Read Online Diabolical by Hank Schwaeble - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Hank Schwaeble
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Iâd ask again what the heck you think it has to do with me.â
Bartlett glanced over to Vivian, who stared back at him with eyes that conveyed more than just a look.
âVivianâs agreed to explain the rest.â
Bartlett gestured to Edgar with a snap of his head. Edgar stood. He left Calvin on the chair and picked up the stone. After wrestling it into the satchel, he slung it over his shoulder and scooped up the HK. He gave Hatcher a toothy grin as he walked past.
Then all three of them walked out of the room. Calvin was hunched forward and a little shaky, but except for Bartlettâs palm in the small of his back, he didnât get much help.
The door shut behind them, leaving Hatcher and Vivian alone.
Hatcher watched the door. Neither of them spoke. The silence stretched past a minute, extended through two, started bearing down on three.
âDo you think theyâre standing out there, listening?â he said.
Vivian shook her head, held up a finger as she cocked her jaw, directing an ear toward the door. After another moment, some of the tension seemed to dissipate from her body.
âI just wanted to be sure.â
She pushed herself off the bed. Her eyes grew shiny and her lips started to quiver with the intensity of a prayer. Then she rushed forward and threw her arms around Hatcherâs neck. She cupped the back of his head, pressed her mouth over his. Her tongue twirled and flicked.
A few seconds later, she pulled back and took a breath. Squeezing him close, she rubbed the side of her face into his chest. Hatcher lowered his lips to her crown, inhaled her scent. Coconuts. Same shampoo she always used. He still had some left.
âGod, I missed you,â she said.
CHAPTER 4
THE THING ABOUT WATCHING THE CHILDREN OF BEAUTIFUL women play, Morris mused, was they way their squeals and giggles helped him visualize the exquisite agony that lay in store for them. A lifetime of it. Finding the corpses of their young mothers always had that effect.
That part was almost as exciting as anticipating the fun he was going to have with the mothers themselves. Almost.
The sun was just breaking over the horizon as he strolled the sidewalk. New town, as always. The walk from the bus station to what he assumed was the main commercial strip hadnât taken very long. He enjoyed the practiced routine, the ritual of arrival, of getting his bearings. And he liked this time of day, especially for scouting locations. The streets were mostly empty, the risk of someone trying to mug him was low, and police finishing their graveyard shifts or just settling behind the wheel of their cruisers with tall cups of coffee steaming in their hands always seemed uninterested in a white male in an orange windbreaker and orange cap. Most people in his situation would be inclined to dress inconspicuously, Morris knew. But he didnât care. He loved the color orange. So much so he couldnât stand to see anyone else wearing it. It was his.
Besides, he was practically charmed. Police rarely gave him a second glance. He often chalked it up to his attention to detail, his savvy way of defying expectations. But part of him knew it was more than that. He was special.
He spied a Laundromat on the other side of the street and crossed at the next intersection. Twenty-four-hour, coinoperated. Empty inside. He leaned close to the large windows and shaded his eyes, quickly taking in the rear corners, the spots near the ceiling. No cameras that he could see. Security cams werenât a disqualifier, but they did limit the amount of time he could safely spend in a place, particularly one like this. They also made him wary of his demeanor, and self-consciousness cramped his style. He didnât want to be watched while watching.
The air inside was warmer and damper than on the street. It smelled of fragrant soap and mildew. Two rows of machines. Dryers along the walls, washers back-to-back forming a row down the middle.
Bartlett glanced over to Vivian, who stared back at him with eyes that conveyed more than just a look.
âVivianâs agreed to explain the rest.â
Bartlett gestured to Edgar with a snap of his head. Edgar stood. He left Calvin on the chair and picked up the stone. After wrestling it into the satchel, he slung it over his shoulder and scooped up the HK. He gave Hatcher a toothy grin as he walked past.
Then all three of them walked out of the room. Calvin was hunched forward and a little shaky, but except for Bartlettâs palm in the small of his back, he didnât get much help.
The door shut behind them, leaving Hatcher and Vivian alone.
Hatcher watched the door. Neither of them spoke. The silence stretched past a minute, extended through two, started bearing down on three.
âDo you think theyâre standing out there, listening?â he said.
Vivian shook her head, held up a finger as she cocked her jaw, directing an ear toward the door. After another moment, some of the tension seemed to dissipate from her body.
âI just wanted to be sure.â
She pushed herself off the bed. Her eyes grew shiny and her lips started to quiver with the intensity of a prayer. Then she rushed forward and threw her arms around Hatcherâs neck. She cupped the back of his head, pressed her mouth over his. Her tongue twirled and flicked.
A few seconds later, she pulled back and took a breath. Squeezing him close, she rubbed the side of her face into his chest. Hatcher lowered his lips to her crown, inhaled her scent. Coconuts. Same shampoo she always used. He still had some left.
âGod, I missed you,â she said.
CHAPTER 4
THE THING ABOUT WATCHING THE CHILDREN OF BEAUTIFUL women play, Morris mused, was they way their squeals and giggles helped him visualize the exquisite agony that lay in store for them. A lifetime of it. Finding the corpses of their young mothers always had that effect.
That part was almost as exciting as anticipating the fun he was going to have with the mothers themselves. Almost.
The sun was just breaking over the horizon as he strolled the sidewalk. New town, as always. The walk from the bus station to what he assumed was the main commercial strip hadnât taken very long. He enjoyed the practiced routine, the ritual of arrival, of getting his bearings. And he liked this time of day, especially for scouting locations. The streets were mostly empty, the risk of someone trying to mug him was low, and police finishing their graveyard shifts or just settling behind the wheel of their cruisers with tall cups of coffee steaming in their hands always seemed uninterested in a white male in an orange windbreaker and orange cap. Most people in his situation would be inclined to dress inconspicuously, Morris knew. But he didnât care. He loved the color orange. So much so he couldnât stand to see anyone else wearing it. It was his.
Besides, he was practically charmed. Police rarely gave him a second glance. He often chalked it up to his attention to detail, his savvy way of defying expectations. But part of him knew it was more than that. He was special.
He spied a Laundromat on the other side of the street and crossed at the next intersection. Twenty-four-hour, coinoperated. Empty inside. He leaned close to the large windows and shaded his eyes, quickly taking in the rear corners, the spots near the ceiling. No cameras that he could see. Security cams werenât a disqualifier, but they did limit the amount of time he could safely spend in a place, particularly one like this. They also made him wary of his demeanor, and self-consciousness cramped his style. He didnât want to be watched while watching.
The air inside was warmer and damper than on the street. It smelled of fragrant soap and mildew. Two rows of machines. Dryers along the walls, washers back-to-back forming a row down the middle.
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