Free Diabolical by Hank Schwaeble Page A

own one, and often.
    A small dog paced a few feet away from the bench at the end of a leash, glancing about, looking a bit anxious. Morris immediately wondered if the woman had children. This town! He could hardly believe his luck. He veered onto the grass, set a course to pass directly behind her.
    She stuck the end of the leash out in front of him as he was about to go by, causing him to stop abruptly. Her hand stayed there, the black canvas loop suspended near his navel. Morris stared down at the woman. She was still leafing through her magazine. Hadn’t even glanced his way.
    â€œThis is what you’re looking for, isn’t it?” she said. After a pause she tilted her sunglasses down, swiveled her head toward him. Green eyes sparkled above the shades. “Well?”
    Morris had a hard time following. Was she offering him her dog?
    A roll of emerald irises. “Oh, good gobbling geezers . . . take the damn thing, will you?”
    Slowly, Morris removed his left hand from his pocket. She dropped the end of the leash into it
    â€œThank you. Since I just saved you a considerable amount of prowling, why don’t you take a seat? We need to talk.”
    â€œI’m sorry. You must have me confused with someone else.”
    â€œDo I? That’s strange. I thought you were Morris Sankey. The Morris Sankey who murdered his mother by literally scaring her to death and has been living off her life insurance proceeds ever since. The same Morris Sankey who’s roamed the eastern seaboard for the better part of a decade, raping and terrorizing women with his unique gifts and sodomizing their dead bodies. Loitering around the town for weeks afterward to revel in the misery he’s caused, soaking up the local news accounts, sometimes even attending the funeral and wake, pretending to be a friend of the deceased. Changing up his MO each time just enough to keep the FBI from getting called in.”
    The peaceful morning ambiance suddenly seemed less so. The chorus of songbirds, the whine and hum of cars, the scrape of the wind, all were screams and screeches now that echoed inside the walls of his head, taking on the rhythm of his pulse. He felt himself trying to pull out of his body, shrug it off like a piece of clothing and have it fall away as he floated into the sky.
    This was it. She was a cop. Had to be. But how? He’d always believed he’d been immunized against getting caught. Protected. Even so, he’d never gotten cocky, been persistently careful, never testing his luck, never leaving anything to chance. At least, he thought that was the case. He bit down on his tongue, held it between his teeth. Clamped down hard, feeling the pain. Tasting the blood. Every beat of his heart felt like an icy squeeze, surges of adrenaline spurring it to anxious gallop.
    So they were on to him, apparently had been for some time. Tracing his movements, anticipating his next stop. They had to know everything about him. Idiot! Always the same orange coat, same orange hat. What was he thinking?
    The pain from his tongue was drawing him back into himself. There was no time for self-recriminations. Not now. He felt a tug and his eyes fell to the leash. The dog was pulling on it, circling and whining.
    He could strangle her. Yes. Quickly, right here. Use the leash as a garrote. Or just crush her neck with his Hand, since there was no reason to be discreet. Do it and get the hell out of town. Yes, he could do that. Shit, no . What kind of plan was that? There had to be other cops watching. Had to be. But if there were, where were they? Why weren’t they moving in on him? Was she wearing a wire?
    â€œWill you relax, for goodness’ sake?” The woman’s lips stretched into a crimson slit. Her voice contained a hint of a chuckle, as if at her own joke. One she knew would bring a good laugh later when retold. “Sit down. Just pretend you’re planning to rape and kill me, if it makes it