Glenn Cooper - Library of the Dead aka Secret of the Seventh Son

Both of them fell to the dirt floor.

She was far stronger than Octavus but the shock had made her weak as a kitten. Instinctively, he pulled up her smock and exposed her creamy thighs. He was between her legs, pushing hard against her. His head was draped over her shoulder, his forehead pressed to the ground. He was making his quick little whistling noises. She was a worldly girl; she knew what was happening to her.

“Christ the Lord, have mercy on me!” she cried over and over.

By the time José, the Iberian monk, heard the screams and rushed down the stairs from his copy desk in the main gallery, Mary was seated against the wall softly crying, her smock stained red with blood, and Octavus was back at his desk, his trousers around his ankles, his quill flying over the page.

It was sticky and steamy, a high-humidity afternoon where the heat radiating off the pavement seemed like a punishment. New Yorkers tread on hot-plate sidewalks, rubber soles softening, limbs heavy with the effort of walking through what seemed gruel. Will’s polo shirt clung to his chest as he lugged a couple of heavy plastic grocery bags bulging with the fixings for a party.

He cracked a beer, lit a burner, and sliced an onion while the saucepan heated. The sizzle of the onions and the sweet smoke filling the kitchenette pleased him. He hadn’t smelled home cooking in a long while and couldn’t remember when he’d last used the stove. Probably in the Jennifer era, but everything about that relationship had gone blurry.

The ground beef was browning nicely when the doorbell rang. Nancy had an apple pie and a melting tub of frozen yogurt and looked relaxed in hip-hugger jeans and a short sleeveless blouse.

Will felt relaxed, and she noticed. His face was softer than usual, his jaw less clenched, his shoulders less rounded. He grinned at her.

“You look happy,” she said with some surprise.

He took the bag from her and spontaneously bent to deliver a peck on the cheek, the gesture taking both of them by surprise.

He quickly took a step back and she made a blushing recovery by sniffing at the spicy cumin and chili-pepper haze and making a joke about undiscovered culinary skills. While he stirred the saucepan, she set his table then called out, “Did you get her anything?”

He hesitated, his mind grinding on the question. “No,” he said finally. “Should I have?”

“Yes!”

“What?”

“How should I know! You’re her father.”

He went quiet, his mood turning sooty.

“Let me run out and get some flowers,” she offered.

“Thanks,” he said, nodding to himself. “She likes flowers.” It was a guess-he had a memory of a toddler with a bunch of freshly picked daisies in her chubby hand. “I’m sure she likes flowers.”

The past few weeks had been drudgery. The substance of the larger case against Luis Camacho eroded away, leaving only one count of murder. Hard as they pressed, they couldn’t make a single other Doomsday case stick to him; in fact, they couldn’t come close. They had painstakingly mapped him, reconstructing every day of his life for the past three months. Luis worked steadily and reliably, jetting back and forth to Las Vegas two to three times a week. He was mainly domesticated, spending most nights in New York at his lover’s house. But he also had the instincts of a tomcat, drifting to clubs and gay bars when his partner was tired or otherwise occupied, zealously pursuing liaisons. John Pepperdine was a low-energy monogamous sort, while Luis Camacho had sexual energy that burned like magnesium. There wasn’t any doubt that his fiery temper had led to murder, but John, it appeared, was his only victim.

And the killings had stopped: good news for everyone still drawing air, bad news for the investigation, which could only rehash the same tired clues. Then one day Will had a Eureka moment, of sorts. What if John Pepperdine had been the intended ninth victim of the Doomsday Killer but Luis Camacho had struck first in an ordinary crime of passion?

Maybe Luis’s Las Vegas connection was a classic red herring. What if the real Doomsday Killer was there on City Island that day, on the other side of the police tape, watching, bemused that someone else had committed the crime? Then, to bedevil the authorities, what if he had gone into hiatus, letting them stew, sowing the seeds of confusion and frustration?

Will obtained subpoenas for the news organizations that had been on Minnieford Avenue that warm bloody evening, and over the course of several days he and Nancy pored over hours of videotape and hundreds of digital images looking for another dark-skinned man of medium height and build who might have been lurking at the crime scene. They came up empty, but Will thought it was still a viable hypothesis.

Today’s celebration was a welcome respite from all that. Will dumped a box of Uncle Ben’s into boiling water and opened another beer. The doorbell rang again. He hoped it was Nancy with the flowers, and it was, but both she and Laura were there together, gabby and happy like girlfriends. Behind them stood a young man, tall, whippet-thin, with intelligent, darting eyes and a mound of curly brown hair.

Will grabbed the bouquet from his partner and sheepishly handed it to Laura. “Congratulations, kiddo.”

“You shouldn’t have,” Laura joked.

“I didn’t,” he said quickly.

“Dad, this is Greg.”

The two men checked out each other’s grip with handshakes.

“Pleased to meet you, sir.”

“Same here. Weren’t expecting you but I’m pleased to finally meet you, Greg.”

“He came for moral support,” Laura said. “He’s like that.”

She pecked her father’s cheek as she passed, put her bag down on the sofa and unzipped a side pocket. Triumphantly, she waved a contract from Elevation Press in the air. “Signed, sealed, delivered!”

“Can I call you a writer now?” Will asked.

A tear formed and she nodded.

He quickly turned away and retreated into the kitchenette. “Let me get the bubbly before you get all blubbery.”

Laura whispered to Nancy, “He so doesn’t like it when you get emotional.”

“I’ve noticed,” Nancy said.

Over steaming bowls of chili, Will toasted for the umpteenth time and seemed to take pleasure in the fact that all of them were swigging champagne. He fetched another bottle and continued to pour. Nancy mildly protested but let him continue until the froth overflowed and wet her fingers. “I almost never drink, but this is tasty,” she said.

“Everyone’s got to drink at this party,” Will said firmly. “You a drinking man, Greg?”

“In moderation.”

“I excessively drink in moderation,” Will joked, catching a sharp look from his daughter. “I thought journalists were big boozers.”

“We come in all stripes.”

“You going to come in the striped model that follows me around news conferences?”

“I want to do print journalism. Investigative reporting.”

Laura chimed in, “Greg believes that investigative journalism is the most effective way to tackle social and political problems.”

“Do you?” Will asked with a jab to his words. Sanctimony always raised his hackles.

“I do,” Greg replied, equally prickly.

“Okay, I now pronounce you…” Laura said lightly, to head off a problem.

Will pressed. “How’s the job landscape look for investigative journalism?”

“Not great. I’m doing an internship at the Washington Post. Obviously, I’d love to get a gig there. If you ever want to pass me a tip, here’s my card.” He was half kidding.

Will slipped it into his shirt pocket. “I used to date a gal at the Washington Post.” He snorted. “It wouldn’t help your chances to use me as a reference.”