Free Purgatory by Ken Bruen Page B

doubt?
    Until
    The second fire and the death of an elderly teacher. And this time, blamed the teacher, and a candle! So was Dolan now out of the real estate biz?
    Nope.
    But he was about to be retired.
    Permanently.
    C33 had settled in an armchair, fixed a gin and tonic, might as well get comfortable. Had gone to a lot of grief to find the old model .45. Almost like a western one. Took the six bullets, which C33 had modified to a DIY hollow point. The barrel spun nicely, almost cinematically, and, better, had a resounding click. The drink was sliding down nicely when Dolan arrived home.
    A shot just past his left shoulder convinced him this was no joke. C33 asked,
    “Any idea why I’m here?”
    Dolan, shaken to his core, shook his head, and C33 offered,
    “Want a drink? Chill?”
    No.
    C33 waved the gun toward the bookshelves, frowned, asked,
    “The Jane Austen shit. I mean, seriously?”
    Dolan looked around his own room, seeing his bookshelves as if they were a recent addition, he muttered,
    “You’re pointing a gun at me because of my taste in books?”
    C33 loved this, might even have felt a pang about having to waste the dude. Said,
    “Excuse my misquoting Plath, but,
    Paused,
    “ I kill because it because it makes me thrill
    I kill because it fits .”
    Laughed.
    “Indeed, it does truly make me feel real.”
    Dolan tried to get a handle on the complete lunatic in his home, wondered if there was a window to do something, heard,
    “No, bad idea. I’d shoot you in the gut, belly shot. The torment of the fucking ferociously damned as the Celts might put it.”
    Dolan veered, tried,
    “That drink?”
    C33 was up, displaying an agility, lightness of foot, that showed a vibrant fitness, said,
    “Let me do the honors.”
    Did.
    Handed the drink to Dolan, the .45 loosely dangling like the ultimate lethal tease, then, too late, C33 was back in the chair, said,
    “Here’s the game, fellah.”
    And in one swift moment raised the barrel of the gun, put it against the right side of the temple.
    And
    Pulled the trigger.
    Hammer hit on empty, and
    C33
    Blew
    “Phew.”
    Dolan’s mind careened from fear through shock to disbelief and he whispered,
    “The fuck are you doing?”
    C33 smiled, even managed to feign sheepishness, said,
    “Thought I might lighten the load and act like you’re not the scum you are.”
    Dolan, again speechless, then tried,
    “Scum?”
    C33 drained the gin, burped, said,
    “Whoops, excuse me, where were we? Oh, yeah, you being an arsonist who rents firetraps to those who’ve no choice, I figured you’d enjoy Russian roulette, seeing as you’ve been doing it to your tenants for years so, in the light of fair play, I went first and now it’s your turn.”
    Handed over the gun but Dolan, wary, didn’t take it. C33 made a sad face, said,
    “Ah, c’mon, here . . .”
    Spun the chamber.
    “Now, you’ve an even better . . . shall we say . . . shot?”
    Dolan lunged for the gun, grasped it in both hands, leveled it at C33, said,
    “You psycho bollix, play this.”
    Squeezed.
    And squeezed.
    Nothing
    Nada
    Zilch.
    C33 said,
    “I lied.”
    Unity,
    Thought Stewart.
    What is the one unifying factor tying the four C33 killings? Had to be something, if they were random, then fookit. He had converted his living room into, almost, an incident room. And he was thus immersed when Ridge called around. She’d brought old-fashioned lemonade and handmade scones from Griffin’s Bakery. She also brought a hangover and a book.
    Handed it to Stewart.
    Days and Nights at Garavan’s.
    He looked at her face, asked,
    “You were on the razz?”
    She gave a bleak smile, said,
    “If you mean, did I down some vodkas and slim-line tonic, then, yes.”
    Then a memory surfaced, she said,
    “Oh, and I was talking to the young Garavan heir and he introduced me to Morgan O’Doherty, who wrote said book.”
    Stewart wanted to roar.
    “And I give a fuck, why?”
    Way too close to a Taylor line. She stared at the