Stirred

No one makes money self-publishing, Cynthia typed. There are a few loudmouth, know-it-all writers who blog about their successes, but they are no doubt liars. The only legitimate way to publish is through a respected publishing house. E-books are a fad, and the fools who jump on that bandwagon will blacklist themselves in the traditional publishing world.

She saved the entry and then went to Twitter to a

Too bad they were all talentless hacks who would never sell anything.

It would be a few minutes before she started receiving comments, so she turned her attention to her cell and listened to the voicemail.

“It’s me. I need you to get on the next plane to Detroit. I’ll text you instructions when you arrive.”

Cynthia’s heart rate doubled. She listened to the message again, to make sure she’d heard correctly, and then hopped onto Priceline.com to find a flight from LaGuardia to Michigan.

March 31, 10:30 P.M.

He checks out of the Blackstone and stands outside in the cold mist, waiting for the valet to bring his Mercedes Sprinter. God, he loves this vehicle, but it’s time to get it out of sight. Off the streets. News of the little package he deposited at the Shedd Aquarium is out, and numerous people saw his van pull up. If not already, the word on his ride will be out very soon.

He tips the valet a quarter and climbs in and speeds off down Michigan.

Swings around onto Lake Shore Drive and barrels north eating Lemonheads and listening to Miles Davis. He likes Miles. Lemonheads, not so much. But he’s all about embracing bad habits.

Luther registers a palpable sense of relief when, a half-hour later, he’s finally off the main roads and driving through a quiet, mostly deserted neighborhood.

He’s safe here.

The lights of the Sprinter slash through the fog and strike the rear of the semi-trailer. He brings the van to a stop and leaves it ru

The ramp is a bitch to drag down but he manages.

He drives the Benz up into the trailer and parks it against the front wall. The fit is too tight to open the driver’s-side door, so Luther climbs back through the cargo area and exits out the rear doors.

It has been a big day, a perfect day, but tomorrow will be even bigger.

Historic.

The culmination of thousands of hours of work.

But there is still much work to do, he thinks as he strains to lift the auto ramp, and miles to go before I sleep.

And I have promises to keep.

April 1, 1:23 A.M.

They’d spent the measly twenty-six dollars Henry had given them on gas. Goddamn pay-at-the-pumps made it impossible to steal fuel. And that fat bitch Violet King, useful as she was, had only had ten bucks on her, which they’d also put into the tank. That meant, if they wanted to eat, they’d have to steal food or money.

Shoplifting seemed to involve less risk.

Why hadn’t they thought to eat back at Violet’s place? She wouldn’t have missed the food.

As it was, this 7-Eleven would have to do.

Donaldson went in first, the big pockets of his overalls much better at concealing foodstuffs than Lucy’s ugly-ass housedress.

She distracted the Indian clerk at the counter by asking for bogus directions.

The convenience store no doubt had closed circuit cameras, but they were a long way from the institution. If the clerk happened to catch them, they both looked pathetic enough to probably get away with just a warning.

Donaldson pinched two packages of Twinkies, a handful of Slim Jims, some candy bars, and was reaching for something he could actually eat—a cup of apple sauce—when he heard, “You! What are you doing!”

He froze, feeling a sense of humiliation that took him back to his youth and being scolded by his father.

The clerk shoved Lucy aside and stormed over, his expression pure anger.

“Empty your pockets! Right now!”

When Donaldson didn’t move, the prick actually put his hands on him, taking out all of the stolen snacks. Donaldson stared over his shoulder at Lucy, who was reaching for the gun stuffed into the back of her underwear. She’d been holding it so Donaldson had more room for food. He shook his head—shooting would bring the police. Instead, he lowered his eyes and apologized to the prick.

“I’m sorry. I was hungry. I haven’t eaten in—”

“Then get a job and earn some money, you freak. If I see you in my store again, I’m calling the cops.”

After removing the last Snickers bar, he grabbed Donaldson by the bib strap and escorted him out of his store. Pain flared all over Donaldson’s body, but he dared not resist.

Once outside, he followed Lucy, the two of them limping toward their piece-of-shit car parked across the street.

“You were supposed to distract him,” Donaldson said.

“He was onto you, D. Nothing I could do about it.”

“We gotta come up with a better plan for next time.”

“Don’t need to. While he was busy with you, I helped myself.”

“Food?” Donaldson’s mouth began to water at the thought of it.

“Better.”

“Cash?”

“Register was locked, but I got these.” Lucy reached into her dress, pulled out a long, accordion string of cards.

Scratch-off lottery tickets.

“Goddamn it, girl, no one ever wins at those things. Why didn’t you grab something we could actually use?”

Then Lucy did something that Donaldson hadn’t seen in all the time they’d been institutionalized.

She began to cry.

Donaldson didn’t know how to react. Once upon a time, he’d tried his damnedest to kill this girl. And she’d returned the favor. But these last few years, rehabilitating, plotting, pla

They climbed painfully into the front seats of the Monte Carlo, and Donaldson gave her one of the car keys.

“Look. Let’s scratch these babies off. Maybe we’ll win the lottery after all.”

After spending ten excruciating minutes scratching off all seventeen cards, they’d only won a single free ticket.

“I hate you,” Donaldson told Lucy.

It grew cold, and with no money for a motel, they were forced to sleep in the car, the situation only compounded by the fact that Lucy had lost the Ativan, the drug that helped them to sleep. Without it, it would be damn near impossible to drift off.

Donaldson didn’t believe in karma, but when he considered the many people he’d ruthlessly murdered, he wondered if sitting there shivering, hungry, and in terrible pain might actually be what he deserved.