Page 46 of What Doesn't Kill Her

“Who cares about them? Where did theheadgo? That’s where the value is.”

Both men kept their voices low. Both men had Eastern European accents. In slow motion, Kellen slid down and looked at their shoes.

Shiny black leather, unsuited for hiking. That confirmed her suspicions; this was Group 1, the Greedy Bastards.

“We’re supposed to be chasing them toward the ranger station, toward the other team. But if we find them first, I say we handle the matter ourselves.”

The first guy said, “The boss could be a difficulty.”

Mr. Cigarette grunted an agreement.

“And what about the kid? He didn’t tell us about a kid.”

“So he doesn’t know everything.” The cigarette dropped to the ground. The guy stubbed it out with his shoe. “A little girl, they said. I like little girls.”

They walked on.

Kellen gestured to Rae to remain still and quiet.

Rae’s eyes were big; she didn’t even blink. She had heard the words, and while maybe she hadn’t understood all his meaning, his tone revealed far too much of his sick pleasure at the idea of killing a woman and her child. And more.

They sat very still for long chilling minutes.

Finally, Rae stirred. She whispered, “Mommy, what are we going to do?”

Kellen finished packing the bag. “Change of plans. We’re going to the Restorer as quickly as we can.”

“Where’s he?”

“Uphill.”

“Okay!” Rae crawled under shrubs, reached out and nabbed the cigarette. She crawled back and handed it to her mother. “I don’t like this man. He’s gross. Helitters. But I like the Restorer. Right?”

“Yes. He’s one of the good guys.” She hoped. Nils Brooks didn’t necessarily associate with the good guys. She fieldstripped the cigarette, scattering the tobacco and shredding the paper. “Wait here.” She crawled out and scanned the area.

The men’s footsteps led away and downhill, and as far as she could see, they hadn’t doubled back. “Come on, Rae, we’ve got to get going.”

“Mommy, what are we having for breakfast?”

16

By the time Max had gathered his gear and hit the road in one of the tough old winery pickups, it was afternoon. The sun set about nine, he needed food and sleep, and he couldn’t find anything in the dark, so he stopped for the night in Centralia. As soon as he got into the motel room with a greasy bag filled with a hamburger and large order of fries, he locked the door behind him and called Nils Brooks.

Brooks sounded rough, gravelly, as if Max had woken him from a sound sleep.

“Ah, I’m sorry.” Max faked sympathy. “You’re on Eastern Time. I guess it’s late there, huh?” He took a large bite of the burger and chewed.

Without preamble, Brooks asked, “Did you find the head?”

Max stared at the mashed burger in his clenched fist. If he had Brooks here now, he’d rearrange his smug face. “You mean, did I find Kellen and our daughter? No. I got a late start, what with not being told the truth byyou. Any word on their whereabouts?”

“No.”

“Did you tell the Restorer? Is he going after them?”

“All he’s got is a radio. I couldn’t get him to pick up.” Max heard a woman’s sleepy voice say something, then Brooks sounded more awake and as if he was moving. A door shut, and he said quietly, “Which doesn’t mean he wasn’t there listening, just that he wouldn’t reply.”

A woman. Max was racing across Washington trying to find and save the only beings that gave his life value, and Brooks was screwing some woman. In disgust, Max dropped the burger back into the bag. “What do you mean?”

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