Free Chosen Prey by John Sandford Page B

slender blonde, he thought, who might be interesting—moved on to politics.
    “Prison,” he said. An announcement. His career in ruins. They’d lead him out of the building in chains: He could see it in his mind’s eye, long rows of mocking former colleagues and their harridan wives, in a gantlet, and he’d walk down between them enduring their smirks and superior smiles. They would put him in denim shirts and jeans, with a number on his shirt, and he would be locked in a cell with some redneck who’d rape him.
    He thought of suicide—really, the only way out. Jumping, he thought. The feeling of flying, and then nothing at all. But he was afraid of heights. He didn’t even like to stand too close to a window.
    A gun. Tighten the finger, and nothing . . . But that’d be really messy, and would destroy the side of his head. Too much. Hanging himself, that was out: He’d suffer. He could imagine the pain, clawing at the rope at the last minute, trying to pull himself up. . . . No.
    Pills. Pills were a possibility if he had time to accumulate some. He could go to Randy. Randy could get as much as he needed, barbiturates. That’d be the way to go. Simply sleep, never to awake.
    A tear rolled down his cheek as he thought about his mother’s distress when his body was found. He dropped into the easy chair by the TV and closed his eyes, imagining it. And was suddenly touched by anger: The bitch wouldn’t miss him. She’d sell all his furniture, and the wine, and the carpets. She’d cash his life insurance, pathetic as it was, and she’d keep it all. He could see it plainly, as a vision: the inventory of his belonging, the clothes going into the trash—into the trash!—the furniture carried away on trucks and even pickups.
    Anger swelled in his heart, and he pushed himself out of the chair and paced back to the kitchen, sobbed. Pounded a fist into the other palm, then stuffed his knuckles into his mouth and bit until he felt the skin break. She’d take it as a victory: She’d outlasted him.
    Well, fuck her. Fuck her. He shouted it at the walls: “FUCK HER.”
    So what to do? He sat down again, stared at the box of Froot Loops. He’d enjoyed making his drawings and he’d known right from the start that he’d be in trouble if he were found out. So he’d been secretive. He still had some of the images stored on the computer at school, but he could get rid of them.
    He sighed, and calmed himself. Things weren’t completely out of control. Not yet. He’d have to get busy, get cleaned up, just in case.
    His mind skipped back to his mother: bitch. He couldn’t believe her pleasure at his suicide. Couldn’t believe it. There wasn’t any doubt about it: The clarity of his vision carried the unmistakable scent of the truth. They hadn’t had much to say to each other for five years, but she could show him enough loyalty to regret his passing.
    More tears gathered at the corners of his eyes. Nobody loved him. Not even Barstad—she just wanted the sex.
    “I’m alone,” he said. His hand hurt, and he looked down at his knuckles. They were bleeding, badly; how had that happened? He was bewildered by the blood and pain, but he could also feel the anger gathering. “I’m all alone.”

6
    T HE SKY WAS churning, but it was neither snowing nor raining when Lucas made it down to City Hall. He’d had too much coffee, and he stopped at the men’s room; Lester, the deputy chief for investigations, was facing into a urinal when Lucas stepped inside and parked next to him. “What do you think about the mayor?” Lester asked.
    “Gonna be some changes,” Lucas said.
    “Don’t see any way that Rose Marie’ll be reappointed,” Lester said gloomily. “I’ll probably get stuck out in the weeds somewhere.”
    “So quit, get a state job, and double-dip. Two pensions are better than one.”
    “I sort of like it here.” Lester shook a couple of times, zipped up and walked over to a sink, and turned on the water.