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“That’s not how it is,” Savannah said sharply.
“Don’t you see? It’s him! It’s him. Was your sister sexually involved with him? That was Mary’s downfall, and in her son it could be worse. It would be worse. I’ve had feelings about it. He casts a spell, just like Mary did, only it’s a thousand times worse!”
I asked Hale earlier if he believed in sorcery. . . .
Savannah felt a pounding in her head. Like hoofbeats clattering across her brain. “I’ve got to go, Catherine. I’ve got a baby to take care of,” she murmured. She suddenly wanted to scoop up that little boy and hold him close.
“Running away won’t stop him,” Catherine said, the words singeing Savvy’s ears as she stumbled blindly out of the room. “When you want to do something, come to Siren Song. I’ll be there. I’ll help you. . . .”
He was escalating. He got that. The thrills weren’t as high, and he didn’t want to wait as long between kills. In the back of his head he knew he was really in trouble, because his kills had been working out to more than one a day, what with Garth and Tammie, and then Kristina, and now DeWitt, and hopefully, tonight that bastard at Bancroft Bluff who’d talked to him about the detective with such interest, kept bringing her up almost like he’d been digging at Charlie. Almost like he knew.
He was going to have to take care of that fucker tonight, kill ratio or no.
He drew down his ski mask until his eyes were all that was visible. The weather was complying. Goddamn terrible storm made it okay to bundle up like a robber. Ha.
He looked around the tiny studio apartment that he’d called home since he left the coast. Squalor. Damn near a cell. But he never cared. Sleep, rest, a warm and happy home . . . no, that wasn’t Charlie’s fate or future. He was destined to roam the world, to keep moving or die, like a shark.
He knew where the asshole was. Like Dimwit, he habituated the same kind of tired dives, rarely moving outside a range of three or four. There was no work on Sundays, as a rule, but that wouldn’t keep his prey from hitting his favorite happy hours.
Charlie spotted him at the second place he stopped in: Bernadette’s. Just Bernie’s if you were one of the regulars. Big fuckin’ deal. Sometimes it almost hurt that there were such losers in this world.
He pulled up his ski mask when he walked in. Otherwise he’d be too memorable later, after the fucker was a corpse and the stupid police started sniffing at his trail. Still, his hair was covered and ski masks were the attire du jour in this dead-end place. Yep, it was all good, so he sidled right up to his prey and sat down on a nearby bar stool.
“Hey,” the man said, looking up from a game of pool. Charlie took note of the cue still in the asshole’s hand and threw on a full-wattage smile.
“Man, this weather, huh? I wasn’t gonna stay inside like those pussies who won’t drive in this shit,” Charlie said.
“You got that right.” The man sounded kinda relieved as he leaned over the cue ball and took aim.
Did he scare people that much? Charlie wondered. Was he changing somehow? In some indefinable way? He’d always been able to pull off the Good Time Charlie persona, but something was different here somehow. . . .
“So, what are you doing here?” the man asked casually, sighting down the cue.
Was that a flutter of fear Charlie was sensing? His grin widened as he answered, “Oh, just thought you might be here on a Sunday night. Maybe there’ll be another storm and there won’t be work tomorrow.”
“Supposed to be clear.” He pushed the cue hard and smacked the cue ball into the fifteen, which careened off the eight, sending the solid black ball into the pocket.
“Too bad,” Charlie observed.
“Yeah.” He dropped the cue stick on the table with more force than necessary, disgusted.
“Let me buy ya a beer.”
He glared at Charlie belligerently. “Yeah? What the fuck are you doing? Huh? This ain’t no casual drop-in, buddy. I’m not buying it for a minute. I got a woman waiting for me. I don?
??t need this shit. I don’t know what your deal is, but I’m out.”
“Whoa.” Charlie lifted his hands in surrender. Inside he was grinning and grinning. Couldn’t stop himself.
With that, his target grabbed up his ski jacket, shrugged into it, and stomped toward the door.
The man he’d been playing against observed, “Poor loser.”
Charlie didn’t engage with him. Didn’t want to be remembered that well. He followed his prey leisurely toward the door and watched him get into his truck, spin out in the slushy snow of the parking lot, then chink, chink, chink away, his chains biting down to the pavement.
Pulling down his ski mask, Charlie got in his own vehicle and followed. He knew where the guy was going. He would just have to lie in wait . . . and maybe he’d get a twofer. The asshole and his woman.
His cock stirred, and he thought of the detective. She was climbing up Charlie’s top ten hit list. Actually, she’d just leapt over Pops.
