Free The Unquiet-CP-6 by John Connolly Page A

him would evaporate, and the situation would deteriorate before I had even begun to understand its nature. I had an image of this man burning himself, and the apparent ease with which he had done it. It suggested an individual who had a considerable tolerance for pain, and such tolerance was usually hard-earned. A face-to-face with him would have to be delicately handled. A Grand Cherokee turned down Park, an archetypal soccer mom at the wheel, and as it passed I slipped behind it and approached the Ford from the driver’s side. I could make out the outline of his quiff and the folds of muscle at the back of his neck as he sat at the wheel, fumes already emerging from the exhaust. His hands rested on the steering wheel, the fingers of the left tapping a rhythm upon the plastic. The right hand was roughly bandaged. Bloodstains showed through the fabric. At last, I let him see me approach. I kept my arms out and my fingers splayed slightly, but I was ready to scuttle for cover if his hands left the wheel. The problem for me was that once I got close enough to talk to him, there would be nowhere for me to run. I was relying on the fact that there were people around and the hope that he would see no percentage in reacting with hostility until he heard what I had to say.
    “How you doing?” I said.
    He peered lazily at me, as though it were all that he could do just to rouse himself enough to respond. He had another cigarette between his lips, and a blue pack of American Spirit rested on top of the dashboard in front of him.
    “Fine,” he said. “Just fine.”
    He raised his right hand to his mouth, drawing on the cigarette so that the tip glowed brightly. He looked away from me and stared through the windshield.
    “Thought someone was paying me mind,” he said. “I see you got a gun.”
    The bulge of the .38 was barely visible beneath my jacket, unless someone knew what he was looking for.
    “Can’t be too careful,” I said.
    “You don’t need to worry about me. I don’t carry a gun. I got no call for one.”
    “I guess you’re just a gentle soul.”
    “Nah, I can’t claim that. The woman hire you?”
    “She’s concerned.”
    “She has no cause to be. If she tells me what I want to know, I’ll be on my way.”
    “And if she doesn’t, or if she can’t?”
    “Well, that’s two different things, ain’t it? One can’t be helped, and one can.”
    His fingers shifted from the wheel. Instantly, I was reaching for the gun at my waist.
    “Whoa, whoa!” he said. He held his hands up in mock surrender. “I done told you, I got no gun.”
    I kept my hand close to the butt of the pistol. “I’d still prefer it if your hands stayed where I can see them.”
    He shrugged exaggeratedly, then allowed his palms to rest against the top of the wheel.
    “Do you have a name?” I asked.
    “I have lots of names.”
    “That’s very mysterious of you. Try one and see how it fits.”
    He seemed to give the issue some thought.
    “Merrick,” he said at last, and something in his face and his voice told me that this was as much as I was likely to get from him where names were concerned.
    “Why are you bothering Rebecca Clay?”
    “I ain’t bothering her. I just want her to be straight with me.”
    “About what?”
    “About her father.”
    “Her father’s dead.”
    “He ain’t dead. She got him declared dead, but that don’t mean nothing. You show me the worms crawling in the sockets of his eyes, then I’ll believe he’s dead.”
    “Why are you so interested in him?”
    “I got my reasons.”
    “Try sharing them.”
    His fingers tightened on the wheel. There was a small India-ink tattoo on the knuckle of his left middle finger. It was a crude blue cross, a jailhouse tattoo.
    “I don’t think so. I don’t like strangers questioning me about my business.”
    “Well, then you’ll know just how Ms. Clay feels.”
    His teeth worried at the inside of his lower lip. He kept his gaze fixed straight ahead. I