The Grid by Harry Hunsicker Read Free Book Online Page B

grandfather.
    “What did you say?” Sarah’s back in the present. She looks down at Cleo.
    “You think I want this burden?” Cleo opens her eyes.
    “Did you call me the devil?”
    Cleo wipes a tear from her cheek. No one speaks for a moment.
    “The keys to the van.” Sarah slides her hand into the purse. “Where are they?”
    The woman reaches toward her back pocket.
    “Don’t surprise me, Cleo.” Sarah grasps the Python. “I’m not what I seem.”
    Cleo smiles, eyes still teary. “Me neither.”
    A convoy of eighteen-wheelers blows past, making conversation impossible.
    Cleo pulls an item from her pocket, something small and shiny that looks sort of like a gun.
    Sarah tenses. Her finger tightens on the trigger of the Python hidden in the purse. The barrel is pointed at the woman’s chest.
    “It’s a lock pick.” Cleo points to the trunk of the Monte Carlo. “I’ll change your tire.”
    Sarah nods. Maybe that’s for the best. One more stolen vehicle will only hurt her chances of reaching Dallas.
    “Just don’t tempt me again,” Cleo says. “That opens doors that ought to stay closed.”
    Sarah lets her breath out. “Whatever you say.”
    Cleo kneels by the rear of the Chevy, jams the tool into the lock. She works for a minute or so and then says, “So what’s in Dallas you’re in such a hurry to get to, Sarah?”
    Sarah doesn’t answer. She thinks about the message on her cell from earlier. Trouble ahead of her, trouble behind.
    The trunk pops open.
    “My child is hurt.” Sarah can’t help herself; the words blurt out.
    The pain she feels is real, an ache in her chest, and she is surprised at her reaction to the child’s injury. The maternal instinct is not a large part of her makeup.
    “That sucks. Me, I never had kids.” Cleo pulls the spare out. “They say you never quit worrying about them.”
    Sarah nods in agreement but doesn’t speak.
    “You ever wonder if you can change what you are?” Cleo grabs the jack and tire iron. “I mean really change yourself. Deep down.”
    Sarah thinks about that all the time. But she’ll be damned if she has a conversation like that on the side of the highway with Cleo the Bull Dyke.
    “I want to change, Sarah. I really do. But I don’t think I can.”
    Cleo rolls the spare to the side of the Chevy and goes to work. A few minutes later, the car is operable again. She pitches the flat into the ditch on the other side of the shoulder.
    “The Monte Carlo,” Cleo says. “How hot is it?”
    Sarah doesn’t answer.
    “I’m gonna need to trade cars,” Cleo says. “You cool with that?”
    Even though she’d been thinking about making just such a switch, Sarah is not cool with that, not at all. Why would Cleo want to trade her late-model van for a Chevy that came off the assembly line the same year that Saturday Night Fever was in theaters?
    Sarah strides to the van, Cleo trailing after her, the tire iron still in hand.
    The vehicle is running. It has sliding doors that face away from the highway.
    When Sarah gets to the side of the van, Cleo says, “Remember what I said about opening doors?”
    Sarah grasps the handle. Her other hand still has ahold of the Python in her purse.
    Cleo smiles expectantly, like she really wants Sarah to see inside the van. Like that’s been her goal all along.
    Sarah yanks open the door.
    Inside are two women and a whole lot of blood.
    The women appear to be in their early twenties. They are naked and hog-tied, blindfolded, mouths gagged. One is dead, her throat cut. The other is whimpering, thrashing about.
    Sarah jumps back, aghast. She jerks the Python out of her purse but not fast enough.
    Cleo swings the tire iron for the hand holding the gun, connecting with Sarah’s bicep. The whole limb goes numb. The Python clatters to the ground.
    Cleo jumps on top of Sarah, pins her to the dirty asphalt. The van is between them and the traffic. They are out of sight.
    “You stupid little slut.” She wraps a hand