John Lutz - In for the Kill

He was familiar with the white splotches at the corners of her mouth, the pugnacious thrust of her chin. In truth he'd always found these manifestations of her righteous rage oddly attractive, though he'd never told her so.

He shook his head slowly and with sad knowledge. "Pearl, Pearl…"

The look she gave him might have scorched his clothes.

The sanitized stench of death stayed with them the rest of the evening and followed them home.

Quinn shared Pearl's rage, but in a quieter way and directed at the killer. Pearl was a hothead buffeted by her emotions. Quinn's rage was constant and controlled and patient, a laser beam probing the darkness, obsessively seeking its target.

Pity the target.

Quinn had no idea who had knocked unexpectedly on his apartment door. He was peering out at an emaciated kid in his early twenties, over six feet tall but not more than a hundred and forty pounds. He had on incredibly narrow Levi's, a stained gray T-shirt lettered IMAGINE REALITY across the chest, and untied, worn-out jogging shoes held together with duct tape. His red hair looked like a mass of unruly springs. It was the hair, and indeed something springy in his slightest movement, even as he stood what in his mind must be still, that triggered Quinn's memory. The lead singer of The Defendants at the Hungry U.

"I'm Wormy," said the human Slinky.

"They've got pills for that," Quinn said.

The kid's grin spread wider, so wide for his narrow face that it pushed his cheeks way out. "I've heard that one. Wormy's my name."

"Is that French or something?"

"No, it's a nickname, actually. I'm a singer-musician."

"I've seen and heard you," Quinn said, noticing the odd tattoos on Wormy's arms, twisting, twining designs that apparently represented nothing while adding to the impression of constant movement. There seemed to be, for Wormy, nothing akin to a state of rest.

"I know," Wormy said. "I remember you 'cause you walked out in the middle of my big number."

"It had nothing to do with the music," Quinn said. "I got a phone call."

Big smile. Bounce, bounce. "That's good to know." Wormy looked up and down the hall, then back at Quinn, as if waiting for Quinn to invite him in.

Quinn simply regarded Wormy as if his name represented what he was.

"I'm here for Lauri," Wormy said.

"I was afraid of that."

Quinn moved back and Wormy slithered in. Well, he didn't exactly slither, but his long body's repetitive S motion seemed to propel him forward.

"Hi, Worm." Lauri, who'd been in her bedroom changing clothes, was now in the living room. She looked tentatively from Wormy to her father, then back. "I see you two have met."

"Formally for the first time," Wormy said, "but your old-your dad-was at the Hungry U having dinner the other night. I guess to listen to the music. He's a fan."

"Great!" Lauri said, pleased but puzzled.

"I wanted to check out where you worked," Quinn said. He saw anger cloud her face, and for a second she looked remarkably like her mother.

Wormy touched her arm. "Don't be hard on him, Lauri. It's a dad thing. He's concerned about his daughter's all."

Lauri took a deep breath and seemed calmer. "So what did you think of the Hungry U?" she asked Quinn.

"Food was good."

No one spoke for an awkward few moments.

"You two are going out?" Quinn said finally, as if the possibility had just entered his mind.

"On a date," Lauri said, bearing down on the last word.

Quinn told himself he was being tested. He had little control, maybe none at all, over whom Lauri dated. But this human single-cell creature…

"I'll have her home 'fore she turns into a pumpkin," Wormy said, still with the grin.

Quinn wanted to scare him stiff then hurl him like a javelin, but he restrained himself.

"I understand your dad's concern," said Wormy. "You're his dear daughter, an' he don't know a thing about me other than I've got musical talent."

I do know about you. I've seen thousands of you.

Lauri moved toward the door, and Wormy seemed rooted though moving, continuing to grin at Quinn.

"Where are you two going?" Quinn heard himself ask. He thought he sounded casual, only remotely interested. Tried, anyway.

Must have failed.

Lauri clouded up again. "Look-"

"Zero down," Wormy said good-naturedly to her. "We're gonna take in a band down in the Village, Lauri's dad. Some band thinks it's better'n mine, if you can believe it. No drugs, and no…drugs."

"You didn't say no-"

"Dad!"

Quinn knew he was helpless. He willed his stiff facial muscles to arrange themselves in a smile that couldn't have fooled anyone. "So have a good time. You got a key?"

"Got my key," Lauri said. Impulsively, she came to him and pecked his cheek, grinning up at him. "Don't worry so much about me, Dad, really."

"I'll try not to."

"She's with me," Wormy said reassuringly.

"I'll try not to," Quinn repeated.

Then they were gone into the world, his little girl and the human worm, and the door was swinging closed.

"I like your dad," Quinn heard Wormy say, just before the latch clicked.

Some kind of telepathy, Quinn thought. May and Elliott lived all the way on the other side of the continent, and still May chose that night to call Quinn.

"How's Lauri doing?" she asked, after they'd traded hellos.

"Doing well," Quinn said. I hope. He hadn't gone to bed and was slumped on the sofa, worrying while watching four lawyers on a quarter-split TV screen argue over a murder that had happened in some other state, maybe Minnesota. The victim had been an attractive young woman. He'd muted the lawyers but hadn't been able to stop watching.

"New York hasn't corrupted her, has it?"

"I won't let that happen," Quinn said. "Besides, she's more grown-up than I imagined. She's smart."

"Not street-smart. You don't get that way here in the burbs of LA."

Quinn wondered if May read the papers. If you were a teenager, anyplace you were had the potential to make you wiser but sadder-or worse. His gaze wandered back to the attorneys jabbering silently on the muted TV. "I think she's taking care of herself pretty well. She's got a job."

"You're kidding. The Lauri I know couldn't hold down a job."

"She's held it down so far. She's a waitress at a restaurant down in the Village."

"Servers, they call them now, Quinn. And I'm not sure I like it that this place is in the Village."

A dapper gray-haired man who used to be the chief medical examiner in New York was on the screen now, holding up a chart with a skeleton printed on it and using his manicured forefinger as a pointer.

"The restaurant's Pakistani," Quinn said, watching the former ME point at the skeleton's pelvis. "At least it claims to be. The food seems kind of eclectic to me. Lots of barbecue."

"You've been there?"

"Damned right."

May laughed. "Good. That's comforting. She's still working there, so you must have thought the place was okay."

"It's a job," Quinn said. "A start."

"Can I talk to her?"

"She's not home right now."

"It's eleven-thirty, Quinn."

Damned Worm! "She's on a date."

May didn't say anything for a moment. Then: "Oh. It didn't take her long to get into circulation."

"She's a beautiful girl, May. Like you're a beautiful woman."

"Spare me the Irish bullshit. Who's she going out with? Another of the food servers?"

"A musician from the band that's playing at the restaurant. There's a bar there, too, with live music."

"Pakistani music?"

"For all I know," Quinn said, remembering the high-decibel onslaught of "Lost in Bonkers." "I've met the guy. He seems…safe."

"Is that what your cop's instincts tell you?"

They tell me what to tell you. "He's a scrawny young kid, looks like he's never had real sex. If you could see him, May, you wouldn't worry so much."