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Apparently not.
He’s breathing like he just ran a marathon. And grinning.
Gideon’s six feet of mashed, quivering flesh.
“Shall we finish him?” I ask Carter.
“Nah.” His fierce grin is fixed on Gideon. “I want to sit here and watch the light fade from his eyes.”
Damn. He’s really got what it takes.
I look at the red, ruined thing that used to be Gideon, and try to summon up joy, triumph, satisfaction. Instead, a great weariness washes over me.
“I’m going to sleep,” I tell him. There’s a cot in the corner, and I collapse onto it and am asleep within seconds.
I wake up on my feet, looking around wildly. Carter is standing there, gun pointed at my head.
“What the fuck?” I yell.
He narrows his eyes, gun still pointed at me. “You were screaming you were going to kill everyone.”
I shake my head, and fuzzy images of my father swim in front of my eyes. I blink and shake my head. “Sorry,” I mutter.
“We good?”
“Yeah, I’m fine.” I blink hard again and look around the room. It stinks of bleach. Gideon is gone, and the table and floor are so clean they gleam. Carter has showered and is wearing jeans and a sweater. He looks ten years younger.
He shrugs and lowers the gun, tucking it back in its holster.
I actually feel better than I have in a while, physically anyway. I’m not exhausted and I’m not hungover. “How long was I asleep?”
“Ten hours.”
“Damn. What did you do with Gideon?”
“Fed him into the incinerator. He wasn’t quite dead when I put him in. Now he is.” Carter has got a predator’s grin curving his lips. Damn. When he went dark, he went all the way.
My head’s still foggy. “I’m going to take a shower,” I mutter, and I leave Carter to go upstairs.
The cabin is warm; Carter kept the wood stove fed.
When I’m done with my shower, Carter has cooked breakfast, and I sit down at the table and eat powdered scrambled eggs and warmed-up freeze-dried bacon.
He sits down across from me, drinking black coffee. “After this, I want to grab Peter Brown. Unless you’ve got someone you want to take care of first.”
I take a big swig of coffee from the mug next to my plate, scowling at him. “What did you just say?”
He shrugs. “It’s only fair. We can take turns. After my wife’s boss, I’ve got a whole long list of shitheels who got away with too much and are walking around wasting oxygen they don’t deserve.”
“No, no, no.” I shake my head vigorously. “This was a one-time thing. Well, if you want to take out your wife’s boss, a two-time thing. That’s all I promised you. Then we’re done.”
“Done?” I think he actually looks kind of hurt. “Why?”
Because what part of “fucked-in-the-head serial killer” do you not understand?
I can’t spend time with anyone without wanting to kill them. Except Tamara. And look how well that ended.
It ended.
