Paint It Black

Chapter Thirty-three

Damn it. Where’d the game go?

He squinted up at the television above the bar. Who the hell was this asshole?

He looked down the bar, but nobody else seemed to care. He took a quick drink of beer and looked back up at the television.

What the fuck was this? An old man that looked like an army guy. A stupid-looking guy in a cop uniform. Some bitch with red hair. And a black guy standing in the background.

He strained his ears to hear what they were saying.

Task force. Cops. FBI. Task force?

For me?

He resisted the urge to smile, resisted the urge to laugh.

They were so stupid.

He heard the word “Tuesday.” They were telling people he killed on Tuesdays. But they didn’t know why.

Stupid fuckers. It was his day off. It was the only time he had. What other reason could there be?

The bitch was talking now. . she was calling him a serial killer. She was describing the killer. Describing him.

White, twenty to thirty, unskilled work. What the fuck did they mean, unskilled work? It was his work. His life. Unskilled. Like it meant nothing. Fuck them.

He took a drink.

But she did say white. That was important.

Last week he had read they thought he was black.

They were learning.

His eyes focused on the black man again. The camera came in for a quick close-up.

Wait. . wait. .

Yes. . yes!

The camera picking up the white cop now. Damn it! No! Go back to the black guy!

There! There he is again, in the background.

He looked. . what? Uncomfortable. . nervous. . like he didn’t belong. That tan face there among the other white faces. He knew he didn’t belong. Oh, yes, he knew. He just didn’t see it yet.

He wouldn’t be easy.

He’d have a gun.

And he’d fight back.

But that was okay. That was part of the plan.

He took another drink, staring at the black cop over the rim of his glass.

Yes. Perfect. He’s perfect.

The army guy finished talking. He was asking the public for help. He was done. He was fucking done!

The paint!

They didn’t talk about the paint! Why didn’t they talk about the paint?

He gripped the glass.

What the fuck was wrong with them? Didn’t they know? Didn’t they see it?

It was everything. . the paint. It was everything!

He tightened, glaring into his beer.

Maybe the paint had washed off. Maybe he shouldn’t have gotten them wet. But he had to get them wet.

Fuck.

Maybe he should tell them.

No. It didn’t matter. They weren’t important. They weren’t part of the plan and they didn’t matter.

He looked up, his eyes boring into the black cop.

He mattered.

But still. . the paint was important.

His brain started pounding. This wasn’t supposed to happen now.

No. . not now. Stop. .

He put his hands to his temples. Stop. Stop.

Water. He needed the water. The sound of the water.

He needed a kill.

And he would make sure they didn’t miss the paint next time. He would make damn sure.