Read Online Top Ten by Ryne Douglas Pearson - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Ryne Douglas Pearson
Ads: Link
the lobby for the last piece of Doris May—her head. He worked it with his feet like a soccer ball, kicking it easily a few feet, then a few more, until he had it behind the counter and down that hall and into the first room. It never left that room.
But he did.
Back to the lobby, with a stack of papers in hand. A roll of tape as well. To the doors he went and arranged them, with great care, adjusting the pieces so that each was just right. Calm again. Working precisely. Just...
...just like an artist.
But he was not that. He only thought he was. Believed he was. Some master.
To the pool of wet death left where he’d cut her down. He flattened his hand and put it into the mess. Got it sloppy with Doris May’s blood before standing and reaching to the wall near the table and putting his message there. She went to pieces .
Telling all what to think of this, just like the titles of his more masculine works. He was the master, after all. Above all. Better, more knowledgeable than she, or Jaworski, or anyone who would be privy to his creations.
He had an ego, Ariel thought. Like most artists, those who considered themselves masters, especially, this one had an ego. His work had to be explained to those whose eyes would fall upon it. Those unworthy, incapable of understanding it themselves. Its meaning. Its...
Her thumb came down on the pause button and stilled Michaelangelo as he was leaving the lobby, walking casually, heading toward the counter, one of his hands reaching out. To something. For something.
She let it play again and it jumped through the locations.
“Damn,” she swore, wanting a continuous view here. When it came back to the lobby he was gone. And so was the bulletin he’d put on the table before cutting Doris May to pieces. The most wanted bulletin.
Ariel stood from the bed and stepped close to the TV as the next view cycled up. There he was, behind the counter, something in his hand. Flat and thin and light colored. The bulletin. He’d picked it up.
Why would he do that?
Her brow bunched down as she wondered. Wondered and watched as the sorting room came up, and there he was, walking through with the bulletin in hand, though smaller now, and she saw him fold it down to a still smaller square and then in the back lot she could not see it anymore but could see very plainly him pushing something down into the front pocket of his dark pants.
To snow again the tape went, and there it stayed, the TV hissing white noise as Ariel turned very slowly away from it, the remote still in her hand but thoughts of using it a million miles away.
Other thoughts were much, much closer. They ticked off in her head like parts of an equation tumbling toward a sum.
He was angry.
He was enraged.
He has an ego.
He berated Doris May with the bulletin.
He took the bulletin.
He was yelling at Doris May.
Was he angry at Doris May?
Or...
Her wonderings ceased suddenly there.
“You were there earlier,” Ariel said. That she knew. It was on another tape the Bureau lab had sent. His visit that morning had been captured on tape, though no clearer image of him had been. He’d bought one stamp, from Doris May, had addressed a letter at the table and had mailed it. Except...
...except that wasn’t all he had done.
Another image had made a memory.
Ariel retrieved the earlier tape from the top of the low bureau near the TV and ejected the tape of Doris May’s slaughter, feeding the earlier one in and setting it to play.
The sequence was five minutes long, stuttering between locations as the latter one did. She watched, this one for the third time maybe. It had meant little she thought. Until now.
There. There he came. In the front door and to the—
Counter. This switch picked him up as he arrived at the service window. The window staffed by Doris. Doris smiled. Said something. Sorting room—two workers working, flinging letters into stacked bins. Back lot–cars parked, a dog sniffing the gravelly ground.
But he did.
Back to the lobby, with a stack of papers in hand. A roll of tape as well. To the doors he went and arranged them, with great care, adjusting the pieces so that each was just right. Calm again. Working precisely. Just...
...just like an artist.
But he was not that. He only thought he was. Believed he was. Some master.
To the pool of wet death left where he’d cut her down. He flattened his hand and put it into the mess. Got it sloppy with Doris May’s blood before standing and reaching to the wall near the table and putting his message there. She went to pieces .
Telling all what to think of this, just like the titles of his more masculine works. He was the master, after all. Above all. Better, more knowledgeable than she, or Jaworski, or anyone who would be privy to his creations.
He had an ego, Ariel thought. Like most artists, those who considered themselves masters, especially, this one had an ego. His work had to be explained to those whose eyes would fall upon it. Those unworthy, incapable of understanding it themselves. Its meaning. Its...
Her thumb came down on the pause button and stilled Michaelangelo as he was leaving the lobby, walking casually, heading toward the counter, one of his hands reaching out. To something. For something.
She let it play again and it jumped through the locations.
“Damn,” she swore, wanting a continuous view here. When it came back to the lobby he was gone. And so was the bulletin he’d put on the table before cutting Doris May to pieces. The most wanted bulletin.
Ariel stood from the bed and stepped close to the TV as the next view cycled up. There he was, behind the counter, something in his hand. Flat and thin and light colored. The bulletin. He’d picked it up.
Why would he do that?
Her brow bunched down as she wondered. Wondered and watched as the sorting room came up, and there he was, walking through with the bulletin in hand, though smaller now, and she saw him fold it down to a still smaller square and then in the back lot she could not see it anymore but could see very plainly him pushing something down into the front pocket of his dark pants.
To snow again the tape went, and there it stayed, the TV hissing white noise as Ariel turned very slowly away from it, the remote still in her hand but thoughts of using it a million miles away.
Other thoughts were much, much closer. They ticked off in her head like parts of an equation tumbling toward a sum.
He was angry.
He was enraged.
He has an ego.
He berated Doris May with the bulletin.
He took the bulletin.
He was yelling at Doris May.
Was he angry at Doris May?
Or...
Her wonderings ceased suddenly there.
“You were there earlier,” Ariel said. That she knew. It was on another tape the Bureau lab had sent. His visit that morning had been captured on tape, though no clearer image of him had been. He’d bought one stamp, from Doris May, had addressed a letter at the table and had mailed it. Except...
...except that wasn’t all he had done.
Another image had made a memory.
Ariel retrieved the earlier tape from the top of the low bureau near the TV and ejected the tape of Doris May’s slaughter, feeding the earlier one in and setting it to play.
The sequence was five minutes long, stuttering between locations as the latter one did. She watched, this one for the third time maybe. It had meant little she thought. Until now.
There. There he came. In the front door and to the—
Counter. This switch picked him up as he arrived at the service window. The window staffed by Doris. Doris smiled. Said something. Sorting room—two workers working, flinging letters into stacked bins. Back lot–cars parked, a dog sniffing the gravelly ground.
Similar Books
