“Maybe something spoiled,” he suggested.
“Maybe.”
As soon as he retrieved his stylist that I used tosign for the packages, he was already backing out of the office, anxious to getaway from the stinky package. “All right, see you tomorrow.”
“Bye,” I said to the closing door.
Sayer mentioned he was expecting a package today. Wasthat the stinky one?
I quickly rifled through the deliveries, setting asidethe majority as Maggie’s for the resort. There was nothing for Sayer in thepile. Not for Sayer Wesley or Sayer Smith or any of his other identities that Iknew of.
But there was a box for Caroline Baker.
It was the same size as the dead dahlia and the returnaddress hailed from the same town in Ohio. Was this what Sayer meant? Thepackage he wanted me to look out for was for me? What a grade A asshole.
And surprise, surprise, it was the one that smelled.
I grabbed the nearest box-cutter and took the packageoutside. Whatever was inside wasn’t going to be a baked good with niceintentions gonebad. It smelled like death and decayand something putrid.
Had I gotten a horse’s head after all?
Slicing open the packing tape only intensified thestench. I covered my nose with the collar of my blouse and sucked in a sharpbreath of courage before opening the lid.
I promptly turned my head and gagged, barely stoppingmyself from puking my lunch into the bushes. When I thought I had sufficientlyrecovered, I accidentally inhaled through my nose, caught another whiff of thegodawful smell and gagged again.
Pinching my nose closed with two fingers and breathingexclusively through my mouth, I turned back to the box filled with fish guts.It had taken me a minute to figure out what they were, but I eventually foundthe chopped off heads. Six of them. The bottom was lined with brown butcherpaper and the shiny side was slimy with the blood and guts and rotten pieces ofrancid fish.
But six of them? Six dead fish? It was hard tomisunderstand the message.
The problem was, I knew there would be a message inthere. Somewhere in the carnage was a note meant for me.
I grabbed a stick from a few feet away and mentallyreadied myself to face the smell again. It took me a minute of poking around tofind the rolled-up piece of paper wrapped in cellophane. And the worst part wasthat I had to retrieve it with my bare fingers.
Using the box cutter to tear off the slimy cellophanecasing, I wiped my dirty fingers in the grass and unrolled the note. I didn’tknow what I expected it to say. I mean, hadn’t Sayer said everything to me theother day? And again today? And every time he opened his mouth? It wasn’t likehe was exactly going easy on me.
So I didn’t understand the point of this box and thenote. Unless he was just purely torturing me now. He apparently wasn’t finishedwith his sadistic game of cat and mouse. He wanted blood. He wanted revenge.
He wanted me on my knees.
But he wasn’t going to get it. My promise to Francescawas real. We were going to get out. We were going to survive. We were nevergoing back to DC again.
I read the note one more time.
Sixes that Snitch get the Fishes.
It was like a Dr. Seuss poem for the villains of theworld, but not hard to interpret. Sixes—me and Frankie—that snitch—leave/tell/abandonthe life—get the fishes—death/dead/swim with the fishes (the oldest mob line inthe book).
The box made me furious. My hands were trembling andI’d stopped gagging at the smell as I marched my way across the resort,stomping over stone trails in a warpath of fury. I reached cabin eleven in justa few short minutes and chucked the box onto the porch. It rocked back andforth but didn’t tip over. Which only made me madder.
I was just about to storm the porch and kick the boxsideways when Sayer pulled up behind me. The growl of his engine fueled my rageand I waited not so patiently for him to exit his vehicle. Jesse wasn’t withhim. Who knew where Jesse was. I wouldn’t have put it past Sayer to lure the poorunsuspecting, innocent Colorado cowboy into the woods and chop him to littlepieces. He was a sadistic bastard.
“What are you doing here—” he started, but I had notime for his pretend innocence.
“You’ve gone too far.” I swung my arm toward the boxon the porch. He just blinked at me, acting as though he didn’t know what I wastalking about. “You’re package came.”
He stared at the open box, his eyes narrowing, his jawticking. “That’s not my package.”
The sincerity in his voice was the final straw. Iwalked over to him and hit him in the chest, my hand meeting rock hardresistance. I didn’t care how strong and tough and scary he was. The note wascrushed in my fist, evidence that he’d taken this game too far.
