because he was revolted by the thought of a little Krait with head lice and whooping cough, playing in a sandbox with plastic trucks, three teeth missing and snot hanging out of his nose.
After disengaging both the regular lockset and the deadbolt, he stepped into the house, listened to the emptiness for a moment, and then called out, “Yoo-hoo, anybody home?”
He waited for a response, received none, closed the door behind him, and turned on a couple of lamps in the living room.
The decor was too ornate for his taste, and too feminine. His preference for simplicity was so strong that he might have been happy as a monk, in a particularly spartan monastery, except that monks were not permitted to murder people.
Before fully committing himself to this residence, Krait toured the living room, wiping his fingers along the tops of door frames and over the higher surfaces of tall furniture, pleased to discover that these surfaces were as clean as those that could easily be seen.
When he examined the sofa cushions and the armchair upholstery for evidence of discolorations from hair oil and sweat, he found none. He didn’t discover a single food or beverage stain.
With his penlight, he looked under a sofa and under a sideboard. No dust bunnies.
Satisfied that the homeowner met his standards of cleanliness, Krait relaxed on the sofa. He propped his feet on the coffee table.
After sending a coded text message that succinctly explained his situation, he requested new transportation, significant new weaponry, and a modest number of high-tech devices that might be useful now that this assignment had become more complex.
He provided the address at which he was currently taking refuge and asked to be given an estimated delivery time when one could be calculated.
Then he stripped down to his underwear and carried his clothes into the kitchen.
Sixteen
I nto a night with a lowering sky and a slowly rising wind, Tim drove with no ultimate destination in mind, though as he wove from street to street, avoiding freeways, he gradually proceeded south and toward the coast.
With no trace of anxiety, Linda told him about Dennis Jolly and his big ear lobes, the self-destructing Chevy, and her need to use a bathroom.
They stopped at a service station, filled the tank with gasoline, and visited the lavatories. In the adjacent convenience store, he bought a package of vanilla-flavored Rolaids Softchews.
Tim needed the antacids, but Linda declined an offer of one. Her unflappable calm continued to intrigue him.
On the move once more, he told her about the Chevy, the fire hydrant, the picket fence, and the untimely appearance of the bearded man with the beer belly.
She said, “You shot out the tires?”
“One of the tires, maybe two.”
“Right there on a public street?”
“The way it went down, I didn’t have time to put up sawhorses and close the block.”
“Incredible.”
“Not really. Lots of places on the planet, there’s more shooting in the streets than driving.”
“Where does an ordinary bricklayer suddenly get the grit to walk into the path of a car driven by a hit man, and shoot out the tires?”
“I’m not an ordinary bricklayer. I’m an
excellent
bricklayer.”
“You’re something, I don’t know what,” she said, and ejected the magazine from the pistol that he had borrowed.
“So we’re in the same club,” he said. “Gimme the title of one of the novels you wrote.”
“
Despair
.”
“That’s one of your titles?”
“Yeah.”
“Gimme another one.”
“
Relentless Cancer
.”
“Another one.”
“
The Hopeless and the Dead
.”
“I’m going to guess—they weren’t on the best-seller list.”
“No, but they’ve sold okay. I’ve got an audience.”
“What’s their suicide rate? I don’t get it. You said you write painful, stupid, gut-wrenching books. But when I look at you, I don’t see a chronic depressive.”
Replenishing the depleted magazine with spare 9-mm rounds
After disengaging both the regular lockset and the deadbolt, he stepped into the house, listened to the emptiness for a moment, and then called out, “Yoo-hoo, anybody home?”
He waited for a response, received none, closed the door behind him, and turned on a couple of lamps in the living room.
The decor was too ornate for his taste, and too feminine. His preference for simplicity was so strong that he might have been happy as a monk, in a particularly spartan monastery, except that monks were not permitted to murder people.
Before fully committing himself to this residence, Krait toured the living room, wiping his fingers along the tops of door frames and over the higher surfaces of tall furniture, pleased to discover that these surfaces were as clean as those that could easily be seen.
When he examined the sofa cushions and the armchair upholstery for evidence of discolorations from hair oil and sweat, he found none. He didn’t discover a single food or beverage stain.
With his penlight, he looked under a sofa and under a sideboard. No dust bunnies.
Satisfied that the homeowner met his standards of cleanliness, Krait relaxed on the sofa. He propped his feet on the coffee table.
After sending a coded text message that succinctly explained his situation, he requested new transportation, significant new weaponry, and a modest number of high-tech devices that might be useful now that this assignment had become more complex.
He provided the address at which he was currently taking refuge and asked to be given an estimated delivery time when one could be calculated.
Then he stripped down to his underwear and carried his clothes into the kitchen.
Sixteen
I nto a night with a lowering sky and a slowly rising wind, Tim drove with no ultimate destination in mind, though as he wove from street to street, avoiding freeways, he gradually proceeded south and toward the coast.
With no trace of anxiety, Linda told him about Dennis Jolly and his big ear lobes, the self-destructing Chevy, and her need to use a bathroom.
They stopped at a service station, filled the tank with gasoline, and visited the lavatories. In the adjacent convenience store, he bought a package of vanilla-flavored Rolaids Softchews.
Tim needed the antacids, but Linda declined an offer of one. Her unflappable calm continued to intrigue him.
On the move once more, he told her about the Chevy, the fire hydrant, the picket fence, and the untimely appearance of the bearded man with the beer belly.
She said, “You shot out the tires?”
“One of the tires, maybe two.”
“Right there on a public street?”
“The way it went down, I didn’t have time to put up sawhorses and close the block.”
“Incredible.”
“Not really. Lots of places on the planet, there’s more shooting in the streets than driving.”
“Where does an ordinary bricklayer suddenly get the grit to walk into the path of a car driven by a hit man, and shoot out the tires?”
“I’m not an ordinary bricklayer. I’m an
excellent
bricklayer.”
“You’re something, I don’t know what,” she said, and ejected the magazine from the pistol that he had borrowed.
“So we’re in the same club,” he said. “Gimme the title of one of the novels you wrote.”
“
Despair
.”
“That’s one of your titles?”
“Yeah.”
“Gimme another one.”
“
Relentless Cancer
.”
“Another one.”
“
The Hopeless and the Dead
.”
“I’m going to guess—they weren’t on the best-seller list.”
“No, but they’ve sold okay. I’ve got an audience.”
“What’s their suicide rate? I don’t get it. You said you write painful, stupid, gut-wrenching books. But when I look at you, I don’t see a chronic depressive.”
Replenishing the depleted magazine with spare 9-mm rounds
Similar Books
