Killing Ways

68

Duke looked down at Ren. ‘Have you ever met someone like me before?’

Ren shook her head. ‘No.’

‘And what do you make of me?’

Ren looked into his eyes.

I have no words.

‘You know, I wonder if you pity me,’ said Duke. ‘And I can’t say that that’s not what I want, because I think somewhere inside me, there’s a little boy who wants it. He has to still be there, doesn’t he? Because who else can still feel the thrill of seeing a hawk in flight or the smooth surface of a creek waiting to be dived into, or... because it’s not me...’ He looked away. ‘I get different thrills.’ He paused. ‘But maybe it’s not the calm of the creek water, it’s the need to shatter it. It’s the need to break that perfect surface. Maybe that’s what that is.’

What do I make of you? What do I make of you? You make me want to kill every person on earth who has ever harmed a child.

And after what you’ve done, which I have to keep thinking about, after what you’ve done, you make me want to kill you.

He looked at her as if he was reading her mind.

‘Never be too comfortable in your skin,’ he said. ‘Never. Never think you’re better than everyone else, never look at other people and judge. Because, you know the fucking tragedy of humanity? A lot of us give in to the things we hate, don’t we? Dainty did. She was disgusted by our mama... and I watched her become our mama. Dainty might not have been a hooker, but she was a mean, junkie bitch. Wrote a song about mama, ended up making it her own fucking anthem, ended up dancing to it, ended up dying to it. Be careful what you choose to dance to.’

All Ren could think about was Everett.

My darling dancing Everett.

‘Let me help you with this,’ said Ren, ‘with what happened to you.’

He didn’t even look up. ‘You don’t want to help me. Shut the fuck up. You can’t manipulate me. I’m not stupid. I’m here, I’ve got your boss in a cell, your friend chained to a radiator. I told you how you can help me: get Joe Lucchesi here.’

‘I can’t do that,’ said Ren. ‘If I could, I would.’

Her phone beeped again. Another email.

He opened it. He looked alarmed.

Not like the last time — this is different.

What the fuck is going on here?

Two emails. Relevant to him?

‘How does this work?’ said Duke. ‘I want to reply to this one.’

He sat down beside her.

The email address was LuckyNYPD67@gmail.com and the subject: Geoff Riggs.

What the hell is this? Donald Riggs’ father, the subject of an email to me?

OK, Joe was NYPD. ’67 is his birth year. Lucky short for Lucchesi. His personal email address? What has he sent me? What about Geoff Riggs?

She looked down. It was a two-line email:

Holy. Shit. What the?

This is off. Even for Joe, that last line sounds extreme.

She hit Reply, and nodded toward the box. ‘You type in there...’

Duke grabbed it back from her and slowly input his response. Then he sat against the wall, wiped his hand across his brow, let out a breath. He was holding Ren’s cell phone in his hands. He didn’t take his eyes off the screen.

Where is he? What has Duke replied? Will Joe get it? Why am I still alive?

Ren touched her hand to her face.

Still bleeding.

‘It’s a waiting game now,’ said Duke, more to himself than to anyone else.

Geoff Riggs is Duke Rawlins’ father? That means Joe Lucchesi has been upgraded to the killer not just of Rawlins’ friend, but of his only brother. And he’s saying they’re sending people to question a dying man?

This will not end well.