Free A Good and Useful Hurt by Aric Davis Page B

everything will be fine, but on the inside you’re just outside of panicking. Doesn’t happen too often, but holy crap, what a rush when it does.”
    “You’re serious.”
    “Yeah, why?”
    “I just can’t imagine not being terrified if someone in my chair wouldn’t stop bleeding. Did you and Becky get any new clues as to what in the hell is going on with Lamar?”
    “That well is dry, I told you that. You’re his friend, and you need to get it out of him.”
    “That doesn’t seem very friendly.”
    “Are you done working? I want to get to bed.”
    Mike gave the sketch one more look and set down his pencil. “That’s the best idea I’ve heard all day.”

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
    The girl had blonde hair, perky tits, a taut ass, and a tattoo on her wrist. The tattoo was how he’d first spotted her, weeks before. He’d seen a pretty girl with a bandage on her wrist talking on a cell phone in front of a tattoo shop. And then, maddeningly, he’d lost her.
    But now he’d found her again. And no matter what, it was time. He wouldn’t lose her again.
    Phil watched her while he pretended to read a book in front of Starbucks. He wanted to mount, fuck, and kill her right here, in front of Starbucks, in front of everyone, but of course he knew that was impossible. Instead, he acted bored and blended in, a sheep, just like all the rest of them, but also a wolf.
    The girl across the patio drank the still steaming cup of coffee in just a couple of short gulps, checked the time on a cell phone, and walked to a bike lassoed with chain to a telephone pole. Phil, acting as bored as possible, checked his watch absentmindedly and dog-eared a page in the book. He walked to his truck, an eight-year-old Ford, the kind of vehicle that in Michigan was more than invisible. The girl rode off, headed north, and now it was time to take a risk.
    If he followed her immediately, someone was going to remember the tall guy from the coffee shop who drove off like a creep after the bitch with the nice tits left. On the other hand, if Phil got too cute, she’d be gone. He fired up the truck, and when he reached the first intersection, where she had gone straight, he took a left.
    Phil had played this game before, but never knowing so little about a victim. He always did research. The last bad death had enlivened him, though; he wanted this bitch, and he didn’t care about the risk. He took a right immediately following the left, spun another right at the next intersection, and then a left at the light back to the main drag. Phil craned his neck, looking for her. Unless she lived right over here or had gone in one of the other shops, she was going to be his. She appeared out of nowhere in front of a van, less than ten car lengths ahead of him. He let the truck keep pace with her, the wheel humming in his hands, nervous energy making his feet bounce off of the gas, brake, and clutch. He felt good for the first time in a long time, stalking this cunt like a hunter on safari. He was going to make up for last time, and any other time that hadn’t been perfect.
    She biked for about five miles, never noticing the silver pickup truck behind her, the anonymity of the vehicle helped by Phil’s willingness to slow down or speed up at random intervals, as well as to allow other vehicles to pass in front of him. When she finally held her arm out and turned left into a neighborhood full of old houses turned to apartments, Phil knew the hunt was almost over.
    The girl stopped the bicycle after two more right turns and about another mile of riding. Phil watched her chain the bike to a rack in front of the house—the slot she chose had a number 4 sign over it. He drove around the block, shut off the truck, and grabbed his tool kit from behind the passenger seat.
    The kit had a baseball cap—Go Tigers—a pair of benign aviator sunglasses, a bandanna, and a short length of hemp rope with a four-inch-long piece of half-inch-thick dowel rod on either side. He