John Lutz - In for the Kill

"Sure." But she knew from the expression on Quinn's face that she hadn't sounded sufficiently enthusiastic.

They both fell silent as Fedderman returned with his coffee.

"Mayberry," Fedderman said thoughtfully. "Things are quieter there. Remember Floyd the barber?"

"What you both oughta know," Quinn said, "is that Renz isn't to be taken lightly just because he's talking like he's one of us. He'll act all buddy-buddy, but he'll jam us up in a minute if it'll help him get promoted."

"We know it," Pearl said. "We were only putting you on, Quinn."

"Still," Fedderman said, "Mayberry…"

"New York," Quinn said. "Marilyn Nelson was the second N, but that doesn't mean she was the final victim."

Searching the weeds again. That was what Quinn called it, and that was what Pearl was doing here in Marilyn Nelson's modest West Side apartment that still held the disinfected scent of death. Searching the weeds again. Hoping to find something, anything of use, on ground already covered.

Pearl walked around slowly in a second, more careful search of the apartment, paying closer attention. It was cheaply but tastefully decorated. Probably Marilyn Nelson had thought she earned a pretty good salary but found out it didn't go far in Manhattan. The bedroom closet contained some interchangeable black outfits-Marilyn catching on-and some great outdoorsy-looking items. They would have suggested Marilyn was a hiker or rock climber, if Pearl didn't know she worked for a clothing chain, and the rough-textured, riveted clothing and heavy boots were more for style than hard use.

There was nothing noteworthy in the refrigerator-an unopened bottle of orange juice, some leftover pizza in a takeout box, a half-gallon carton of milk well past its expiration date and almost empty, some bagged and sealed lettuce for salads on the go, the usual condiments. Pearl leaned close and breathed in some of the cool air before closing the refrigerator door.

Nothing new in the bedroom, either, but she went through drawers and the closet, even checked between the mattress and box spring, making sure a Dial In cell phone vibrator hadn't been overlooked. It would have been nice to tie Marilyn Nelson in with two of the other victims. Tidy. Clean. Pearl swallowed. Clean was beginning to seem like a nasty word to her.

She made herself spend more time in the bathroom than was necessary, as if testing herself. The gleaming old porcelain tub was to her more disgusting than if it had been stained with the victim's blood.

Sickened, she left the bathroom, then quickly made her way through the hall and living room toward the door. She would replace the yellow crime scene tape she'd untied from the doorknob, then get back out into the fresh air and the wider world where death wasn't so near.

After a last, sad glance around the living room, she opened the door to the hall.

Her breath caught in her throat.

Bocanne, Florida, 1980

Sherman was dreaming, and suddenly he was awake and unable to recall the dream.

It had frightened him, though. He was drenched in sweat, and his heart was pounding in his ears, the loudest thing in the night other than the buzz of insects in the nearby swamp.

Then the voices. Like the ones in the dream. Sam's deep voice, and Sherman's mother's. His was calm; hers higher-pitched, faster-paced. It sounded as if Sam and Myrna were arguing in the bedroom down the hall, where they slept in the sagging double bed. Sherman's body grew rigid and he realized he was squeezing his thumbs in his clenched fists, a habit he'd pretty much gotten over since Sam arrived.

There was a sound that might have been a slap. Flesh on flesh-hard.

Sherman's grip on his thumbs tightened so that they ached.

His mother's voice, then, much louder. Even though Sherman couldn't make out the words, he was sure she was furious, cursing at Sam.

Sam's voice was softer but not as calm, as if he didn't want to wake Sherman, trying to get Myrna to regain control of herself. Another slap. Then another, terrible sound Sherman had never heard. He was sure his mother was weeping.

Sam again, speaking angrily but softly, in that slow, reasoned tone he used when patiently teaching Sherman to fish or telling him something interesting about the Civil War.

There was a war going on in his mother's bedroom, Sherman thought. One he wanted no part of.

He lay motionless for a long time, waiting for more noise from the bedroom down the hall, but there was only the buzzing of the swamp in the night. He could smell the swamp through his open screened window, the rotting death scent of it, the fear and the fight of it within its lush green beauty. Thousands of cicadas were screaming now; Sam had told Sherman it was their mating call. It sounded desperate. Amidst the shrillness came a faint splashing and a deep, primal grunt. Something moving in the blackness not far away from the house. Not far away at all.

In the bedroom down the hall there was only silence.

The next morning, Sherman thought he was first up, but when he padded barefoot down the hall, there was his mom in the kitchen. She was lighting the butane stove to cook some eggs that were lying on the sink counter. Her hair was wild and there was a thoughtful expression on her face, but she didn't look upset. She had on her old pink robe, its sash yanked tight around her narrow waist. Like her son, she was barefoot, the way she liked to be most of the time. Her toenails were painted red and one of them looked broken and as if it had been bleeding.

Sherman didn't think she'd seen him. He changed direction and trudged toward the bathroom, seeing through the inch-wide crack where his mother's bedroom door was open. There was Sam's bare lower leg and foot on the bed. He must still be asleep.

Sherman thought that maybe last night-everything he'd heard-had been a dream. It was possible. Dreams and reality sometimes met and became entangled in his mind.

He urinated and then flushed the leaking old toilet so it would drain to the septic tank buried alongside the house. The washbasin's ancient faucet handles squealed when he rotated them. He washed his hands and dried them carefully before leaving the bathroom.

The plank floor was cool beneath his bare feet as he returned to the kitchen. He noticed that now his mother's bedroom door was closed all the way. He slowed so he might try the knob, see if it was locked.

"You want some eggs?" she asked.

"Toast is all," Sherman said, picking up his pace.

"You go get some pants on first."

Sherman was wearing only his Jockey shorts. He nodded and went back to his bedroom and put on his jeans. The morning was already hot and humid. He tried wrestling back into the T-shirt he'd worn yesterday, but it stuck to his damp skin so that it was difficult to pull down in back. He peeled it off and tossed it on the floor, then went shirtless back to the kitchen, this time not pausing near his mother's bedroom door.

There was a slice of buttered toast and a glass of milk where Sherman always sat at the table. His mother was being nice to him this morning; usually he prepared his own breakfast.

She'd cooked up some eggs for herself. Now she used the rubber spatula to slide them onto a plate. Next to them she plopped down the second slice of toast from the old toaster.

Without speaking to or looking at Sherman, she sat down across from him at the table and began to eat.

"Sleep okay?" she asked, through a bite of egg she'd forked into her mouth.

"Always do." Sherman took a big bite of toast.

"You're young and you got no troubles," she said, smiling.

"Got some."

"Yeah, I guess ever'body does."

They continued to eat, not looking at each other.

Then Sherman became aware that he was the only one eating.