First Do No Evil: Blood Secrets, Book 1 (14 page)

Now, moonlight entered his office through a narrow window, reminding him that night had arrived. Then, nighttime meant relief, adults coming home from work, his tormentor forced to release him from his fence-leash to avoid getting caught. Had he been a loved child, the adults would have asked how the little boy came to have bruises circling his neck and arms, why his skin was blistered from the sun. But the little boy was not loved, and each night he cried and prayed for an angel to come and rescue him, to come and love him. Until one night as he prayed, the child had a revelation: these creatures were not his family. They were vermin, a blight upon the earth, and he was the exterminator. Once he understood this truth, he became immune to suffering. He no longer felt pain.

The clock ticked.

In response to disgusting moisture on his cheeks, his body stiffened. Water leaked from his eyes, but he did not feel sad. He cinched the leather collar tighter around his neck, and his eyelids fluttered closed. Memories replaced tears.

After many years the boy’s prayer was answered.
She
came and rescued him. She was his angel. She lifted him out of a living hell and charged him with a mission. Not to kill vermin—no, his mission was far more exalted than that, and his angel far too pure to see the cockroaches, too blinded by her own innocence to recognize them for the pseudo-human creatures they were. But he was not blind. He vowed to protect his angel from the evil she could not see. He vowed to exterminate all who interfered with the mission she gave him. If a few innocents were sacrificed in the process…so be it.

One notch of the collar tighter and he could see her face again, smell the trace of lilac soap that used to linger in the air around her. As breath abandoned his body, her presence grew stronger. Her whisper seemed to brush his cheek, affirming his purpose, begging him not to fail her.

A timid knock at the door set his fingers working to release the dog collar. He removed it, rose from his chair and carefully replaced the collar in his treasure-box. “You may come in,” he said, his voice scratching his throat.

The office door opened, and a large man approached, shoulders hunched, head bowed in submission. His gaze slid over the man’s beefy arms and prison-made tattoos, x-rayed beneath pasty skin and saw what ordinary humans could not: the exoskeleton of an arthropod. To think this pitiful fellow had come to him—as had his predecessor Jack Spurlock—seeking to blackmail him. But he had quickly turned the tables, and now the idiot found himself in his employ. “You’re late.”

“You told me to watch the cop, and you were right, he’s at Skylar Novak’s house right now. Looked to me like they were getting cozy. Real cozy if you get my meaning. I figure he’s there for the night—so I left.”

Grabbing the edge of his desk, he waited for his vision to clear. “Have you made the necessary preparations?”

“Yes, but I still don’t see why this job has to be done so risky.” Fat, greasy fingers reached out to shake his hand.

He shook, but then wiped the foul residue from his fingers with his handkerchief. “Fortunately, you are not required to understand. Your role is to carry out my orders. I don’t need to remind you what’s at stake for both of us.”

“Maybe so. But seems to me we could just do them while they sleep. No muss, no fuss. You sure this is the easiest way?”

“Not the easiest way. The best way. I have my reasons, and that’s all you need to know. You’ve studied your target well, I presume?”

The fool nodded. “Why do I have to take the cop? My part’s a hell of a lot more dangerous. How come you get the girl?”

“I’ll say again: I have my reasons. You remember the time and the location?”

“I ain’t ignorant.”

His lips curled. “No, no, you’re quite the erudite. But humor me. Tell me when.”

“Monday night. Eight o’clock precise. You wanna synchronize our watches?”

“No. Now tell me where.”

“Jolene’s diner. Guess you must like the Dolly Parton song or something, considering you used the same damn place last time too.”

By God, he’d not expected his pawn to appreciate the connection between their plan and his angel’s favorite songstress. Blocking its contents from view, he raised the lid of his treasure box, withdrew his cherished harmonica and blew out the tinny strains of “Jolene”.

The man’s eyes narrowed to slits, and his brow creased. “You still got that damn harmonica?”

“Of course—my mother gave it to me.”

The lout grinned, revealing the deplorable state of his dentition. “You don’t know what’s a lie and what’s real, do you? And you play a tune while you plot murder. I wonder what folks in Flagstaff would say if they knew.”

Recognizing the thinly veiled threat in his pawn’s words, he paused, pulled the harmonica off his mouth and licked his lips. “Knew what?”

“That their precious Dr. Garth Novak is a sick fuck.”

Chapter Eleven

Garth didn’t know what an ordinary murderer would feel when he rounded the street corner after midnight and found a police cruiser parked in his driveway. What
he
felt, however, was a tingle in his toes, a slight—make that very slight—acceleration of his heartbeat, and a mounting sense of satisfaction.

Let the games begin
.

Whichever tweedle dee and tweedle dum occupied that squad car, he was certain they were no match for him. Flagstaff’s finest couldn’t connect the dots between a whore’s tits, much less between his crimes. Crimes that had been planned with minimal effort and only the slightest attempt at concealment. In a way, it was disappointing not to be acknowledged as the culprit. Escaping detection meant he was free to continue as he pleased, but it also meant he received no recognition for his deeds. Where was the thrill in outsmarting the authorities if they didn’t know they’d been outsmarted?

Thrills were a highly sought after commodity in his world, but they were becoming increasingly difficult to obtain. Until the moment Edmond’s skull blew apart and splattered all over Sky’s breakfast, he’d almost forgotten the excitement of a kill—his last had been so long ago. Reminding himself that unlike your standard-issue, run-of-the-mill, demented serial killer, he didn’t kill for pleasure, he checked his urge to plow into the squad car in front of him and pulled into the driveway like the respectable citizen the boys in blue were expecting.

He killed for a noble purpose and demolishing the Tweedle Twins wouldn’t serve. Absent noble purpose, he kept his bloodlust reined in—mostly. But lately, he found himself craving that rush of adrenaline and curbing his appetite was becoming more and more difficult.

Annoying as Benson’s meddling was, it at least provided him a just motive for a fresh kill, and for such good cause, for
her
cause, his angel, his Isabella looking on from on high, couldn’t fault him.

Pasting a concerned look on his face, he exited his beamer. As the patrol officers climbed out of their vehicle and approached, he managed to repress a sigh of ennui. This was going to be even less challenging than he’d imagined. One of the men was short and heavy with a frontal bone that overhung a pair of deep-set dullard’s eyes like the bill of a cap. A true Neanderthal. The other fellow reminded him of Gumby, not because of his blue uniform and lanky build, but because of the unchanging expression on his flat face.
A flat-faced flatfoot
.

Garth’s shoulders drooped in grave disappointment. He’d hoped for at least a modicum of fun, but outwitting these gentlemen was unlikely to prove anything but facile. “Is there a problem, officers? Some trouble in the neighborhood?”

“Are you Garth Novak?” It was Gumby.

“I’m
Dr.
Garth Novak, yes. I’d like to be of assistance, but as you can see, I’ve just arrived home. So if there’s been a crime, I’m afraid I didn’t see anything.”

“Pardon me,
Dr.
Novak, sir, but we’re here to offer you assistance.” Neanderthal Man remained silent, content to let Gumby do the talking.

“To me? What kind of assistance?”

“Protection.”

“Protection from whom?”

“You don’t know?”

This might be fun after all. A little game of
Who’s on First
. “Know what?”

“Why we’re here.”

“No. I don’t know. Do you know?”

“No. I mean, yes. We were dispatched to protect you from—”

“Whom?”

“I don’t know.”

“Don’t know what or don’t know whom?”

At last, Gumby’s expression altered into a determined if somewhat confused frown. “We’re here for the night. Surveillance duty. We’ve been told there’s a threat to your safety.”

“A threat from whom?”

“You don’t know?”

He’d love to tease these yahoos all night, but it was colder than a week-old corpse out here. The wind had upgraded the late-night snowstorm from relentless to blizzard in the short span of time he’d been “conversing” with the boys.

Stuffing his hands deeper into his coat pockets, he located a bit of loose change. Through his gloves he couldn’t feel if they were nickels, quarters or what—surely not pennies. “Well, as you can see, I’m fine. So you’re free to be on your way, gentlemen. Surely there must be criminals afoot in town, taking advantage of the weather. Empty streets, power outages—perfect night for looting—if one were so inclined.”

His words must’ve hit home, because the policemen swapped glances. But Gumby, clearly a by-the-book rookie, stood firm. “We’ve got our orders.”

“Officers, I appreciate your concern. But I wouldn’t feel right taking two craven men like you out of the fray without due cause.”

“Craven?”

“Brave.” Garth felt a mild sense of amusement and a tickle in his throat. “I assure you, no one has made any threats of any sort to my person. This is a gated community. I have an elaborate security system and a legal firearm. I’m a crack shot. So why don’t you get on the horn to your superior and tell him I’ve declined protection.”

“Definitively?” Neanderthal Man had a tongue after all…and quite the vocabulary for someone who likely had a framed GED hanging above his cubicle.

“Definitively and nefariously.” Garth contained a snort by pinching the tip of his nose.

Gumby nodded, slid into the squad car, and mouthed words into the radio. Under the disquieting stare of Neanderthal Man, Garth stomped snow from his Tony Lamas and waited until the rookie emerged from the car. Giving his buddy the thumbs up, Gumby tipped his cap at Garth. “Well, then, if you’re sure, we’ll be on our way.”

“Oh, I’m sure. Goodnight, officers, and thanks…” He paused and scratched his chin. He wouldn’t do anything stupid that might derail his plans, but why deny himself a small amusement. “Since you’re here, there is something. As I said, I’m not aware of any threats to my person, so I didn’t set my alarm. I’ll be sure to do so tonight, and I’m certain there’s no real danger. But—”

“Would you like us to clear the house before you go inside?” Pathetically eager to be of service, Gumby beat him to the punch.

“I feel silly asking, but yes, I’d appreciate it,” he said, handing Gumby his keys.

He remained behind while the officers entered his expansive home with drawn guns. Whistling through chattering teeth, he opened the passenger door to his beamer and removed a screwdriver and miniature hammer from the glove box. He strolled around to the back of the squad car and pounded the screwdriver into its right rear tire. When he withdrew the screwdriver, a hiss of air intertwined with the whip of the wind.

Gumby and Neanderthal Man reappeared, looking somber and pleased with themselves, like two men who had faced down death and won. “All clear,” they said in unison.

“That’s a relief.” Garth waved cheerfully as the cruiser skidded out of his drive and crawled down the ice-covered road. Wondering how far they’d get, he pictured Neanderthal Man and Gumby changing a flat in the blizzard. He imagined other scenarios too. Maybe the tire wouldn’t go flat at all. Maybe instead, they’d have a blowout and crash into a family of four, tragically killing everyone involved…

If only he could be so lucky.

Selecting Tchaikovsky’s “Souvenir d’un Lieu Cher” from his playlist, Garth connected his iPod to his sound system, adjusted the volume, and stripped naked. The vaulted ceilings and open design of his home provided fine acoustics, causing the violin concerto to swell and vibrate exquisitely through his chest. He crossed the room to the wet bar and poured two fingers of Hennessy Private Reserve from a Lalique decanter into a tulip glass.

Against a midnight backdrop, snow torrented against the rear wall of his home, which was composed of glass and scalloped mahogany moldings. The flakes etched themselves onto the window wall, transforming it into faux crystal. He looked at the crystal glass in his grasp and found the symmetry to his liking. He approved of symmetry.

What he did not approve of was his sister’s behavior. His rising gorge signaled emotion, and emotion signaled loss of control; how very unpleasant. Shivering, he labeled the emotion. He was angry—at Sky.

Unlike most people, when he became angry his blood did not boil, it froze, and right now there were icicles nicking his veins. Raising the tulip of cognac to his nose, he sniffed the complex aroma of dried fruits and vanilla. He dipped his tongue into the liquid, tilted the glass until a swallow of nectar slid over the insides of his cheeks and down his esophagus, warming him, stirring him. The cognac’s reputation as an aphrodisiac was well deserved. How convenient that he’d thought to remove his clothing.