Free Killer by Stephen Carpenter Page A

well talk about my fee. I have one investigator on this full-time already, as well as me. It could get expensive real fast.”
    “I understand.”
    “I need twenty thousand just to start.”
    “Just let Joel know. He can arrange whatever you need with my accountant.”
    “So it’s not about the money, then,” she says.
    “What isn’t?”
    “Your reluctance to talk to my forensic shrink.”
    “No, it’s not about the money. I just don’t want to go there unless I have to.”
    “You may have to.”
    “Let me know when that time comes,” I say.
    “It may come sooner than later, unless we get lucky. By the way, does the name Gregory Dontis mean anything to you?”
    “No. Who is he?”
    “He was your editor’s assistant when Arnie Brandt first sent your manuscript to Terrapin Publishing.”
    “What about him?”
    “He’s the only one who read your original manuscript that we haven’t located. He’s also the only one with a criminal record.”
    “What’d he do?”
    “Assault with a deadly weapon, six years ago.”
    “Sounds pretty serious.”
    “It could mean he threatened somebody with a cocktail umbrella, for all we know. The case was pleaded down to a misdemeanor. We’re waiting on the paperwork.”
    “You work fast,” I say, impressed. “That’s a lot of information in a day and a half.”
    “You should see me during a trial,” she says.
    “I hope I never do.”
    After I hang up I pour myself a cup of coffee and sit at the kitchen table and wonder why I don’t want to talk to the shrink. I think of the low voice I heard at Temescal Canyon and wonder if it’s because I’m afraid that I am going crazy.
    No, not crazy. I don’t want to talk to the shrink because I don’t want to remember anything. People always talk about how hard it can be to remember things—where they left their keys, or the name of an acquaintance—but no one ever talks about how much effort we put into forgetting. I am exhausted from the effort to forget. To forget the sunny afternoon in San Gabriel, of course, but it’s more than that. The thought of sitting with a shrink, delving into my childhood memories, of which there are virtually none, fills me with dread. Who knows what would be dredged up? There are things that have to be forgotten if you want to go on living.
    My coffee is cool enough to drink now and I take a sip. I feel a chill in the room and I turn and see that the kitchen door is standing wide open.

    CHAPTER THIRTEEN

    I can understand forgetting to lock the back door, but forgetting to close it?Especially since I don’t remember checking it last night before going to bed. Which means the last time I checked the door would have been before I left for Los Angeles. And I certainly wouldn’t have left it standing wide open when I was on my way out of town.
    Would I?
    It was awfully cold in here when I got home last night…
    I examine the door. Nothing broken or scratched. The lock works, and it doesn’t have any of the telltale tiny scratches around the keyhole from being picked. But I’m not a locksmith, what the hell do I know?
    Do crazy people know it when they start to go crazy?
    Of course not, that’s what makes them crazy.
    Right?
    Enough of this bullshit. I close the kitchen door and lock the deadbolt and drink my coffee and rinse the dishes and put them in the dishwasher. I go put on a pair of jeans which are stained with tiny spots of oil I put in my two-stroke chainsaw engine. I pull on a Cal State sweatshirt that is so old the lettering has flaked off completely, leaving it far more comfortable. Then I put on wool socks and a pair of Vans and now I can go to work. Work will solve everything. And work goes better if you put on pants and a shirt. And shoes make all the difference. Show me a barefoot writer and I’ll show you a rank amateur.
    Ten minutes later I’m at my desk, waiting for my computer to boot. My screen comes to life and I open the file that contains the fourth book,