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L.J. wasn’t certain what prompted the urge to drive deeper into the mountains when Nick dropped him at his car.
His speedometer hovered around fifty—twenty miles over the mountain road’s posted limit for its rare straight-aways. He smiled as he glanced at the shift knob and flicked the “Comfort” setting to “Sport.” His right foot steadily increased pressure on the gas pedal.
Fifty-five. Sixty.
His tiredness evaporated. Images of Smitty’s gory death played in his mind. Watching a man die was . . . invigorating.
With the sports car’s hardtop retracted, wind combed his hair, and the morning sun sparked off his Rolex. Roadside trees, blushing with spring buds, rushed by in a soft blur of chartreuse and lime. His skin prickled. The dizzying speed jacked his pulse, boosted his high.
A caution sign popped into view—twisting black ink snaking across yellow metal. A series of switchbacks loomed. L.J. mentally gave the road sign the finger. Seconds later a new warning appeared. The first hairpin curve. Only a spindly railing separated his hurtling car from a steep drop. His body tensed. Screw it. He’d cling to the ribbon of pavement, defy death.
L.J. loved his Mercedes, an SL Class Roadster. Well worth its one-hundred-fifty thousand sticker price. The sports car could leap from a standstill to sixty miles per hour in 4.2 seconds. “Let’s see what you’ve got!” he screamed into the wind.
Once before he’d pushed the speedometer over one hundred miles per hour, but that had been on a deserted country straightaway. This was different. This was living.
He knew better than to brake as he entered the curve. The squealing tires slid sideways. For an instant, the horizon offered only empty sky. He dragged the car back from the precipice, his knuckles white from a death-grip on the wheel. Coming out of each bend, he eased back slightly before slinging himself into the next curve in the slalom course.
Rounding the final bow in the hairpin marathon, he spotted the glint of sun on metal. His wheels played hopscotch with the centerline. The cop car careening toward him hugged the inside lane. Headed in the opposite direction—down the mountain.
Blue lights swirled. His chest tightened. He swerved, fought for control as the car shimmied. The patrol car slid by with inches to spare, vanishing before the scream of its siren.
Shit, shit, shit!
He sucked in a breath. The cop couldn’t turn around. He had no view of the license plate. L.J. crested the mountain and pulled off on the first gravel road. His breath came in staccato pants. He laughed.
He swung the car around, flinging white gravel like wedding rice. Quiet descended. He sat, motionless as a sunning alligator. Ten minutes passed. Twenty. No cops. Looking out his windshield, he studied the peak of a distant mountain. Sun shone on a stone outcropping, making the granite look like a field of snow. He remembered Alaska’s spectacular blue glaciers. He’d watched one calve. A gigantic mountain of ice breaking free to brave the roiling sea.
He felt a kinship with that glacier. Before his father’s attempted suicide, he’d been strangely unemotional. But there’d always been a fault line, a part of him ready to break free.
He remembered the first time boiling anger consumed him. His mother, the bitch, had talked his father into backing some society pal. A crook. When the scheme imploded, she jettisoned L.J. and his dad to cozy up with another rich dude. He’d wanted to smash her face. Kick in her ribs. But he wasn’t ready to face the consequences. She’d tell on him. Not a doubt in the world. So he found another way to punish her. Nabbed the yappy little dog she fussed over. Paid lots more attention to the damn dog than she’d ever paid him. She never kissed her son but she let the slobbering mutt lick her face.
Revenge. L.J. drove the stupid dog to another town and dumped him. Didn’t kill the mutt, but he let her think so. A perfect outcome. She cried; he laughed up his sleeve.
Then came Barbara. Sophomore year. Pregnant with L.J.’s son. She killed the baby, aborted it, before he even knew. Said she wasn’t about to throw away her future for a “mistake.” He wanted to punch Barbara, too. But people knew about them. She’d tell. Another good-for-nothing, disloyal slut.
That night, L.J. picked up a prostitute in Columbia, SC, screwed her, and beat her senseless. He’d never enjoyed sex more.