Rarities Unlimited 02 - Running Scared

knife or gunshot wounds have been reported at local hospitals. None of the people nearby have been able to help the police.”
    “Yeah, ain’t it just a bitch how no one wants to help the cops do their job,” Cherelle said.
    She flipped back the suitcase top and hesitated. Part of her wanted to unwrap the gold, to be sure it was all there, to hold it and know that her dreams were finally going to come true.
    And part of her went clammy at the thought of touching any of the artifacts.
    “That gold creeps me out,” she told the TV.
    The TV tried to sell her a time-share condo in Hawaii.
    Cherelle kept talking. “I’ll be glad to see the last of it, and that’s a fact. All I have to do is figure out how to sell it off without attracting the cops. Or Socks. That ol’ boy has a streak of mean in him that makes a cottonmouth look cuddly.”
    “The crime wave in Las Vegas heats up. A gunman ran rampant through the Golden Fleece this morning.”
    At the mention of the familiar casino, Cherelle spun to face the TV. Her mouth dropped open as she saw Risa sprinting down rows of gambling machines, her skirt hiked up to her butt, her long legs flashing as she ducked, spun, leaped, and rolled across tables, scattering chips and patrons in all directions.
    “Christ Jesus,” Cherelle said. “What—”
    Socks came into view, his eyes flat, his hand steady as he tried to bring Risa down. The contrast between his deadly intent and his cheerful Hawaiian shirt was shocking.
    “Acting on standing orders from the management, the casino guards didn’t return fire, as that would have endangered innocent bystanders. The gunman fled out the front doors and vanished into the crowd.”
    A freeze-frame close-up of Socks filled the screen. His eyes were narrowed, his lips thinned, and his teeth showed in a snarl.
    “Oh, yeah, that’s Socks. Whoooo-eee! He’s riding a big ol’ mean.” Cherelle grinned and flexed her right hand like a cat. “Bet his dick still hurts.”
    “Anyone having information leading to the arrest and conviction of this man will receive a fifteen-thousand-dollar reward from the Golden Fleece. Call the number at the bottom of your screen if you have information.
    “Next up, the Santa Claus bikini contest draws crowds to the Blue Mare. If you know a portly” —sound of off-screen snickers— ”jolly old gentleman who would like to enter, there’s still time.”
    Cherelle barely listened. She was still looking at the number on the bottom of her screen. She couldn’t collect the reward, but she didn’t want to pass up a chance to send some bad luck Socks’s way. As long as he was running around loose, she would be smart to hide. But she didn’t want to hide. She wanted to sell that gold and spend the rest of her life living like the Hollywood star she should have been.
    For that she could wait a while, until they nailed Socks.
    Smiling, jiggling a handful of quarters, she went out to the pay phone down the hall by the Coke machine. Within minutes she was telling a recorder all about the make, model, and license plate of Socks’s screaming purple baby.
    She didn’t leave a callback number.

Chapter 48
    Las Vegas
    November 4
    Evening
    D ry-eyed, Miranda watched while the nurse wheeled the crash cart out of Tim’s room. The cart hadn’t helped. Nothing had.
    The light and joy of her life was dead.
    Feeling brittle and very old, she picked up the phone, punched in a number, and waited. Very quickly she heard the familiar voice.
    “He’s dead,” she said. “Now there’s only one thing I want from you. You do to Socks what Socks did to him. I mean it. You understand?”
    He didn’t like it, but he understood. He had been planning to do it anyway. He just didn’t want to be rushed. Too many mistakes that way.
    “I understand,” he said. “Are you going home?”
    “I don’t have a home anymore. Timmy’s dead. Don’t you understand? He’s dead.”
    “A car will come for you at the clinic. He’ll take you to another place. Stay there.”
    Before Miranda could agree or disagree, he hung up.

Chapter 49
    Sedona
    November 4
    Night
    S hane missed the rural mailbox the first time. It was easy to miss, because the “road” that led off toward the hills and cliffs was dirt, rocks, and weeds.
    “Maybe the last address on that box was wrong,” Risa said as they bumped off the paved road and into Virgil O’Conner’s “driveway.”
    “You have a better idea of where we should look for the