truth.
Gaby guzzled water until her head cleared, then dressed in another clean top and jeans. Her wardrobe consisted of dark tunics or T-shirts, well-worn denim, and simple flip-flops. In winter, she alternated with oversized hooded sweatshirts and black sneakers.
The lack of variable attire was a deliberate choice on her part. If anyone ever claimed to see her in the area of a murder and tried to identify her by what she wore that night, it'd prove nothing. She always wore the same. Their memory could be of a Tuesday or Friday, the deli or the gas station.
Wind whistled outside her windows, a clue about weather to come, but for once Gaby barely heard it. She unfolded the metal stool and seated herself at her desk. From a nearby bin, she retrieved her latest manuscript, her inks, markers, straight-line tools, and fresh paper.
In no time, she'd immersed herself in the novel, sketching with a frenzy and writing out the truth as she knew it. Her peripheral vision constricted as she placed the day's details into still frames and rich dialogue that would complete her latest work.
Writing and illustrating graphic novels gave her the satisfaction of showcasing talents that didn't involve real death and destruction. She had a way with words, with the depiction of details that critics said brought readers into the moment.
Her drawings were vivid and explicit, showing the pain, the conflict, and the inner struggle of right and wrong.
No one gave her direct credit for her storytelling abilities because she remained anonymous. But she had the pleasure of seeing Morty's face light up when he got the newest loose-leaf manuscript. He'd spend the day devouring her work, and then he'd gush to her about the story, all but swooning in his excitement.
He didn't know Gaby was the creator, and he had no conception how his appreciation pleased her.
Devout fans flocked to his comic store in search of the next episode. Hordes of Goth kids checked in regularly, hoping to find a release date, putting their orders on hold.
Preppies sneaked in and left with the novel in a plain paper bag. College kids shouted out their victory when they got their copies.
All in all, her stories were well loved.
Most graphic novels included credits not only for the writer, but also for a penciler who sketched the artwork, an inker who inked the sketches, and a colorist to add the color. Gaby did it all herself, pouring her bitter heart and tortured soul onto the page and into the illustrations.
Depending on her mood and her most recent destruction, most of her stories ranged anywhere from fifty pages to more than three hundred. This one would be long. After the day's events, which she felt compelled to include, it'd probably run three-fifty.
Writers usually dealt with an editor and traditional publisher. Not Gaby. When she finished a graphic novel, she mailed the manuscript to Morty under a fictitious name. He sent whatever payment amount she named to a P.O. box outside their city.
The rest was up to him, and thanks to Mort, she had an enthusiastic underground publisher who didn't mind the X-rated, violent quality of her life.
Mort had been approached by bigger publishers, but as per her instructions, he kept to the lesser known, underground circulation. The fewer people who got curious about Gaby, the better her odds of not being exposed.
She didn't want her natural and very cathartic outlet ruined by misguided fame. She saw the world through images, through the most basic truths, and with single-minded ferocity she put that on paper, sometimes working through the night.
Like an inside joke, or maybe a whimsical prayer, she wrote her character as an avenging angel rather than an iconic freak. Even with blood under her nails and brain matter splattered into her hair, Gaby's illustrated character remained a bright vision.
Like the rest of the normal world. Gaby romanticized the ugliness; she romanticized herself, and it made it easier for her to stomach her duties.
But as always, even in this, she remained alone.
Chapter Five
Hours later, after darkness had fallen, Gaby scripted an ornate The End onto the page. Only one lamp, aimed at her desktop, lit the room. Shadows crawled and shifted around her, over the floor and up the wall. Wind pushed against the loose windowpanes.
Leaning back on her stool, Gaby studied the images of Detective Luther Cross. Somehow, they had encroached into her story.
Disgusted with herself, she closed her eyes and released a humid, pent-up breath. She hadn't planned to write in Cross. It had just sort of happened. In her memories, in the phenomenon of her anguished life, he was there, now a part of it all.
She'd drawn him larger than life, big and hulking with a firm but gentle hand, and kind but perceptive eyes. He looked like a pure angel, ready to stand beside her…
Jesus.
She had to stay away from him. She hated to contemplate new change, but maybe it was time to move on. She need to be well out of Cross's realm.
Too antsy to stay still, and dying for something to eat, Gaby stacked the pages all together and secured them in a large padded envelope. She'd mail them first thing in the morning, as long as no other summons came.
Sliding her feet into her flip-flops, she checked the clock, saw it was nearing ten, and headed out. Even from the stairs, she could see a light shining from beneath Morty's door. She didn't want a repeat of their earlier awkwardness, so she crept past, using an inborn stealth that came in handy even when she didn't need to kill someone.
Oppressive air washed over her skin as she stepped out into the sultry night. Keeping her head down, Gaby ignored her surroundings and made her way to a joint that served what she liked to think of as real food. No preformed burgers or frozen salads. Chuck's Grill dished up chili or soup, subs or sandwiches, or a hearty breakfast—made fresh each day. At Chuck's she didn't have to worry about eating a random cockroach or catching a nasty disease from the filth.
This time of night, only his outside window remained open for service. Gaby stepped up and tapped on the glass. The youthful worker glanced up, nodded to acknowledge her, and indicated he'd be right with her.
In no hurry, Gaby tucked her hands into her pockets and lounged back on the stone face of the restaurant. Colored strobe lights from a nearby bar blinked and hiccupped, sending random, diffused light around the area. Vehicles passed, their tires hissing on the steamy pavement. An unsettled, angry breeze continued to stir the night air.
To Gaby's right, a couple of sleazy hookers touted their wares with halfhearted enthusiasm. To her left, a group of knuckleheaded kids with absurdly colored hair and more piercings than she could count tried to act tough. She doubted they fooled anyone but themselves.
On the opposite side of the street, a blue car eased up to the curb and a gangly young man, so dark that he blended in with the night, emerged from a shadowed doorway to make a drug deal. The whores called out to the driver, trying to entice him over to them. The dealer shook a mean fist toward them, making a valid threat in the coarsest terms. The punkers cracked up, laughing too loud and too long.
This was her life, each thing familiar and mundane and easy to ignore. She blended in here.
'What can I getcha?'
Gaby turned. The waiter looked nice enough, if a little worn down. 'BLT, heavy on the B. A few pickle spears and chips on the side. And a Coke.'
'Got it. Be about five minutes.'
'Thanks.'
He had no sooner shut the window than a deep belch of thunder rambled through the night sky. Gaby
