past few months.
“Shhhhh. It won’t be so bad. You seem like the kind of guy who knows how to show a lady a good time in a hotel room. Am I right or am I right? A real lady-killer.”
Jack closed his eyes, and drifted away a bit. Yeah, lady-killer, that was him. He tuned back in when he heard her rooting through his overnight bag with her free hand—the one not holding his hand. The bag he’d placed on the floor next to the bed.
“What are you doing?”
He pulled his hand free of hers.
“I thought you’d be a boxer briefs kind of guy. Can’t quite commit to the idea of boxers, can’t go commando, can’t do tighty-whiteys. An excellent compromise all around. But what’s this? All black and gray? Where’s your imagination, Jackie boy? No reds or purples? Not even a safe, conservative blue?”
Jack closed his eyes.
Maybe when he opened his eyes, this would all be gone.
One way or the other.
I was in love with a beautiful blonde once. She drove me to drink. That’s the one thing Pm indebted to her for.
— W.C. FIELDS
12:10 a.m.
Kowalski made his way into the house and pinpointed the source of the screams. Upstairs. Female. Older woman. Sobbing and wailing between the screams, like a car alarm cycling through its various sounds.
There wasn’t much time now. Even though this was a single house, there were still two houses in shouting range, and in such a quiet neighborhood as this, they would not go unnoticed.
The living room was up the hallway and to the left. Kowalski checked the walls: framed photos of his subject, a woman, presumably his wife, and two females, presumably daughters. They looked old enough to be at least college age. They might not be home. The fact that there was only one voice screaming led him to believe this. Otherwise, he was going to have a royal mess on his hands.
Upstairs, a door slammed shut.
The staircase was situated in the middle of the house. Kowalski bounded up them, and saw one source of light: through the cracks in the bathroom door. A woman leaning against the doorway, clutching the doorknob as if for support. She had stopped screaming and stared into space instead, her face ashen.
“Ma’am, I’m here to help.” Kowalski showed her his palms.
The woman’s eyes focused and she let out a sharp shriek, then slid off the door, collapsing to the carpet.
“Relax, ma’am. I’m with the police.”
He knelt down next to her.
“How did you know? I just found him. How did you know to come?”
Quick, Kowalski. Remember, you’re not wearing a uniform. Nor do you have a badge or gun.
“Plainclothes. I was driving home from a late shift when I heard screaming coming from your house. Your garage door was open; I thought you had an intruder. Is there someone in your bathroom?
“My h-husband. Ed. Oh God. Ed.”
“Is Ed okay?” Always use first names. Puts people at ease.
“No … no he’s
“What’s wrong? Does he need an ambulance?”
The woman showed him her fingers. Even in the dark hallway, Kowalski could tell they were slick with blood.
“Stay here.”
Kowalski stood up and opened the bathroom door. There were four oversized bulbs mounted above the medicine cabinet, and they bathed the room in an ultraharsh white light. Someone really liked their light in here.
But that made it all the worse. There was no hiding Ed, who was sitting on the toilet, fully clothed.
Or his blood, which was
It was as if someone had reached inside his skull, grabbed his brain, and squeezed—hard. The blood ran down his cheeks, from his eyes. The sides of his neck. His chin. His shirt. His hands. Whatever his hands had touched.
Ed was real dead.
Kowalski reached for his cell phone.
12:15 a.m.
Jack jolted. Sat up. He must have dozed off for a few moments.
“Morning, sunshine.”
He nodded dully, somewhat startled by the peace he felt. It was like the euphoric calm after violent vomiting. Your body realizes that it isn’t about to die and then releases soothing endorphins into the bloodstream. It was as if his body had crawled up from the inner circles of Hell, and was surprised to have survived the trip.
Of course, his body had been fooled. The poison was still running through his veins.
“You look a little better. I didn’t like seeing you in pain.”
“Maybe you shouldn’t have fucking poisoned me.”
“So bitter.”
“Seriously. Why
“There’s something about your face that makes people trust you. I’ll bet you’re always the guy people are stopping to ask for directions.”
Jack looked at least a few years younger than his true age. He didn’t follow fads in hairstyle or dress, which kind of lent him a clueless, midwestern timelessness. He looked like a Boy Scout or an altar boy who’d somehow managed to make it to adulthood without being molested. People
“It was the same with me,” the blonde said. “I saw you and knew I could trust you. And once I tell you why, I think you’ll understand. Maybe even forgive me.”
Kelly opened her mouth, then slowly closed it again. She swept some of the hair from her forehead, looked
