I Married the Third Horseman (Paranormal Romance and Divorce) by Michael Angel

with
stop-overs in Seoul and South Dakota.
    At the very last, as I slid the moon roof
closed and curled up in a fetal position, praying for sleep to
come, I had a strange thought. I’d cried myself out by then, but
the thought still burrowed in, gave me a twinge between the
eyes.
    All those dead people proved one awful,
gut-churning thing.
    That in his own twisted way, Mitchel really
did love me.
    ***
    Dawn woke me.
    Well, if you want to be precise, the cold woke me. I just happened to sit up around the time that
the gray light of the early morning desert began to blossom into
the orange furnace of the day. Someone hadn’t turned the pilot
light on the furnace yet, though. The condensation that had beaded
the inside of my windows was chilly. I dug out my remaining
tissues, used a wad of them to wipe the windows clean. Fog from my
breath hung in the air in little cotton puffs.
    The Boxster’s motor roared to life, and I let
the engine warm up for a moment as I cupped my hands. Breathed into
them.
    I felt hollow inside, fragile, like a bell
jar. As if I’d let out an empty-sounding chime if someone touched
me. But as I looked at my options, I realized that my plans were
surprisingly simple. That is, once I faced up to the fact that I
really only had one option available to me.
    I had meant what I said back at the Odyssey.
I’d go through Hell itself to get my divorce now. And I’d pour
gasoline on my best Alberto Guardiani pumps and light them on fire
before I went crawling back to Mitchel.
    So a quick glance back at the GPS maps, and I
pulled out onto I-15 North. Another two hours watching the sun rise
as I drove. I left Nevada and breezed through a tiny chunk of
Arizona, on the way into Utah. Not to head towards Salt Lake,
though. Instead, I planned to strike out due east, take the smaller
state highways through the state’s southern edge and on down
through Colorado and into New Mexico.
    Both the car and I needed refueling again.
Just over the state line from Arizona, I stopped at the town of St.
Christopher’s when I spotted signs for gas and a diner called the Pork N’ Flapjack . The town’s name sounded promising, as it
was the name of the saint who protected travelers. The diner
sounded even more promising. It sounded like they served bacon.
    One tank of premium later, a set of little
silver bells dangling from the front door jingled cheerily as I
entered the diner. On the inside, the Flapjack looked like a
bright island of the 1950’s. Black and white Formica counter,
chrome-rimmed stools, checkerboard tile, and the warm smell of
bacon on the grill mixed with sweet, cinnamon apple pie.
    A waitress in a striped uniform showed me
over to a booth by the window. It didn’t take me more than a few
seconds to put my order in. Sunny-side up eggs, hash browns, and
extra bacon. Coffee, strong as they could make it and with a bunch
of sugar and cream on the side.
    I don’t think it needs saying that the
calories weren’t going to count today.
    I savored the warmth radiating from the heavy
crockery mug of coffee when it came. Then began wolfing down the
eggs and hash browns as soon as the waitress had set the plate
down. The empty bell-jar feeling went away as I plowed through one
egg, then another, following up with the most milkfat and
sugar-laden drink I’d had in quite a while.
    It was so good, I almost didn’t notice it.
The jingle of the bell as someone came in.
    A heavy tread to the step. Menacing. I
lowered my coffee mug. Stupidly, I’d taken the seat that faced away
from the door. I began to work my nerve up to turn around and take
a look.
    But I didn’t need to. A tall, slender man
walked up to my booth.
    My insides froze. Mitchel’s brother Uri
cracked a reedy smile and took the seat opposite mine without so
much as an invitation.
    “Well, now,” he said, gloating. “Look at what
a pretty fly just wandered into my web.”
     
     

Chapter Seventeen

     
    Early morning sunshine is supposed to