Read Online The Judas Glass by Michael Cadnum - Free Book Online Page B

these men, hanging around, stalking her.”
    â€œThese must be people who specialize in burning after they kill,” I suggested. I thought: people like this look human, but they aren’t.
    Simon could not speak. His shoulders were trembling.
    â€œThey’ll find out who did it,” I said. “They start with no idea, and then little by little they put together a case.”
    â€œThey don’t care, really. It’s just another dead body to them.”
    â€œThe police hate this sort of thing as much as we do,” I said. It was true, but it sounded false. Why was I defending the cops?
    â€œThat makes it even worse, doesn’t it?” Simon said. “That they care and still can’t stop him.”
    â€œIf anything can make it worse.”
    He dropped all the pictures onto the lawn, the top photo edging out so the top of the man’s head was visible, dark hair combed back, a 1940s movie idol. Simon was up the steps, into the ruined house.
    I called after him, but he was moving too fast.
    I caught up with him just as he was removing a strip of Police Line — Do not Cross tape that had wrapped across his chest.
    He did not say a word. He was far into the house, and I heard something break, wood, part of the floorboards. It smelled dank, evil, and something inside me could not stand to hear the soft, steady tune of water trickling in the darkness. There were splashing sounds, his footsteps.
    â€œSimon, it’s not safe,” I called. The sound of my voice unsettled something. There was a tinkle, a vague thud. Something broke under my shoe, a white porcelain knob.
    â€œI’m looking for something,” he called.
    â€œThis is a bad idea,” I said, feeling logic go stupid in me. Why was it a bad idea? If the police showed up, I would deal with them. There was a crash, wood splintering. It was dangerous—that made it a bad idea. I didn’t move another step. The ceiling was a wasteland, black, peeling.
    All of this could come down. The floor sagged under my feet, something in the timbers giving way. But I felt that I was in collusion with Simon now, trespassing for some important reason.
    It didn’t take long before a flashlight probed the dark, illuminating puddles, twists of naked wire, nailheads in the walls studs. I was standing out of the splash of morning sunlight, and I stepped carefully to where I could be seen. “I’m Richard Stirling,” I said. “I’m the attorney of the deceased.”
    Why did I say that? Why didn’t I say I’m the lover of the deceased?
    â€œThis is all off-limits, Mr. Stirling,” said the broad-shouldered silhouette. The cop relaxed a little, leather creaking.
    â€œI know that,” I said. Dazzling rebuttal . “We thought we smelled fire,” I said.
    Actually, agreeing with your opponent is a good idea. But before the cop could reflect that no police procedure in the books required him to argue with a trespasser, Simon was there with me. The cop studied both of us. “Step out here,” he said, uninvitingly. The police can be nice at times like this. They were more than nice—they were apologetic. They would have to take us into custody. I was apologetic, too. I kept my tone light, and my message clear.
    More police came, an audience, and I was in my element. A few neighbors dropped by, and I was recognized, the lawyer, the would-be hero. I could see why they might mistake their duty, I told them. I gave them my best smile.
    After a few minutes of that the cops were relieved to ask us to leave, please, and not come back. They didn’t want us to hurt ourselves.
    As I walked Simon to his Honda Civic he slipped something into my hand. “I found what I was looking for,” he said.
    I kept my hand closed. I looked away, unable to respond.
    â€œShe liked it very much,” he said. “She could feel them with her fingertips, the sea otters. It was the only