that when she made him crazy.
“I’m coming.”
“No.”
“Beth...”
“No.”
“Be careful, Beth,” he said, sighing. He knew when she wouldn’t budge. “Please. This is...oh...”
What else was there to say?
“I’ll call you in a couple of days.”
“You call me before, if you need to? Promise. I’ll be right there.”
“I promise. Peter?”
“Hon?”
“Thanks.”
She imagined him nodding. No problem. They hung up. Then the doorbell rang.
“Seriously,” she muttered and opened the door. There was a package on the doormat. No postman. No van. No nothing.
“Coleridge, you bastard,” she said, and pulled the package in the house. Now she had another phone call to make. She didn’t need it. She really didn’t.
Long way to go until happy hour. It seemed like it was right over the horizon.
Chapter Twenty
“Is she in?”
“Who are you?”
“The fat bastard that’s going to knock her teeth in. Now, is she in, or do I start with you?”
“What?”
Coleridge stomped to the desk and the little twerp sitting behind it.
“Where’s her office?”
The twerp was shaking. It made Coleridge happy, which was good, because he was just angry enough to snap the man in two.
“I don’t even know who you’re talking about!”
“Sam! Sam fucking Wright! Where’s her office?”
He pointed, and Coleridge was off, the floorboards shaking under his furious steps. The top half of Sam’s door was glass.
Fuck it, thought Coleridge. Nothing like making an entrance. He smashed the door open and the glass broke and tumbled down.
“What’s this shit?” he shouted, and threw the paper before he realized Sam had no head.
The rolled up paper hit the stump of her neck and landed in the pooled blood behind her with a sickly wet thump.
“Ah...fuck.”
He went up to her desk and looked down. Same as the others. Her head was gone and her shirt had been ripped open. He didn’t need to pull the shirt aside to know her heart, behind shattered ribs, was as absent as her head.
“Come off it. Come off it.”
He sat in a chair to the side of the desk and looked at Sam Wright’s corpse. Then he took his cell phone from his jacket pocket.
The twerp from the front desk came to the door. He turned white, then green.
“Don’t fucking puke in here,” Coleridge told him, but he did it anyway. He didn’t even bother to lean forward. He puked down his front, covering his shirt, his tie, his jacket. Puke ran all the way down until it splashed on his expensive shiny shoes.
Fuck it, thought Coleridge. There’d be no evidence anyway. What did it matter?
“Knock yourself out then, son.” He dialed the station.
“We’ve got another one,” he said.
Chapter Twenty-One
The package was heavy. She didn’t want it in the house, but she didn’t want it out on the porch, either. Whoever had taken her photograph could just as easily help themselves to the box.
She put it on the kitchen table and went into the hall to get the phone. Then she came back and sat at the table. She put the phone down. Picked it up. Put it down. Went to find Coleridge’s number. She’d kept it somewhere.
She searched her crap drawer in the kitchen. Went back into the hall and searched the table out there. Padded down the hall in her socks to the bedroom. The letter he’d sent with the Tarot pack was on her dresser, under a piece of jewellery.
Beth got as far as the first five digits before she put the phone down.
There were no markings on the box. It was just a plain box with brown wrapping-tape covering the openings at the top and bottom. Nothing unusual about it, but for the sound coming from within.
It was muffled. It sounded like a recording, or a CD playing under a blanket. Now she was curious. Knocking it on the table must have hit play or something. Why the hell would Coleridge send her a CD player? A recorder?
Would he?
She didn’t think he would.
She went to the kitchen drawer
“I’m coming.”
“No.”
“Beth...”
“No.”
“Be careful, Beth,” he said, sighing. He knew when she wouldn’t budge. “Please. This is...oh...”
What else was there to say?
“I’ll call you in a couple of days.”
“You call me before, if you need to? Promise. I’ll be right there.”
“I promise. Peter?”
“Hon?”
“Thanks.”
She imagined him nodding. No problem. They hung up. Then the doorbell rang.
“Seriously,” she muttered and opened the door. There was a package on the doormat. No postman. No van. No nothing.
“Coleridge, you bastard,” she said, and pulled the package in the house. Now she had another phone call to make. She didn’t need it. She really didn’t.
Long way to go until happy hour. It seemed like it was right over the horizon.
Chapter Twenty
“Is she in?”
“Who are you?”
“The fat bastard that’s going to knock her teeth in. Now, is she in, or do I start with you?”
“What?”
Coleridge stomped to the desk and the little twerp sitting behind it.
“Where’s her office?”
The twerp was shaking. It made Coleridge happy, which was good, because he was just angry enough to snap the man in two.
“I don’t even know who you’re talking about!”
“Sam! Sam fucking Wright! Where’s her office?”
He pointed, and Coleridge was off, the floorboards shaking under his furious steps. The top half of Sam’s door was glass.
Fuck it, thought Coleridge. Nothing like making an entrance. He smashed the door open and the glass broke and tumbled down.
“What’s this shit?” he shouted, and threw the paper before he realized Sam had no head.
The rolled up paper hit the stump of her neck and landed in the pooled blood behind her with a sickly wet thump.
“Ah...fuck.”
He went up to her desk and looked down. Same as the others. Her head was gone and her shirt had been ripped open. He didn’t need to pull the shirt aside to know her heart, behind shattered ribs, was as absent as her head.
“Come off it. Come off it.”
He sat in a chair to the side of the desk and looked at Sam Wright’s corpse. Then he took his cell phone from his jacket pocket.
The twerp from the front desk came to the door. He turned white, then green.
“Don’t fucking puke in here,” Coleridge told him, but he did it anyway. He didn’t even bother to lean forward. He puked down his front, covering his shirt, his tie, his jacket. Puke ran all the way down until it splashed on his expensive shiny shoes.
Fuck it, thought Coleridge. There’d be no evidence anyway. What did it matter?
“Knock yourself out then, son.” He dialed the station.
“We’ve got another one,” he said.
Chapter Twenty-One
The package was heavy. She didn’t want it in the house, but she didn’t want it out on the porch, either. Whoever had taken her photograph could just as easily help themselves to the box.
She put it on the kitchen table and went into the hall to get the phone. Then she came back and sat at the table. She put the phone down. Picked it up. Put it down. Went to find Coleridge’s number. She’d kept it somewhere.
She searched her crap drawer in the kitchen. Went back into the hall and searched the table out there. Padded down the hall in her socks to the bedroom. The letter he’d sent with the Tarot pack was on her dresser, under a piece of jewellery.
Beth got as far as the first five digits before she put the phone down.
There were no markings on the box. It was just a plain box with brown wrapping-tape covering the openings at the top and bottom. Nothing unusual about it, but for the sound coming from within.
It was muffled. It sounded like a recording, or a CD playing under a blanket. Now she was curious. Knocking it on the table must have hit play or something. Why the hell would Coleridge send her a CD player? A recorder?
Would he?
She didn’t think he would.
She went to the kitchen drawer
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