Page 49 of PSYCHOlogical

Chapter Seventeen

Briggs

To allow my plan to fall into place without having it picked apart by investigators, I needed to make sure there was no sign of a fight or any visible wounds on Pike’s body.

Other than the ones I had planned for him.

Threatening him in an effort to get him to admit who gave the order and who was knowledgeable of the mission would produce nothing but laughter—or a challenge for me to kill him.

Val’s revelations about Pike’s sadistic and psychotic state of mind—combined with what I already knew—led me to believe there was little I could do to intimidate him into talking—or to force him to comply with my demands.

I was left with no alternative but to use him as a piece of the puzzle I intended to assemble, and nothing more.

“Do you really think this is going to fix it?” I asked.

“It should,” he replied. “The spot on the garage floor is right under the water pump. I don’t know what else it would be.”

“I thought the valve cover was leaking on mine, and I found out it was the crank seal. Now I’m driving a fucking rental car while they fix it.” I leaned over the fender of his truck and peered under the hood. “Why don’t you pay someone to fix it? Who wants to spend a Saturday evening working on their truck?”

“I’m not like you. I’d rather do it myself than pay somebody to do it. It feels good knowing I fixed this fucker myself. I’m damned near done with it.”

Thirty minutes later he was finished with the water pump. He started the truck. Within seconds it was obvious that it was leaking again. The plastic coolant bypass hose that I’d purposely cracked earlier in the morning was the cause of the leak, but Pike didn’t realize it.

The coolant was leaking along the valley of the intake manifold, down the front of the engine, onto the water pump, and dripping on the garage floor.

Upon seeing the coolant dripping on the floor, Pike kicked the truck’s fender so violently he left a sizable dent.

“You piece of fucking shit!” he seethed.

He reacted exactly the way I wanted him to.

“Let’s go in and have a beer. We can look at it later,” I said. “It’s almost time to get something to eat, anyway.”

“Fuck it,” he said. “Let’s have a beer.”

Once inside, he tossed his hat on the kitchen counter and yanked the fridge door open. He handed me a beer and opened one for himself. Frustrated about the truck, he finished the beer in one gulp. He opened another.

“Have you got any whiskey?” I asked.

“Got a bottle of Jack above the fridge. Why?”

“I need a shot,” I said. “Hell, let’s have one in Shep’s honor.”

“That’s the least we could do.” He retrieved the bottle, poured two shots, and handed me a glass. “To Shep.”

I raised my glass, knowing in a matter of minutes Pike would get what he had coming to him. “To Shep.”

He raised his glass. “Shep.”

After drinking the shot, I poured our glasses full once again. “Here,” I said, handing him his glass. “We need to drink two more. This one is for the sniper he got in Iraq. Crazy fucker saved my ass.”

I raised my glass.

He clanked his glass against mine. “To Shep.”

I drank the shot, winced, and poured another. “This one is for dragging the entire rifle team to safety in Afghanistan. Saved our asses again.”

I gestured to his glass. “Let me pour you another. Last one.”