sleeping, but his skin had turned gray and flies went in and out between his lips. Nearby was the Dumpster I was going to dive, but I just got out of there, no more appetite. That night, I woke up really hungry, thinking I was stupid to let it get to me. He was old anyway.
When I get enough food, I’m full of energy. Super-fast. When I run, I feel jet-propelled—no gravity, no limits.
Sometimes I get into a running rhythm and it’s like a music beat in my head, ba-boom, ba-boom, like nothing can stop me. When that happens I
force
myself to slow down, because it’s dangerous to forget who you are.
I also slow down anytime I’m about to go into the park. Way in advance. I always look around to make sure no one’s watching me, then I head in, relaxed, like I live in one of the huge houses at the foot of the park.
One of the books Moron ripped up was by a French scientist named Jacques Cousteau, on octopus and squid. One chapter talked about how octopi can match their colors to their backgrounds. I’m no octopus, but I know how to blend in.
I take things, but that doesn’t make me a thief.
I found the same octopus book in the library, borrowed it, brought it back.
I took the presidents book and kept it.
But no one had checked it out for nine months; that’s what the card in back said.
Back in Watson the library was pathetic, just a store next to the VFW hall that nobody used, and it was mostly closed. The lady behind the desk always looked at me like I was going to take something, and the funny thing was I never was.
At the Hillhurst library, there’s also an old one, but she mostly stays in her office and the one who actually checks books out is young, pretty, and Mexican, with really long hair. She smiled at me once, but I ignored her and the smile dropped from her face like I’d torn it off.
I can’t get a library card because I have no address. My technique is I go in there looking like a kid from King Middle School with homework to do, sit down by myself at a table, and read and write for a while, usually math problems. Then I go back to the shelves.
I’ll return the presidents book one day.
Even if I kept it forever, no one would miss it. Probably.
An
advantage
of looking like a harmless little kid is sometimes you can go into a store and take stuff without being noticed. I know it’s a sin, but without food, you die, and suicide’s a sin too.
Also—people aren’t scared of kids, at least not white kids, so if you ask someone for spare change, the worst they usually do is shine you on. I mean, what are they going to say to me? Get a job, junior?
One thing I learned back in Watson: Make people nervous and you’re the one who gets hurt.
So maybe God helped me by making me small for my age. I would like to grow eventually, though.
Mom, before she got sadder, would sometimes hold me under the chin and say, “Look at this. Like an angel. A damn
cherub.
”
I
hated
that; it sounded so
gay.
Some of those kids being raped in the magazine looked like angels.
There’s no way to know what’s safe. I avoid all people, and the park’s perfect for that—4,100 acres of mostly peace and quiet.
Thank you, crazy Mr. Griffith.
The way he tried to kill his wife was by shooting her in the eye.
CHAPTER
4
In eight months, Petra had worked twenty-one
other homicides, some fairly sloppy. But nothing like this. Not even the Hernandez wedding.
This woman looked shredded. Washed in blood.
Dipped
in it, like fruit in chocolate. The front of her dress was a mass of gore, glossy gray tubes of entrail popping out from slashes in the fabric. Silky fabric, not great in terms of latents. The blood would be a good cover, too—try lifting anything from skin. Maybe the jewelry, if the killer had touched it.
She and Stu arrived in darkness, encountering grim faces, radio static, a blinking symphony of red lights. They took reports from the rangers who’d found the body, waited for sunrise to have a
When I get enough food, I’m full of energy. Super-fast. When I run, I feel jet-propelled—no gravity, no limits.
Sometimes I get into a running rhythm and it’s like a music beat in my head, ba-boom, ba-boom, like nothing can stop me. When that happens I
force
myself to slow down, because it’s dangerous to forget who you are.
I also slow down anytime I’m about to go into the park. Way in advance. I always look around to make sure no one’s watching me, then I head in, relaxed, like I live in one of the huge houses at the foot of the park.
One of the books Moron ripped up was by a French scientist named Jacques Cousteau, on octopus and squid. One chapter talked about how octopi can match their colors to their backgrounds. I’m no octopus, but I know how to blend in.
I take things, but that doesn’t make me a thief.
I found the same octopus book in the library, borrowed it, brought it back.
I took the presidents book and kept it.
But no one had checked it out for nine months; that’s what the card in back said.
Back in Watson the library was pathetic, just a store next to the VFW hall that nobody used, and it was mostly closed. The lady behind the desk always looked at me like I was going to take something, and the funny thing was I never was.
At the Hillhurst library, there’s also an old one, but she mostly stays in her office and the one who actually checks books out is young, pretty, and Mexican, with really long hair. She smiled at me once, but I ignored her and the smile dropped from her face like I’d torn it off.
I can’t get a library card because I have no address. My technique is I go in there looking like a kid from King Middle School with homework to do, sit down by myself at a table, and read and write for a while, usually math problems. Then I go back to the shelves.
I’ll return the presidents book one day.
Even if I kept it forever, no one would miss it. Probably.
An
advantage
of looking like a harmless little kid is sometimes you can go into a store and take stuff without being noticed. I know it’s a sin, but without food, you die, and suicide’s a sin too.
Also—people aren’t scared of kids, at least not white kids, so if you ask someone for spare change, the worst they usually do is shine you on. I mean, what are they going to say to me? Get a job, junior?
One thing I learned back in Watson: Make people nervous and you’re the one who gets hurt.
So maybe God helped me by making me small for my age. I would like to grow eventually, though.
Mom, before she got sadder, would sometimes hold me under the chin and say, “Look at this. Like an angel. A damn
cherub.
”
I
hated
that; it sounded so
gay.
Some of those kids being raped in the magazine looked like angels.
There’s no way to know what’s safe. I avoid all people, and the park’s perfect for that—4,100 acres of mostly peace and quiet.
Thank you, crazy Mr. Griffith.
The way he tried to kill his wife was by shooting her in the eye.
CHAPTER
4
In eight months, Petra had worked twenty-one
other homicides, some fairly sloppy. But nothing like this. Not even the Hernandez wedding.
This woman looked shredded. Washed in blood.
Dipped
in it, like fruit in chocolate. The front of her dress was a mass of gore, glossy gray tubes of entrail popping out from slashes in the fabric. Silky fabric, not great in terms of latents. The blood would be a good cover, too—try lifting anything from skin. Maybe the jewelry, if the killer had touched it.
She and Stu arrived in darkness, encountering grim faces, radio static, a blinking symphony of red lights. They took reports from the rangers who’d found the body, waited for sunrise to have a
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