Disturbance Read Free Page A

spend an evening at home. He had a game to begin.
    He got a hard-on just thinking about it.

THREE
    I dozed off just before the six o’clock news came on. I had caught about fifteen minutes of sleep before Nick Parrish’s name was mentioned by a talking head—that woke me up enough to do some math. Fifteen minutes of sleep in the last thirty-eight hours.
    Not good.
    I listened to Parrish’s surgeon, full of pride in his medical accomplishment. Parrish had jokingly told him he wanted to run a marathon. “Other than his incarceration, there is really no reason why he couldn’t do so one day,” the doctor said. He pointed to a diagram of a spine and indicated sites of injury, talked about the repair rate of nerves, and quoted statistics on central cord syndrome. I couldn’t stop myself from wishing that he had found some other—any other—paralyzed individual to be his miracle man.
    The newscast changed focus to the patient’s notoriety, and Nick Parrish’s face filled the screen. I aimed the remote at him and sent him off into television oblivion. If only it were so easy to ship him off to real oblivion.
    But in real life, Nick Parrish clearly wasn’t ready to sign off.

    Despite my lack of sleep on Monday, I was at my desk by eight Tuesday morning. The room was buzzing—apparently someone on the Moths’ blog had said that I’d soon be hearing from the friends of Nick Parrish, and that I’d recognize the message when I got it. The phone started ringing with interview requests. John asked me to write a follow-up exclusive for the
Express
but promised other outlets I’d be available the next day at a press conference. The paper had its own need for publicity. But at least I’d be spared one day of repeating empty phrases:
    “Yes, I heard his doctor say that Parrish wants to train for a marathon.”
    “No, I know he’s not getting out anytime soon.”
    “No, I don’t know what the Moths have in mind, and I’m really not too anxious to find out.”
    “No, I don’t think I would feel better talking it over, but thanks all the same.”
    I understood why John wanted the story and why I had to write it. What would have been a small item in other papers, one more bizarre note in the bizarre life of Nicholas Parrish, would take up most of the A section of the
Express.
Parrish had taken his victims from a number of communities, including several in other states, but no city had suffered as much horror at his hands as Las Piernas.
    Writing the story brought back more memories, of course. Of being hunted by Nick Parrish. Of bodies. Of bones. Of betrayals.
    It took me all day—most of that time spent staring at a blank computer screen, or fending off overly protective colleagues. After about the tenth “Are you okay?” I picked up my laptop and scouted the building. I found an empty desk in a place full of empty desks—our now almost vacant features department. But it was a sunny, airy room where I could hide out while I wrote, so I finished the story there.
    Just before I left, Lydia Ames offered to come over that evening. But Lydia was recently engaged, and I knew her life was crammed with wedding plans. My mood wasn’t exactly going to be a good match to hers in any case, so I told her not to worry. On the way home, I tried calling my therapist, the one who had helped me deal with my PTSD after my first experience with Parrish.
    She was on vacation. “Is this an emergency?” her answering service asked.
    “No,” I said quickly.
    Not yet.
    I could handle this.
    After forsaking the news, I distracted myself by watching old Marx Brothers films. When I’d reached my limit with that, I thought about playing games on my computer but knew that would only keep me wired. So instead I went through the newspapers in our recycling pile, pulled out the crossword puzzles, and took them to bed with me. Before long, I grew drowsy and dozed off.
    At one in the morning, I awoke again. I had heard a sound—a dull