collapse into a stupor inorder to start the same sorry affair the next day. Jude knew this from Fabian’s file notes, but she spent three days tailing Meadows to be sure. Fabian coached her in surveillance techniques, and she took to them quickly. Meadows never noticed her, though she gave him plenty of golden opportunities. Twice she ended up nose-to-tail with him in stop-and-go traffic, and once she ended up behind him in line in a 7-Eleven. Luckily, Meadows was too drunk to realize he was being followed.
Fabian had suggested she spend the time following Meadows to get the measure of the man she was going to kill. Jude sure got a read on Meadows, but not in the way Fabian had intended. The exercise only served to create hate. The more she saw how Meadows lived, the more she wanted him dead. On the first day, he drove from an Irish pub on Valencia to a bar in the Tenderloin. During the journey, he ran two stoplights and clipped the sidewalk virtually every time he made a right turn. Only the luck of the devil or the hand of God prevented a fatality. As she bore witness to him pinballing his way through the city, one thought remained front and center in her mind—where the hell were the cops? She’d gone home at the end of the third day knowing that she would put Meadows out of his misery.
Thursday was a glorious day, although the Tenderloin reeked of urine and worse. She waited in a red zone for Meadows to emerge, but a meter maid forced her to move at the risk of being towed. She left her car one block over and paced the street in front of his building for over half an hour before he stumbled outside. He ignored his Oldsmobile and walked to a liquor store to load up with two six packs and a couple of bottles of cheap whisky.
How much does this guy drink in a day?
Jude wondered. No wonder he looked a decade older than Fabian’s file listed.
Meadows returned home to stash his booze before getting in his car. She followed him to Columbus and Broadway, a lovely neighborhood for strip clubs, porn shops, and, oddly, destination bookstores. Meadows started his productive day in a strip club. There was probably a drink special, Jude decided.
Yes, most definitely, today was the day she’d rid the world of Herman Meadows.
While he got his rocks off, Jude weighed her choices: kill him on the street, in his car, or at home? A street kill begged for witnesses, but she would have her opportunities. On several occasions, he’d ducked into alleys after dark. Fabian had provided a silencer as well as a gun; nobody would hear the shot. Audacity might be the perfect recipe for success. She discountedkilling him in his car. With the nonexistent parking situation in San Francisco, an abandoned car would draw attention quickly. She leaned toward killing him at his home. She’d ventured inside his building. His neighbors were too strung out to notice anything suspicious. It seemed the building supervisor wasn’t a reliable presence considering that half the hallway lights were out and urine stains dotted the tile floor.
Jude removed Kirsten’s photo from her purse. The snapshot was one of the last ones taken of her before she was killed. It was a candid pose of her standing on Pier 39 with Alcatraz tiny in the background. That day seemed like a lifetime ago.
“This is for you,” Jude murmured.
Saying this brought her no joy. For the first time, she considered Kirsten. During her four-year quest to find Kirsten’s killer, she’d never once considered her sister’s wishes. Would she have wanted Jude to waste her life like this pursuing a killer that couldn’t be found? What was she doing this for anyway? Justice for Kirsten? Or simply revenge? The sour taste at the back of her throat told her it was the latter. She wasn’t a crusader against injustice—just a killer waiting her turn.
Would Kirsten have gone to these lengths for her if she were in Jude’s shoes, or would she have buried her sister and moved on? Kirsten had
Fabian had suggested she spend the time following Meadows to get the measure of the man she was going to kill. Jude sure got a read on Meadows, but not in the way Fabian had intended. The exercise only served to create hate. The more she saw how Meadows lived, the more she wanted him dead. On the first day, he drove from an Irish pub on Valencia to a bar in the Tenderloin. During the journey, he ran two stoplights and clipped the sidewalk virtually every time he made a right turn. Only the luck of the devil or the hand of God prevented a fatality. As she bore witness to him pinballing his way through the city, one thought remained front and center in her mind—where the hell were the cops? She’d gone home at the end of the third day knowing that she would put Meadows out of his misery.
Thursday was a glorious day, although the Tenderloin reeked of urine and worse. She waited in a red zone for Meadows to emerge, but a meter maid forced her to move at the risk of being towed. She left her car one block over and paced the street in front of his building for over half an hour before he stumbled outside. He ignored his Oldsmobile and walked to a liquor store to load up with two six packs and a couple of bottles of cheap whisky.
How much does this guy drink in a day?
Jude wondered. No wonder he looked a decade older than Fabian’s file listed.
Meadows returned home to stash his booze before getting in his car. She followed him to Columbus and Broadway, a lovely neighborhood for strip clubs, porn shops, and, oddly, destination bookstores. Meadows started his productive day in a strip club. There was probably a drink special, Jude decided.
Yes, most definitely, today was the day she’d rid the world of Herman Meadows.
While he got his rocks off, Jude weighed her choices: kill him on the street, in his car, or at home? A street kill begged for witnesses, but she would have her opportunities. On several occasions, he’d ducked into alleys after dark. Fabian had provided a silencer as well as a gun; nobody would hear the shot. Audacity might be the perfect recipe for success. She discountedkilling him in his car. With the nonexistent parking situation in San Francisco, an abandoned car would draw attention quickly. She leaned toward killing him at his home. She’d ventured inside his building. His neighbors were too strung out to notice anything suspicious. It seemed the building supervisor wasn’t a reliable presence considering that half the hallway lights were out and urine stains dotted the tile floor.
Jude removed Kirsten’s photo from her purse. The snapshot was one of the last ones taken of her before she was killed. It was a candid pose of her standing on Pier 39 with Alcatraz tiny in the background. That day seemed like a lifetime ago.
“This is for you,” Jude murmured.
Saying this brought her no joy. For the first time, she considered Kirsten. During her four-year quest to find Kirsten’s killer, she’d never once considered her sister’s wishes. Would she have wanted Jude to waste her life like this pursuing a killer that couldn’t be found? What was she doing this for anyway? Justice for Kirsten? Or simply revenge? The sour taste at the back of her throat told her it was the latter. She wasn’t a crusader against injustice—just a killer waiting her turn.
Would Kirsten have gone to these lengths for her if she were in Jude’s shoes, or would she have buried her sister and moved on? Kirsten had
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