Thriller by James Patterson Page B
Authors: James Patterson
Tags: Fiction, General, thriller, Suspense, Romance, Thrillers, Short-Story, Anthologies, Suspense Fiction; American, Anthologies (Multiple Authors), Fiction - Espionage, Suspense fiction; English
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up. I unlocked the door
and lumbered over to the bathroom, looking into the cracked
mirror above the sink.
Ouch.
My left eye had completely closed, and the surrounding tissue bulged out like a peach. Purple bruising competed with
angry red swelling along my cheeks and forehead. My nose was
a glob of strawberry jelly, and blood had crusted black along my
lips and down my neck.
It looked like Jackson Pollock had kicked my ass.
I stripped off the T-shirt, peeled off my shoes and jeans, and
turned the shower up to scald.
It hurt but got most of the crap off.
After the shower I popped five Tylenol, chased them with a
shot of tequila and spent ten minutes in front of the mirror, tears
streaming down my face, forcing my nose back into place.
I had some coke, but wouldn’t be able to sniff anything with
my sniffer all clotted up, and I was too exhausted to shoot any.
I made do with the tequila, thinking that tomorrow I’d have that
codeine prescription refilled.
Since the pain wouldn’t let me sleep, I decided to do a little work.
Using a dirty fork, I pried up the floorboards near the radiator and took out a plastic bag full of what appeared to be little
gray stones. The granules were the size and consistency of aquarium gravel.
I placed the bag on the floor, then removed the Lee Load-All,
the scale, a container of gunpowder, some wads and a box of
empty 12-gauge shells.
Everything went over to my kitchen table. I snapped on a fresh
pair of latex gloves, clamped the loader onto my countertop and
spent an hour carefully filling ten shells. When I finished, I
loaded five of them into my Mossberg 935, the barrel and stock
of which had been cut down for easier concealment.
I liked shotguns—you had more leeway when aiming, the
cops couldn’t trace them like they could trace bullets, and noth- 59
ing put the fear of God into a guy like the sound of racking a
shell into the chamber.
For this job, I didn’t have a choice.
By the time I was done, my nose had taken the gold medal in
throbbing, with my eye coming close with the silver. I swallowed five more Tylenol and four shots of tequila, then lay down
on my cot and fell asleep.
With sleep came the dream.
It happened every night, so vivid I could smell Donna’s perfume. We were still together, living in the suburbs. She was smiling at me, running her fingers through my hair.
“Phin, the caterer wants to know if we’re going with the splitpea or the wedding-ball soup.”
“Explain the wedding-ball soup to me again.”
“It’s a chicken stock with tiny veal meatballs in it.”
“That sounds good to you?”
“It’s very good. I’ve had it before.”
“Then let’s go with that.”
She kissed me; playful, loving.
I woke up drenched in sweat.
If someone had told me that happy memories would one day
be a source of incredible pain, I wouldn’t have believed it.
Things change.
Sun peeked in through my dirty window, making me squint.
I stretched, wincing because my whole body hurt—my whole
body except for my left side, where a team of doctors had severed the nerves during an operation called a chordotomy. The
surgery had been purely palliative. The area felt dead, even
though the cancer still thrived inside my pancreas. And elsewhere, by now.
The chordotomy offered enough pain relief to allow me to
function, and tequila, cocaine and codeine made up for the remainder.
I dressed in some baggy sweatpants, my bloody gym shoes
(with a new five-dollar bill in the sole) and a clean white T-shirt.
60
I strapped my leather shotgun sling under my armpits and placed
the Mossberg in the holster. It hung directly between my shoulder blades, barrel up, and could be freed by reaching my right
hand behind me at waist level.
A baggy black trench coat went on over the rig, concealing the
shotgun and the leather straps that held it in place.
I pocketed the five extra shells, the bag of gray granules, a
Glock 21 with two extra clips
and lumbered over to the bathroom, looking into the cracked
mirror above the sink.
Ouch.
My left eye had completely closed, and the surrounding tissue bulged out like a peach. Purple bruising competed with
angry red swelling along my cheeks and forehead. My nose was
a glob of strawberry jelly, and blood had crusted black along my
lips and down my neck.
It looked like Jackson Pollock had kicked my ass.
I stripped off the T-shirt, peeled off my shoes and jeans, and
turned the shower up to scald.
It hurt but got most of the crap off.
After the shower I popped five Tylenol, chased them with a
shot of tequila and spent ten minutes in front of the mirror, tears
streaming down my face, forcing my nose back into place.
I had some coke, but wouldn’t be able to sniff anything with
my sniffer all clotted up, and I was too exhausted to shoot any.
I made do with the tequila, thinking that tomorrow I’d have that
codeine prescription refilled.
Since the pain wouldn’t let me sleep, I decided to do a little work.
Using a dirty fork, I pried up the floorboards near the radiator and took out a plastic bag full of what appeared to be little
gray stones. The granules were the size and consistency of aquarium gravel.
I placed the bag on the floor, then removed the Lee Load-All,
the scale, a container of gunpowder, some wads and a box of
empty 12-gauge shells.
Everything went over to my kitchen table. I snapped on a fresh
pair of latex gloves, clamped the loader onto my countertop and
spent an hour carefully filling ten shells. When I finished, I
loaded five of them into my Mossberg 935, the barrel and stock
of which had been cut down for easier concealment.
I liked shotguns—you had more leeway when aiming, the
cops couldn’t trace them like they could trace bullets, and noth- 59
ing put the fear of God into a guy like the sound of racking a
shell into the chamber.
For this job, I didn’t have a choice.
By the time I was done, my nose had taken the gold medal in
throbbing, with my eye coming close with the silver. I swallowed five more Tylenol and four shots of tequila, then lay down
on my cot and fell asleep.
With sleep came the dream.
It happened every night, so vivid I could smell Donna’s perfume. We were still together, living in the suburbs. She was smiling at me, running her fingers through my hair.
“Phin, the caterer wants to know if we’re going with the splitpea or the wedding-ball soup.”
“Explain the wedding-ball soup to me again.”
“It’s a chicken stock with tiny veal meatballs in it.”
“That sounds good to you?”
“It’s very good. I’ve had it before.”
“Then let’s go with that.”
She kissed me; playful, loving.
I woke up drenched in sweat.
If someone had told me that happy memories would one day
be a source of incredible pain, I wouldn’t have believed it.
Things change.
Sun peeked in through my dirty window, making me squint.
I stretched, wincing because my whole body hurt—my whole
body except for my left side, where a team of doctors had severed the nerves during an operation called a chordotomy. The
surgery had been purely palliative. The area felt dead, even
though the cancer still thrived inside my pancreas. And elsewhere, by now.
The chordotomy offered enough pain relief to allow me to
function, and tequila, cocaine and codeine made up for the remainder.
I dressed in some baggy sweatpants, my bloody gym shoes
(with a new five-dollar bill in the sole) and a clean white T-shirt.
60
I strapped my leather shotgun sling under my armpits and placed
the Mossberg in the holster. It hung directly between my shoulder blades, barrel up, and could be freed by reaching my right
hand behind me at waist level.
A baggy black trench coat went on over the rig, concealing the
shotgun and the leather straps that held it in place.
I pocketed the five extra shells, the bag of gray granules, a
Glock 21 with two extra clips
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