Want To Play? (Monkeewrench)

32

Charlie was totally confused. His ordered doggy world was upside down. Yes, he was sitting in the Adirondack chair next to his mistress, normally his favorite place in the world, but it was the wrong time of day, she wasn’t in her sitting-in-the-chair clothes, and there was no water running out of the long snake under the tree.

He was brave for as long as he could stand it, then he clambered off his chair, climbed up onto her lap, and started licking her face, whining, demanding an explanation.

Grace put her arms around him and pressed her head against his, giving comfort, and taking it. ‘Oh, Charlie, I killed another one,’ she whispered, closing her eyes.

Your fault, Grace. All your fault.

The news about the Megamall murder had flashed over the Internet less than an hour ago. She’d been alone in the loft then, still working on tracing the e-mails long after everyone else had left.

For a long time, she simply sat there, numb, reading the bulletin over and over.

Harley, Annie, and Roadrunner had called moments later, all worried about her, and Mitch had called from his car soon after that. He was running between client meetings, trying to put out the fires that were consuming the company, and he’d heard the news over the radio. Grace reassured them all that she was fine, even as she staggered under the burden of this new blame, added to the old one she’d been carrying for ten years.

Your fault then, and your fault now. Your game, your idea, your fault.

She’d left the loft immediately, wanting more than anything else to be alone in the house that fear had built, with the dog that fear had created, because it was only there she felt properly punished.

A scrambling sound on the north wall of the fence pricked Charlie’s ears and sent Grace’s hand immediately to her shoulder holster. She almost smiled to see the gun in her hand, pointed toward the sound, because she hadn’t realized that she still wanted to live that badly, and part of her wondered why.

Two small black hands appeared at the top of the fence, followed by a small black face. Dark eyes widened at the sight of the gun. ‘Jeez, Grace, don’t shoot me.’

She relaxed and put the Sig back in the holster. ‘What are you doing here, Jackson?’

He swung one leg over the fence and slid down into the backyard, then strolled over as if scaling an eight-foot fence to pay a visit was a normal course of events. ‘I saw you drive in. You never come home this early. Figured something was up.’ He stopped in front of her, tipped his head, and frowned. ‘You don’t look so good.’

‘I don’t feel so good.’

Now that was funny. To her partners, who had known and loved her for years, she lied like crazy, telling them she was fine. To this annoying kid she’d met only twice, her traitorous mouth had decided to tell the truth.

Jackson dropped to a cross-legged position on the drying grass, holding out a hand for Charlie to lick. ‘What happened?’

‘There was another murder today.’

‘Yeah, at the mall. Bad juju. The Monkeewrench Killer strikes again. Victim number four in the game.’

Grace looked away from him, over at the magnolia, troubled by the way he’d said it; that murder could be such a casual thing to a nine-year-old. ‘Well, I’m Monkeewrench.’ Confession to a kid-priest. ‘I designed that game.’

A slow smile spread over the dark young face. ‘No shit? Man, that is so cool. I love that game.’

She turned to look at him with sad astonishment. ‘Jackson. Four people have died because I created that game.’

He gave her the raspberry. For God’s sake she was confessing a mortal sin and the kid was giving her the raspberry.

‘That is such bullshit. They died ’cause some wacko shot ’em. C’mere, Charlie.’ He patted his leg and Charlie left Grace’s lap with no apology at all to roll on the grass with a boy who granted absolution with the word ‘bullshit.’

She watched them play for a time, losing herself in the immediacy of life that comes naturally to boys and dogs and few others; and then she took Jackson in the house and sat him at the table, and while she was making something for them all to eat, she asked him about his life. And he asked about hers.

It was dark when she and Charlie walked him home, all of them breathing frosty plumes into air that had grown hard with cold after sunset.

‘I want to give you something.’ Jackson dug under his T-shirt, pulled out a chain, and peeled it over his head. He held up the silver cross, glinting in the light from the streetlamps. ‘You know what this is?’

‘Sure. It’s a crucifix. Where’d you get it?’

‘My mom gave it to me so I wouldn’t be afraid when she died.’

Grace closed her eyes briefly and dropped to her heels so she could look him in the eye. ‘Your mom’s dead?’

‘Yeah. Last year. Cancer.’ He slipped the chain over her head and then smiled at her, white teeth in a black night. ‘There. Now you’ll be safe.’