Run for Your Life - James Patterson [51]
“Not even close, French fry,” he said, watching the worthless hedonist bounce face-first off the sidewalk.
He knelt beside the fallen man and pulled his hair back from his forehead. With his teeth, the Teacher uncapped a Sharpie and began to write.
Chapter 50
AS THE TEACHER HEADED BACK into his building, the last thing in the world he expected was the small, attractive blond woman who rose up furiously from the outside steps.
“I finally found you, you son of a bitch!” she screamed.
Holy crap! the Teacher thought, panicked. It was his publicist, from his former life—the life he’d abruptly abandoned when he’d started on his mission two days ago.
“Wendy,” he said soothingly. “I’ve been meaning to get back to you.”
“How gallant of you,” she fumed. “Considering I called you thirty-six fucking times. Nobody no-shows the Today show! You’ve ruined yourself! Worse, you’ve ruined me!”
He glanced around nervously. Standing out here arguing wasn’t cool. If somebody hadn’t already discovered the dead Frenchman, they would any second now.
But then he realized that she was falling-down drunk, with bloodshot eyes and a smell like a brewery. A plan snapped into his mind. Perfect.
“I can do better than explain, Wendy,” he said, with his most charming smile. “I’ll make it up to you, ten times over. Got an e-mail that’s going to blow your doors off.”
“Make it up to me? How are you going to un-demolish my business? You know how hard I worked to get you booked? At this level, you don’t get a second chance. Now I’m over.”
“I’m talking Hollywood, baby. I just heard from the Tonight Show,” he lied. “Leno’s hot to have me on. It’s going to fix everything, Wendy. I promise. Hey, come on upstairs with me. I’ll cook you breakfast. You loved it when I did that last time, right? How about some fresh Belgian waffles?”
She turned away from him, trying to remain angry. But she failed, and started slurring out words in drunken honesty.
“You don’t know how much I missed you. After that night we had, and then you didn’t call me, and?—”
The Teacher put his finger to her lips. After a few more seconds of resistance, she nibbled his first knuckle.
“We’ll have a better time tonight,” he said. “If you’re really good—or should I say, really bad?—I’ll even warm the syrup,” he said, deepening his killer smile.
Finally, she smiled back. She removed a compact from her purse and touched up her hair and makeup. Then she took his hand and walked upstairs with him to the apartment.
Inside, he locked the door behind them.
“What’s it going to be first?” he said. “Food or e-mail?”
“I want to see that e-mail. Are you kidding?” she said, kicking off her high heels excitedly. “I can’t wait!”
“It’s in here. Follow me.”
As they walked through the spare room doorway, her gaze flicked across the corpse on the bed. She took two more steps before she stiffened and spun back to stare at it, abruptly seeming sober.
“Oh, my God!” she breathed. “What is that? What’s going on here? I don’t understand.”
Unceremoniously, the Teacher shot her in the back of the head with the silenced .22. Then he dragged her into the hall closet, dumped her Manolo Blahniks on top of her, and shut the door.
“Yeah, well,” he said, wiping his hands. “It’s a long story.”
When he fell back into his bed, his eyelids suddenly felt like manhole covers, and his breathing slowed to its usual peaceful rhythm.
Who needs warm milk? he thought as he softly faded into sleep.
Chapter 51
WHEN MY CELL PHONE WENT OFF, it took me a second to distinguish the sound above the constant hacking of the Bennett sick ward. I groped for it in a stupor, noting that the time was just after three a.m. For all my big hopes, I’d gotten maybe ten minutes of real sleep.
“Yeah, Mike, Beth Peters here. Sorry to wake you, but we just got word. A fashion photographer, shot dead on a sidewalk in Hell’s Kitchen. Looks like you-know-who.”
“I’m just waiting for my chance to send you-know-who to you-know-where