Racing the Devil Read Free Page A

deep even for dreams.
    MORNING. A SLIVER of sunlight sliced through a gap in the curtains and seared through my eyelids, setting off a small nuclear explosion in my head. I scrabbled for the digital clock beside the bed and squinted at the readout: 10:45.
    Great. I had to pick up my son, Paulie, at noon. I lay with my palms over my eyelids long enough to realize that my bladder was also on the brink of implosion. What a dilemma. If I got up, my skull might blow apart. If I stayed put, my bladder might burst. God. I clenched my teeth, pressed the palms of my hands to my temples, and stumbled into the bathroom to take a leak and inspect my tongue, which was coated with a white scum that looked and felt like dryer lint.
    Heather was gone. She’d taken the wineglasses and the bottle of sangria. And on the table, she had left a note.
    I’m sorry , it said.
    Shit. How could I have been so stupid?
    I picked up my jeans. My belt hung from the loops, my cell phone still clipped to it. I checked my wallet. Everything was there. I felt for my keys. Still in the pocket.
    So, sorry for what? For not saying goodbye? She hadn’t left a number, so I guessed we’d had a one-night stand.
    Too bad. I wondered vaguely if she’d ever get away from Ronnie, and if she did, if I would ever know about it.
    Then I told myself there was nothing worse than a maudlin, thirty-something single guy with a hangover. I’d gotten laid, and if the worst that could be said was that the lady liked her sex with no strings attached, who was I to try and complicate things?
    Still feeling muzzy-headed, I showered, dressed, and went down to the lobby, where a pot of stale coffee and a pile of day-old bread and pastries masqueraded as a continental breakfast. I passed on the pastry and choked down a cup of coffee and a piece of dry toast. They calmed my churning stomach. While I ate, I skimmed a couple of sections of The Tennessean , which someone had left on the corner of the table.
    There was an article on the legislation to remove the waiting period from handgun permits, a questionnaire for football fans, a story on the Society for Creative Anachronism, and a column on the RC and Moon Pie Festival in Bell Buckle, which was where I’d planned to take Paulie this afternoon.
    According to the article, the festival had been a great success. I shook my head and read the article again.
    Had been. As in, having already occurred. As in, something was terribly amiss.
    I glanced at the header at the top of the page, and a hollow feeling settled in the pit of my stomach.
    The header said Sunday . But I’d left the First Edition with Heather on Friday night. How the hell could it be Sunday?
    Numb and disoriented, I scooped up the paper, and a headline on the front page of the local section caught my eye: WOMAN SLAIN IN HOTEL ROOM. EX-POLICE OFFICER SOUGHT FOR QUESTIONING.
    Ex-police officer. I’d lost touch with most of the guys I used to work with, but I still felt connected to the force. Once a cop, always a cop, as Maria used to say. I’d skimmed most of the other stories, but I read this one word for word.
    The victim was Amanda Jean Hartwell, known to friends and family as Amy. The grainy photograph showed a smiling, bespectacled young woman. Her hair, a tumble of shoulder-length curls pulled back by two barrettes, was either light brown or dark blond. It was hard to tell from the black-and-white photo.
    Her body, which had been shot and mutilated (no details), had been found at the Cedar Valley Motel in Hermitage. Survived by a husband (Calvin J. Hartwell), two daughters (Katrina E. and Tara D. Hartwell), and a sister (Valerie C. Shepherd).
    Her lover was wanted “for questioning”—a euphemism for “we know you did it, son, we just can’t prove it yet”—and a description of the lover and his license number followed. NRL-549.
    A trickle of ice water seeped though my bloodstream and settled in my bones.
    NRL-549. That was the number on my license