Read Online The Devil's Menagerie by Louis Charbonneau - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Louis Charbonneau
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you. What’s that, peanut butter and jelly? My favorite, especially if it’s on cheap, squishy white bread—”
She bolted from the bench, dropping her brown paper bag that still held an apple. She ran, heedless of the shouts of the slender man who had sat down beside her.
For a week she avoided going outside on campus during her lunch hour. When she finally did, Dave Lindstrom found her. He was carrying a fresh apple in a brown paper bag.
Only much later did Glenda learn how persistently Dave had mounted a campaign to break down her resistance, gradually undercutting her fear by revealing a man of simple decency. He was gentle, good-humored, quiet, with an incredibly even temper. After six years of marriage she had yet to see him fly into an uncontrolled rage. He was attractive—handsome in her eyes—six feet tall, thin, with lean, regular features and a generous mouth always curved upward slightly at the corners. He didn’t have the animal magnetism that Ralph Beringer used like a weapon, but Dave was imaginative, playful and considerate in bed, a caring partner, a loving father to both Richie and Elli, the daughter born a year after their wedding.
She had never expected to trust a man completely again. Dave had managed the impossible, Made it so that the night sweats began to go away and the stark terror of awakening shivering at the slam of a car door. Eventually that thump in the night became an innocent sound, not the dreaded signal that
he
was home. In time she was able to go weeks without reliving the abject fear, the despair, the sense of worthlessness.
“You didn’t get any sleep,” Dave said. “Come to bed.”
She crawled under the covers beside him and crept into the circle of his arms. Thin as he was, Dave radiated heat like an oven. On chilly nights she loved snuggling against him, spooning, sheltered within that aura of warmth. Not merely a physical warmth but a haven of love, peace, safety.
But there was no safety, she thought bitterly now, her momentary calm evaporating. There would be no peace.
This morning her body slowly warmed from the touch of her husband’s, but deep within her a core of cold remained.
It’s not over, bitch
.
She shivered again.
“Hey, hey,” Dave whispered.
“I prayed he would never come back.”
“Are you so sure he has? We don’t even know where he was calling from.”
She wanted to believe him, but the frightened woman she had thought long buried knew better. Tears ran down her cheeks. Dave’s hand trailed up her arm, his touch light, and when she resisted he turned her face toward his. His lips tasted tears.
“Whatever he did, it was a long time ago,” Dave said. “No one’s going to hurt you now—you or Richie.”
Glenda didn’t answer.
Seven
O FFICER J ACK P RITKIN was no more than twenty-five, red hair in a brush cut, the clean-jawed look of a college halfback.
“You ever work a homicide before, Pritkin?” Braden asked him.
“No, sir.”
“Borland says you’re good with paperwork and computers. I’ll need some help there. Like with this VICAP program? You know it?”
“You get me a copy of your crime scene report and the autopsy protocol and the rest of it, Detective Braden, I’ll be logged on with Quantico the same day.”
“Good,” Braden said. Maybe this arrangement would work out after all.
He had pulled Pritkin out of the Bright Spot. Now he glanced through the water-streaked window into the diner-styled coffee shop, where Harry Malkowski sat alone in a red vinyl-covered booth.
“You talk to him at all?” he asked the deputy.
“No, sir. Sheriff Borland said I should just baby-sit him.”
“Good. You can wait in your car or I’ll see you back at the station. I don’t want to crowd this kid too much.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And don’t call me sir.”
“Yes, uh … Detective.”
“Call me Braden.”
Deputy Pritkin grinned sheepishly. Braden left him outside and went into the diner. It was warm inside,
She bolted from the bench, dropping her brown paper bag that still held an apple. She ran, heedless of the shouts of the slender man who had sat down beside her.
For a week she avoided going outside on campus during her lunch hour. When she finally did, Dave Lindstrom found her. He was carrying a fresh apple in a brown paper bag.
Only much later did Glenda learn how persistently Dave had mounted a campaign to break down her resistance, gradually undercutting her fear by revealing a man of simple decency. He was gentle, good-humored, quiet, with an incredibly even temper. After six years of marriage she had yet to see him fly into an uncontrolled rage. He was attractive—handsome in her eyes—six feet tall, thin, with lean, regular features and a generous mouth always curved upward slightly at the corners. He didn’t have the animal magnetism that Ralph Beringer used like a weapon, but Dave was imaginative, playful and considerate in bed, a caring partner, a loving father to both Richie and Elli, the daughter born a year after their wedding.
She had never expected to trust a man completely again. Dave had managed the impossible, Made it so that the night sweats began to go away and the stark terror of awakening shivering at the slam of a car door. Eventually that thump in the night became an innocent sound, not the dreaded signal that
he
was home. In time she was able to go weeks without reliving the abject fear, the despair, the sense of worthlessness.
“You didn’t get any sleep,” Dave said. “Come to bed.”
She crawled under the covers beside him and crept into the circle of his arms. Thin as he was, Dave radiated heat like an oven. On chilly nights she loved snuggling against him, spooning, sheltered within that aura of warmth. Not merely a physical warmth but a haven of love, peace, safety.
But there was no safety, she thought bitterly now, her momentary calm evaporating. There would be no peace.
This morning her body slowly warmed from the touch of her husband’s, but deep within her a core of cold remained.
It’s not over, bitch
.
She shivered again.
“Hey, hey,” Dave whispered.
“I prayed he would never come back.”
“Are you so sure he has? We don’t even know where he was calling from.”
She wanted to believe him, but the frightened woman she had thought long buried knew better. Tears ran down her cheeks. Dave’s hand trailed up her arm, his touch light, and when she resisted he turned her face toward his. His lips tasted tears.
“Whatever he did, it was a long time ago,” Dave said. “No one’s going to hurt you now—you or Richie.”
Glenda didn’t answer.
Seven
O FFICER J ACK P RITKIN was no more than twenty-five, red hair in a brush cut, the clean-jawed look of a college halfback.
“You ever work a homicide before, Pritkin?” Braden asked him.
“No, sir.”
“Borland says you’re good with paperwork and computers. I’ll need some help there. Like with this VICAP program? You know it?”
“You get me a copy of your crime scene report and the autopsy protocol and the rest of it, Detective Braden, I’ll be logged on with Quantico the same day.”
“Good,” Braden said. Maybe this arrangement would work out after all.
He had pulled Pritkin out of the Bright Spot. Now he glanced through the water-streaked window into the diner-styled coffee shop, where Harry Malkowski sat alone in a red vinyl-covered booth.
“You talk to him at all?” he asked the deputy.
“No, sir. Sheriff Borland said I should just baby-sit him.”
“Good. You can wait in your car or I’ll see you back at the station. I don’t want to crowd this kid too much.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And don’t call me sir.”
“Yes, uh … Detective.”
“Call me Braden.”
Deputy Pritkin grinned sheepishly. Braden left him outside and went into the diner. It was warm inside,
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