A.W. Hartoin - Mercy Watts 04 - Drop Dead Red (52 page)

“I know you did. I found him,” I said.
 

“Really? Then what do you need me for?” he asked, his voice silky with a hint of venom.
 

“I thought I’d give you your last chance.”
 

“I’ve already gotten all my last chances. I’m here for the duration.”
 

“I was referring to another last chance.”
 

His eyes darted up to mine and stayed there, interested at last.
 

I smiled and made sure every bit of me showed the pleasure I didn’t feel. “They’ve got you pretty well finished. The only death to look forward to is your own. Death by the State takes a long time though.”
 

Blankenship frowned and his right eyelid twitched. “Yes.” Then he brightened up. “Shelley might die. She could have an accident or get cancer. I’d enjoy that.”
 

“But it wouldn’t be your fault. What’s the fun in that?”
 

He grumped and ducked his head. “None at all.” Then he tilted his head up and gave me the same sly look as before. “What do you want?”
 

“The truth. It can kill, too, you know,” I said with my best honeyed voice.
 

“And you’ll kill for me?”
 

“The State will. Andrew Marlin sent you to kill Rob Berry and his family, and the Schwartzes sent him. The other Berrys made sure they were at Tulio all ready for you. That’s conspiracy to commit mass murder. Sounds like the needle to me.”
 

He looked like he wanted to drum his fingers together like some comic book super villain. “Hum. Perhaps it would be enough.”
 

“Enough to ruin their lives at the very least.” My heart was pounding and my pits were damp, despite the chill of the fishbowl.
 

“And what about your life? What will this case do to your life?” His voice became warm and ingratiating. Gross.
 

I must’ve instantly frowned, because he smiled broadly. “Not a good effect then?”
 

He wants me unhappy, unhappy for a long time. Okay. Fine, you piece of...

“It won’t affect me. I’m not a criminal,” I said.
 

“You’re involved. There will be the trial. I bet you’re beautiful on the stand.”
 

I forced myself to go to David’s killer’s trial. David was my boyfriend when I was sixteen. He disappeared on the way to a football game with a couple of friends and was presumed dead. I hated remembering the feeling of sitting in the gallery, the photos of David and my friends up on easels, the sobs of their parents surrounding me. The pain was right there. Always there. And it worked. Blankenship was aroused by my misery. His hips thrusted compulsively and I hid my revulsion.
 

“You’ve been involved in trials before?” he asked, his voice thick with desire.
 

“Yes,” I whispered.
 

“Was it...fun?”
 

“No,” I said, sharply. “Are you going to tell me or not?”
 

“What if it takes them twenty-five years to execute?”
 

I shrugged. “You have the time.”
 

“But twenty-five years is a long, long time,” said Blankenship.
 

I said nothing. I didn’t have to. He could taste it, my being called as a witness, going to retrials, and hearings. A never-ending life of misery that he caused.
 

I shot to my feet and went for the door. Shelley opened it and looked at Blankenship, a look of deep disgust on her face.
 

“Mercy, will you visit me?” shouted Blankenship and I put my hand against the wall.
 

“What for?” I asked without looking back.
 

“I’ll need updates over the coming years.”

“In exchange for what?”

“I’m a man of many actions and interests.”
 

“You have other confessions to make?” asked Shelley.

“Not to you, bitch,” said Blankenship. “To her, if she comes.”
 

I couldn’t say no, however I might like to. If there were other victims, if he’d done other things as terrible as the Tulio murders, we had to know even if it took twenty-five years.
 

“I’ll come,” I said, turning to face him so he could see that I meant it.
 

He smiled and it was both icky and genuine. “Promise. Cross your heart and hope to die.”
 

“Stick a needle in my eye.”
 

“I like the sound of that.”
 

“You would.” I went for the door and he yelled after me, “The Missouri Bank.”
 

I stopped. “Location?”
 

“Warrenton.”
 

“Box?”
 

“432.”
 

“Yours?”
 

“Oh, yes. Excited? Don’t be. I have lots of interests.
 

And lots of boxes.
 

I walked through the door, followed by Shelley. A second before the door closed, he shouted, “See you soon.”
 

I stood in the hall, holding my stomach and biting my lip.
 

Harve was in the corridor and he patted my shoulder. “Good job. Your dad will be very happy, not to mention the DA.”
 

“My mom won’t. She’ll be pissed. It’s the proverbial deal with the devil.”
 

“Will you do it?” asked Shelley. “Come back and see that creature, I mean.”
 

“I have to, don’t I?”
 

Harve and Shelley looked at each other and I could tell they wanted to say that I didn’t have to, but they couldn’t. They wore badges and knew about sacrifice better than most.
 

“I think so,” said Shelley.
 

“Then you’ll be seeing a lot of me.” I walked away down the cold corridor, barely able to keep myself from running. I never needed a shower so bad in my life.
 

I hauled my carry-on and suitcase up the stairs to my apartment. My stomach was in a red hot knot. Nobody would be there. Not even Skanky. He was living the good life with Mr. Cervantes.
 

I tossed my suitcase onto the landing and trudged up the last two steps. There was a scrambling noise and a sound like unpopped popcorn hitting the floor. I cringed. This was me, after all. It could be anyone, a trained assassin, a so-called journalist, or one of my usual stalkers. But it wasn’t an anyone. It was a dog, an enormous black poodle, tied to my doorknob.
 

My lower lip quivered. Pickpocket. Chuck’s poodle, the nut case he stuck me with whenever he went away. I ran down the hall and sank to my knees, throwing my arms around his fluffy neck and breathing deep the smell of Chuck and flea shampoo. Pick slurped my ear and panted.
 

I scratched his ears and said, “He left you here with me because he’s coming back. Eventually. To me. Right?”
 

Pick panted and I took that for a yes.
 

“He can’t talk,” said a voice behind me. “He’s a dog.”
 

I turned and there was Aaron, holding two grocery bags and looking like he’d stepped out of a plane crash, he was so disheveled. “You hungry?”
 

“What are you doing here?” I asked, quite breathless.
 

“Making dinner. I have chocolate.”
 

“You’re speaking to me?”
 

His forehead wrinkled behind his thick over-sized glasses. “Huh?”
 

I decided not to mention that I’d lost him his wizard and thus the perfect gaming group and that nobody else was talking to me. It didn’t pay to give Aaron ideas. He usually turned them into hot dogs.
 

“I shot someone,” I said instead.
 

“I heard.”
 

“It was gross.”
 

“You hungry?”

Enough about that, I guess.
 

“Starved.” I got to my feet, untied Pick and got out my keys. But instead of unlocking the door, I hugged Aaron, quite out of the blue. I don’t know what happened. I was standing there and then I was hugging that little weirdo. I was crying. I hate that. Crying for no reason like a silly girl.
 

Aaron put down the bags and patted my back. “I should always go with you.”
 

“You should.”
 

“No one made you hot chocolate.”
 

“Not even once.” I started laughing and Pick howled at the ceiling. Aaron looked confused. Home was home again or at least it would be soon enough.
 

The End

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