Split Second
Page 114
- Background:
- Text Font:
- Text Size:
- Line Height:
- Line Break Height:
- Frame:
“Yes, I read about your half sister.”
“I don’t know where she is. When her mama took her away from Raiford way back in the mid-eighties, I’ll bet she changed her name. I always wondered what my sister is like, whether she knows who her daddy was, or whether her mama erased him like mine did?”
The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them. “For your sister’s sake, I hope she did.”
His SIG slammed hard into his ribs, and he felt pain steal his breath. His hand jerked the steering wheel to the left. Kirsten jerked the steering wheel back, to the sounds of a dozen sharp car horns. “Watch your mouth, boy, if you don’t want me to put three bullets in your side.”
“If you do, I’ll kill both of us. I promise you that, Kirsten.”
“Yeah, you would try that, wouldn’t you? You’d kill both you and me for—what is it?—oh, yeah, the greater good.” Then in the next breath, she said, “I wish I could find out my half sister’s name. Her mama named her Mary Lou—boy, is that ever a stupid name. But like I said, I’ll bet she changed both their names when she left Raiford.
“I’d like to see how Mary Lou turned out, you know? Does she have four little kiddies, live in a dopey house in some stupid suburb, and have a boring accountant for a husband, like that Arnette Carpenter did? What a loss that guy was. I know that for a fact; I had drinks with him after I took care of his wife.”
Coop pictured Roy Carpenter as he’d seen him—was it only a week ago?—how devastated he looked three years after his wife’s murder at this psychopath’s hands, the deep abiding pain in his eyes. “Tell me about Arnette Carpenter.”
“Yeah? She was a talented little cow, conceited, full of herself, always lording it over me, adored that loser husband of hers.”
“Where did you bury her, Kirsten?”
Kirsten laughed. “A freebie for you, Coop. I planted her on the VA hospital grounds, under a huge old oak tree facing the ocean. A great view. Too bad she doesn’t care anymore.” She tapped her fingers against her leg, frowned. “You know, it kind of pisses me off that Daddy married that stupid woman but not my own mother.”
“I understand she worked with your father.”
“Yeah, I know. Maybe he worked with my mother, too; she wouldn’t tell me, wouldn’t even say how she met him. He must have known Mary Lou’s mother even before he knew my mom. Can you believe that weird Florida law, though—they allowed Daddy to declare in court they were married, and whoop-de-do, the deed was done. They even let him sleep with her in prison lots of times. So my little sister came along in 1982, four years after I did. I really want to find them both. Do you think I’ll like them?”
He kept quiet.
“Well, do you?”
“Sure. Why not?”
She chewed her bottom lip, the last of the dark red lipstick long gone. “I’ll bet you she’d tell me more than my mother ever told me, which is a big fat zero.”
“What would you like her to tell you? That he used a hacksaw to cut off people’s heads?”
She only shrugged. “Who cares? They were dead; they didn’t know.”
“Do you know he confessed to cremating one of his victims’ heads in his current girlfriend’s fireplace?”
His SIG jammed against his ribs again. He managed not to grunt in pain, but it hurt, really hurt.
“He was having some fun, that’s all, just a little fun, and like I said, what did those girls care? They were dead and gone.”
“How many women have you killed, Kirsten? I believe your daddy confessed to thirty-five.”
“After I drop-kick your butt out of here, Agent McKnight, that’ll be one less I’ll have to go.”
“Nah, I won’t count. I’m a guy.”
“You keep driving, you punk. I’ve got me a call to make.”
Coop watched her hit speed dial. Bruce Comafield was dead, so who was she calling?
She never took her eyes off him. “Yeah, it’s me. I wanted you to know I’m heading to Florida. Can’t talk right now, but I’ll call you from there. I’m having fun, got me a big FBI agent driving me. He’s my own personal chauffeur.”
She listened, then said, “Yeah, sure, I’ll be careful. Bye.”
“Who was that?”
“What do you care? I’ve got lots of friends.”
“At least there’ll be someone to scatter your ashes after you’re dead. Who was that?”
“I don’t know where she is. When her mama took her away from Raiford way back in the mid-eighties, I’ll bet she changed her name. I always wondered what my sister is like, whether she knows who her daddy was, or whether her mama erased him like mine did?”
The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them. “For your sister’s sake, I hope she did.”
His SIG slammed hard into his ribs, and he felt pain steal his breath. His hand jerked the steering wheel to the left. Kirsten jerked the steering wheel back, to the sounds of a dozen sharp car horns. “Watch your mouth, boy, if you don’t want me to put three bullets in your side.”
“If you do, I’ll kill both of us. I promise you that, Kirsten.”
“Yeah, you would try that, wouldn’t you? You’d kill both you and me for—what is it?—oh, yeah, the greater good.” Then in the next breath, she said, “I wish I could find out my half sister’s name. Her mama named her Mary Lou—boy, is that ever a stupid name. But like I said, I’ll bet she changed both their names when she left Raiford.
“I’d like to see how Mary Lou turned out, you know? Does she have four little kiddies, live in a dopey house in some stupid suburb, and have a boring accountant for a husband, like that Arnette Carpenter did? What a loss that guy was. I know that for a fact; I had drinks with him after I took care of his wife.”
Coop pictured Roy Carpenter as he’d seen him—was it only a week ago?—how devastated he looked three years after his wife’s murder at this psychopath’s hands, the deep abiding pain in his eyes. “Tell me about Arnette Carpenter.”
“Yeah? She was a talented little cow, conceited, full of herself, always lording it over me, adored that loser husband of hers.”
“Where did you bury her, Kirsten?”
Kirsten laughed. “A freebie for you, Coop. I planted her on the VA hospital grounds, under a huge old oak tree facing the ocean. A great view. Too bad she doesn’t care anymore.” She tapped her fingers against her leg, frowned. “You know, it kind of pisses me off that Daddy married that stupid woman but not my own mother.”
“I understand she worked with your father.”
“Yeah, I know. Maybe he worked with my mother, too; she wouldn’t tell me, wouldn’t even say how she met him. He must have known Mary Lou’s mother even before he knew my mom. Can you believe that weird Florida law, though—they allowed Daddy to declare in court they were married, and whoop-de-do, the deed was done. They even let him sleep with her in prison lots of times. So my little sister came along in 1982, four years after I did. I really want to find them both. Do you think I’ll like them?”
He kept quiet.
“Well, do you?”
“Sure. Why not?”
She chewed her bottom lip, the last of the dark red lipstick long gone. “I’ll bet you she’d tell me more than my mother ever told me, which is a big fat zero.”
“What would you like her to tell you? That he used a hacksaw to cut off people’s heads?”
She only shrugged. “Who cares? They were dead; they didn’t know.”
“Do you know he confessed to cremating one of his victims’ heads in his current girlfriend’s fireplace?”
His SIG jammed against his ribs again. He managed not to grunt in pain, but it hurt, really hurt.
“He was having some fun, that’s all, just a little fun, and like I said, what did those girls care? They were dead and gone.”
“How many women have you killed, Kirsten? I believe your daddy confessed to thirty-five.”
“After I drop-kick your butt out of here, Agent McKnight, that’ll be one less I’ll have to go.”
“Nah, I won’t count. I’m a guy.”
“You keep driving, you punk. I’ve got me a call to make.”
Coop watched her hit speed dial. Bruce Comafield was dead, so who was she calling?
She never took her eyes off him. “Yeah, it’s me. I wanted you to know I’m heading to Florida. Can’t talk right now, but I’ll call you from there. I’m having fun, got me a big FBI agent driving me. He’s my own personal chauffeur.”
She listened, then said, “Yeah, sure, I’ll be careful. Bye.”
“Who was that?”
“What do you care? I’ve got lots of friends.”
“At least there’ll be someone to scatter your ashes after you’re dead. Who was that?”
