Free I Hunt Killers Blood Boy by Barry Lyga Page B

in time depended on some formula of factors that Howie had never figured out. One minute, she could be puttering around the kitchen, intent on baking cookies. The next, she'd be hiding under the kitchen table with a big knife, wondering why the Democrats were writing legislation to make her brain illegal. Unable to read her, Howie had instead learned how to read Jazz. He could tell pretty quickly if it was a good Gramma day or a bad Gramma day.
    Today was a good Gramma day -- Jazz shrugged diffidently and said, "So-so," which was the Jazz equivalent of bursting into song with little cartoon birds twittering and tweeting around his head.
    "So we can stay out little later than usual, then?"
    "Sure. Let's go." Jazz slid into the driver's seat of the Jeep.
    Howie didn't move. "I'm forbidden by parental edict from riding in Billy's Jeep of Death, so you'll have to force me."
    "Get in or I'll kill you," Jazz said tonelessly.
    What else could Howie do? Clearly terrified for his very life, he had no choice but to comply. He hopped into the passenger seat and slammed the door.
    "I can't believe I finally talked you into going to a Halloween party. Hell, to any party!" Howie rubbed his hands together gleefully.
    "You didn't. Connie did."
    Connie was Jazz's...girlfriend, Howie supposed. They'd been dating for a couple of weeks, whereby dating meant seeing a few movies and stealing makeout sessions in Connie's driveway. Given that even on a good Gramma day, Jazz's grandmother was almost hilariously racist, Jazz couldn't very well bring her to his place. And Howie imagined most fathers wouldn't be thrilled to have the spawn of Billy Dent in their houses.
    Since dating Connie, there'd been a change in Jazz, a change Howie was glad to see, though he would never, ever admit it. He was the tiniest bit more relaxed, and he'd joined, of all things, the Drama Club. Which, in a way, was perfect -- who had more drama in his life than Jazz?
    "Let me have my dreams, Jazz. Why do you have to kill my dreams? Why can't you let them live? Why can't you be merciful?"
    He was teeing Jazz up to say something melancholy and doleful. Maybe something like, Because my dad never taught me mercy . Or Because all of my dreams died a long time ago.
    Instead, Jazz shrugged and put the Jeep in gear. "Because I like the way they scream when they die."
    "That Connie girl is just no good for you," Howie grumbled. "You might actually be something like normal someday, and then where does that leave us?"
    “Happy?” Jazz said in a tone that didn’t believe it.
    “Good luck with that.”
    Jazz put the Jeep in gear and rolled them down the driveway. Even though there was no one behind them, he signaled his turn onto the road. Soon they were on their way. Howie rolled down his window and hand-surfed the wind.
    "Do you have any idea what you could sell this thing for?" he asked, peering around the confines of the Jeep. A part of him always expected to find something lingering from Billy's days of stalking his prey, even though the cops had thoroughly scoured every micron of the Jeep when they'd impounded it after arresting Billy. They'd discovered exactly nothing, as well as a little more nothing, which was why Jazz had it.
    "I don't care," Jazz told him. "I need it to get around."
    "If you sold it," Howie pointed out, "you would make so much money you could hire someone to drive you around."
    "I doubt it."
    Mouth open, ready to speak, Howie changed his mind. On a whim, he'd poked around one night on one of the crazy-ass serial killer fanboy message boards. Under the pseudonym BillyFan125 (BillyFan124 was taken), he'd casually inquired as to what someone might pay for Billy Dent's Jeep. The enthusiasm of the responses had startled him, as had the range of offers, none of which was less than five figures.
    A couple of days later, he'd received a PM on the board from someone pseudonymmed GoingUnderAgain, who had said, in part, "I notice your IP address is from Lobo's Nod. Do