LITMIR.BIZ

      12

      Dallas–Fort Worth Metroplex, Texas

      Sitting behind the wheel of his battered pickup truck at the traffic light, Mason Varno gritted his teeth.

      Everything’s gone to hell. Everything’s closing in.

      He looked at the surrounding traffic, checked his mirrors.

      Sure as shit more people would be looking for them now.

      He hammered his palms against the wheel.

      I’m not going down for this. I’m not going back to prison for some whacked-out—

      The light changed.

      Calm down. Think this through. Take care of first things first.

      He looked around. Other than a scattering of branches and trash, he saw no storm damage in this neighborhood. He wheeled into a McDonald’s parking lot, taking a spot out of sight in a far corner, under the shade of a maple tree. He fished out a small glass tube and a stamp-sized square of tinfoil. He unfolded the foil to reveal the small heap of crystals, almost tasting the anticipation as he heated the underside with his disposable lighter. The crystals crackled, liquefied and vaporized. He savored the smell as he inhaled the rising smoke through the pipe.

      Sweet Jesus, yes.

      In seconds, Mason floated on a euphoric cloud. All his troubles lightened and drifted away as he shut his eyes to embrace the bliss.

      That’s what I needed. Now I can think.

      Review and assess, as his counselor used to say.

      Mason guided his pickup through the back of the long drive-through line.

      He’d never expected Remy to kidnap a baby. All this time he’d thought that her odd behavior was a reaction to the stillbirth last month. That these past couple of weeks she’d needed to cozy up to other women and their babies in malls and such because it was a kind of therapy for her.

      At the hospital, a few days after it had happened, the doctor had informed Mason that Remy was having trouble dealing with the loss and could experience “borderline postpartum psychosis.” It meant she’d sometimes have “delusions, hallucinations and other thought disturbances.” They gave her medication, but every so often Remy had a spell, a headache accompanied by a lot of crying.

      Mason never thought her condition would go beyond her having the blues and ogling other people’s babies then—BAM—she grabbed that kid after the storm, then screamed at him that the mother’s dead and the kid’s bleeding and they have to get out.

      But the mother ain’t dead, is she, Remy? She’s on the damn news looking for her baby, and we’re in a world of trouble.

      He shook his head as he inched his truck along the drive-through line.

      Oh, but Remy had a plan.

      She had a way out of their situation, and she wanted him to trust her. Un-freaking-believable. She was an unstable psychotic, and he had to trust her plan?

      He struggled to get hold of the situation, which was getting worse by the second. The baby’s got that bump on his head. That can’t be good. What if it dies? He’ll just dump the thing and Remy and run, find his way out of it all. I should do it now. Just hit the gas, he thought. Dump her now and never look back.

      But he couldn’t.

      He was handcuffed to her by circumstance.

      How in hell had he let this happen? He had planned things so carefully while doing his eighteen months in Hightower Unit. His time was for a drug deal that involved a lot of players and went wrong. A lot of money was lost, and Mason took the fall with the understanding that he would be cut loose, left alone. Then word got to Mason inside that a wronged party, a guy by the name of DOA, might seek payback or retribution from Mason. DOA had a lot of associates. Mason knew some of them, and he could trust a few but not all of them. One thing Mason knew about DOA was that he was big on threats, liked to talk them up but didn’t always follow through. Still, as month after month passed, Mason kept his ear to the ground for talk about DOA reaching inside to seek vengeance on him. So far, nothing had come of his threat.

      Remy had started writing to him through a social network. Then she’d started visiting. She was a looker, no doubt about it. And he’d decided that of all the women who’d written to him, she was the one he’d use for his plan.

      In Hightower he needed to show the system that he had something stable set up on the outside to be eligible for early release and a minimum level of supervised parole. Inside, he stayed out of trouble, enrolled in carpentry school and took several reentry programs dealing with addiction, conflict and confrontation, learning how to “cage your rage.” His clear, stated objective was to settle into a stable life with his new woman, Remy Toxton, and get a carpentry job with the goal of eventually starting his own carpentry business in Oregon, where Remy wanted to get married and begin a family. It was what the Texas Department of Criminal Justice needed to hear from inmate #01286413.

      But it was all bullshit.

      Sure, once Mason got out, he’d play along with the straight life until he activated his real plan, which he’d kept secret from Remy. In prison, trusted friends told Mason that for $25,000 he could buy into an import-export start-up company run by an American player known only as Garza. This business would be based in Belize, then expand in the Caribbean and Central America. It was going to be huge. With the $25,000 investment Mason was guaranteed $250,000 return in the first two months.

      Word got back to Mason that Garza would let him into the enterprise as a favor for a friend. Garza was moving fast so he’d set a deadline for Mason’s delivery of $25,000 cash: within three months of Mason’s release.

      Trouble was Mason had lied about having the cash.

      He’d said he had it stashed from the deal he was doing

Скачать книгу