has a computer like Daddy’s.”

Melinda points to Alex’s laptop.

“It is like Daddy’s, but that doesn’t mean you can go and touch things that aren’t yours.” Her blue eyes mea sure Alex. There’s no hesitation, no drop in confidence, even when she notices the veil. “I apologize. Melinda, she’s a curious little bug. I hope she didn’t disturb you or ruin anything.”

“You might want to keep her on a tighter leash.” Alex puts a bit of iron in her voice. “There are some pretty crazy people in the world.”

“Tell me about it. Look, it’s not my business, but is that blazer Dolce and Gabbana? It is freaking gorgeous.”

“Yes, it is.” Alex appraises the woman’s outfit, jeans and a red top. “Those jeans are Italian, aren’t they?”

The woman lights up. “Yes! You won’t ever guess what they’re called.”

“They’re called My Ass. I used to have a pair. The belt line in back dips down, like the top of a heart.”

The woman spins on her toes and lifts her shirt, revealing the divot, along with an intricate lower back tattoo. No visible thong or panty lines. Her heels are three inches, gold lamé. Alex amends her initial assessment from dancer to stripper. She’s the perfect height, and no wedding ring either.

“I used to love those jeans. I bet your husband does.”

“I’m not married.”

“My mistake. Melinda said Daddy, so I just assumed…”

“Daddy died,” Melinda chirped in, just as cheerful as when she was talking about Toy Story.

“We were never married,” the woman explained. “Her father died last year. Car accident.”

Alex’s interest rises several notches. She still isn’t sure about the woman’s sexual orientation, so she plays it coy.

“I’m new here, so I don’t know where any of the shops are. Where can a girl buy Louis Vuitton in this town?”

“I love Louis Vuitton! See?”

She holds up her brown purse, which Alex had spotted immediately after noticing her.

“It’s freaking gorgeous,” Alex says. “I’m Gracie, by the way.”

“Samantha. Sammy for short.”

Sammy offers her hand, smirks. Her touch is soft, and she tickles her index finger on the inside of Alex’s palm when she shakes.

“Look, Sammy, this may sound kind of forward, but I need someone to help me shop. I’ve been hiding from the world for a while. Car accident. Really messed up my face. This is the only outfit I feel I can wear in public. I haven’t been out of the house in months.”

“God, Gracie, that’s awful.”

“Are you and Melinda free now? We could hit a few shops, then I’d buy you guys di

“Shit, that would be fun. But my shift starts in an hour.”

“Is Sammy your stage name?”

Sammy grins wide, revealing perfect caps.

“Stage name is Princess. You used to be in the life? You’ve got the body for it.”

“I’ve worked a few poles in my day. Which club?”

“High Rollers. It’s uptown.”

“Long hours. Does Grandma watch Melinda while you dance?”

“Grandma is in heaven with Daddy,” Melinda says.