Rarities Unlimited 04 - The Color of Death

and disconnect the electrical leads from the big batteries.
    The side door of the motor home was away from the parking lot light, which put the doorway in deep shadow. Kirby almost smiled, but he was too much of a pro to get overconfident. Opening the side door took a little longer than the service panel because Purcell hadn’t bothered to oil the lock. Even so, Kirby was well under the five minutes he’d given himself when he eased inside and shut the door.
    The place smelled like stale hamburger, onions, and beer. Rhythmic snores came from the bedroom down the narrow hall to Kirby’s left. To his right was the passenger’s swivel chair and the driver’s butt-sprung armchair. Like everyone else camping in the desert, the Purcells had blacked out the wide windshield with a sunscreen that turned away heat during the day and gave privacy at night. The curtains between the driving compartment and the living area were partially closed.
    No one on the outside could see anything of the interior.
    Kirby waited and listened. There wasn’t any rush. Now that he was inside, he had all the time in the world or until dawn, whichever came first.
    He didn’t think breaking Purcell would use up many minutes.
    While Kirby’s eyes adjusted to the near-darkness, he listened to the snoring of two people. Twenty years ago it wouldn’t have taken this long for his eyesight to sharpen, but the older he got the longer he had to wait for his body to do what he’d once taken for granted.
    Twenty years chasing assholes who shoved hundred-dollar bills up their nose. Twenty years watching them live high—best food, best booze, best pussy money could buy. Twenty years of eating shit. And for what? Assholes still shove hundred-dollar bills up their nose and I have a pension that wouldn’t keep a cockroach in crumbs. Especially after I pay the two ex-wives their share. Their “share.” What a crock. Like the two dumb bitches earned it by sitting at home watching soaps and whining for more money while I risked my butt as an undercover.
    Half of the snoring stopped. After a moment it resumed in a slightly different pattern.
    He smiled at the familiar spike of adrenaline that had flashed through his body when the snoring changed, as though someone had awakened. In his more honest moments, Kirby knew that this, not money, was why he’d gone from retired cop to practicing crook. It was the rush of adrenaline telling him he was alive. It was the same rush that came to a gambler placing a bet, a drinker opening a fresh bottle, or a crackhead setting up a pipe.
    Now Kirby’s eyes could pick out the shape of the dinette table half surrounded by a padded booth, a tiny kitchen with pots and pans still on the stove, and a sink that couldn’t hold any more dirty dishes. Where a small living room should have been, broad cabinets with narrow drawers were bolted to the floor. A calculator and a cash box sat on the dinette table next to a tablet and pen. Apparently, Purcell hadn’t gotten around to computerizing his business.
    Kirby set down his duffel. He took out paper booties like those worn by surgeons and covered his shoes. Then he pulled out a roll of duct tape and a small penlight. Following the narrow beam, he walked softly over to the cabinets. There were no obvious alarm wires and no worries in any case—the electricity to run any alarms was history.
    Ghostlike, he moved toward the sound of the snores. The closer he got, the more adrenaline and anticipation lit up his blood. He didn’t know when he’d started liking to hurt people. He only knew that he had.
    The bedroom door was open. Even so, the smell of stale beer rising from the two sleepers was thick enough to walk on.
    This is too easy.
    With a vague feeling of disappointment, he went to Purcell, put his thumbs in the man’s neck, and shut down his carotid arteries. Purcell twitched and went slack without ever waking up. Kirby taped the man’s feet and hands together behind his back and taped his mouth closed. Then he went to work on the wife. He did the same to her and added a swath of tape around her head, covering her eyes.
    Although if the sound of her clogged nose was any indication, even if he left her eyes uncovered, she likely wouldn’t survive long enough to identify him. Breathing through duct tape was a pretty quick way to die.
    A change in the tension of Purcell’s body told Kirby that the man was awake. Kirby shifted the penlight so that it shined in his