flat. He’s had it for a while and opened it many times.
The drawing is similar to Jackson’s, with two exceptions. The first, this drawing is sketched out with a felt pen, not with the pencil that Jackson prefers. So the lines are darker, thicker and more chaotic.
The second exception, I stand with the Python at the ready, but instead of having my gun pressed to the side of Caldwell’s head, I’m pointing it at nothing. My barrel is aimed at the great darkness that lies before me, a menacing idea rather than an actual man.
Here, Caldwell stands behind me with both hands wrapped around my throat, his grip suggesting he is just a heartbeat away from snapping my neck.
“That’s what I wanted to know,” he says. “If they were different.”
“Either he flatters you,” I begin, but I can’t finish, not aloud anyway. Or Jackson didn’t have the heart to show me more.
“Or she didn’t have the heart to see more,” Caldwell suggests. My look must be unfriendly because he holds his hands up in mock surrender, palms out as if asking for forgiveness. “Delaney is a show off, though, yes. You’re quite right about that.”
“You’re quite right about that,” I mock. “Where did you learn to talk?”
“Why?” he asks, amusement curling his words. “Thinking of disappearing yourself? Reinventing your own image? I know a few people who are skilled at that kind of thing.”
“I don’t run away,” I say. Not like you.
If he hears this, and why wouldn’t he, he makes no response. Instead, he picks up the bottle cap he’s been pressing down into the tabletop and tosses it into the air. On the next breath he catches it. “I thought you’d quit drinking so much,” he says.
“I thought you’d quit murdering people,” I say.
“Old habits die hard.” Caldwell smiles then. “Like old men.”
“Not all of us can age as well as you do,” I say, alluding to the fact that he will not age as long as he keeps dying. His NRD, his ability to die and wake up with fresh cells and a smooth face has kept him young. And if he keeps dying, it will be his mind that goes before his body.
He laughs and I find myself comparing the man I met ten years ago to the one I see now. He’s gotten his teeth fixed and a bit more cosmetic surgery to hide the scars along his jaw better. He quit dyeing his hair and let it grow in natural. Now it’s the same color as Jesse’s again, and he has her freckles too.
“How is my daughter?” he asks. “You spend more time with her than I do.”
“If she is your daughter, I’m the Holy Ghost.”
“That isn’t a very nice thing to say.” His eyes darken and I reach my hand behind my back and put it on the Glock resting there.
“She quit being your daughter when you tried to kill her,” I say.
I raise my gun to put a bullet in his brain. To hell with waiting for weeks and weeks for the inevitable. We can do this now and we can do it my way.
But Caldwell disappears. One moment he is in front of me, stepping forward. The next moment I feel two cold hands grabbing me. One squeezes the back of my neck, the other locks my arm into place so I can’t shoot.
“Is this dress rehearsal?” Caldwell says, laughing into my ear. He presses himself against me and I consider my options. My cheek burns and I realize he’s hit me when reaching around. Not a direct hit, but it will bruise.
“Relax, old man,” he says. “I didn’t come here to kill you. If I’d wanted to kill you I would have done it a long time ago, don’t you think? I’ve had enough opportunities.”
“Why haven’t you?” I demand an answer. My anger is real, raw and surfacing fast.
“I am what I am because of you,” he says, squeezing me tighter.
The pressure in my brain intensifies and I wonder if I will hemorrhage. Maybe he will weaken some vessel and I’ll have an aneurysm here and now.
“You led me to Henry Chaplain,” he says. “You showed me the path to my true destiny and all the
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