Читать книгу Mourn The Living - Henry Perez - Страница 21

The man has been sitting in his car, parked under the crooked shadows of bare trees. He watched the reporter enter his house with his child. He saw that a few lights had been left on, though they had not been home for some time, and he was certain no one else lived there. He followed the path of movement through the house as the living room went dark, then a light went on in an upstairs window, but not for long. The girl’s room. Then, finally, the reporter’s bedroom. The man made a mental note of all this.

As he drives away, the man begins to wonder if he’s made a mistake, if perhaps the reporter isn’t a danger to his child. The man doesn’t tolerate mistakes, especially his own. His hands tighten on the steering wheel until pain creeps up both of his arms. Releasing his grip, the man realizes he is speeding down dark, quiet neighborhood streets, and yanks his foot off the accelerator, then gently presses the brakes.

Wouldn’t be good to get pulled over for speeding. A bad play anywhere, at any time, but even worse here and now. Sure, he could talk his way out of it. Was there a member of the force that he was not on good terms with? None that he can think of. But the man has a feeling he’ll be back in this area, back at that house. Wouldn’t be a good idea to let a cop remember seeing him there. Late at night. Driving too fast. Sweating. Anxious. Wouldn’t be a good idea.

Besides, he has other, more important concerns. Nervous people to deal with, voices to silence.

But the more he thinks about it, and the longer his mind lingers on the image of that reporter carelessly letting his child wander around a crime scene, the more his frustration swells. It begins to fill him up again, pushing against the man’s rib cage, crawling up his spine with sharp boney fingers. And soon he can feel the pressure behind his eyes threatening to break through, ready at any moment to expose him and destroy everything he’s worked to create.

Once more, the man clutches the steering wheel in a death grip, though he fights and wins the battle to avoid accelerating again. He has business to attend to. People to bring into line and plans to carry out. The target he’s pursued for so long is now within reach, and he has to get all of it right, every detail, no matter how small. No room for mistakes. This is too important. First things first.

But now, as the man leaves the west side of Oakton in his rearview, he knows—in fact he is certain—that he will come back to the reporter’s house. And the next time, he will come prepared to do a great deal more than watch.