Carnage: Short Story Read Free Page A

everybody’s big league, even when the sport was murder.
    It took a major leaguer to play this game. Quinn.
    “Renz figured you had experience with this kind of killer,” Helen said.
    “Renz wants to stay as far away from it as he can,” Pearl said. “If this guy keeps killing and brings his act to this city, copycat killer or not, the media will have a feeding frenzy.”
    “Let’s say the commissioner prefers to lead from behind on this one,” Helen said.
    Harold said, “That way you don’t get shot in the back.”
    “We’ve been in this position before,” Quinn said. “Renz has read it right. The killer and I are playing some kind of game, and he’s ahead.”
    “Or he’s dead,” Fedderman said. “Went someplace where he wouldn’t be found and blew his brains out. Guilt can do that to people.”
    “Not likely,” Sal said. “But possible.”
    “Even dead serial killers inspire followers,” Pearl said.
    “Especially dead ones,” Helen said. “Though I agree with Feds. It’s been awhile. It might very well be that D.O.A. is dead.”
    “If he is, we can only hope the bastard suffered,” Jodi said.
    She’s very much like Pearl, Quinn thought.
    She’s very much like Quinn, Pearl thought.
    “Copycat killer or the real thing,” Helen said, “it’s not going to make much difference to the public, or to the media wolves. You and a killer are in the same game.”
    Quinn wished they’d stop calling it a game.
    But he knew they were right. And what it would mean to lose.

5
    Patricia Angelina, D.O.A. thought, looked a lot like Tey Reminger. The only real difference was that Pat was now a redhead and Tey a blonde. But in a certain light Pat could have passed for a blonde.
    Which was why he’d selected her. That, and she had simply struck him as the right victim. There was about some women a secret yearning for what Pat was going to receive. His gift to her. He could read that in a woman, and was seldom wrong.
    He had first seen her in a souvenir shop across the street from the public beach. She was wearing a white terrycloth sun shawl, open at the front so that it provided glimpses of cleavage and a tan, taut body. Her rubber sandals made a flopping sound on the shop’s plank floor as she moved toward a display of conch shells that had been made into phones. She was aware of the killer watching her; he was sure of that. He casually moved to the opposite side of the conch-phone display.
    She made it a point not to look at him, but pretended keen interest in the phones.
    “Cute,” he said.
    “I wonder what the previous occupant would have thought,” she said, holding up a gray-and-brown-colored shell phone.
    “I wasn’t talking about the phones,” he said.
    She met his direct approach with a smile, and he knew he was in.
    “Are you serious about these phones?” he asked.
    “Sure. Someone might call while I’m surfing.”
    He feigned interest. “You surf?”
    “No.”
    “You jest.”
    “Yes. Anyway, it’s illegal to surf and text.” She gave him a sideways glance, showing him she was amused by him, by herself. She was enjoying this.
    “Illegal bother you?” he asked.
    “When sharks are around.” She smiled. “You thinking of stealing a conch phone?”
    “No. I’m a dolphin.”
    “I kissed a dolphin once.”
    “What happened?”
    “It kissed me back.”
    “Smart fish. I thought I might buy you one.”
    “A dolphin?”
    “A conch phone.”
    “Why?”
    “So you’d feel obligated to have lunch with me.”
    The smile stayed, and something happened in her eyes. Something decisive. “Pretty expensive lunch,” she said.
    “You’re well worth it.”
    “My husband thinks so,” she said. Toying with him. He knew she was unmarried. Knew in fact that she’d recently broken off a relationship with a dorky-looking guy named Art who fancied himself a sculptor. Facebook research again. They laid their hearts out there, and then were surprised that you knew so much about them.