Split Second

Even that smart-mouthed redheaded girl was a fed. The redhead had played her, played her really good. She got hold of herself. With any luck, the redhead was dead now, like Bruce was dead, a tag hanging off her big toe. Kirsten hoped she’d died in her own vomit. Not that it mattered much. It was the FBI boss guy who’d shot Bruce, the guy on TV Bruce had told her about, whatever his name was. I’ll put him down, Bruce, like I promised you. Wherever you are, you can count on that.

Kirsten heard a sob. It was from her, from deep inside her, and it surprised her.

Bruce was gone. She was alone again, and she couldn’t bear it.

You never had anyone, did you, Daddy? You were always alone, weren’t you? If only you’d known about me, if only we could have been together, you could have told me how clever I was, how right I was, to kill those snotty girls in high school. But like you, I had to learn alone, and practice until I was pleased with what I’d done, until I was ready to take a road trip, just like you.

But I had Bruce. I’ll bet even when you were with my bitch of a mother, you felt alone. You knew she wouldn’t understand, knew you couldn’t ever confide in her, share your plans and triumphs with her, not like I did with Bruce. He loved me, he admired me for what I was, what I did, just as you would have done if only you’d known about me. You could have taken me away from that bitch. What fun we would have had. I bless Aunt Sentra for finally telling me about you. I would never have realized, never have felt what I could share with another person. Most of those ridiculous books I read about you, those writers were idiots, they didn’t understand, didn’t know what it was like to be so full of life, so full of power.

But I understand. And now I’m like you. Alone.

She’d crossed into Virginia on a narrow country road with few cars on it. She’d stolen a big Gold Wing outside Baltimore, but she’d felt way too exposed, so the first chance she got, she revved it off a cliff, watched it bounce into scrubs and trees on its way down to the bottom, smashing itself to pieces. She’d watched the wheels spin in the early dawn light. She’d hot-wired the old Silverado right out of a driveway on a cul-de-sac near Pinkerton, and started driving.

She saw a diner up ahead. What an ugly piece of crap, she thought, plunked down by itself on the edge of a podunk town called Whortleberry, a long name for a dot on a map. There wasn’t a single car parked in front—no surprise there. The diner was long and narrow, old and weather-beaten. It reminded her of that big-haired waitress who’d called in the feds on them. What was her name? Kirsten didn’t know, but she could find out, if she ever wanted to go back to Baltimore and pay her a visit. She looked again at the diner, still didn’t see anything going on.

What a dump. Burgundy vinyl-covered booths lined up along the long window that gave out onto the empty parking lot. It was good nobody was around; it seemed like it was meant to be, a diner here, just for her.

She felt the chill wind against her face when she stepped out of the Silverado and pulled her leather jacket closer. A stupid tinkling bell rang when she pushed open the door. Sure enough, the place was empty except for a single woman sitting at the counter, hunched over, reading a paperback, a cup of coffee at her elbow. She turned to see who’d come in, her long streaked blond hair falling straight to her shoulder. Kirsten realized she wasn’t a woman, she was a girl, real young, and she was wearing a dippy uniform.

Kirsten pulled off her driving gloves. “Get me coffee.”

The girl looked her over, rose, straightened her red uniform with its stupid white handkerchief sticking up out of her single breast pocket, and walked behind the cheap laminate counter to pour some obviously old coffee from a nearly empty carafe into a chipped mug.

Kirsten said, “Bet you don’t get much business here.”

“Enough,” the girl said, and shoved the mug toward her. “But not today. You want anything else?”

You’re rude, little girl. Kirsten shook her head. Five minutes passed, and no one came in. Kirsten timed it. She had to admit, it made her consider the possibilities—that sweet young thing lying at her feet, making her journey to the hereafter, the sullen, rude little bitch. She watched the girl return to her seat and the novel. She ignored Kirsten.

Kirsten said, “You got a cook in the back?”

That broke the dam, and the complaints burst out of her. “The putz went home, sick to his stomach, he said, from stuffing down too many nachos last night watching a dorky football game. He made me stay even though all the regulars know I can’t cook and they won’t come in until he’s back.”