Lawyer Trap

51





DAY NINE–SEPTEMBER 13

TUESDAY MORNING


Still 95 percent asleep, Draven twisted from his left side to his right, sending a stiff but short ripple through the mattress. When the ripple didn’t ricochet back he opened his eyes, just a slit. He was in the bed at the farmhouse and recalled drinking too much JD last night and screwing Gretchen like a rock star before passing out. He’d woken up three or four times during the night to piss, and each time Gretchen had been lying next to him, motionless and breathing deep and heavy.

But now she wasn’t.

Then he heard noises from the kitchen and remembered that she wanted to get up early and make him pancakes for breakfast.

He rolled onto his back and put his hands under his head.

Dawn had broken, but not by much.

Gretchen sang.

Too low and off-key for him to figure out the song.

“What are you singing?” he shouted.

She walked in wearing only a T-shirt, straddled him and pinned his arms above his head.

She kissed him.

“Are you hungry?”

“Yeah. What were you singing?”

“La Isle Bonita.”

“Never heard of it. Sing it to me.”

She pinned his arms tighter. “No. I’m too embarrassed.”

“I’m not going to let you go until you do,” he said.

She moved her weight higher on his chest.

“Not let me go? I’m the one who has you, in case you haven’t noticed.”

He flipped her, then straddled her and pinned her arms over her head.

“Now who has who?”

“That’s not the question,” she said.

“Oh?”

“The question is who’s going to turn the pancakes over before they burn.”

“Tricky,” he said. “Very tricky.”

He brought her hands together, clamped them in his left hand, and then reached down with his right and tickled her armpits until she went nuts and begged for mercy. Then he released her and headed for the shower.

Shit!

He suddenly remembered Mia Avila, outside in the Granada, under a blanket on the floor of the back seat, drugged and chained to the seat brackets. He couldn’t leave her at the cabin last night, not with the client coming in to do Chase.

He threw on a pair of jeans and stepped out to check on her.

There she was.

Exactly as he’d left her last night.

“Good girl,” he said, and then headed back inside for a shower.

Gretchen slapped his ass as he walked by. “I’m the dessert,” she said. “In case you’re interested.”

“Oh, I’m interested all right.”

He got the water as hot as he could and then stepped inside and lathered up. Today would be busy. He’d have to clean the cabin and dispose of the stripper’s body after the client left, for starters. He also needed to kill Mia Avila sometime today and get rid of her remains.

When he got out of the shower, the farmhouse smelled like pan-cakes—buttery, delicious pancakes. He dressed in the bedroom and shouted into the kitchen, “God, that smells good. I’m starved.”

No response.

“Gretchen? You there?”

Nothing.

Weird.

He walked into the kitchen.

She wasn’t there.

“Gretchen?”

Silence.

He stepped out the front door and couldn’t believe his eyes. Gretchen stood next to the Granada, with the door open, looking into the back seat.

At Mia Avila.

She turned and stared as he walked toward her.

Then she ran.