Don't Look Now Read Free Page B

retainer wall at the rear of the motel’s property. Nothing. Nothing
moving
. A few fifty-gallon drums, a couple of chained-down picnic tables, the remains of an old cast-iron barbecue.
    If I had a brain, Paris thought, I’d pack this in until morning.
    He glanced at his watch. It
was
morning. He clicked off his flashlight and—
    The sound came from directly behind him. The sound of heavy boots on broken glass. Paris turned quickly, but the tall man in the Irish walking-hat was already upon him. He grabbed Paris by the hair and ran his straight razor across his throat.
    ‘You wanted to fuck her too, didn’t you?’ the man said, his voice gravelly and wet. ‘Admit it, Jack.’
    At first, Paris thought the man had pinched him – the contact seemed so light, so
minor
– but a scant moment later the blurt of bright red blood that slapped against the side of the rusted Dumpster told him all he needed to know.
    The man had severed his jugular vein.
    Paris fell to his knees and screamed.
    The man came at him again, swinging the razor in broad, muscular arcs, striking Paris’s face and chest, chopping away the flesh in burger-sized chunks. For Paris, the pain soon coalesced into an excruciating red knife in the center of his brain.
    He screamed again.
    Soon, in his mind, his scream became a brain-rattling bell and the bell became the telephone and it was the phone, not the sunlight or his pounding skull or his fear, that brought him raging back to consciousness.
    It rang again.
Screamed
again.
    Paris looked around, terrified and disoriented, clutching at his neck. He was in his apartment and it was at least noon. He sat up, grabbed the receiver – his heart still racing furiously, his head a violent echo chamber – and brought it to his ear.
    ‘Daddy,’ the young voice said. ‘I
knew
you’d still be there.’
    Paris tried to speak, but his mouth was thick with wool.
    ‘Dad-eeeeeeeee!’
    It was Melissa, his daughter. And
man
did she sound pissed. ‘What’s the matter, sweetie?’ Paris sat up, assaulted by the noonday sun streaming through the high jalousie windows. He had to get some fucking
drapes
.
    ‘You were supposed to be here already,’ she said, clearly on the verge of tears.
    ‘Wait, sweetie,’ Paris said. ‘Wait for Daddy one second. I’ll be right back. Don’t hang up, okay?’
    Not a word.
    ‘Missy?’
    ‘All right.’ Her voice sounded so small, so betrayed, that Paris’s heart clogged with shame. He ran to the bathroom, barking his shin on the coffee table en route, and doused his entire head with ice-cold, rusty water. He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror on the way out and was nearly frightened by the look of the jowly, red-eyed man staring back.
    And then he remembered.
    Today was his birthday.
    He glanced into the kitchen and tried to determine if he could at least get the water on the heat before his daughter disowned him right there on the phone. But he decided that the instant coffee would have to wait. He stumbled back to the couch, the quarter-bottle of Windsor staring up at him in mockery.
    ‘Sweetie?’
    ‘Yes, Daddy.’ This was a very, very solemn Melissa Adelaide Paris.
    ‘Where was Daddy supposed to be, honey?’
    ‘
The Olive Garden
,’ they said in unison.
    And then everything came flooding back at once. Melissa had saved her money for six months to take her father out to lunch on his birthday at the Olive Garden restaurant on Chagrin Boulevard. Beth had even called to remind him about it three days earlier. The plan was for Beth to drop Melissa off at the restaurant, and for Paris to take her home.
    Paris was going to try and explain everything to Melissa, but the woes of an overworked, boozy Cleveland homicide detective didn’t carry much weight these days, especially with slightly cynical eleven-year-old girls. ‘What time is it now, sweetie?’
    ‘It’s, like, twelve-oh-five already.’
    ‘Daddy’s on his way, okay?’ Paris said, scrambling for his