Free Parker 02 - The Guilty by Jason Pinter

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    to him.
    The people seemed to be negotiating. The man's voice
    was eager. A little too eager. The woman was talking slowly.
    The Boy could feel his blood begin to rise, his fingers
    grinding against the wood stock of the rifle. Those two
    outside, they had no idea how close they were to death, that
    the person less than ten feet away could snuff them out faster
    than it would take to exchange currency.
    But he couldn't. He had to get the rage out, let it dissipate.
    He couldn't end the rampage before it had barely begun. He
    was strong, powerful, had that blood running through his
    veins. The only thing that could stop him was stupidity.
    He heard her mention a dollar amount. The man said, "Oh
    hell, yes" loud enough for the grimy bastard at the front desk
    to hear it.
    "Told you I looked like her," he heard her say.
    "No doubt, you got an ass like Athena Paradis," he responded. That made the Boy smile. "Just...just let me call you
    Athena. Please, baby."
    She didn't say a word, but the moan of pleasure said it all.
    They unlocked a door, slipped inside and closed it. Five
    minutes later, the Boy felt his bed beginning to shake. He
    closed his eyes. Took a deep breath. Fixing this nuisance
    would be relatively easy and painless, but nothing positive
    could be gained from it. There were more important homes
    for his lead. He took a deep breath, then turned his gaze from
    the rifle to the magazine splayed out in front of him.
    He eyed the man whose photograph lay within its pages.
    He was portly, with graying hair that cascaded in waves past
    his ears, a gut reserved for men who'd lived their later years
    in a state of complacency rather than diligence. His half-78
    Jason Pinter
    cocked smile was one of condescension. His air was that of
    a royal walking among subjects who should consider themselves fortunate to lick the shit off his heels. He was one
    more battle for the Boy to win, boldly and violently.
    He knew the man's schedule, when he arrived, when he
    left, when he ordered lunch, when his secretary came home
    with him, when he'd grown tired of her and when his children
    were forced to visit. He knew the exact moment it would
    happen, knew where the security cameras were positioned
    and knew he would be gone right as the fear sank in.
    Athena Paradis was a masterstroke. He started the crusade
    by felling the biggest prize. The cop was a mistake, but
    looking into the man's background it was a mistake prompted
    by fate. The cop--Mauser--had shot Henry Parker last year,
    an innocent man. The same Henry Parker who wrote the
    quote the Boy had left up on that rooftop. He wondered how
    Parker felt, if, like the Boy, he was glad Mauser was dead.
    The Boy looked at the gun one last time, could picture the
    bullet crashing through a helpless skull, and went to sleep.
    14
    Paulina's telephone rang. She hesitated answering it, focusing instead on the morning edition of the Dispatch spread in
    front of her. Her hand gripped a red pencil. She was already
    worked up from having to explain to Bynes that a prank caller
    had impersonated her. That even though she thought Louis
    Carruthers was an idiot she wasn't stupid enough to spew a
    racist diatribe to a receptionist.
    She was making small notes in the margins, passages that
    could have read better, accusations that could have been a
    little more salacious without bordering on libel. The article
    on Joe Mauser's murder had been written by some hack in
    Metro. Paulina's piece on Athena was on page three. Mauser
    got page seven. In the kingdom of selling newspapers, heroic
    cops were cow shit compared to rich heiresses. Way it went,
    and Paulina didn't think twice.
    She looked at her caller ID, recognized the area code,
    figured if she didn't pick it up he'd just keep calling back. She
    picked it up.
    "What?"
    "Miss Cole, it's James."
    "Hi...James."
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    "Hi?" Hi as a question. As if the word would offend her.
    James Keach was a junior reporter at the Dispatch.