Page 83 of Pulling Strings

The phones were the next casualty, telekinetically ripped from outstretched hands and crushed in midair. Their owners shrieked and jumped back, searching near for the cause when I was still dozens of feet away.

I laid on the horn, then let off the brake. The car lurched forward, closing the gap to the small crowd in seconds.

People scattered. Everyone made it out of the way except the dead man, whose lifeless body formed a speedbump we rocked over on our turn into the gravel lot.

The Bronco fishtailed onto the paved, single-lane road leading away from the Bitters’ End. Exceeding the speed limit by fifteen miles per hour and climbing was no way to avoid attention, but going slower gave response time to investigators who would flock to any call involving murder.

Beside me, Donovan swiveled all the way around, watching the carnage he’d created as it faded from sight. Finally, he turned and sat with his back against the cracked leather seat. I kept my face forward, seeing all I wanted of him out of the corner of my eye.

“What were you thinking?” I blurted as we raced through the rural countryside. “There were witnesses everywhere. Why would you do that?”

“I saved your life,” he breathed.

“I didn’t need you to.”

Didn’t want him to.

I swallowed down swells of nausea. The drive-thru burger plus Everclear made a gnarly combination.

“The gang will cover for me,” Donovan said. “They’ll take care of it.”

“I’lltake care of it,” I replied.

My mind swirled with bad plans and worse fears as I navigated the familiar road home. It should have been a relief to see the glowing neon sign and squat edifice of the Lazy Daze Motel cresting the horizon, the homecoming I’d craved after days spent feeling profoundly displaced. Instead, I steered the Bronco into a parking space while fighting a growing sense of dread. Exhaustion—emotional as well as physical—made me feel like I was in chains again as I stumbled out of the car.

“Gimme your keycard,” I told Donovan. “All my shit’s at the jail.”

He handed over the microchipped card and I walked ahead of him around the outer perimeter of the building to our shared room. Boxed hedges butted up to window AC units, their rattling hum a shared sound that chased us down the sidewalk.

Near the back corner, I stopped at our door and slid the keycard into the reader. With a click and beep, the lock turned, and I shoved my way into the motel room.

It looked the same as I’d left it. A pair of double beds crowded the wall opposite a particle board dresser and flatscreen TV. Clothes spilled out of the closet and piled on the small table and chairs beside the window. Trash got picked up during infrequent visits from housekeeping, or we would have been buried in it by now.

At the other end of the room, the bathroom sinkcounter was cluttered with hair products, Donovan’s stacks of books, an ashtray, and whatever miscellany came out of our pockets at the end of the day.

Those who believed life in the Bloody Hex was glamorous, or even very comfortable, were sorely mistaken. As the saying went, crime didn’t pay. Killing cops and pilfering through their belongings was hardly a money game.

But this was home, the same home I’d shared with my brother for over a decade, and it made my heart ache to know I had to kick him out of it.

Moving to the closet with its mirrored doors, I dug into the mound of laundry. Mostly clean garments neither of us bothered to fold or hang tumbled aside as I rapidly sorted Donovan’s clothes from my own. A weathered duffel bag wedged in one corner was added to the pile I created as I tossed items onto the foot of the nearest bed.

We kept a modest amount of cash in the safe on the closet shelf. I punched in the combination and pulled the metal door open, grabbing a wad of bills and letting them flutter to land amidst the clothing.

The flurry of thought and action had me breathing hard by the time I paused to see Donovan standing against the closed door, staring at his tattooed hand. His dark hair stuck to his forehead, sweaty despite the air conditioner pumping drafts into the room.

I straightened, watching his expression in the light cutting through the blinds.

“You okay?” I asked.

The mixed feelings playing across his face settled into sobriety as he looked up at me. “Are you sure he was dead?”

I raised a brow. “Before or after I drove your car over him?”

Donovan’s body shuddered with a dry heave. He dove toward the small trashcan beside the dresser and coughed loudly into it.

As the sounds morphed into retching, I moved to the sink counter, hastily grabbing Donovan’s toothbrush, toothpaste, and the latest set of travel body wash and shampoo, always dutifully restocked.

I hadn’t noticed the return of quiet until Donovan spoke again.

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