She would buy a Greyhound ticket to New Orleans, make a kill or two, then travel into Texas and seduce some wandering man into taking her to Mexico, feast upon him once they got there. She directed him to an old part of the highway, a featureless stretch of old farmhouses capped in snow, with the occasional working silo. Perhaps the day of her recompense was at hand. His eyes closed. I have fulfilled my part of our marriage contract. Carried out to sea by Van Galgebrok, and thrown overboard, while struggling with the waves, he had been picked up by a French fishing-boat, and carried to Ostend. “The Widgetts,” she said. She was not squeamish—although the sight of the sergeant’s ominous preparations had severely tried her fortitude—but Kimble’s white face plagued her conscience.
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