Rage Against the Dying - By Becky Masterman Page 0,37
to sniff me again, likely detecting a residual whiff of dead scumbag. “Everything is just fine,” I told them. As if puzzled still, without my being able to detect any signal between them, they left to cool their taut bellies on a part of the Mexican tile that was not covered by Jane’s rugs.
A final sound of a flush, the water running, the foosh of air freshener, and Carlo emerged from the master area with an opened copy of Islam Today and a triumphant gleam in his eye. That little bit of normalcy reminded me why I did what I did. Though prepared for this moment, I felt my body go rigid with tension and concentrated on one muscle at a time, starting with softening the corners of my mouth.
When he saw me he squinted a bit, trying to figure out what was different while, still working on composure, I stared back at him.
“You’re naked,” he finally asked, sitting beside me on the couch and crossing his long legs. Overwhelmed with joy at the entire pack being united, the Pugs began a new assault on his shins. He brushed them off without taking his attention from me.
I recognized my last chance to speak the truth. The man in the van, covered with blood, mouth open in the final groan, snapped in and out of my head. I replayed the events in a flash and made them play out differently. But there was no turning back now. I felt my eyes flash open. “I tripped over a rock and got sand in my hair,” I said, nuzzling Carlo’s cheek and patting his thigh while wondering how long it would take for someone to find the van in the wash. “What a klutz. I’m glad you weren’t there; you would have loffed and loffed.”
Instead of chuckling at my phony British accent Carlo shook his head and pointed at my arm. “Must have been a bad fall. Is that a bruise coming up?”
I got up and went into the kitchen area of the great room. Using the microwave door over the stove as a mirror, feeling Carlo’s eyes on my ass, I stood on my tiptoes and once more examined the crescent bruise on my arm, reassuring myself he wouldn’t recognize it as a bite mark, then busied myself fluffing my still-damp hair. That way I could arrange some over the other darkening bruise on my forehead where I’d been head-butted and stall looking him in the eyes until I developed my alibi more completely.
Carlo came up behind me. I could see the reflection of his questioning look in the microwave door. The look was surprisingly unnerving for someone who has spent most of her life undercover, let alone someone who has just killed a man.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
“Is there any coffee left?” I asked, sniffing in the direction of the monster Cuisinart that didn’t look like any coffeepot I’d ever seen outside of a Dunkin’ Donuts.
“I think so,” Carlo said. “Let me get you a cup.” He pulled one of Jane’s Bavarian porcelain cups, the kind with little feet at the bottom, out of the cupboard and poured me a cup of black, cold. While he was getting it for me I got my backpack off the credenza and dumped the rocks into the sink to rinse them off. The water bottle fell out, too, and I was glad I had my back to Carlo, hiding it from sight as I washed more blood off it.
I focused on my hands to make sure they weren’t shaking when I turned to take the cup from him. Partly successful, the cup didn’t rattle against the saucer as I sipped, but it had to follow my head a bit, which had begun moving back and forth at an alarming rate. I wasn’t wimping—only a psychopath can take life without some reaction. Just as bad was having to hide the fact. Luckily Carlo missed my trembling, having turned to the sink to finish rinsing off the rocks I had left there. With his back still to me he said, “I can’t believe you bothered to drag all these rocks up the hill after tripping.”
“I’m in incredible shape for an old broad, is that what you’re trying to say?” I said lightly, put the empty cup and saucer on the counter next to the sink to keep him busy, and went to blow-dry my hair despite the fact it was already dry. I crammed myself hurriedly