Read Online The Girl with a Clock for a Heart: A Novel by Peter Swanson - Free Book Online Page B

recently been given a buzz cut. He wore black pants and a tucked-in shirt in a red-check pattern. He was a little on the short side, and it was clear that he’d spent his life making up for it by working out. Even at his advanced age, his shoulders looked strong and his stomach was flat. There was nothing distinctive about the way he looked or the way he was dressed except for his belt buckle, which was impossible not to notice—a large glass oval, it held what looked to be a real black scorpion, mounted on yellow felt and framed in silver.
    The other man was taller, about George’s height but about twice his girth. He was one of those men who, from the waist up, was only marginally overweight, but whose hips spread outward to almost twice George’s size. He wore a tent-size pair of khaki pants with a Pawtucket Sox shirt tucked into the elastic waist. His head mirrored his body—thick around the chin and cheeks, then narrowing toward the top. He had black hair parted on the side and wore a perfectly trimmed mustache.
    “Money in the bag?” the older man said, jerking his head in the direction of George.
    George nodded, held out the bag. The large man came forward, moving in an awkward waddling fashion, and took it from him, then handed it to the older man. “Pat him down, DJ,” MacLean said.
    The man called DJ turned to George and mimicked stretching out his arms. “Do you mind?” he asked.
    George told him he didn’t, then held out his arms. DJ quickly patted him along his sides, from his ankles to under his arms. Instead of bending at the waist to reach George’s ankles, he went slowly down on one knee, then slowly back up. One of his knees popped audibly, startling George. He wondered if the man was looking for a weapon or a wire. Probably both.
    While George was patted down, MacLean placed the gym bag on a side table, unzipped it, and quickly riffled through the stacks of bills. He re-zipped the bag. George thought he heard him sigh.
    “He’s clean,” DJ said to MacLean.
    “All right. Thanks. You can leave us alone for a moment.”
    “Do you want me to take the money?”
    “That’s okay. I’ll deal with it.”
    DJ left the room and pulled the door closed behind him.
    MacLean took a couple of steps toward George, but it was clear that he wasn’t going to come all the way forward to shake his hand.
    “You’re Jane’s friend,” he said.
    “I am.”
    “That’s a precarious position to be in,” he said, and one corner of his thin lips went up in a joyless smile. George felt like a tongue-tied child faced with an adult. MacLean sighed again. “Well, have a seat.”
    George sat on one of the leather chairs. It creaked slightly as he settled in and gave off an acrid smell of floral cleaning product. MacLean sat on the end of a couch, perched very close to its edge, as though he had no intention of staying any longer than he needed to. He placed his hands, palms down, on his knees. His face was pinkish-red under his thatch of white hair, his eyes were slits, and his mouth was virtually lipless. Outside, George could hear the lawn mower shut off, then start again in a high, whining drone.
    “I’m sorry, but what is your name again?” MacLean asked.
    “It’s George Foss. I was briefly in college with Jane, many years ago.”
    “Okay, George Foss. I’ll just assume that’s probably not your real name, but I won’t nitpick. I’ll also assume she’s been fucking the living daylights out of you or else you wouldn’t be here.”
    “You can think what you want, but she’s an old college friend.”
    MacLean sniffed, then pinched the bridge of his nose. “Sure. So if you’re just an old college friend, what’s in it for you?”
    “I’m just doing a favor. I figured I was doing you a favor as well. You’ve got your money back.”
    “ Some of my fucking money back.”
    “Right. And now you’ll call off Donnie.”
    MacLean’s thin lips went up again in an involuntary startled smile. “Call