Robin could use the new RapScan machine to run the karyotype. All she had to do was load DNA samples into the machine’s cartridges, which took about fifteen minutes. From there, the whole process was automated — it only took a few hours to complete. She’d start the test now, then pack up the work she could finish at home and get out of there.
When she came back in the morning, the karyotype results would be waiting for her.
The Artist and His Subject
Rex drew. He was a good drawer, he knew that. Mrs. Evans, his art teacher at Galileo, she said he had
Mrs. Evans was okay, but he had to hide his best drawings from her. The ones with the guns, the knives, the chain saws, the ropes — things like that. She’d seen some of those drawings and pretty much flipped out, so Rex just kept them to himself.
He also now knew he couldn’t let other kids see his pictures. Not
But if they did come after him again, Oscar Woody wouldn’t be with them.
Because Oscar Woody was dead.
Rex had made so many drawings. He’d even drawn one of the strange faces he saw in his dreams. That one had gone up on the walls with all the others, labeled with a name that he heard most often during those visions:
Rex drew. His pencil outlined the oval of a head, then the shapes of eyes, the contours of a nose. Quietly, he worked away, adding lines and shading. Gradually, the face became recognizable.
The sound of pencil on paper picked up speed. A body took form. So did a chain saw. So did splashes of blood.
Rex felt warm. His chest tingled inside.
He felt his own heartbeat pulsing in his neck, bouncing through his eyes and forehead.
Rex felt himself stiffen in his pants.
He moaned a little as he erased the eyes. They weren’t quite right.
Fear of Rex.
He had drawn Oscar Woody, concentrated on Oscar Woody, and now Oscar Woody was dead.
Maybe it hadn’t been coincidence.
And, maybe, Rex could make it happen again.
The new face?
Jay Parlar, the boy who had put the pieces of wood under Rex’s wrist and elbow.
Rex drew.
Big Max
Home at last. Robin juggled a stack of mail and a bag of last-minute groceries — dog treats, dog food, milk, a bottle of Malbec and some Twinkies — as she struggled to find her apartment key on an overfull key chain. Quite honestly, she didn’t know what half the keys were for. They probably opened old mailboxes, storage lockers, gym padlocks, etc. She could never bring herself to throw any of them out because she knew as soon as she tossed one, she’d wind up needing it the next day and would be summarily screwed.
A door opened just down the hall. A gigantic man stepped out and stood still while sixty-five pounds of whining white-and-black whirlwind shot past him into the hallway, ears flapping and claws digging into carpet.
Emma jumped up, almost knocking Robin over. Groceries spilled on the floor. Robin grabbed for the milk, but the plastic quart container bounced on the carpet without breaking and rolled to a stop.
Robin cupped her hands around Emma’s floppy ears and dug her fingers in just enough to shake the dog’s head. Wild-eyed, Emma’s tongue lolled — her body seemed to want to go in five directions at once.
“Baby girl! I missed you,” Robin said. She pushed the dog away, then knelt to pick up the groceries — a strategic mistake. Emma jumped again to kiss Robin’s face. The dog’s paws hit Robin’s shoulders, knocking the kneeling woman on her behind. Emma’s feet pranced as she launched rapid-fire kisses on Robin’s face.
“Easy, girl,” Robin said, laughing at the dog’s desperate intensity.
Suddenly Emma’s weight was gone. Robin looked up to see Big Max holding the sixty-five-pound dog in his left arm, big hand scooped under Emma’s butt, her head at his shoulder. Emma’s tail thumped against Max’s leg.
“Goodness gracious, girl,” Max said. “That dog just kicked your ass.”
Robin nodded. She put the groceries back in the bag and gathered up the scattered mail.
“Thanks, Max. Thanks for everything.”
“Don’t worry about it, honey. I’ll watch this little thing any old day.”
Emma just sat there, totally comfortable and relaxed cradled in Max’s huge arm.
One glance told you Max was gay, and that was always somewhat of a bitter feeling — the man was a Grade-A hunk. He made for a very interesting neighbor: dog lover, well versed on local politics, worked nights as a bouncer and was trying to break into erotic films. Not a run-of-the-mill guy by any stretch of the imagination.
That was Robin’s best friend: a gorgeous, badass, gay pornstar-to-be.
“Hey,” Robin said. “How did your audition go at Kink-dot-com?”
Max smiled. “Pretty good,” he said. “Were you asking because you’re a polite sweetheart, or do you want to know the gory details of my shoot?”
Robin laughed and blushed. “The former. Not sure I could handle the details.”
“Ah, you modest Canadian girls.”
A second dog came out of Max’s apartment. This one made Emma look tiny — ninety pounds of pit bull with gray fur, white feet, and the sweetest face you could ever see.
Without missing a beat, Max reached down with his right arm and scooped up the pit bull. He cradled one hundred fifty-five pounds of dog like a couple of feather pillows.
“Hello there, Billy,” Robin said. She gave the pit bull a kiss on the nose. Billy’s thick tail swirled in an uncoordinated circle.
Max leaned toward her, breaking the three-foot cushion. His eyes narrowed as he stared at a spot just below Robin’s eyes.
“Honey, look at those circles. That job is going to be the death of you.”
Robin put the mail in the grocery bag (why she hadn’t done that to start with, she had no idea) and finally found her apartment key. She opened the door and walked into her entryway. Max followed her in, still carrying the dogs.
“Tell me about it,” she said. “You should have seen the poor kid they brought in today.”
“Bad?”
“Beyond bad.” Robin set the bag down on her dining room table. “His arm was … wait, are
Max set both dogs down, then waved his hands palms-out. “Oh, I’m just being polite. I like to watch
