Oren wanted to linger over the boy's still body and gloat, but he quickly removed his shirt and used it to rub off any fingerprints his hands might have left on the merry-go-round. He brushed it over the imprints that the soles of his sneakers had made in the dirt. Satisfied that he'd eliminated all evidence of his having been there, he got on his bicycle and pedaled home as fast as he could before anyone saw him, keeping to the pavement so as not to leave tread tracks.
To this day it was believed that Mike Reader's death had been a tragic childhood accident.
Ever since that summer afternoon, Oren had wanted to kill all the other people in his life who treated him cruelly. He'd longed to give anyone who persecuted him the just deserts that Mike Reader had got. But he'd always talked himself out of it because most offenders weren't worth the risk of getting caught.
But Berry Malone's treachery was in a league of its own. Therefore his reprisal must be.
He had vowed to see her dead, and he would. But his original plan had gone awry, and, now, if he wasn't very clever, he'd be arrested for shooting that Coldare kid and Berry would go on living with impunity. Which was untenable and unacceptable.
There was one fortunate aspect to this catastrophe: Oren Starks was accustomed to coping with bad luck because he'd had so much practice at it. For instance, he knew to avoid panic. Hand-wringing over something gone wrong was a surefire way to expose one's guilt.
The day Mike Reader died, Oren had returned home, watched TV, ate his dinner of fish sticks and mac-and-cheese, had his bath, behaved normally, and no one, not even his own mother, had ever guessed that he'd been the cause of the tragedy that had taken place only two blocks from his house. When he'd heard the sirens of a police car and an ambulance screaming through his neighborhood, his only reaction had been to adjust the volume on the TV.
The Coldare kid was dead, and he would remain dead. Oren had no choice but to accept it and handle it. He must remain calm. He must not act rashly. Problem solving was his forte. The more complicated a puzzle was, the better he liked it. It took patience and ingenuity to work oneself out of an intricate maze.
There was a way out of this muddle. He simply had to find it.
Of course, if the worst-case scenario came about, he had a fail-safe escape hatch already in place. But for the present, he was facing an unexpected wall. His only recourse was to backtrack. Bitterly, he accepted that, to ensure success, sacrifices must be made.
To that end, it wasn't absolutely necessary that Ben Lofland die.
The man had had the bejesus scared out of him and had been made to look like a fool for being caught with his pants down, literally. While this wasn't the severe punishment Lofland deserved, Oren resolved that it was satisfaction enough.
Berry, however, must die. There was no other option. He'd be satisfied with nothing less than death for her.
But how to bring it about? Everyone near her was on high alert. Oren's name and face had been widely broadcast. Any man even remotely resembling him would be arrested on sight if not shot outright by a trigger-happy vigilante. In which case, hiding was an acceptable course of action.
But hiding was unproductive and, frankly, boring. And the worst effect of hiding and taking no action whatsoever was that Berry remained alive. On the other hand, if he was seen--
And with that thought, the solution came to him suddenly.
Create confusion. Yes, yes! He would confound them. With cleverness, good timing, and a little luck--and wasn't he due some?--Berry and those protecting her would soon be scratching their heads, trying to make sense of the impossible.
The prospect of that filled Oren with glee.
CHAPTER
16
KISSING BERRY.
The world was going to hell in a handbasket--Ski Nyland's corner of
it was in the express lane--and he couldn't concentrate on how to slow down that descent for thinking about kissing Berry. Elbowing their way to the forefront of his mind were thoughts of how well her long, lean body had fit his, how delicious her mouth had tasted, and others much more stirring.
He couldn't indulge them any more than he could take off and go fishing today, or catch up on two nights' worth of sleep.
From Caroline's lake house, he drove directly to his. He shaved, took a cold shower, and by the time he'd dressed in fresh clothes, his coffeemaker had brewed him a full pot. He poured the coffee into a thermal container with a drinking spout. He spread a thick layer of peanut butter onto a piece of stale bread, folded it in half, and consumed it as he left his house and got back into his SUV. The coffee tasted good and acrid, so hot it scalded his tongue.
His tongue, which had mated with Berry's.
Working the case would act as a shock absorber to the erotic sensations assailing him. He doubted they would disappear, but keeping his mind focused on catching Oren Starks would prevent them from being as jolting as they'd been there in Caroline King's kitchen.
And, anyway, personal concerns seemed obscenely selfish today, when the Coldare boy's killer was at large.
As he drove toward the motel, where he intended to grill the owner again, he called Sheriff Drummond at home. Mrs. Drummond answered, told Ski the sheriff was in the shower but said she would give him the message as soon as he was available.
He called the office. Andy was manning the phone. Ski told him where he was headed and asked to be notified immediately if anyone checked in with an update.