out in California that killed his wife and baby. They’re famous, Stan. Ever’body knows them. People write ‘em letters in jail.”
“I guess,” Stan said.
She bent down and whispered in his ear. “Killers are like movie stars in this country, baby. And we’re gonna get us some of that.”
Her hot breath on his ear was making him hard. “But I…I mean, I never…” He was having trouble thinking.
“I know, baby,” she breathed. “But you’ve wanted to. You wanted to kill your stepdaddy, didn’t you?”
“I…I…”
“C’mon, you can tell me,” she whispered. “I know what it’s like, Stan. I do. So tell me. You wanted to kill him yourself.”
“Yeah,” Stan said. “I did.”
“And I wanted him dead, too, Stan. I never met him, but I wanted him dead. And now he is,” she said. “I made that happen, Stan. I wanted someone dead and now he’s rotting on a slab somewhere. Do you have any idea how good that feels?” Her hand stroked his neck sensuously. Then she kissed him lightly on the ear and stood up. “So what about it, Stan?” she said in a normal voice. “I guess you can still back out if you want. I can’t guarantee that ol’ Roy out there will understand. But say it now. Or never.”
Stan’s whole body was trembling. He felt like his head was going to explode. But then he remembered the feel of the gun in his hand, the look on his stepfather’s face as Laurel shot him. Something seemed to give way inside him like a guitar string snapping. He suddenly felt very calm.
“I’m in,” he said.
It was growing dark when they left the trailer. Stan drove, with Roy in the passenger seat and Laurel hanging over his shoulder from the back. Stan’s black hair was now buzz-cut and dyed an improbable shade of blonde. He periodically ran his fingers over it, feeling the unaccustomed spikiness. Roy had done something with his own salt-and-pepper hair to turn it pure white. He had also placed lifts in his shoes that added at least three inches to his height.
“What I don’t understand is why so far?” Stan said. “I mean, this place is, like, two hours away.”
“I’ve done a lot of readin’,” Roy said. “Cops have a lot of theories about… well, about people like us. They call it profilin’.”
“Like in the movies,” Laurel said.
Roy went on. “At first they’ll look around at the people close by, hopin’ we’ll be workin’ in what they call our comfort zone.” His grin flashed in the semidarkness of the van. “But we ain’t goin’ to be like no one they ever seen before. We’re gonna keep ‘em guessing. Instead of them knowin’ how we think …”
“We’re gonna know how they think we think.” Laurel giggled like a little girl laughing at an uncle’s often-old joke.
They drove past a series of industrial parks, giant slab-sided metal buildings with cryptic names. Those gave way to roadside businesses, mostly auto-repair places and the occasional small grocery. Then they were in the country. Roy had his notebook on his lap, but he put it on the floor and began giving directions from memory. “Turn here…left here…straight…” They had left the main road by now and were wandering apparently aimlessly past bare harvested fields alternating with stands of trees. It was all the way dark by now, and the only lights this far out were their headlights and an occasional lone streetlight set on a post in a farmhouse driveway. Roy’s directions were as sure and terse as if he were a harbor pilot navigating them into port. “Here it is,” he said finally.
There were a number of vehicles parked outside the wooden building, mostly older sedans and pickups. Here and there, a newer and flashier pickup gleamed in the reflected light off the building, but most of the vehicles were sober, economical. The building was a simple structure, a rectangle with a steeply pitched roof. It was painted a gleaming white made even brighter in the darkness by the spotlights pointing up from the ground. There was a plain square steeple perched on the roof. A lighted sign out front named the building as the FIRST CHURCH OF GOD OF PROPHECY. Below were words spelled out in black plastic letters that slid into runners on the sign. FRIDAY PRAYER MEETING. 7:00 P.M.
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