Read Online The Blonde by Duane Swierczynski - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Duane Swierczynski
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That you gave me luminous tox—”
“
Toxin
.”
“Toxin. Right. Luminous toxin. You’re not the only scientist who knows how to deal with that stuff.”
“Whatever you say. But if you try to leave this room while I’m sleeping, at least linger in the hall for a few seconds so you can listen to me die.”
Jack looked at the digital clock next to the bed: 12:54 A.M. He had his appointment to keep in less than eight hours.
“I just need sleep.
Please
. Let me sleep.”
So did he. And for the first time all evening, Kelly sounded somewhat rational. Maybe she’d calmed down a bit by talking this stuff through. An idea formed in his Jack’s mind. He found himself saying, “Okay.”
Kelly leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. Instinctively, he turned his face toward her, then caught himself at the last minute. Jesus. For a moment there, he’d thought it was Theresa. He’d almost kissed her on the lips.
But even if Jack hadn’t stopped himself, her recoil would have done the trick. She pushed herself away like he’d given her an electric shock.
“You don’t want to kiss me.”
“I wasn’t going to.”
The thought was the furthest thing from his mind for a number of reasons—not the least of which being he usually didn’t kiss people who had tried to kill him. But now that she had stressed it… of course, now it was all he could think about. Kissing her.
“Trust me, Jack. It’s a very bad idea. Remember the Mary Kates?”
“I wasn’t going to kiss you.”
“Just imagine I’d got a cold. A very bad cold. That’s how these damned things work anyway.”
“Okay,” Jack said, staring at her lips. Her natural, full, soft lips.
She turned her face away, then lowered her head onto his shoulder.
“You don’t know how long I’ve been waiting for someone to believe me. Someone who didn’t think I was crazy. If I weren’t infected with killer nanomachines, I’ve give you a blow job out of gratitude.”
Jack didn’t know what to say to that. He settled for “Urn, thanks.”
Her body started shaking, as if she had started crying.
No, it wasn’t tears. She was laughing.
“What?”
“I’m glad I didn’t have to resort to plan B. You would
really
have gotten the wrong idea.”
“PlanB?”
“Handcuffs.”
12:55 a.m.
Behind the Edison Avenue House
N ot good, not good. Kowalski could see the flashing cherries of the fire trucks filling the night sky. Wouldn’t be long before police started searching the immediate area, looking for survivors. Wouldn’t be long before the neighbors would pop their lights on, look out their front doors, wondering what the hell was going on at one o’clock in the morning.
And the tree house was empty.
His bag was gone.
Not a soul in the immediate vicinity. Bag wasn’t there long enough for someone to have “accidentally” discovered it. What, was he away three minutes? Four, tops? What the hell happened? Did Ed’s decapitated head sprout green hairy spider legs and go for a stroll?
Lights were flicking on in houses spread across the hills. Then, out of the corner of his eye, Kowalski noticed the opposite: a light flicking
off
.
It all came together within seconds.
He
so
didn’t have time for this.
Within thirty seconds, Kowalski was in the living room, staring at the guy who was staring at the stolen Adidas bag on his dining table. In the dim light, he looked like a young workaholic college professor, staying up late to do grades and putter away at a novel in spare moments. He had that bedhead look, even though he was still dressed in jeans and a button-down shirt a shade too tight for his age. The guy was so entranced by the bag—maybe he was thinking, Forget this novel stuff; I may have a bag full of stolen loot here. And that made sense. Who else would stash a bag in a tree house but a criminal? The prof, however, was in for a little surprise. Kowalski considered waiting until the guy opened it before speaking up. There you
“
Toxin
.”
“Toxin. Right. Luminous toxin. You’re not the only scientist who knows how to deal with that stuff.”
“Whatever you say. But if you try to leave this room while I’m sleeping, at least linger in the hall for a few seconds so you can listen to me die.”
Jack looked at the digital clock next to the bed: 12:54 A.M. He had his appointment to keep in less than eight hours.
“I just need sleep.
Please
. Let me sleep.”
So did he. And for the first time all evening, Kelly sounded somewhat rational. Maybe she’d calmed down a bit by talking this stuff through. An idea formed in his Jack’s mind. He found himself saying, “Okay.”
Kelly leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. Instinctively, he turned his face toward her, then caught himself at the last minute. Jesus. For a moment there, he’d thought it was Theresa. He’d almost kissed her on the lips.
But even if Jack hadn’t stopped himself, her recoil would have done the trick. She pushed herself away like he’d given her an electric shock.
“You don’t want to kiss me.”
“I wasn’t going to.”
The thought was the furthest thing from his mind for a number of reasons—not the least of which being he usually didn’t kiss people who had tried to kill him. But now that she had stressed it… of course, now it was all he could think about. Kissing her.
“Trust me, Jack. It’s a very bad idea. Remember the Mary Kates?”
“I wasn’t going to kiss you.”
“Just imagine I’d got a cold. A very bad cold. That’s how these damned things work anyway.”
“Okay,” Jack said, staring at her lips. Her natural, full, soft lips.
She turned her face away, then lowered her head onto his shoulder.
“You don’t know how long I’ve been waiting for someone to believe me. Someone who didn’t think I was crazy. If I weren’t infected with killer nanomachines, I’ve give you a blow job out of gratitude.”
Jack didn’t know what to say to that. He settled for “Urn, thanks.”
Her body started shaking, as if she had started crying.
No, it wasn’t tears. She was laughing.
“What?”
“I’m glad I didn’t have to resort to plan B. You would
really
have gotten the wrong idea.”
“PlanB?”
“Handcuffs.”
12:55 a.m.
Behind the Edison Avenue House
N ot good, not good. Kowalski could see the flashing cherries of the fire trucks filling the night sky. Wouldn’t be long before police started searching the immediate area, looking for survivors. Wouldn’t be long before the neighbors would pop their lights on, look out their front doors, wondering what the hell was going on at one o’clock in the morning.
And the tree house was empty.
His bag was gone.
Not a soul in the immediate vicinity. Bag wasn’t there long enough for someone to have “accidentally” discovered it. What, was he away three minutes? Four, tops? What the hell happened? Did Ed’s decapitated head sprout green hairy spider legs and go for a stroll?
Lights were flicking on in houses spread across the hills. Then, out of the corner of his eye, Kowalski noticed the opposite: a light flicking
off
.
It all came together within seconds.
He
so
didn’t have time for this.
Within thirty seconds, Kowalski was in the living room, staring at the guy who was staring at the stolen Adidas bag on his dining table. In the dim light, he looked like a young workaholic college professor, staying up late to do grades and putter away at a novel in spare moments. He had that bedhead look, even though he was still dressed in jeans and a button-down shirt a shade too tight for his age. The guy was so entranced by the bag—maybe he was thinking, Forget this novel stuff; I may have a bag full of stolen loot here. And that made sense. Who else would stash a bag in a tree house but a criminal? The prof, however, was in for a little surprise. Kowalski considered waiting until the guy opened it before speaking up. There you
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