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Authors: James Patterson
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I guess. That was lucky for everyone, but especially for him. He got to live, and you didn’t have to watch him die. And I got you the way I wanted, just the way I had imagined it for such a long time.
Here’s what happened next, Marti.
Your last morning started like any other. You did your precious Pilates and then went for laps in the pool. Fifty laps, just like always. It must be nice to have such a big swimming pool. Heated, too. I stood and watched you gliding back and forth in the sparkling blue water. Even there, so close, it took you forever to see me.
When you finally looked up, you must have been good and tired. Too tired to scream I suppose. All you did was turn away, but it didn’t stop me from shooting you. Or then cutting your pretty face to ribbons and shreds.
Tell you what, Marti, that was the best part of all. I’m starting to really like defacement.
Now, let me ask one final question—
do you know why you had to die? Do you know what you did to deserve this? Do you know, Marti, do you know?
Somehow, I doubt it.
Chapter 27
BUT THAT WASN’T EXACTLY the way it happened, the Storyteller knew.
Of course, he wasn’t going to tell the
L.A. Times
and the police everything, only what he needed them to know, only what was in the story he wanted them to help authenticate.
It was such a good story, a helluva story if he didn’t say so himself. Mary Smith! Jesus. A classic horror tale if ever there was one.
Speaking of stories, he’d heard a good one the other day—the “psychopath’s test.” It was supposed to tell you if you had the mind of a psycho. If you got it right, you did. The story went like this. At her mother’s funeral, a woman met this guy and fell instantly in love. But she never got his name, number, or anything about him. A few days later, the woman killed her sister.
Now . . . the test! Why did she kill the sister? If you answer correctly, then you think like a psychopath.
The Storyteller did, of course. He figured it out immediately. This woman killed her sister . . . because she was hoping the guy she liked would appear at the funeral.
Anyway, after he killed Marti Lowenstein-Bell, he was high as a kite, but he knew he had to stay in control, more or less anyway. He had to keep up appearances.
So he hustled on back to work.
He roamed the halls of the office building in Pasadena and talked to half a dozen coworkers about things that bored the living shit out of him, especially today. He wanted to tell every one of them what had just happened—about his secret life, about how none of them
got
him at all, about how smart and clever he was, and about what an incredible planner, schemer, and killer he was.
Jesus, how they loved to toss that word around—so and so was a
killer,
this one had a
killer
smile, a
killer
act, but it was all such incredible bullshit.
All of these people were wimps. They didn’t know what real killing was all about. But he sure did.
And he knew something else—he liked it a lot, even more than he thought he would. And he was good at it.
He had this sudden urge to pull his gun at the office and start shooting everything that moved, squeaked, or squealed.
But hell, that was just a fantasy, a little harmless daydreaming. It would never measure up to the real story, his story,
Mary’s
story, which was so much better.
Chapter 28
“ALEX, YOUR OFFICE AT THE FBI called so many times, I had to stop answering the phone. Good Lord, what is
wrong
with those people?” My great aunt Tia was holding forth at the kitchen table at home, admiring the colorful scarf we had brought her as thanks for house-sitting while we were in California. Nana sat next to Tia, sorting through a thick stack of mail.
Our cat, Rosie, was in the kitchen, and looked a bit heavier if I wasn’t mistaken. She rubbed hard up against my legs, as if to say,
I’m mad you left, but I’m glad you’re back. Tia sure is a fine cook.
I was glad to be back, too. I think we all were.
Here’s what happened next, Marti.
Your last morning started like any other. You did your precious Pilates and then went for laps in the pool. Fifty laps, just like always. It must be nice to have such a big swimming pool. Heated, too. I stood and watched you gliding back and forth in the sparkling blue water. Even there, so close, it took you forever to see me.
When you finally looked up, you must have been good and tired. Too tired to scream I suppose. All you did was turn away, but it didn’t stop me from shooting you. Or then cutting your pretty face to ribbons and shreds.
Tell you what, Marti, that was the best part of all. I’m starting to really like defacement.
Now, let me ask one final question—
do you know why you had to die? Do you know what you did to deserve this? Do you know, Marti, do you know?
Somehow, I doubt it.
Chapter 27
BUT THAT WASN’T EXACTLY the way it happened, the Storyteller knew.
Of course, he wasn’t going to tell the
L.A. Times
and the police everything, only what he needed them to know, only what was in the story he wanted them to help authenticate.
It was such a good story, a helluva story if he didn’t say so himself. Mary Smith! Jesus. A classic horror tale if ever there was one.
Speaking of stories, he’d heard a good one the other day—the “psychopath’s test.” It was supposed to tell you if you had the mind of a psycho. If you got it right, you did. The story went like this. At her mother’s funeral, a woman met this guy and fell instantly in love. But she never got his name, number, or anything about him. A few days later, the woman killed her sister.
Now . . . the test! Why did she kill the sister? If you answer correctly, then you think like a psychopath.
The Storyteller did, of course. He figured it out immediately. This woman killed her sister . . . because she was hoping the guy she liked would appear at the funeral.
Anyway, after he killed Marti Lowenstein-Bell, he was high as a kite, but he knew he had to stay in control, more or less anyway. He had to keep up appearances.
So he hustled on back to work.
He roamed the halls of the office building in Pasadena and talked to half a dozen coworkers about things that bored the living shit out of him, especially today. He wanted to tell every one of them what had just happened—about his secret life, about how none of them
got
him at all, about how smart and clever he was, and about what an incredible planner, schemer, and killer he was.
Jesus, how they loved to toss that word around—so and so was a
killer,
this one had a
killer
smile, a
killer
act, but it was all such incredible bullshit.
All of these people were wimps. They didn’t know what real killing was all about. But he sure did.
And he knew something else—he liked it a lot, even more than he thought he would. And he was good at it.
He had this sudden urge to pull his gun at the office and start shooting everything that moved, squeaked, or squealed.
But hell, that was just a fantasy, a little harmless daydreaming. It would never measure up to the real story, his story,
Mary’s
story, which was so much better.
Chapter 28
“ALEX, YOUR OFFICE AT THE FBI called so many times, I had to stop answering the phone. Good Lord, what is
wrong
with those people?” My great aunt Tia was holding forth at the kitchen table at home, admiring the colorful scarf we had brought her as thanks for house-sitting while we were in California. Nana sat next to Tia, sorting through a thick stack of mail.
Our cat, Rosie, was in the kitchen, and looked a bit heavier if I wasn’t mistaken. She rubbed hard up against my legs, as if to say,
I’m mad you left, but I’m glad you’re back. Tia sure is a fine cook.
I was glad to be back, too. I think we all were.
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