fact that he was part of it.
The killer had offered him a partnership. He had wanted no part of it. But now it turned out to be like one of those business deals, one of those aggressive stock offers, that writers in the financial pages called a
hostile takeover.
He finished the second Guinness as midnight arrived. He wanted a third. And a fourth.
He told himself he needed to keep a clear head. He asked himself why, and he had no credible answer.
His part of the business was done for the night. He had made the choice. The freak would do the deed.
Nothing more would happen tonight, except that without the beer, Billy wouldn’t be able to sleep. He might find himself carving again.
His hands ached. Not from his three insignificant wounds. From having clutched the tools too tightly. From having held the chunk of oak in a death grip.
Without sleep, he wouldn’t be ready for the day ahead. With morning would come news of another corpse. He would learn whom he had chosen for death.
Billy put his glass in the sink. He didn’t need a glass anymore because he didn’t care about making the beer last. Each bottle was a punch, and he wanted nothing more than to knock himself out.
He took a third beer to the living room and sat in his recliner. He drank in the dark.
Emotional fatigue can be as debilitating as physical exhaustion. All strength had fled him.
At 1:44, the telephone woke him. He flew up from the chair as if from a catapult. The empty beer bottle rolled across the floor.
Hoping to hear Lanny, he snared the handset from the kitchen phone on the fourth ring. “Hello” earned no reply.
The listener. The freak.
Billy knew from experience that a strategy of silence would get him nowhere. “What do you want from me? Why me?”
The caller did not respond.
“I’m not going to play your game,” Billy said, but that was lame because they both knew that he had already been co-opted.
He would have been pleased if the killer had replied with even a soft laugh of derision, but he got nothing.
“You’re sick, you’re twisted.” When that didn’t inspire a response, Billy added, “You’re human debris.”
He thought he sounded weak and ineffective, and for the times in which he lived, the insults were far from inflammatory. Some heavy-metal rock band probably called itself Sick and Twisted, and surely another was named Human Debris.
The freak would not be baited. He disconnected.
Billy hung up and realized that his hands were trembling. His palms were damp, too, and he blotted them on his shirt.
He was struck by a thought that should have but hadn’t occurred to him when the killer had called the previous night. He returned to the phone, picked up the handset, listened to the dial tone for a moment, and then keyed in *69, instigating an automatic call-back.
At the farther end of the line, the phone rang, rang, rang, but nobody answered it.
The number in the digital display on Billy’s phone, however, was familiar to him. It was Lanny’s.
chapter 10
GRACEFUL IN STARLIGHT WITH OAKS, THE church stood along the main highway, a quarter of a mile from the turnoff to Lanny Olsen’s house.
Billy drove to the southwest corner of the parking lot. Under the cloaking gloom of a massive California live oak, he doused the headlights and switched off the engine.
Picturesque chalk-white stucco walls with decorative buttresses rose to burnt-orange tile roofs. In a belfry niche stood a statue of the Holy Mother with her arms open to welcome suffering humanity.
Here, every baptized baby would seem to be a potential saint. Here, every marriage would appear to have the promise of lifelong happiness regardless of the natures of the bride and groom.
Billy had a gun, of course.
Although it was an old weapon, not one of recent purchase, it remained in working order. He had cleaned and stored it properly.
Packed away with the revolver had been a box of .38 cartridges. They showed no signs of corrosion.
When he had
The killer had offered him a partnership. He had wanted no part of it. But now it turned out to be like one of those business deals, one of those aggressive stock offers, that writers in the financial pages called a
hostile takeover.
He finished the second Guinness as midnight arrived. He wanted a third. And a fourth.
He told himself he needed to keep a clear head. He asked himself why, and he had no credible answer.
His part of the business was done for the night. He had made the choice. The freak would do the deed.
Nothing more would happen tonight, except that without the beer, Billy wouldn’t be able to sleep. He might find himself carving again.
His hands ached. Not from his three insignificant wounds. From having clutched the tools too tightly. From having held the chunk of oak in a death grip.
Without sleep, he wouldn’t be ready for the day ahead. With morning would come news of another corpse. He would learn whom he had chosen for death.
Billy put his glass in the sink. He didn’t need a glass anymore because he didn’t care about making the beer last. Each bottle was a punch, and he wanted nothing more than to knock himself out.
He took a third beer to the living room and sat in his recliner. He drank in the dark.
Emotional fatigue can be as debilitating as physical exhaustion. All strength had fled him.
At 1:44, the telephone woke him. He flew up from the chair as if from a catapult. The empty beer bottle rolled across the floor.
Hoping to hear Lanny, he snared the handset from the kitchen phone on the fourth ring. “Hello” earned no reply.
The listener. The freak.
Billy knew from experience that a strategy of silence would get him nowhere. “What do you want from me? Why me?”
The caller did not respond.
“I’m not going to play your game,” Billy said, but that was lame because they both knew that he had already been co-opted.
He would have been pleased if the killer had replied with even a soft laugh of derision, but he got nothing.
“You’re sick, you’re twisted.” When that didn’t inspire a response, Billy added, “You’re human debris.”
He thought he sounded weak and ineffective, and for the times in which he lived, the insults were far from inflammatory. Some heavy-metal rock band probably called itself Sick and Twisted, and surely another was named Human Debris.
The freak would not be baited. He disconnected.
Billy hung up and realized that his hands were trembling. His palms were damp, too, and he blotted them on his shirt.
He was struck by a thought that should have but hadn’t occurred to him when the killer had called the previous night. He returned to the phone, picked up the handset, listened to the dial tone for a moment, and then keyed in *69, instigating an automatic call-back.
At the farther end of the line, the phone rang, rang, rang, but nobody answered it.
The number in the digital display on Billy’s phone, however, was familiar to him. It was Lanny’s.
chapter 10
GRACEFUL IN STARLIGHT WITH OAKS, THE church stood along the main highway, a quarter of a mile from the turnoff to Lanny Olsen’s house.
Billy drove to the southwest corner of the parking lot. Under the cloaking gloom of a massive California live oak, he doused the headlights and switched off the engine.
Picturesque chalk-white stucco walls with decorative buttresses rose to burnt-orange tile roofs. In a belfry niche stood a statue of the Holy Mother with her arms open to welcome suffering humanity.
Here, every baptized baby would seem to be a potential saint. Here, every marriage would appear to have the promise of lifelong happiness regardless of the natures of the bride and groom.
Billy had a gun, of course.
Although it was an old weapon, not one of recent purchase, it remained in working order. He had cleaned and stored it properly.
Packed away with the revolver had been a box of .38 cartridges. They showed no signs of corrosion.
When he had
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