'Thank you, Mr. Pulitzer. We'll be in touch.'
We shook hands.
'Please catch the guy that did this. Davi is -- was -- a real sweetheart.'
After he left, I stood up and tried to stomp some blood back into my toes, which felt frostbitten.
'You up for a drive, Herb?'
'Hell, yes. My nose hairs have icicles hanging from them.'
'We can only hope those are icicles.'
Keys in hand, we headed for his car to check out Davi's apartment.
The summer heat felt wonderful for the first five minutes. Then Herb cranked the air-conditioning.
Chapter 6
It's a bad one.
He looks around his office, a knuckle jabbed against his temple, trying to will the pain away.
Does anyone notice? They must. His neck muscles are tight enough to strum, he's drenched in sweat, and he can't control the trembling.
He's never experienced pain this intense. Not even his injury hurt this much. It's as if his head is in a vise, being slowly tightened until his eyes are ready to pop out. The pills he took earlier aren't doing a damn thing.
Maybe his wife is right. He should see a doctor. But the idea terrifies him. What if the doctor finds something seriously wrong? What if he needs surgery? He'd rather deal with the pain than let some quack poke around in his brain.
'You okay?'
A coworker. Female. Plain-looking, heavy hips, short brown hair in a spiky Peter Pan style.
'Headache.' He manages a sickly grin.
'Do you need some aspirin?'
He decides to kill her.
'Yeah, thanks.'
She walks to her desk. He imagines her, kneeling on the floor in his plastic room. She's crying, of course. Maybe he's taken a belt to her first, to loosen her up. Leaving marks on this one will be okay. Since she works with him, he can't allow her body to be discovered.
'Tylenol?' she calls over the cubicle wall.
'Fine.'
How should she die? Her haircut inspires him. He will draw his knife across her forehead, pull back the skin to expose the bone. Work a finger in there, then two and three.
Skin stretches. His hands are large, but he should be able to get his entire hand between her skull and her scalp.
'Like a warm, wet glove,' he says, shivering.
'What's like a glove?'
She's holding out the Tylenol bottle, one eyebrow raised.
'I want to thank you for this.'
'No problem. I used to get migraines. I would have killed somebody to take the pain away.'
Me too.
'You know, Sally, we've worked in the same building for a few years now, and I don't know anything about you.'
She smiles. Her front teeth are crooked. He can picture her mouth stretched open, screaming and bloody, as he practices some amateur dentistry with a ball-peen hammer.
'I'm married, with two kids, Amanda and Jenna. Amanda is eight and Jenna just turned five.'
He forces a grin, his hopes shattered. Who would have guessed an ugly thing like her had a family? He doubts he'll be able to get her alone, and even if he manages, she'll be missed.
'How about you? Married?'
'Yes. No kids, though. My wife is a model, and she doesn't want to ruin her body. You know, hips spreading, stretch marks, saggy tits.'
Ugly Sally's smile slips a degree.
'Yeah, well, it happens. But I think it's worth it.'
'Look, I gotta get back to work. Thanks for the Tylenol.'
'No problem. TOSAP.'
He inwardly cringes at the slogan. 'Yeah. TOSAP.'
Ugly Sally waddles away, and he works the cap off the bottle and dry-swallows six Tylenol. The throbbing,
