on University. I'll be there in two hours."
She checked her watch. "Fine." "Be on time." He clicked off.
Perry Ames sat alone at a table. The sun was garish, the day breezy. Plenty of people would be outside, but he sat indoors by himself, with a Scrabble board set up, watching the television on the wall.
Three dead in the crash, the news was reporting. No names yet, but he knew Callie Harding was one of them. A passenger was injured. He needed to know who that passenger was. He set Scrabble tiles on the rack. Two men walked by, talking. They stared at the game board and at him. He'd take them on if they were willing. He could arrange a killer game. Take bets, run it big, like the poker game. An executive game, sure—people would be even less suspicious of Scrabble nerds than they were of high rollers playing Texas Hold 'em in a downtown hotel suite. And Scrabble players would be even easier to intimidate if they took a long line of credit,
got overextended, and lost big. His bread and butter at times in his life.
Nobody offered to join the game. Nobody wanted to talk to him. He moved the tiles around.
Doctor. Yoshida was a proper name, so he didn't bother with that
Son. Overdose.
The satisfaction burned in his chest, like acid.
Boat. He crossed another word with it, going down. Maki. Screw rules; he liked seeing their proper names. Willets. The A-list fashion queen was dead and so was his shrieking weed a boyfriend. Crankhead, skinny as a flower stem, sadistic as all fu c k. Pouted like a lily but poisonous. Like all of them. But Perry had found a surefire weed killer.
The men who had walked past him sat down at a nearby table cups of coffee. It was noisy in here. He couldn't hear what they ere s aying, but they were gawking at him. Fucks. They stared, hard
glares. Looking at his neck, and the scar. Nobody wanted to join a game with the freak.
For a second he considered setting them straight. But this place had a guard, a fat guy loitering near the door with his thumbs hooked on his belt. A real wannabe hard-ass lard-ass, dressed in a puke-green uniform. Where'd they get that color, some store that made clothes for officious dicks like priests and prison guards?
The coffee drinkers stared. Perry stared back. They looked away, like submissive dogs.
Fear. Good. Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit jack shit.
He set out another name on the game board. Harding.
It was a good start.
But he wasn't near the end, and time was short. He wanted answers by tomorrow. He had meetings downtown, and needed names by then.
He needed Skunk to get to work. He swept the tiles back into the box and stood up. He glanced at the coffee drinkers. He decided to set them straight after all.
He walked by their table. Pausing, he waited until they looked at him. He reached into his pocket. They went still. He took out his voice synthesizer and pressed it to his crushed larynx.
"Next time, we'll play Hangman. I never lose."
The intensive care unit at St. Francis Hospital was bright and hushed. The nurse at the desk, motherly in pink scrubs, was writing on a patient's chart when Jo came up the stairs. Jo was wearing a badge around her neck that identified her as a physician with staff privileges at the hospital.
"Angelika Meyer?" she said.
The nurse pointed over her shoulder. "Down the hall."
"How's she doing?"
"Serious but stable. Broken ribs, punctured lung, hairline skull fracture."
"Is she conscious?"
"Intermittently."
"Has anybody been by to see her?" Jo said.
"Just the police, and the attending kept them out of her room."
"May I see her chart?"
The nurse found it. Jo flipped through. Though Meyer's condition had stabilized, her situation was precarious. She could still slip into the abyss.
"We found a key ring in her purse," the nurse said. "It has her nickname on it. Geli."
She pronounced it the German way. Gaily.
"Thanks." Taking the chart with her, Jo walked down the hall to Meyer's room.
Intensive care
She checked her watch. "Fine." "Be on time." He clicked off.
Perry Ames sat alone at a table. The sun was garish, the day breezy. Plenty of people would be outside, but he sat indoors by himself, with a Scrabble board set up, watching the television on the wall.
Three dead in the crash, the news was reporting. No names yet, but he knew Callie Harding was one of them. A passenger was injured. He needed to know who that passenger was. He set Scrabble tiles on the rack. Two men walked by, talking. They stared at the game board and at him. He'd take them on if they were willing. He could arrange a killer game. Take bets, run it big, like the poker game. An executive game, sure—people would be even less suspicious of Scrabble nerds than they were of high rollers playing Texas Hold 'em in a downtown hotel suite. And Scrabble players would be even easier to intimidate if they took a long line of credit,
got overextended, and lost big. His bread and butter at times in his life.
Nobody offered to join the game. Nobody wanted to talk to him. He moved the tiles around.
Doctor. Yoshida was a proper name, so he didn't bother with that
Son. Overdose.
The satisfaction burned in his chest, like acid.
Boat. He crossed another word with it, going down. Maki. Screw rules; he liked seeing their proper names. Willets. The A-list fashion queen was dead and so was his shrieking weed a boyfriend. Crankhead, skinny as a flower stem, sadistic as all fu c k. Pouted like a lily but poisonous. Like all of them. But Perry had found a surefire weed killer.
The men who had walked past him sat down at a nearby table cups of coffee. It was noisy in here. He couldn't hear what they ere s aying, but they were gawking at him. Fucks. They stared, hard
glares. Looking at his neck, and the scar. Nobody wanted to join a game with the freak.
For a second he considered setting them straight. But this place had a guard, a fat guy loitering near the door with his thumbs hooked on his belt. A real wannabe hard-ass lard-ass, dressed in a puke-green uniform. Where'd they get that color, some store that made clothes for officious dicks like priests and prison guards?
The coffee drinkers stared. Perry stared back. They looked away, like submissive dogs.
Fear. Good. Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit jack shit.
He set out another name on the game board. Harding.
It was a good start.
But he wasn't near the end, and time was short. He wanted answers by tomorrow. He had meetings downtown, and needed names by then.
He needed Skunk to get to work. He swept the tiles back into the box and stood up. He glanced at the coffee drinkers. He decided to set them straight after all.
He walked by their table. Pausing, he waited until they looked at him. He reached into his pocket. They went still. He took out his voice synthesizer and pressed it to his crushed larynx.
"Next time, we'll play Hangman. I never lose."
The intensive care unit at St. Francis Hospital was bright and hushed. The nurse at the desk, motherly in pink scrubs, was writing on a patient's chart when Jo came up the stairs. Jo was wearing a badge around her neck that identified her as a physician with staff privileges at the hospital.
"Angelika Meyer?" she said.
The nurse pointed over her shoulder. "Down the hall."
"How's she doing?"
"Serious but stable. Broken ribs, punctured lung, hairline skull fracture."
"Is she conscious?"
"Intermittently."
"Has anybody been by to see her?" Jo said.
"Just the police, and the attending kept them out of her room."
"May I see her chart?"
The nurse found it. Jo flipped through. Though Meyer's condition had stabilized, her situation was precarious. She could still slip into the abyss.
"We found a key ring in her purse," the nurse said. "It has her nickname on it. Geli."
She pronounced it the German way. Gaily.
"Thanks." Taking the chart with her, Jo walked down the hall to Meyer's room.
Intensive care
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