to the Charm she had her own talents, and there were even moments when she shined. This was one of those talents; this was one of those moments.
Kaley tried retreating, but her two bodies remained stubbornly locked where they were—one on the bus, the other in the basement. However, the one in the basement had a stronger connection to that mind of meddle. And whether she liked it or not, she was floating towards it, completely against her will. The way the eye couldn’t just stare at one spot on the wall for too long before drifting to the left or to the right, especially when something familiar had sprung into the field of vision.
It couldn’t be help ed.
“Kaley, get outta there!”
“What’re you talkin’ about, Stinky?” asked Nancy Boyle.
Drifting upwards, upwards, upwards…
Spencer stood there a moment, watching the blood as it came spilling out of the hole in Zakhar Ogorodnikov’s skull. It was interesting how every wound and blood spatter could be so different. It all depended on how the bullet entered, if it flattened out enough and expanded before exiting the head—because that would push the brains to the far side of the skull and create a greater explosion—or if it simply zipped on through and came out as sharp as it had entered. It also depended on where on the skull the bullet entered: if the bullet went through the top of the head and came out the bottom, a happy little stream of blood flowed quickly and continuously until all the blood was exhausted, whereas an exit wound out the top of the head typically put clumps of brain matter everywhere, and a slow-moving dark pool would march across the floor.
Zakhar Ogorodnikov’s brains—the parts of him that held opinions and synthesized reality—had been pushed out the front of his face, onto the far wall, a bit on the kitchen table, and mostly onto the floor. Here was a piece of his thoughts on capitalism, sliding slowly down the leg of the kitchen table. Over there was a portion of, perhaps, his memory of his first time jerking off. When Spencer finally stepped over the body, he couldn’t help but to step on some of that matter—perhaps he was crushing his knowledge of Euclidean geometry underfoot?
“You don’t really want any more from me,” he sang just above a whisper. “The love we share, seems to go nowhere…now I’ve lost my light. For I toss and turn, I can’t sleep at night.”
Spencer tucked the Glock back inside his jacket, and Zakhar’s Colt, he tucked it in his waistline. He went to the kitchen, flipped off the radio, which was some Russian weather station. The kettle was whistling, louder and louder. He lifted a small towel from the countertop, then removed the kettle and took it off the eye. He spent a moment searching for the tea bags. There was as shuffling noise behind him. When he looked, Zakhar’s left leg was twitching, shifting, occasionally jumping. “Got that restless leg syndrome, I see, huh, Zakhar?” He shook his head worrisomely. “You need to start stretchin’ more, immediately after you get outta bed. Or, ya know, I hear iron supplements will help fix that.”
Zakhar’s leg jumped again.
“Yeah, I know. A little too late for that advice, right? Well, it’s like I told an old girlfriend when she said she was late on her period: ‘Better late than never.’” Spencer finished mixing the tea and poured himself a cup. While sipping at it, he walked to the hallway, stepping on Zakhar’s thoughts on the works of Dostoyevsky, nearly slipping in his opinion of French culture, and continued on until he made it to the bedroom.
The armoire did indeed have a drawer filled with some clutter and a steel briefcase beneath all of that clutter. There was no lock on it, and why should there be? If someone got this far into his operations, and found out what kind of hobbies occupied his time, a locked briefcase wasn’t going to stop