Deadline. Metsy Hingle

already told you what happened. She paid for her gas, got directions and left. And then I got out of there as fast as I could,” Lester repeated. He jammed his fist into his jacket pocket and his fingers brushed against a slip of paper—a gas receipt. He must have picked it up from the floor at the Quick Stop when he’d had to crawl around and pick up the beers he’d dropped. If he were to tell the guy now that the bitch had dropped it when her purse had fallen, it would only piss him off. He wouldn’t understand how scared he’d been and that he’d grabbed the thing in fear.

      “All right. Then I don’t think we have anything to worry about.”

      “How can you be sure?” Lester asked, not wanting to admit that he was still afraid. “I mean, if she is Burns’s kid, then she’s come back here for a reason. Maybe she knows what we did and she’s here for revenge and—”

      “Would you stop saying that shit?”

      “But if she knows—”

      “She doesn’t know. Nobody does.” He all but spit out the words. “You got it?”

      “Yeah. I got it,” Lester muttered grudgingly. Still, he had to ask, “So we aren’t going to do anything? Just sit around and wait?”

      “I’m going to do some checking around, confirm she is the Burns kid and then find out why she’s here. And while I’m doing that, you are going to go home, lay off the booze and keep your damn mouth shut. Understand?”

      Lester muttered his favorite four-letter word.

      “What was that?”

      “Nothing,” Lester grumbled.

      “So, do you understand me?” he repeated.

      “Yeah, yeah, I understand you.” But he sure as hell didn’t appreciate being given orders by the likes of him. Just who in hell did he think he was? If it wasn’t for him, the son of a bitch wouldn’t be where he was. The bastard owed him. They all did. None of them had had the balls to pull off the gig. They had needed him then, he remembered. They still did. And he’d show them, too.

      “Then go home and keep your mouth shut. And, De Roach?”

      “Yeah?”

      “Don’t call me anymore.”

      “But suppose she finds out that we were there that night?” Lester fired back, the panic building again.

      “She won’t.”

      “But what if she does? I’m not going to sit around and do nothing if she comes after me.”

      “She’s not going to come after you.”

      “How do you know?” Lester asked.

      “Because I’ll take care of her. In the meantime you need to keep your mouth shut. And don’t call me again.”

      Then the line went dead.

      Lester stood there listening to the dial tone. “Self-righteous prick. I’ll show you. I’ll show all of you,” he yelled into the receiver before he slammed it down onto the phone hook so hard that it fell off. Not bothering to pick up the receiver that dangled from the aluminum cording like a doll’s arm, Lester stormed away. He stuffed his curled fists into the pockets of his jacket and headed for his truck.

      He climbed inside the dirty old pickup, too angry to notice the torn seats, the empty beer cans on the floorboards, the overloaded ashtray or the stench of cigarettes and fast food. He grabbed one of the two remaining beers, popped the top and chugged it down to calm his nerves. When he finished, he threw the can on the floor and then reached for the last one. He opened it, drained half the can, then leaned his head back against the seat. Closing his eyes, he sighed as he felt the buzz start up again.

      When he opened his eyes again, he took another swig of beer. Then he pulled the crumpled gas receipt from his pocket and smoothed it out. For a moment, he remembered looking into those spooky gray eyes again and his hand trembled. “Not a ghost,” he reminded himself, shaking off the attack of nerves.

      He hit the interior light switch of the truck, but nothing happened. Then he remembered the thing had been out for months. Lester angled the piece of paper near the dashboard so that the overhead light from the parking lot fell on it. Squinting his eyes, he could barely make out the name stamped on the receipt because the inked copy was so faint. “T. Abbott,” he read the name aloud. At least that’s what it looked like to him.

      “Abbott,” he repeated as he sat back in his seat and took another swallow of beer to steady his nerves. Why did that name sound familiar? he wondered. But the buzz in his head was getting louder and his limbs were feeling looser. He’d remember later he promised himself, and started up the truck’s engine.

      Maybe he’d go by his sister Doreen’s tomorrow. Her kid had a computer. Could find out all kinds of stuff on a computer these days. With a name and credit card number, he could probably even find the bitch’s bra size. Laughing out loud at his own joke, Lester pulled the pickup truck out of the parking lot and onto the road.

      Yep, that’s what he’d do. He’d go to Doreen’s and tell her he was hunting for a job out of state. Yeah, she’d buy that. She was always after him to clean up his act and get a good job.

      And once he found out who the woman was, he’d call that asshole and rub his arrogant nose in the information. He’d show him. He’d show them all. Lester De Roach wasn’t no fool. He was smart. Just as smart as the rest of them. And just like the last time, he’d be the one who saved all their asses. Only this time they were going to have to pay him for his help.

      He put the beer can to his lips and drained what was left in it. Wishing he’d thought to grab an extra six-pack from the Quick Stop since the kid had let him go without paying, he debated going back now, but decided against it. No point in pushing his luck. The kid might ask him to pay for what he’d already drunk. So he continued on and headed for the battered unpaved road that led to his own place.

      When he reached it, the tires on the truck hit the deep ruts in the road, jostling him. As something furry dashed across the road to the other side, Lester swerved hard, hit another rut in the road and ran the truck into a tree. “Damn rabbits and coons.” He’d have to get his rifle and go hunting soon or the varmints were going to take over the place.

      Putting the truck in Reverse, he sent the tires spinning as he hit the gas pedal, then he jerked the gearshift into forward. In need of another beer, he hit the gas pedal harder and sped toward home. As he did so, he kept thinking about Melanie Burns and those spooky ghost-gray eyes.

      Seated at his desk, he hung up the phone and skimmed down the Mississippi government’s Web site, clicking on the bio for Senator Theodore Abbott. Skipping over his political accomplishments, he went straight to the personal data. And there it was, the name Tess Abbott, listed as the granddaughter he and Mrs. Abbott had raised, now working as a TV investigative reporter in Washington, D.C.

      After jotting down the station’s name, he exited the site and typed in Washington, D.C., then the station’s name. When the Web site popped up, he scrolled over to the news-staff listing and clicked on the icon marked Tess Abbott. He stared at the smiling female whose image filled the screen.

      Damned if De Roach hadn’t been right, he thought. The girl did have Melanie Burns’s eyes. Picking up one of the prepaid cell phones he kept for just this type of occasion, he dialed a private number, which was answered on the second ring.

      “Yes?”

      “We may have ourselves a little problem.”

      “What kind of problem?”

      “Another loose end,” he explained. “One that talks too much and could be damaging to you.”

      “You assured me that Jody Burns was the only loose end we had to worry about—that when he killed himself this would be over.”

      “I thought it would be, but something else has