The Poet

28

Gladden wished he had asked Darlene where the remote control was before he had killed her. It annoyed him to have to get up to switch channels. Every one of the Los Angeles television channels had picked up on the Times story. He'd had to sit right in front of the box, though, and manually change the channel to try to catch all the reports. He had seen what Detective Thomas looked like. He had been interviewed by all of the channels.

He lay on the couch, now too excited to sleep. He wanted to change the channel to CNN but didn't want to get up again. He was on some cable channel on the nether reaches of the list. A woman with a French accent was preparing crêpes filled with yogurt. Gladden didn't know whether it was a dessert or a breakfast but it was making him hungry and he considered opening another can of ravioli. He decided against it. He knew he had to conserve his supplies. Still four days to go.

"Where's the fucking remote, Darlene?" he called out.

He got up and switched the channel, then turned out the lights and returned to the couch. With the monologue of the CNN anchors as a calming background, he thought about the work ahead, his plans. They knew about him now and he had to be more careful than ever.

He fell into a doze, his eyes drooping and the TV noise lulling him finally to sleep. But just as he was about to drop off, his ears picked up on a report from Phoenix about the murder of a police detective. Gladden opened his eyes.