triggered some kind of electronic problem with the CD player.
The CD player she said she didn’t even have.
For some reason, the thought keeps nagging at Allison, and she’s not sure why.
A iming the remote at the television set, Jamie channel-surfs with one frustrated thumb click after another.
Wall-to-wall coverage of yesterday’s attack, and not just on the local stations. But none of the networks—not even the cable news—have been airing any of the graphic images anymore.
Yesterday, they showed it all. Yesterday, you saw raw footage of people dying right there in front of you, in real time, in real life—and then again, later, in endless recaps.
Today, though every channel is still playing and replaying the same scenes—the planes hitting the towers, the towers falling, the dust cloud chasing down and enveloping hundreds of people running for their lives—the blood and gore have been edited away, like a movie made suitable for a PG–13 audience.
Lame. That’s what it is.
Jamie wants to see it all again—the jumpers falling through the air, the bloody pulverization on the sidewalks, the body parts . . . death. How glorious it would be to see death again, right up close.
But not just on television.
I want to touch death again. I want to make it happen again.
Jamie’s hands itch with the urge to squeeze a knife handle, hard; fingers ache to dip into warm, sticky blood.
Jamie smeared it on the walls, the windows, even the ceiling. It was necessary to climb onto the bureau to accomplish that. From there, it was possible to see that tiny red droplets spattered all over the ceiling.
Her wounds had spurted blood that far. Impressive.
Even as a child, Jamie had wondered what it would be like to take a life. Practicing on Dumpster rats, and then stray cats—even a neighbor’s pet dog—that was satisfying, at the time. But it was nothing like this.
Even that first human kill a decade ago—that wasn’t nearly as satisfying as this had been. That happened so quickly; it wasn’t planned. And the second kill, a few weeks ago—it was planned, yes, but not like this.
Practice makes perfect.
Jamie smiles.
Making Kristina do things, and say things, and feel things . . . watching Kristina suffer . . . it was better, far better, than anything Jamie had ever imagined.
How long, with the city in chaos, will it be before anyone misses her?
That reminds me . . .
Jamie opens a drawer, pulls out a videotape, and puts it into the VCR.
It was pretty risky to backtrack to the scene of the crime last night to retrieve the surveillance camera footage, but it would have been even riskier not to. Thank goodness Jerry confessed what he’d done, or there would have been trouble. Huge trouble.
Now we’re safe.
Jamie begins fast-forwarding through the footage, zipping past hours’ worth of empty hallways, and then . . .
Movement.
Bingo. There’s Jerry, walking into the building, his key ring in hand . . .
There’s Jerry on the fifth floor, unlocking the door to Kristina’s apartment . . .
There’s Jerry, moments later, bolting from the apartment looking stricken. He races past the elevator to the stairwell . . .
There he is exiting on the first floor, and—
Wait a minute.
There’s something else.
Someone else.
Jamie’s eyes narrow on the figure waiting by the elevator. That’s Allison Taylor.
It’s obvious from the footage that Jerry doesn’t notice her.
But she definitely notices Jerry.
B ack on her own floor, Allison glances at the MacKennas’ door.
Should she . . . ?
Yes. She should. It’s the right thing to do.
She forces herself to walk over to the door, hesitates again.
What if the news is bad?
But what if it’s not? At least she’ll have some peace of mind about something on this awful day.
And if it is bad news . . . she’ll have to hear it eventually. Might as well be now. Maybe there’s something she can do to help.
As she knocks, though, she
The CD player she said she didn’t even have.
For some reason, the thought keeps nagging at Allison, and she’s not sure why.
A iming the remote at the television set, Jamie channel-surfs with one frustrated thumb click after another.
Wall-to-wall coverage of yesterday’s attack, and not just on the local stations. But none of the networks—not even the cable news—have been airing any of the graphic images anymore.
Yesterday, they showed it all. Yesterday, you saw raw footage of people dying right there in front of you, in real time, in real life—and then again, later, in endless recaps.
Today, though every channel is still playing and replaying the same scenes—the planes hitting the towers, the towers falling, the dust cloud chasing down and enveloping hundreds of people running for their lives—the blood and gore have been edited away, like a movie made suitable for a PG–13 audience.
Lame. That’s what it is.
Jamie wants to see it all again—the jumpers falling through the air, the bloody pulverization on the sidewalks, the body parts . . . death. How glorious it would be to see death again, right up close.
But not just on television.
I want to touch death again. I want to make it happen again.
Jamie’s hands itch with the urge to squeeze a knife handle, hard; fingers ache to dip into warm, sticky blood.
Jamie smeared it on the walls, the windows, even the ceiling. It was necessary to climb onto the bureau to accomplish that. From there, it was possible to see that tiny red droplets spattered all over the ceiling.
Her wounds had spurted blood that far. Impressive.
Even as a child, Jamie had wondered what it would be like to take a life. Practicing on Dumpster rats, and then stray cats—even a neighbor’s pet dog—that was satisfying, at the time. But it was nothing like this.
Even that first human kill a decade ago—that wasn’t nearly as satisfying as this had been. That happened so quickly; it wasn’t planned. And the second kill, a few weeks ago—it was planned, yes, but not like this.
Practice makes perfect.
Jamie smiles.
Making Kristina do things, and say things, and feel things . . . watching Kristina suffer . . . it was better, far better, than anything Jamie had ever imagined.
How long, with the city in chaos, will it be before anyone misses her?
That reminds me . . .
Jamie opens a drawer, pulls out a videotape, and puts it into the VCR.
It was pretty risky to backtrack to the scene of the crime last night to retrieve the surveillance camera footage, but it would have been even riskier not to. Thank goodness Jerry confessed what he’d done, or there would have been trouble. Huge trouble.
Now we’re safe.
Jamie begins fast-forwarding through the footage, zipping past hours’ worth of empty hallways, and then . . .
Movement.
Bingo. There’s Jerry, walking into the building, his key ring in hand . . .
There’s Jerry on the fifth floor, unlocking the door to Kristina’s apartment . . .
There’s Jerry, moments later, bolting from the apartment looking stricken. He races past the elevator to the stairwell . . .
There he is exiting on the first floor, and—
Wait a minute.
There’s something else.
Someone else.
Jamie’s eyes narrow on the figure waiting by the elevator. That’s Allison Taylor.
It’s obvious from the footage that Jerry doesn’t notice her.
But she definitely notices Jerry.
B ack on her own floor, Allison glances at the MacKennas’ door.
Should she . . . ?
Yes. She should. It’s the right thing to do.
She forces herself to walk over to the door, hesitates again.
What if the news is bad?
But what if it’s not? At least she’ll have some peace of mind about something on this awful day.
And if it is bad news . . . she’ll have to hear it eventually. Might as well be now. Maybe there’s something she can do to help.
As she knocks, though, she
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