Haven was thinking of Lovely Girl again, after the memories of her face, her voice, her touch had arisen so persistently during the modding session with Little Miss Pretentious, Chloe.
He was thinking of the letters he’d done:
the second
. The borders too.
Yes, a good work.
A Billy Mod.
He’d changed outof his coveralls, which had possibly been contaminated with poison (why take chances?), and had slipped them into a garbage bag. Then into a Dumpster a long way from the boutique. He was wearing street clothes underneath: black jeans, leather gloves, also black. His dark-gray wool coat. It was short – to mid-thigh. Warm enough and not so long that it might interfere if he had to sprint to escapefrom someone, which as Billy was well aware was a very real possibility at some point over the next few days.
On his head was the ski mask scrunched up as a stocking cap, also wool. He looked like any other young man in Manhattan heading to his apartment through the freezing rain, hunched over, cold.
Lovely Girl …
Billy remembered seeing her for the first time, years ago. It was a photograph,actually, not even the girl herself. But he’d fallen in love – yes, yes, at first sight. Not long after that his aunt had commented, ‘Oh, she’s a lovely girl. You could do much worse than her.’
Billy immediately took that as the pet name for his beloved.
The girl with the beautiful ivory skin.
Squinting against the crappy weather – the wind firing BBs of ice and freezing rain into his face– Billy pulled his coat tighter around him. Concentrated on avoiding icy patches. This was difficult.
It was now some hours after he’d finished with Chloe in the tunnel beneath the boutique. He’d stayed around the area, sticking to the shadows, to see about the police. Somebody had dialed 911 about five minutes after Billy had climbed from the manhole on Elizabeth Street. The cops had arriveden masse and Billy’d checked out their procedures. He’d observed and taken mental notes and would later transcribe his thoughts. The Modification Commandments weren’t phrased like the biblical ones, of course. But if they had been, one would be:
Know thy enemy as thyself.
Trudging along, walking carefully. He was young and in good shape, agile, but he could hardly afford a fall. A broken armwould be disastrous.
Billy’s workshop wasn’t far from the site of the attack but he was walking a complicated route back home, making sure no one had seen him near the manhole and followed.
He went around the block once, then twice, just to be safe, and returned to the ugly, squat four-story former warehouse, now a quasi-residential structure. That is, quasi-
legal
. Or maybe completely illegal.We’re talking New York City real estate, after all. He’d paid cash for the short-term rental, a lot of cash. The agent had taken the money with a smile and made a point of not asking a single question.
Not that it mattered. He’d been prepared to spin a credible tale, forged documents included.
Thou shalt have thy cover story memorized.
Then, confirming that the sidewalk was deserted, Billywalked down a short flight of stairs to his front door. Three clicks of three locks and he was inside, exchanging as a soundtrack the horns of irritated drivers stuck in Chinatown by the bad weather for the rumble and brake squeals of the subway cars running directly beneath his place.
Sounds from underground. Comforting.
Billy pressed a switch and anemic lights filled the twenty-by-twenty-five-footspace – a combination living room/bedroom/kitchen/everything else. The room had a certain dungeon feel to it. One wall was exposed brick, the others halfhearted Sheetrock. He had a second rental, farther north, a safe house, which he’d planned to stay in more frequently than here on his mission for the Modification, but the workshop had turned out to be more comfortable than the safe house,which was smack on a busy street populated with the sort of people he
He was thinking of the letters he’d done:
the second
. The borders too.
Yes, a good work.
A Billy Mod.
He’d changed outof his coveralls, which had possibly been contaminated with poison (why take chances?), and had slipped them into a garbage bag. Then into a Dumpster a long way from the boutique. He was wearing street clothes underneath: black jeans, leather gloves, also black. His dark-gray wool coat. It was short – to mid-thigh. Warm enough and not so long that it might interfere if he had to sprint to escapefrom someone, which as Billy was well aware was a very real possibility at some point over the next few days.
On his head was the ski mask scrunched up as a stocking cap, also wool. He looked like any other young man in Manhattan heading to his apartment through the freezing rain, hunched over, cold.
Lovely Girl …
Billy remembered seeing her for the first time, years ago. It was a photograph,actually, not even the girl herself. But he’d fallen in love – yes, yes, at first sight. Not long after that his aunt had commented, ‘Oh, she’s a lovely girl. You could do much worse than her.’
Billy immediately took that as the pet name for his beloved.
The girl with the beautiful ivory skin.
Squinting against the crappy weather – the wind firing BBs of ice and freezing rain into his face– Billy pulled his coat tighter around him. Concentrated on avoiding icy patches. This was difficult.
It was now some hours after he’d finished with Chloe in the tunnel beneath the boutique. He’d stayed around the area, sticking to the shadows, to see about the police. Somebody had dialed 911 about five minutes after Billy had climbed from the manhole on Elizabeth Street. The cops had arriveden masse and Billy’d checked out their procedures. He’d observed and taken mental notes and would later transcribe his thoughts. The Modification Commandments weren’t phrased like the biblical ones, of course. But if they had been, one would be:
Know thy enemy as thyself.
Trudging along, walking carefully. He was young and in good shape, agile, but he could hardly afford a fall. A broken armwould be disastrous.
Billy’s workshop wasn’t far from the site of the attack but he was walking a complicated route back home, making sure no one had seen him near the manhole and followed.
He went around the block once, then twice, just to be safe, and returned to the ugly, squat four-story former warehouse, now a quasi-residential structure. That is, quasi-
legal
. Or maybe completely illegal.We’re talking New York City real estate, after all. He’d paid cash for the short-term rental, a lot of cash. The agent had taken the money with a smile and made a point of not asking a single question.
Not that it mattered. He’d been prepared to spin a credible tale, forged documents included.
Thou shalt have thy cover story memorized.
Then, confirming that the sidewalk was deserted, Billywalked down a short flight of stairs to his front door. Three clicks of three locks and he was inside, exchanging as a soundtrack the horns of irritated drivers stuck in Chinatown by the bad weather for the rumble and brake squeals of the subway cars running directly beneath his place.
Sounds from underground. Comforting.
Billy pressed a switch and anemic lights filled the twenty-by-twenty-five-footspace – a combination living room/bedroom/kitchen/everything else. The room had a certain dungeon feel to it. One wall was exposed brick, the others halfhearted Sheetrock. He had a second rental, farther north, a safe house, which he’d planned to stay in more frequently than here on his mission for the Modification, but the workshop had turned out to be more comfortable than the safe house,which was smack on a busy street populated with the sort of people he
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