Out of there

" It hurts, It hurts...."

Christie's voice ,slicing through the white hot rage in Branon's chest. The pain was so intense his soul was in flames. "I know." He said, Clutching Christie close in his free arm. Drive. Keep looking, keep going. Need to dump this van, Need to find a new car.

But Christie was hurt. And mother's voice, faint, began singing in the back of his mind. The years threatened to melt away, back to the night in Seattle. Amy Chaney, dead without a scream. Sarra Jane, refusing to perform her song. Christie hurting.....

"It hurts," she said

"I know doll." he answered, holding Christie. He wheeled the county van around the corner, too fast. God don't do anything stupid. Slow now, careful. They were not onto him yet, but he needed a new car. Then he could take care of Christie.

He pulled through a lot of a mall, searching. He forced himself to breath. The lot was almost full, all the way to the ends of the aisles.

"It hurts. It hurts."

He pulled between two SUVs, concealing the county logos on the sides of the van while he scanned the lot and murmured to Christie. He needed to see how badly she was hurt. But there wasn't any time. Seconds ticked away like hours , and finally a man , no a teenager came toward the end aisle, jiggling his keys. Brandon pulled out, tailing the boy as if hawking for a parking space, then stopped just short of the Ford escort who's tail lights chirped to life.

He turned off the ignition and jumped out, the duffel bag clutched in his free arm.

"Hey buddy," He called and the boy turned around. Surprised at what he saw, but more curious than afraid.

"Could you help me young man?"

"What----" Umph. Brandon poked him in the gut with his gun.

"Do what I say and you won't get hurt," Brandon said, careful to keep the gun low. He wrenched the keys from the boys hands and tossed the county van  keys a few feet out. "Give me your driver's license."

My driv_"

"Do it." He game the  muzzle of the gun a punch.

The boy reached into his hip pocket and stripped his license from a wallet, his fingers shaking dropping a couple of membership cards on the pavement.

"We are trading cars," Brandon explained. He pointed at the keys on the ground. "Take those keys and get in that van. Turn right at the light. Drive for five minutes. If you make a phone call or slow down before then, I will come to your house and kill your mother right in front of you." He held up the license, proof that he could find the boy later.

"Do you understand?"

A nod came from the boy.

"Right at the light, drive for five minutes."

The teenager bent to grab the van keys from the pavement and ran to the van. Wide eyed he climbed into the drivers seat while Brandon held his gun low between the cars. When the van lurched past Brian got into the Escort and pulled out in the opposite direction.

"Its OK Christie," He said, bracing her on the passenger seat with his right hand. In the rear view mirror he could see the boy stop at the light. A minute later the van turned north and Brandon turned south from a different exit, moving back towards Sarra's house. He went three blocks, then pulled around a corner to a stop.

"Christie.' He said "I am here. I will help you."

"You can't no one will believ you, mother has them fooled."

His eyes blurred with tears and he yanked open the duffel bag labeled Crime scene unit and took out his own gym bag  from inside. Crying, Christie was crying, and Brandon could barely get his hands to work the zipper. He had to get it open, he had to get to her. Like the day he turned twenty one and found her again.

Go get her, Brandon...Happy Birthday

The words of his mothers codicil rose like flames in his mind, cutting through the fog of tears and voices and memories. The land the house, the sale to Damien.

He unzipped the gym bag and spread the top wide, his heart feeling like pulp. He looked inside. The sight wrenched a sob from his throat, and he sat rocking in the drivers seat as the memories jumped him.

Don't hurt the baby mother.... Its not her fault. Its grandpa's, Grandpa gave her bad blood. She is crying, can't you hear? Stop singing so you can hear her....

Who caught his blood? I said the fish with my little dish.

Brandon shoved his fingers in his ears.

"Help me Brandon."

He uncovered his ear. He glanced at traffic, all moving normally, then looked down at Christie. Brian Fullers handiwork glared back at him. She was hurt.

The rage swelled. A change of plans was necessary.

He pulled down the visor and looked in the mirror. Mascara trail down his cheeks, the charcoal black eye liner smudged. His wig sideways and he tilted it. then saw a pair of women walking  down the block toward the escort. Shit. He had to move.  If someone saw him like this, a mess with Christie... Sarra's house was only blocks away.

Keep your head. Don't get careless. The FBI would be everywhere now, after they way he served up agent wanna be. Like a buffet, a face up on Sarra's kitchen table. Spread eagle , her head dangled over the edge and her own blood crusted in her hair. He hadn't been able to take his time and enjoy her screams to much  . Didn't want to risk the surveillance team hearing her. So he gagged her, tied her down, played with her a little, then measured out the line. Put the bullet in the spot using a silencer.

Then he called Fuller and waited until the commotion broke out at Sarra's house. People streamed in, credentials carefully checked on anyone who entered but not for those who exited. Within ten minutes of the phone call, a dozen people were in the house and more pulling to the curb, including media. It was perfect until Fuller blew in, threw a childish fit of temper and kicked Brandon's duffel bag from his path. Panic had gripped Brandon. He lunged for the bag, but it hit the wall with a sickening crack.

Christie began to cry. Mother sang. A single mindless kick. and mother had started singing again. Louder than ever.

She was still singing now. Her voice building inside the ford. Louder higher, and closer to his head, like sirens wailing.

Brandon straightened. Looking in the rear view mirror. Sirens. not mother. These were real, blowing through the intersection a block behind him like black in white bees. Gray sedans Fed cars came two seconds later.

They had figured it out. Saw him leave the premises. maybe? Or noticed the van missing.

Brandon took a deep breath and turned the ignition. Within minutes the teenage boy would be telling his story.  And they would be looking for the escort. He needed to move to his next hide out. Paisley Floyd's house.

Slow now. Careful, Obey the rules of traffic. Paisley didn't live that far away.

Christie quieted. Mother went silent. The Police cars dragged the sirens away, North bound, Where Brandon imagined the teenager peeing his pants about now sitting in the van with a bunch of the nations finest crouching around the vehicle pointing guns at his head. Yelling through a bullhorn.

Stupid shits.

Brandon drove to Seminole st, wishing he could of stayed to see the look on Fuller's face when they searched Sarra's basement. A block from Paisley's house he stopped and fixed his make up. Didn't want to scare her. then pulled into her driveway walked up to the front porch.

She opened the door. He shoved her inside. The .22 pressing into her chest. A stairway in the front hallway led to a basement and he hustled her down there.. Unnecessary, probably, with the silencer and all, but then again, there was no reason to take chances. Might as well keep things quiet.

So he got her to the basement, next to the freezer, and Fwp.