again, but this time I fought them back. Funny thing. I’d always cried easily, but after mourning for Elizabeth it was as though I couldn’t cry anymore. Not that I had cried myself out or used up all my tears or any of that nonsense. Or that I’d grown numb from grief, though that might have been a tiny part of it. What I think happened was that I instinctively snapped into a defensive stance. When Elizabeth died, Ithrew open the doors and let the pain in. I let myself feel it all. And it hurt. It hurt so damn much that now something primordial wouldn’t let it happen again.
I don’t know how long I sat there. Half an hour maybe. I tried to slow my breath and calm my mind. I wanted to be rational. I needed to be rational. I was supposed to be at Elizabeth’s parents’ house already, but I couldn’t imagine facing them right now.
Then I remembered something else.
Sarah Goodhart.
Sheriff Lowell had asked if I knew anything about the name. I did.
Elizabeth and I used to play a childhood game. Perhaps you did too. You take your middle name and make it your first, then you take your childhood street name and make it your last. For example, my full name is David Craig Beck and I grew up on Darby Road. I would thus be Craig Darby. And Elizabeth would be …
Sarah Goodhart.
What the hell was going on here?
I picked up the phone. First I called Elizabeth’s parents. They still lived in that house on Goodhart Road. Her mother answered. I told her I was running late. People accept that from doctors. One of the fringe benefits of the job.
When I called Sheriff Lowell, his voice mail picked up. I told him to beep me when he had a chance. I don’t have a cell phone. I realize that puts me in the minority, but my beeper leashes me to the outside world too much as it is.
I sat back, but Homer Simpson knocked me out of my trance with another “The mail is here!” I shot forward and gripped the mouse. The sender’s addresswas unfamiliar, but the subject read Street Cam. Another thud in my chest.
I clicked the little icon and the email came up:
Tomorrow same time plus two hours at Bigfoot.com.
A message for you will be left under:
Your user name: Bat Street
Password: Teenage
Beneath this, clinging to the bottom of the screen, just five more words:
They’re watching. Tell no one.
Larry Gandle, the man with the bad comb-over, watched Eric Wu quietly handle the cleanup.
Wu, a twenty-six-year-old Korean with a staggering assortment of body pierces and tattoos, was the deadliest man Gandle had ever known. Wu was built like a small army tank, but that alone didn’t mean much. Gandle knew plenty of people who had the physique. Too often, show muscles meant useless muscles.
That was not the case with Eric Wu.
The rock brawn was nice, but the real secret of Wu’s deadly strength lay in the man’s callused hands—two cement blocks with steel-talon fingers. He spent hours on them, punching cinder blocks, exposing them to extreme heat and cold, performing sets of one-finger push-ups. When Wu put those fingers to use, the devastation to bone and tissue was unimaginable.
Dark rumors swirled around men like Wu, most of which were crap, but Larry Gandle had seen him kill a man by digging his fingers into the soft spots of theface and abdomen. He had seen Wu grab a man by both ears and rip them off in a smooth pluck. He had seen him kill four times in four very different ways, never using a weapon.
None of the deaths had been quick.
Nobody knew exactly where Wu came from, but the most accepted tale had something to do with a brutal childhood in North Korea. Gandle had never asked. There were some night paths the mind was better off not traversing; the dark side of Eric Wu—right, like there might be a light side—was one of them.
When Wu finished wrapping up the protoplasm that had been Vic Letty in the drop cloth, he looked up at Gandle with those eyes of his. Dead eyes, Larry Gandle thought. The eyes of a child
I don’t know how long I sat there. Half an hour maybe. I tried to slow my breath and calm my mind. I wanted to be rational. I needed to be rational. I was supposed to be at Elizabeth’s parents’ house already, but I couldn’t imagine facing them right now.
Then I remembered something else.
Sarah Goodhart.
Sheriff Lowell had asked if I knew anything about the name. I did.
Elizabeth and I used to play a childhood game. Perhaps you did too. You take your middle name and make it your first, then you take your childhood street name and make it your last. For example, my full name is David Craig Beck and I grew up on Darby Road. I would thus be Craig Darby. And Elizabeth would be …
Sarah Goodhart.
What the hell was going on here?
I picked up the phone. First I called Elizabeth’s parents. They still lived in that house on Goodhart Road. Her mother answered. I told her I was running late. People accept that from doctors. One of the fringe benefits of the job.
When I called Sheriff Lowell, his voice mail picked up. I told him to beep me when he had a chance. I don’t have a cell phone. I realize that puts me in the minority, but my beeper leashes me to the outside world too much as it is.
I sat back, but Homer Simpson knocked me out of my trance with another “The mail is here!” I shot forward and gripped the mouse. The sender’s addresswas unfamiliar, but the subject read Street Cam. Another thud in my chest.
I clicked the little icon and the email came up:
Tomorrow same time plus two hours at Bigfoot.com.
A message for you will be left under:
Your user name: Bat Street
Password: Teenage
Beneath this, clinging to the bottom of the screen, just five more words:
They’re watching. Tell no one.
Larry Gandle, the man with the bad comb-over, watched Eric Wu quietly handle the cleanup.
Wu, a twenty-six-year-old Korean with a staggering assortment of body pierces and tattoos, was the deadliest man Gandle had ever known. Wu was built like a small army tank, but that alone didn’t mean much. Gandle knew plenty of people who had the physique. Too often, show muscles meant useless muscles.
That was not the case with Eric Wu.
The rock brawn was nice, but the real secret of Wu’s deadly strength lay in the man’s callused hands—two cement blocks with steel-talon fingers. He spent hours on them, punching cinder blocks, exposing them to extreme heat and cold, performing sets of one-finger push-ups. When Wu put those fingers to use, the devastation to bone and tissue was unimaginable.
Dark rumors swirled around men like Wu, most of which were crap, but Larry Gandle had seen him kill a man by digging his fingers into the soft spots of theface and abdomen. He had seen Wu grab a man by both ears and rip them off in a smooth pluck. He had seen him kill four times in four very different ways, never using a weapon.
None of the deaths had been quick.
Nobody knew exactly where Wu came from, but the most accepted tale had something to do with a brutal childhood in North Korea. Gandle had never asked. There were some night paths the mind was better off not traversing; the dark side of Eric Wu—right, like there might be a light side—was one of them.
When Wu finished wrapping up the protoplasm that had been Vic Letty in the drop cloth, he looked up at Gandle with those eyes of his. Dead eyes, Larry Gandle thought. The eyes of a child
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