Free Psycho Within Us (The Psycho Series Book 2) by Chad Huskins Page A

them.
    The kid , he thought, sifting through the money.  The thought was apropos of nothing, and was dismissed as soon as he thought it.  The money did indeed number well into the range of ten thousand.  Rubles, euros, and dollars, all neatly stacked and wrinkle-free, bound in paper-tape with a picture of a glowing sun rising over some building, presumably a bank?  Above it and below it were the words , Банк Челябинс к .  Spencer was familiar with these letters; he’d been by the Bank of Chelyabinsk twice now and read those words just above its doors.
    Zakhar’s iPhone rang in his pocket.  He silenc ed it for the moment.  Spencer put the money neatly back inside, closed the case, stood up, and left the room.  Halfway down the hall, he glanced at the door to his left, its many locks.
    The kid .  Again, apropos of nothing.  The basement .  Might be more money down there?  He’d checked the handle before, while searching for a hiding place when Zakhar went out for firewood. 
    He thought for a moment about shooting the locks off, but decided against it.  It wasn’t likely that any money was down there.  Zakhar Ogorodnikov was a careful man, and if he was hiding substantial cash in the house, he wouldn’t put it down there where one of his victims could get a hold of it.  Best not to put all your eggs in one basket .
    “All righty,” he said, taking a turn of the house quickly.  “Is there anything I’m forgettin’?”  The kid .  That thought was once more spurred by nothing at all.  Don’t you wanna see what Zakhar had downstairs?   Spencer shrugged.  “Not really.”  But he’s afraid!  Afraid and cold and alone!  He’s all alone!   For a moment, Spencer experienced something strange.  An urging, not unlike the urge to rape or kill someone because the body and mind had its own imperatives.  It was an urge pushing him towards something he didn’t necessarily want to do, but the body and mind felt inclined to respond to—
    “Waaaaaaait a minute,” he said, dropping the suitcase to the floor and turning around.  Both his feet stood in what remained of Zakhar Ogorodnikov’s deepest, darkest thoughts.  Reflexively, his hand went to the Colt in his waistline, though instinctively he knew it wasn’t going to do any good with this new threat.  “All right, bitch,” he said slowly.  “Come out where I can fucking see you.”  He enunciated every syllable, no Southern slang present in any of it.
    A few heartbeats went by.  Zakhar continued being dead, and his leg continued being restless.
    “I’m right here.”
    Spencer spun, aimed the gun at the door, and froze.  He didn’t entirely understand what he was seeing, but he knew very well that the Colt .22 in his hand could do nothing about it.  Nevertheless he stood, aiming the weapon directly between the wee girl’s eyes.
    She was exactly as he remembered her, if a little talle r.  Dark-black skin, those cornrows tied tightly to her head, pulled back, her posture not quite straight, and those eyes…those eyes were what he remembered most.  A fire inside, dying out slowly, sometimes getting an occasional boost from some unseen fuel, and then dying down again.  Fearful, but willing to face those fears.  Empty, but willing to face that emptiness. 
    Above all else, those eyes were lost.  They reminded Spencer of someone adrift and starving at sea, standing at a boat’s prow, leaning over, searching longingly for land, and yet resigned to never finding any.
    She wore a plain black shirt and faded, loose-fitting jeans—not exactly the baggy style that the other niggers still wore, but loose enough to have a bit of sag.  A black coat that was almost too big for her hung low, almost skimming the ground.
    “The fuck is this shit?” he finally asked.
    “I don’t know,” said Kaley Dupré.
    “When I said ‘come out where I can see’ I didn’t think you’d actually…the fuck is this shit?”
    “I don’t