I called Kimber 34 times in five minutes. It was ten in the morning and I hadn't heard her leave, hadn't even woken up when she did. I cursed her and my dope in the same breath. If she didn't answer soon I would be forced to walk the three and a half miles to downtown Drisking and start asking around for her - a course of action that would get me noticed real fucking quick. I paced the patio for half an hour and smoked cigarette after cigarette, thankful I'd packed an entire carton.
Just as I was pulling on my boots to leave my phone rang. I was relieved to see Kimber's number pop up - a new edition to my phonebook that would have unfurled a comforting warmth in my stomach if I weren't so irate.
I answered. "What the fuck, Kimber."
"I'm sorry! I'm sorry Sam, I had to. He wasn't going to meet with me otherwise."
"Where are you?"
"I'm in the car, I'm almost back. They haven't plowed yet in town."
"Really? In bucolic, perfect, little Drisking, they haven't plowed the roads by 10 on a Friday morning?"
"I thought it was weird, too. There's more; I'll tell you when I get there."
"Don't get off the phone with me until you pull into the parking lot."
"Okay."
I opened the door and went to wait out in the cold for Kimber's car. My heart didn't slow to a normal rate until I finally saw it driving into the parking lot. She pulled into the space below our door and ran up the stairs.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry! I had to, don't be mad."
"Are you fucking kidding me with this, Kimber? I'm already on edge, I can- I can barely fucking breath."
"Okay, okay, just sit down." She pushed me into the room and sat me down onto the edge of the bed, pulling off her gloves. Then she crouched in front of me and took me by the shoulders, looking me in the eye.
"The sheriff and most of his deputies are engaged today, which I was told means that they are up at Borrasca."
"And?"
"And that means that: A. they don't know we're here, and B. we can go into town and start discreetly looking around."
"As opposed to driving up to Borrasca and killing them now?"
Kimber stood up. "I want them dead, Sam, more than anything. But you know what else I want? I want their crimes to be known to the world. They don't get to die with their "good names". They don't get to be martyrs."
"You want the records." I said.
"Yes."
"What do you plan to do with them if you get them?"
"Upload them onto the internet or something. Send them to the FBI."
"The FBI doesn't care."
"We need the records, Sam. I want everyone to know what happened to us." Kimber's voice had risen an octave and she seemed on the verge of an anxiety attack.
