flashed in his mind.
He feared death. In death there was nothing but cold, damp dirt and carnivorous bugs. In death, he would watch his body be devoured with time and the elements. His skin would slough off. He knew what happened to the dead. He’d seen it.
When he was a rookie, the first time he went to the morgue to view an autopsy he saw firsthand what they did. The pathologist cut the body open. Removed everything—stomach, brain, heart—and weighed it. They looked at everything, a fucking full-body rectal exam. Then they put everything they took out back in, dropping the mess into the torso, and sewed the body up. Put it on a metal gurney and twenty-four hours later the body was taken to be buried or burned.
He also knew what happened to the dead after they were buried. After the flood in 1997 when he had major drainage problems around his house, he had to move one of the bodies. She’d been underground fourteen months.
He didn’t know why, but he had expected her to look pretty much as she had when he’d dumped her in the hole. He thought she’d be dirty, maybe a little foul-smelling, but he hadn’t expected her to be half-skeletal. And then the worms . . .
Rubbing hands over his body as if brushing off an ant attack, he almost crashed the speeding car. He still had nightmares about that day . . . sometimes, his body was being eaten, and his skull stared back at him with empty eye sockets.
His own future death gave him frequent nightmares.
It wasn’t because he killed people—he didn’t really mind that. And they paid him—pretty well actually, after he’d called their bluff. The assassin learned who one of the principals was, and the slimy developer certainly didn’t want his dirty secrets spread around town. Yeah, they paid him now, but that wasn’t the point. The point was that they controlled his life. They knew his true identity. It didn’t matter that he cleared twenty grand with every killing; he was stuck in involuntary servitude, which sucked.
Now he knew who all the players were and he considered taking them all out. Pop pop pop! They’d be sorry they fucked with him. He was a better killer today than fifteen years ago. They’d made him one.
But they had leverage on him. Solid evidence that he had killed Jessica so long ago. And that was what made the bastards so good at the conspiracy game: blackmail.
But everything would come crashing down if Thomas O’Brien wasn’t stopped. And now that Oliver Maddox’s body had been found, there could be other people looking into things better left dead and buried.
What had angered him was his blackmailers’ reaction to the discovery in the river. That they felt Claire had to be watched, that she would be a threat if she got wind of what that idiot Maddox had been working on.
He would not let them touch Claire. Claire was his. He’d protected her, taken care of her, practically raised her since her father went to prison. He made sure unworthy men stayed away. He felt no guilt for killing her mother and framing her father—her mother was a slut, and obviously her father couldn’t keep that whore in line. If it had been his dad? He’d have punished her. But his mother would never have strayed in the first place. His mother knew her place.
And then she died.
He would never let them touch Claire. If she had to die . . . he would personally take care of it. It would be another sign for him, that the time was right for sacrifice and change.
Claire was living on borrowed time, anyway. He hadn’t killed her fifteen years ago when he had the opportunity. So that meant that the assassin owned her.
And he could take her whenever he wanted.
SIX
Claire thanked Dr. Jim for coming during his lunch break to examine the stray dogs she’d taken in while she found their owners or new homes. In addition to Yoda and Chewy, Claire had two strays right now: a Lab mutt and what Dr. Jim was certain was a purebred Jack Russell terrier. She couldn’t
He feared death. In death there was nothing but cold, damp dirt and carnivorous bugs. In death, he would watch his body be devoured with time and the elements. His skin would slough off. He knew what happened to the dead. He’d seen it.
When he was a rookie, the first time he went to the morgue to view an autopsy he saw firsthand what they did. The pathologist cut the body open. Removed everything—stomach, brain, heart—and weighed it. They looked at everything, a fucking full-body rectal exam. Then they put everything they took out back in, dropping the mess into the torso, and sewed the body up. Put it on a metal gurney and twenty-four hours later the body was taken to be buried or burned.
He also knew what happened to the dead after they were buried. After the flood in 1997 when he had major drainage problems around his house, he had to move one of the bodies. She’d been underground fourteen months.
He didn’t know why, but he had expected her to look pretty much as she had when he’d dumped her in the hole. He thought she’d be dirty, maybe a little foul-smelling, but he hadn’t expected her to be half-skeletal. And then the worms . . .
Rubbing hands over his body as if brushing off an ant attack, he almost crashed the speeding car. He still had nightmares about that day . . . sometimes, his body was being eaten, and his skull stared back at him with empty eye sockets.
His own future death gave him frequent nightmares.
It wasn’t because he killed people—he didn’t really mind that. And they paid him—pretty well actually, after he’d called their bluff. The assassin learned who one of the principals was, and the slimy developer certainly didn’t want his dirty secrets spread around town. Yeah, they paid him now, but that wasn’t the point. The point was that they controlled his life. They knew his true identity. It didn’t matter that he cleared twenty grand with every killing; he was stuck in involuntary servitude, which sucked.
Now he knew who all the players were and he considered taking them all out. Pop pop pop! They’d be sorry they fucked with him. He was a better killer today than fifteen years ago. They’d made him one.
But they had leverage on him. Solid evidence that he had killed Jessica so long ago. And that was what made the bastards so good at the conspiracy game: blackmail.
But everything would come crashing down if Thomas O’Brien wasn’t stopped. And now that Oliver Maddox’s body had been found, there could be other people looking into things better left dead and buried.
What had angered him was his blackmailers’ reaction to the discovery in the river. That they felt Claire had to be watched, that she would be a threat if she got wind of what that idiot Maddox had been working on.
He would not let them touch Claire. Claire was his. He’d protected her, taken care of her, practically raised her since her father went to prison. He made sure unworthy men stayed away. He felt no guilt for killing her mother and framing her father—her mother was a slut, and obviously her father couldn’t keep that whore in line. If it had been his dad? He’d have punished her. But his mother would never have strayed in the first place. His mother knew her place.
And then she died.
He would never let them touch Claire. If she had to die . . . he would personally take care of it. It would be another sign for him, that the time was right for sacrifice and change.
Claire was living on borrowed time, anyway. He hadn’t killed her fifteen years ago when he had the opportunity. So that meant that the assassin owned her.
And he could take her whenever he wanted.
SIX
Claire thanked Dr. Jim for coming during his lunch break to examine the stray dogs she’d taken in while she found their owners or new homes. In addition to Yoda and Chewy, Claire had two strays right now: a Lab mutt and what Dr. Jim was certain was a purebred Jack Russell terrier. She couldn’t
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