He lay in the dark. He could feel his heart beating fast. It wasn't just the thrill of the kill that did it, it was the beautiful anticipation. Then the memory of the blood.
His hands still tingled, gravel still stuck in the treads of his shoes. Amazing how he could read about himself in the newspaper mere hours after the killing, the ink drying quicker than the blood.
He thought about last week. He thought about the grave, that headstone he'd visited so many times, wanting to wrap his strong hands around the necks of all those idiots who'd stolen God knew how many marble replacements. It had gotten so bad that the graveyard proprietors had to construct a metal fence around the headstone. Didn't matter much.
They couldn't afford good metal, and twice a year some kid would use a pair of eleven-ninety-nine wire cutters and steal it just the same.
After visiting the grave for twenty years the Boy didn't care about the headstone itself. All he cared about was the bones that lay underneath. The body that lay buried in that hard earth for over a century. People thought they knew the truth. They saw movies, read books, figured they knew everything. He was here to change that. Through blood and lead, they would know the truth, and they would know exactly why he died. The Boy's legacy, and now he was being baptized in the blood of the damned.
Every now and then he would bring a fresh bullet to the grave, dig a small hole with his hands and place the ammunition inside. It's what He would have wanted-to be close to the bullets. Up until now, those bullets were the only link between them. Until Athena. Until that cop. Now blood linked them, and blood was thicker than lead.
All those summers in the broiling sun, pretending to ignore his birthright. Watching that ungodly woman tarnish their family's name with that demon. He got through the day because he knew eventually the day would come when he could take up the mantle. When he could finally finally finally come out from the darkness and show the world that the throne was his now. It had merely been waiting for the new blood to carry it into the new century.
You'd think things would have changed in a hundred and thirty years, the Boy would say to the headstone. He would always say it out loud. He didn't care who heard him. If he didn't have the courage to take a few errant glances, he wouldn't be able to pull the trigger when the time came. You'd think they'd have changed, but they haven't. A hundred and thirty years and you'd be so sick of it you'd dust your guns off, brush all that dirt off your old, old bones and do what I'm doing.
His hands and legs ached. The rifle had a mean kick. The
Boy hadn't gotten a chance to practice much with it, but the gun was every bit as true as he knew it would be. That gun had a reputation, and not the kind that came from some pussy who talked his own game up. This was the kind of rep that came through force, violence and blood.
He looked around the room. Grime covered the walls, and he could hear insects scurrying behind the plaster. Nothing bothered him. He tapped the rifle with his fingers and thought about the next kill.
He'd read the newspapers that morning. Read the ongoing coverage of Athena's murder. Only today it was sparring for coverage with the murder of Joe Mauser. He was surprised to see that he'd killed the cop rather than the mayor. But the more he read about this cop, the better he felt. He read how the cop tracked down and nearly killed an innocent reporter named Henry Parker. The same Henry Parker whose words the Boy had used before killing Athena Paradis.
The Boy read about how the death of officer Joe Mauser's brother-in-law had driven Mauser over the edge, how he relentlessly pursued Parker across the country before nearly dying at the hands of the real killer. And even though the
Boy's bullet hadn't been meant for Mauser, fate was on his side. Joe Mauser was just as guilty as the rest of them.
The Boy looked out the window at the night sky, the beauty that was so close, and the beauty that he would help create.
Then he closed his eyes, dreamt of blood, blood that purified, blood that seeped back into an old, old grave. He dreamt that he was lying in the grave next to the man whose legacy he was carrying on, and the Boy slept in peace.
10
I'd only met with a medical examiner once in my career as a reporter, and that was back in Oregon when I covered a B and E that turned ugly when the home owner confronted the burglar. The home owner was stabbed twice in the chest, the knife stolen from his own bedroom. The ME confirmed the murder weapon was some fancy German blade, which the victim had bought on the black market. I ended up uncovering an unauthorized dealer ring in Portland, and was subsequently nominated for a Payne journalism award. The ME in
Portland was a woman in her midforties, professional as hell, and willing to part with any and all information I needed for my story. From that encounter I assumed most MEs were similarly professional.
But when I met Leon Binks, New York County Medical
Examiner, behind the rusty Dumpster on Thirty-first and First, let's just say it wasn't quite the professionalism I was hoping for.
Leon was wearing blue jeans and an unbuttoned work shirt, both dirty and disheveled. My guess was they were spare clothes for the times he had to run out and meet people behind Dumpsters. He was a fairly young man, mid to late thirties, with a wisp of a mustache and hair in desperate need of some Pert Plus.
He rubbed his hands together as he spoke, and I wondered what sort of compulsion that came from.
'So you know Jack,' Binks said, more of a statement of fact than a question.
'I work with him at the Gazette, ' I replied.
Jack had called Binks and told him to meet me as soon as possible. Didn't ask Binks. Told him. I wondered what sort of coverage Jack had given-or shielded-to have the New
York City medical examiner wrapped around his little finger.
'Good guy, O'Donnell,' Binks said, his hands rubbing rhythmically.
'Yeah, he is.' I waited for Binks to continue.
'Had a lot of good times with him,' Binks said. 'Well, not good times, but good conversations. Like he's always been a good egg with me, a good egg. I figure any friend of Jack's has gotta be a friend of mine.'
'That's right,' I said. 'So, Leon, if I can call you that…'
'You can call me Binky,' he said. 'S'what my friends do, anyway.'
'Right. So… Binky… you've done the initial on Joe Mauser?'
Binky nodded. 'You'd be correct. Listen, Henry.' Binky leaned in close. I could smell chemicals. Iodine and cheap aftershave. 'Did Jack tell you about that… thing? '
'Uh…'
'I get it, you're playing dumb. It's okay, better you don't answer so neither of us have to lie. You know in case anyone comes asking.'
No need to tell the Binkster that I wasn't playing dumb, since I had no idea what he was talking about.
'Just tell Jack I appreciate it, and so does my wife. I promise the bite marks will clear up and we'll be careful not to go out in public next time we want to role play.'
'Yeah, anyway, let's talk about Mauser.'
'Right,' Binky said, winking. 'Let's. Officer Mauser suffered from a single gunshot wound fired from a highvelocity rifle.'
'I knew it,' I said.
'Knew what?'
'High-powered rifle,' I said. 'I know more about guns than
I'd like to.'
'Really? Well, would you like to tell me the rest of the autopsy? Please, go right ahead.' Binky folded his arms across his chest petulantly. Finally he said, 'May I continue?'
'Please, didn't mean to interrupt.'
'No apology necessary. Anyway, the bullet entered Officer
