Terrorbyte Read Free Page A

tell him to get over it.
    â€œI don’t want to do this either.” That was the truest thing I’d said all afternoon. You do what you have to do.
    He looked up. “Then let’s not; let’s turn off the phone, lock the door and stay home.”
    That’s not going to happen. “Barring our deaths, we have to attend.”
    â€œDon’t tempt me like that.”
    â€œMac, we’re going, everything is going to be fine.” It was a white lie for a good cause.
    He shook his head. “No, it will be dreadful … I will make an ass of myself.” He sighed a long, theatrical sigh. “And it will be embarrassing as hell.”
    Speculating that it might well be, I injected a smile into my voice and said, “First, let’s just get there and do the mix and mingle thing, sign a few books, have dinner … I’ll read a few poems, you feign illness and we’ll leave.”
    I kept my fingers crossed that what I was actually thinking wouldn’t pop out of my mouth: Suck it up, princess!
    There are worse things in life than speaking into a microphone in front of a crowd of people. I couldn’t think of any, offhand, but I knew there were worse things.
    Then it dawned on me, the smell of the dead guy was worse. I wanted to scream, ‘I shot someone today.’ But I sucked it up and moved on. There was no sense in letting that scumbag ruin my night, not with Mac so keen on doing the same.
    â€œOh, I won’t be faking the illness and remember, you’re a sympathetic vomiter.”
    It took vast amounts of willpower to hold myself in check. I knew he had a genuine phobia of microphones but, man, he was standing on my last nerve.
    Mac must’ve realized how close I was to biting off his head. He smiled suddenly and asked, “Afterwards, can we string up your brother and that no-good-best-friend of yours for publishing this fuc’n thing?”
    â€œGood – progress! At least you’re coming with me now.” I grinned. “Stringing up my brother sounds like a plan.”
    Mac’s eyes were on me and I seriously considered making a call to Caine to have Mac escorted. I sensed his intention to back out at the last minute.
    â€œWhat time does this fresh hell kick off?”
    â€œA car will pick us up at seven-thirty.”
    â€œA car,” he said, barely above a whisper. “They’re sending a car?”
    â€œYeah.”
    Mac frowned as he read something on the computer monitor. It made me uneasy seeing his brow crease like that. My reaction was a hangover from the past, which didn’t help allay the feeling of foreboding. Experience told me this particular expression usually foretold an exclamation of horror, followed by a dead body.
    I swallowed hard. I knew it would take some getting over. I told myself that the killer sits on death row, that Mac was simply frowning. The Son of Shakespeare was a memory and not my reality anymore. Unfortunately the memory of him lay intertwined with our poetry book; I doubted I’d ever escape that. My idiot brother, Aidan, had compiled the book during that case and it contained the first poem Mac ever wrote for me, the one the Son of Shakespeare stole and used.
    No wonder I had a killer on my mind.
    Our front doorbell buzzed. I started to walk in the direction of the hallway when Mac leapt over his desk to head me off. My hand shot out and fingers wrapped themselves in his shirt as he attempted to pass. He came to an abrupt stop.
    â€œI’m not letting you out that door,” I said, twisting the fabric in my hand.
    â€œI’m just answering it,” he said indignantly, attempting to brush my hand away.
    And I came down in the last rain shower.
    â€œYou arranged this,” I accused.
    â€œI did not,” he scoffed.
    The person who’d been ringing the doorbell began knocking loudly. I reached the door one step in front of Mac.
    â€œLet me,” I insisted,