The 9th Judgment by James Patterson, Maxine Paetro Page B
Authors: James Patterson, Maxine Paetro
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at her.
“It’s not about you, handsome. It’s about the kids having dinner with their family.”
“You guys can get along without me. Just wing it, princess,” Petey said, not quite believing it when she took the remote off
the counter, jammed it down the disposal, and hit the switch.
“Go to hell, Petey,” she said as the machine gnawed on the plastic. “No, I really mean it.”
Pete shut off the grinder and watched his fucking wife flounce out of the room. He reran the last scene in his mind, only
this time he put wifey’s hand into the grinder. Yeah. The metal teeth chomping through muscle and bone as she screamed her
head off.
He was going to get her.
He was going to get her and Sherry and the stink bomb one day really soon.
WCF, people. Wait for it.
Chapter 26
MY EYELIDS FLEW open at 5:52 a.m. exactly. I know because Joe has a projection clock, a high-tech gadget that shows the time
and temperature in red digits on the ceiling.
I like knowing this information by simply opening my eyes. But this morning, I saw the red numerals and thought,
WCF
.
That goddamned baby-killing psycho had infiltrated my mind, and I didn’t hold it against Claire one bit that she was so incensed
and freaked and practically murderous herself. The insidious lipstick letters—the clue that led to nothing—were like the freight
train heading toward the house when there was no place to run.
I wondered how Chi and McNeil were doing with the phone list that matched those initials. Man, it would be great if it led
to the shooter, but a killer signing his work with his actual
initials?
Forget it.
I closed my eyes, but Martha was on to me. She put her snoot on the mattress, pinned me with her gorgeous brown eyes, and
started thumping her tail. Then Joe turned over. He wrapped his arms around me, brought me into a bear hug, and said, “Linds.
Try to sleep.” It was now 6:14.
“Okay,” I said, turning away from him so that he could hold me in the hollow of his body. He was breathing softly over my
shoulder, so I sent my mind back to the days when I lived in my own place on Potrero Hill. My life had been very different
then, jogging with Martha most mornings, running the squad, coming home to Martha at night. I remembered the microwaved, one-dish
cooking, a little too much vino, wondering when I’d hear from Joe. Wondering when I’d see him.
And then my apartment burned down.
And now Joe was living here, and I was wearing his ring. At this moment it felt almost as though he were riding along with
my thoughts. He held me closer and cupped my breasts. He got hard against me, and then he ran his hand down to my belly and
pressed me to him.
As his breathing sped up, so did mine, and then he was turning me as though I were a tiny thing—a feeling that I just love.
I squirmed from his touch, heating up under this new kind of loving that felt so different from the roller-coaster craziness
of the time before Joe and I finally committed to a shared life.
I faced him and wrapped my arms around his neck, and he pulled my legs up to his waist, and this incredible, breathtaking
moment bloomed. I waited through the tension of those long seconds before he entered me. I looked into his deep-blue eyes—and
gave myself over to him.
“I love you, Blondie,” he said.
I nodded because I couldn’t speak. Tears were in my eyes and my throat ached as we joined together. He held me and rocked
me, and I was happy. I loved this man. Our lives were finally blending in a delicious and balanced way.
So what was nagging me from a cul-de-sac in my mind? Why did I feel that I was letting myself down?
Chapter 27
SARAH WELLS FLIPPED the chicken-fried steak in the pan and removed the garlic bread from the oven, thinking that it was all
heart-attack food—or was that just wishful thinking?
The TV was on in the next room. Sarah could see it through the wall opening and could hear Helen Ross, the pretty,
“It’s not about you, handsome. It’s about the kids having dinner with their family.”
“You guys can get along without me. Just wing it, princess,” Petey said, not quite believing it when she took the remote off
the counter, jammed it down the disposal, and hit the switch.
“Go to hell, Petey,” she said as the machine gnawed on the plastic. “No, I really mean it.”
Pete shut off the grinder and watched his fucking wife flounce out of the room. He reran the last scene in his mind, only
this time he put wifey’s hand into the grinder. Yeah. The metal teeth chomping through muscle and bone as she screamed her
head off.
He was going to get her.
He was going to get her and Sherry and the stink bomb one day really soon.
WCF, people. Wait for it.
Chapter 26
MY EYELIDS FLEW open at 5:52 a.m. exactly. I know because Joe has a projection clock, a high-tech gadget that shows the time
and temperature in red digits on the ceiling.
I like knowing this information by simply opening my eyes. But this morning, I saw the red numerals and thought,
WCF
.
That goddamned baby-killing psycho had infiltrated my mind, and I didn’t hold it against Claire one bit that she was so incensed
and freaked and practically murderous herself. The insidious lipstick letters—the clue that led to nothing—were like the freight
train heading toward the house when there was no place to run.
I wondered how Chi and McNeil were doing with the phone list that matched those initials. Man, it would be great if it led
to the shooter, but a killer signing his work with his actual
initials?
Forget it.
I closed my eyes, but Martha was on to me. She put her snoot on the mattress, pinned me with her gorgeous brown eyes, and
started thumping her tail. Then Joe turned over. He wrapped his arms around me, brought me into a bear hug, and said, “Linds.
Try to sleep.” It was now 6:14.
“Okay,” I said, turning away from him so that he could hold me in the hollow of his body. He was breathing softly over my
shoulder, so I sent my mind back to the days when I lived in my own place on Potrero Hill. My life had been very different
then, jogging with Martha most mornings, running the squad, coming home to Martha at night. I remembered the microwaved, one-dish
cooking, a little too much vino, wondering when I’d hear from Joe. Wondering when I’d see him.
And then my apartment burned down.
And now Joe was living here, and I was wearing his ring. At this moment it felt almost as though he were riding along with
my thoughts. He held me closer and cupped my breasts. He got hard against me, and then he ran his hand down to my belly and
pressed me to him.
As his breathing sped up, so did mine, and then he was turning me as though I were a tiny thing—a feeling that I just love.
I squirmed from his touch, heating up under this new kind of loving that felt so different from the roller-coaster craziness
of the time before Joe and I finally committed to a shared life.
I faced him and wrapped my arms around his neck, and he pulled my legs up to his waist, and this incredible, breathtaking
moment bloomed. I waited through the tension of those long seconds before he entered me. I looked into his deep-blue eyes—and
gave myself over to him.
“I love you, Blondie,” he said.
I nodded because I couldn’t speak. Tears were in my eyes and my throat ached as we joined together. He held me and rocked
me, and I was happy. I loved this man. Our lives were finally blending in a delicious and balanced way.
So what was nagging me from a cul-de-sac in my mind? Why did I feel that I was letting myself down?
Chapter 27
SARAH WELLS FLIPPED the chicken-fried steak in the pan and removed the garlic bread from the oven, thinking that it was all
heart-attack food—or was that just wishful thinking?
The TV was on in the next room. Sarah could see it through the wall opening and could hear Helen Ross, the pretty,
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