CHAPTER ELEVEN
Every masterpiece took time and planning. All the great artists knew that.
Mile fifty-seven.
Mile fifty-eight.
Driving down Highway 86, coming across the St. Xavier rest stop, he smiled.
Oh, he’d had his fun, there.
He’d seen her, in Montana, at the Dairy Freeze. He’d stayed at the gas pump, waiting and watching for her. She had pale, pale skin, the perfect contrast to the red of her hair, to the red of the blood he’d soon spill. It would be explosive. Never-before-seen. She’d be more beautiful in death than she ever had been in life.
The old woman had been stupid. As scared as she’d been when he pulled up behind her, he’d easily won her over.
He could do that. Despite all the bullshit his father had spewed about him being a worthless good-for-nothing, he’d gone to s
