Disclaimer: I don't own nothin' but my own characters, pilgrims. I'm not goin' to lie to myself anymore. I took the coward's way out.
A/N: And yet again, hope I sent shivers up your spines! It's so much fun writing these characters because I get to dig into their brains and try to reveal what makes them tick. Dig into their brains? (winces) That's not a purty picture. Special thanks to Pirate's Wench for helping me with my technical difficulties! Check out her story: "Struggle for Control". It kicks major butt. And I'm sorry that I have made the chapters a little shorter than the two beginning ones, but I find that it helps with the updating process. Shorter chapters + more ideas = more updates! Well, onward with the story! Huzzah!
PineAppleLint
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"Let go of me, dammit!" Zoë screamed, thrashing in his grip. But 'Shooter' had more strength than she had ever known: he hefted her up and threw her into the passenger's seat without difficulty. She struggled to jump out but his hands gripped her thighs and pinned her to the seat. She stared down at him as he said slyly, "Don't be makin' a ruckus, Miz Oltie. Or I just maybe will have to take you out in these here woods and drive the hatchet I brought straight between your eyebrows, hmm?"
A mental image of 'Shooter' accomplishing such a feat flashed through her mind and her mouth gaped open as if she was silently shouting for mercy. He grinned, knowing he had her in his clutches willingly now, and actually leaned across her, grabbed the seatbelt, and buckled her in. She sat rigidly, his hands 'accidentally' brushing across her hips once or twice. Shooter winked at her and slammed the door shut. As he walked to the opposite side of the car, she wondered if she could unbuckle herself, climb out, and break into a dead run before he would be able to catch up with her. Unlikely.
Her whole day had been chock full of 'unlikelys'.
'Shooter' jumped in and started the car. Her fingers turned white from lack of blood flow when she gripped the cushion of her seat as if her life depended on it. He locked the car from the inside. The SUV coughed and started moving…soon they were whizzing down the road at 50 miles per hour.
"I thought you wanted me to stay away from you," she stated matter-of-factly, glancing at him, who was busy concentrating on the road.
"Mr. Rainey was keen on lettin' you over for dinner, and I just couldn't have that."
"So where are we going?" Zoë asked dully, as if she didn't care what their destination would turn out to be. But the scared gleam in her eyes suggested otherwise.
He smiled and said, "Jumpy, are we? Thought you were more professional than that, Zoë."
"You don't know what I am," she snapped, glaring at him, "You don't even know me."
"I don't?" he drawled, long and slow, "Just 'cause I talk slow doesn't mean I'm stupid, missus. So you don't think I know you? Like I don't know you live on 2353 Sicamore Terrace, like I don't know you've been workin' in the FBI for four years now, like I don't know you went to University of Miami and moved up here to get away from it all, that you haven't been in a serious relationship and you feel alone sometimes like every single woman does?" He turned to face her. "Like that, little lady?"
She stared at him. "Someone's been doing their research," she replied wearily. Hell, not wearily. More like she was so scared she felt like she was going to crap her pants.
"As you can tell, yes, I have. So don't underestimate me, Miz Zoë. I know your kind. You don't stop until you get what you want, and you'll do anythin' to get it. Well I'm takin' you here on this litt'l drive just so we can make things clear between us, understand?"
She nodded, staring at the long stretch of road before them.
"You're different, Zoë," he said, rolling her name off of his pink tongue like he found it distasteful, "You want more out o' life than what you have. You can feel somethin' eating away at you and you don't know what it is. Well I think I know, missus. You have a dark side, and you're just painin' yourself by coverin' it up."
"I have no idea what you're talking about," she hissed, "Of course everyone has a dark side. It's a part of life. Now what you are is just a part of Mort's mind. He is mentally ill, Shooter. He made you and he can't seem to get you out of his brain. You're implanted there, and I'm going to help him remove you, because you're useless. He doesn't need you, you worthless hick."
"He doesn't need me?" 'Shooter' cackled, "Yeah, that's what he thought a year or two back. I've helped him, pilgrim. I've helped him realize that no one can kick the shit out of his life. We're a team, him and me. I look after him."
"More like you make his life a living hell," she shot back miserably.
What am I doing? she thought with a wince, trying to make him mad? Why am I pushing him so far? What, do I WANT him to drive that hatchet through my skull? What is wrong with me?
Get a grip on yourself, Zoë, the voice in the back of her mind said calmly, using the tone a mother would use on a crying child, just talk to him. He only wants to talk. You can learn things. He could help you without knowing it.
"I make his life a living hell?" 'Shooter' laughed, "He used to think that. Yes siree, he used to think that. Now I made his life worth livin'. 'Cause you can't get far in a tiny shitsplat town like this. I've made him famous."
For murder, she thought, finishing his sentence.
"Did you break into my apartment?" she said suddenly, wanting to know the truth. She didn't think she would manage to get a truthful answer out of him though.
"I unfortunately haven't been to your residence," 'Shooter' replied, almost sincerely, and reached for his pack of cigarettes in the glove compartment. He grabbed a lighter and lit it as he held it between his chapped lips. He took a puff and closed his eyes in silent pleasure. She looked down at the package. Pall Malls.
He could be lying. But if he actually wasn't, then who had been in her home? Stop thinking about it, the voice returned, Just worry about right now. We'll deal with this later.
"So what have you done to help him?" she asked carelessly as if it was all just innocent small talk, "His late wife made things a bit rough on him, didn't she? Did you help him with that?"
'Shooter's' smile disappeared and he stopped the car abruptly. Turning to face her, he said ominously, "Don't toy with me, Miz Oltie. 'Cause I'm not tellin' you nothin'. And neither will Mort. He promised me he wouldn't." He ran a hand through Mort's chin length brown/blonde hair.
"You know what?" he questioned in his southern drawl, "You know what I think? I think I'm going to give Mort a chance with you."
"What?" she squeaked, glancing at him in alarm.
"He still has got these feelings for you, missy. Feelings that won't go away. And I bet a couple o' days with you and he'll be in the right mind again. He only writes when you come around," 'Shooter' informed her, eyes twinkling dangerously, "I should know. I've been helpin' him with his latest novel o' sorts."
"I don't like Mort," Zoë pointed out with a shaky laugh, "I'm the one who's supposed to be proving you and him guilty, remember?"
His stare chilled her to the bone. He said in a low voice, "If he tells you more than he should, I'll kill you, missus. I promise. And if you hurt him, I think he'll be wantin' revenge. Either way, seems like you lose."
He was blackmailing her! Son of a bitch.
"We've got ourselves a couple o' townspeople that have been a bit unkind towards the likes of us, Miz Oltie. And we have a nice spot in the garden all picked out for them. I've planned out their deaths. Unless…" he paused for dramatic effect, "Unless you want to stop us."
I can save innocent people. But what do I have to do, sell my soul? "So Mort will start writing again, all I have to do is stop by and check up on him from time to time?" she asked quietly.
"Yes. And no personal questions about the past, Zoë. 'Cause then you and I will have to have a chat 'tween ourselves again. And that will be the last chat you'll ever have."
"And if I visit, will you stop messing with Mort Rainey?"
"Cross my heart, hope to die, pilgrim. I'll stay out of your business…as long as you stay out of mine." He reached across the SUV and held out his hand. She hesitated.
Take it.
What if he tries to kill me? What if he backs out of the deal?
The voice of her own reason did not return. Finally, she grabbed his hand and they shook firmly. That wasn't so bad, now was it? He grinned, and that grin unsettled her. The rain had stopped and he pushed a button on his door. The car unlocked.
"Then we have nothin' else left to discuss," 'Shooter' drawled, "I'll make sure to tell Mort of our arrangement."
She slowly got out of the car and once her feet hit the pavement, relief flooded through her veins. "So I guess I won't be seein' you around," she said firmly.
He nodded his head towards her in some form of farewell and she almost didn't shut the door in time before he zoomed off. Zoë watched as the car faded into the distance.
What had she done?
I've saved residents of Tashmore County from a painful death, she pointed out.
I hope you know what you're doing.
I do, she thought back with a frown, I will be in control of the situation. If things get out of hand, I'll go to the agency.
They don't know you're back on the case. Shouldn't you keep things hush-hush?
For now, no one will know. It will only be between Shooter, Mort, and I.
Oh good, the voice laughed dryly, A triangle of crazies. And the voice began to laugh.
She told it to shut up.
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Talking to herself through her thoughts? Hmmm…..review please!
Yes, they are wonderful.
Yeah, what she said. (heehee)