Read Online Stranger in the Room: A Novel by Amanda Kyle Williams - Free Book Online
Authors: Amanda Kyle Williams
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for court, Mr. Wriggles. Need to get you in and get a new date set.”
He tried to close the door on me. I pushed back with my forearms and squeezed in a little further. I felt for my cuffs. “So get dressed and let’s go.”
He put his hands on his hips, planted himself with feet shoulder width apart, defiant in his dingy underwear. I heard Miki’s shutter buzzing. He scowled at her. “Who the fuck is that?”
I charged the rest of the way in and slapped the cuffs on his right wrist. Wriggles jerked his arm away, and the dangling end of heavy silver handcuffs flew up and smacked him in the face. I think his eyes crossed for a second. Miki was in the house now too, circling us with her shutter humming like she was covering Afghanistan. And then Steven T. Wriggles did the unthinkable. With handcuffs swinging off one wrist, he brought his hand to his nose and jammed his finger inside. Then he jabbed at me with the offending finger.
“Jesus!”
I leapt out of the way and with delayed empathy understood why the clerk had emptied the cash register that day and handed Wriggles three hundred dollars. I think even Homeland Security would have caved. TSA agents would run screaming at the sheer repulsiveness of the act.
Miki was laughing, moving around us. I whipped the Glock out of the duty holster on the back of my jeans. Wriggles’s eyes got wide. If you’ve never seen a full-size 10mm Glock, it’s an imposing weapon. The Bureau had experimented with making them standard for agents, but the size was unmanageable for trainees, and the recoil will make your teeth rattle. I got attached to mine, though. It’s a great deterrent. Dr. Shetty has some ideas about why I continue to work in fields that require a big-ass gun—something about being short and not having a penis. But even a full-on dimwit like Wriggles appreciates the sinister character of my weapon.
His hands went up. “Okay, okay. Just don’t fucking kill me.”
“We’re going to go in back and you’re going to get some clothes on,” I told him. “And just so you know, the safety on this thing is in the trigger. It’s not even really a safety. It’s really awkward. You do something gross, there’s going to be an accident.”
I followed Wriggles to a bedroom piled up with dirty clothes andashtrays and beer cans. He pulled jeans over his underwear and put on a blue T-shirt that had
K-Y Lubricating Jelly
printed on it in white. Just the thought of that kind of hit my gag reflex. He pushed the hanging handcuffs through the sleeve.
“Get on your stomach on the bed.”
“My
God
,” Wriggles exclaimed.
“Oh right. As if.” I waved my Glock at him and he got on his stomach. I pushed my knee into his back, pulled his arms up behind him, and got his other wrist cuffed. I used a plastic zip tie to attach them to his belt loop. Then I pulled a shirt out of a pile on the floor, rolled it up, and tied it around his head like a bandanna, pushed it down under his nose.
Wriggles started flopping around like a seal. “I can’t breathe,” he protested. “It smells bad.”
“Sorry, pal. I’m not letting that nose of yours in my car.”
Miki helped me get him turned over and up on his feet. We put him in the passenger’s seat. Miki got behind him.
W riggles was processed while I waited for the paperwork I would need for Tyrone’s Quikbail. My cousin was surrounded by cops and, I suspected, flirting her way into some seriously great photographs of Atlanta’s Finest. There was a lot of laughing.
“I woulda put on my mascara if I’d known it was picture day,” Rauser said. He slipped his arms around my waist and bent to rub his rough cheek against mine. “Commercial Robbery says you brought in the snot guy.”
“Don’t you have enough to keep you busy in Homicide?”
He pulled out his phone, moved some things around with one of his knobby fingers, then showed me the screen. “Miki sent it to me. I’m thinking it should be my wallpaper.” It
He tried to close the door on me. I pushed back with my forearms and squeezed in a little further. I felt for my cuffs. “So get dressed and let’s go.”
He put his hands on his hips, planted himself with feet shoulder width apart, defiant in his dingy underwear. I heard Miki’s shutter buzzing. He scowled at her. “Who the fuck is that?”
I charged the rest of the way in and slapped the cuffs on his right wrist. Wriggles jerked his arm away, and the dangling end of heavy silver handcuffs flew up and smacked him in the face. I think his eyes crossed for a second. Miki was in the house now too, circling us with her shutter humming like she was covering Afghanistan. And then Steven T. Wriggles did the unthinkable. With handcuffs swinging off one wrist, he brought his hand to his nose and jammed his finger inside. Then he jabbed at me with the offending finger.
“Jesus!”
I leapt out of the way and with delayed empathy understood why the clerk had emptied the cash register that day and handed Wriggles three hundred dollars. I think even Homeland Security would have caved. TSA agents would run screaming at the sheer repulsiveness of the act.
Miki was laughing, moving around us. I whipped the Glock out of the duty holster on the back of my jeans. Wriggles’s eyes got wide. If you’ve never seen a full-size 10mm Glock, it’s an imposing weapon. The Bureau had experimented with making them standard for agents, but the size was unmanageable for trainees, and the recoil will make your teeth rattle. I got attached to mine, though. It’s a great deterrent. Dr. Shetty has some ideas about why I continue to work in fields that require a big-ass gun—something about being short and not having a penis. But even a full-on dimwit like Wriggles appreciates the sinister character of my weapon.
His hands went up. “Okay, okay. Just don’t fucking kill me.”
“We’re going to go in back and you’re going to get some clothes on,” I told him. “And just so you know, the safety on this thing is in the trigger. It’s not even really a safety. It’s really awkward. You do something gross, there’s going to be an accident.”
I followed Wriggles to a bedroom piled up with dirty clothes andashtrays and beer cans. He pulled jeans over his underwear and put on a blue T-shirt that had
K-Y Lubricating Jelly
printed on it in white. Just the thought of that kind of hit my gag reflex. He pushed the hanging handcuffs through the sleeve.
“Get on your stomach on the bed.”
“My
God
,” Wriggles exclaimed.
“Oh right. As if.” I waved my Glock at him and he got on his stomach. I pushed my knee into his back, pulled his arms up behind him, and got his other wrist cuffed. I used a plastic zip tie to attach them to his belt loop. Then I pulled a shirt out of a pile on the floor, rolled it up, and tied it around his head like a bandanna, pushed it down under his nose.
Wriggles started flopping around like a seal. “I can’t breathe,” he protested. “It smells bad.”
“Sorry, pal. I’m not letting that nose of yours in my car.”
Miki helped me get him turned over and up on his feet. We put him in the passenger’s seat. Miki got behind him.
W riggles was processed while I waited for the paperwork I would need for Tyrone’s Quikbail. My cousin was surrounded by cops and, I suspected, flirting her way into some seriously great photographs of Atlanta’s Finest. There was a lot of laughing.
“I woulda put on my mascara if I’d known it was picture day,” Rauser said. He slipped his arms around my waist and bent to rub his rough cheek against mine. “Commercial Robbery says you brought in the snot guy.”
“Don’t you have enough to keep you busy in Homicide?”
He pulled out his phone, moved some things around with one of his knobby fingers, then showed me the screen. “Miki sent it to me. I’m thinking it should be my wallpaper.” It
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