22. The Devil and the Details

"Do you like killing people?"

At that, I stand on the brakes. The GT350 protests violently as it wallows to a halt in the middle of the road. "No, I don't like killing people! I'm not some sick fuck who woke up one day and decided my new hobby was going to be dismemberment! If I kill somebody, it's either self-defense, or business." My voice climbs higher and higher. "I don't enjoy it, that's not how I get my kicks! Jesus Christ, there are enough of them out there! You think I don't know that?"

"Catherine -"

"One of them kidnapped me," I tell him, pitching it down into first and releasing the clutch too soon. It stalls. Impossible. I never stall out. "He kidnapped me, and he stripped me naked, and he put me in a hole in the ground and do you know why?" The Shelby bucks, but I get it into gear. "He wanted to skin me alive. How's that for twisted, huh?" I yank the gearshift viciously into second. "And after I got out, I said, no one is ever gonna do that to me again, and I learned how to take care of myself. When I have to take care of business, I take care of business. Like that asshole Gomez!" The fucking thing does not want to go into third; I double-clutch like I'm gonna stomp it to death, and it won't budge. The tachometer is roaring in neutral, but it seems like even the Shelby is passing judgement on me.

"Catherine, pull over. Please." The vehicle is slowing anyway. I wrestle it off to the side - we're down to an area that actually has a shoulder - and park it.

"What? What do you want from me?" Oh, God, not again. Twice inside of twenty-four hours? I'm losing my mind. I'm sobbing again, and it has nothing to do with Gomez, who I don't feel the least bit guilty about, but I would've shot that old woman if George hadn't gotten between us. Somebody's grandmother, for crying out loud, and that's exactly what I'm doing, my face buried against his jacket and me bawling like a baby.

"Catherine, Catherine," he soothes, cradling me in his arms, consoling me.

"Why are you asking me all those questions?" I ask, despairing. He tips my chin up with strong fingers, and his eyes glitter in the faint glow from the dash.

"I want to make sure you won't be the death of me," he murmurs, and touches his lips gently to mine.

A profound stillness washes over me. I roll down my window and grab one of the guns from the bag, flinging it out into the darkness. George takes my hand as I reach for another one, shaking his head, making little shusshing noises. The bag slides down onto the floorboards as he leans over and kisses me again. Once more, with feeling - except my sinuses are clogged from crying, and the bucket seats make it awkward. The alertness of the hunt has subsided, and I'm hurting. Then my stomach growls, loudly, reminding me that I haven't had any solid food since this time last night.

Sitting up, I pull my hand free and wipe my tears away, sniffling. "Are you okay? Do you want me to drive?" he asks anxiously.

"You're just scared of my driving," I say with as much dignity as I can sum up. "I'm okay. I'm sorry if I freaked you out."

Next time, I want to say to him, I'll just shoot the bad guy, or would you rather I let you do it? What was I supposed to do? Hell, half the time, I don't even understand your questions. What did I spend the guy's money on? How am I supposed to remember a thing like that? Tips at the hotel I was staying at, I think. Wasn't that the time I spilled most of a bottle of red wine in bed? Yeah, that was it. Shaking and reliving the courier's death and trying to drink myself to sleep, and a hefty bonus for the poor maid who had to come in behind me and clean it up. Yeah, George, it bothered me.

The clutch is cooperating now. I get the Shelby rolling toward El Dorado, as smoothly as if it hadn't decided to fuck with me. We wind up back in the same dive we were in last night, but this time, my cell phone is off. I've made certain of that. I'm not driving anywhere until I've had food and sleep.

"Okay, El Mariachi. It's your turn to play true confessions. What's the deal with the guitar case?"

Haltingly, he tells his story: how the woman he loved was gunned down before his eyes...he got revenge on her killers, and a second chance at love with another woman, Caroline, only to see her - and their daughter - murdered by the man Sands later recruited him to kill.

"Why did you come back?" I ask him. "It doesn't sound like there's any love lost between you and Sands."

"I was planning to kill him," George admits. "He is an evil man. But after what Barillo did to him -"

"You didn't have the heart?"

"Don't misunderstand...I think Sands is a very bad man. He thinks nothing of using people like pawns. But..." He hesitates. "Before, he was very arrogant, very proud of himself. Now...it's no longer about the money or the power. It's a crusade for him. He is still a bad man, but now he is fighting for something good."

"I only met him a few months ago, but my boss has known him for years. RC calls him Lucifer."

"El diablo...it suits him."

Eventually, we're well-fed, emerging from the restaurant and without discussing it, we walk over to the hotel across the street. This isn't the same place we were in the night before last. No, this is a hole-in-the-wall that probably rents by the hour if that's all you need. Somewhere between the empanadas and the chiles rellenos, the sexual tension started to resurface between us, and this time, there shouldn't be any interruptions.

The elevator ride takes an hour. The twenty feet of hallway between the elevator and our room is a marathon. Then the door closes behind us, and we're stripping each other down to sweet bare flesh. He lays me down on the bed, his hands and his lips rousing me to a squealing, shuddering mass of pleasure, and I'm gone, gone, gone...

Kerttu: A functioning conscience is a terribly liability for someone in his line of work. You're right; Caroline was more...demure is the word that comes to mind, and it's not a word that'll be applied to Kate very often. It doesn't come naturally.

Dawnie-7: It's not so much that she killed Gomez; it was the "hold him down and put a knife through him" instead of a quick bullet between the eyes. That might be Sands's style, but not El's.

Mojave Dragonfly: That was ambiguous...Kate isn't what, nice, or a killer?

elaneon: The money question...bear in mind that it's coming from a guy who turned out the pockets of a group of dead gunmen after a shootoutand put the money in the church poor box. Elegant? Well, I try. And the title "Twilight Reflections" is kind of bland - that story doesn't get a great deal of traffic - but it's layered with meaning.