Free Cut and Run by Ridley Pearson Page B

slipped the razor away, unfastened his belt and let his pants down. Let her see what he’d done to himself. If he had seen fear in her face before, now he saw terror.
    She humped her way backward, thrusting her bottom off the floor, trying to distance herself, but the humping motion of her hips only served to stimulate him all the more.
    â€œThat’s it,” he said. “Just like that. Don’t run from me . . .”
    Then he crawled forward and went to work.
    Paolo rubbed a few small drops of blood deeper into the green fabric of his sweatshirt before knocking. An older woman he took to be Mrs. Blanchard opened the door. It had to be her: gray blue hair, cloudy ice blue eyes that sparkled with a hunger for companionship, even the companionship of a stranger knocking on her door.
    â€œI think you may have known Alice . . . my dear, dear, friend,” Paolo said by way of introduction, speaking as politely and calmly as possible.
    Mrs. Blanchard took note of his color; he’d seen that look a thousand times before. “Yes?” A fragile voice. He was reminded of little glass horses on windowsills.
    â€œI wonder if you might be able to help me find her? I have no other address for her than this.”
    â€œWhat dear girls, those two,” the old woman said.
    â€œDo you know where I might find them?”
    â€œNo . . . no, I don’t. Just up and left one day. Not even a good-bye.”
    That fits
.
    Paolo cocked his head slightly, inviting himself in. “Would you mind? I’d love to hear anything you can tell me about them.”
    â€œI’m sorry,” she said as sweetly as possible. “But I don’t admit strangers.”
    â€œBut with both of us their friends?”
    She seemed to consider this. Then reconsidered. “I’m sorry. I’d be happy to meet you at Pete’s—the diner next door. Say, twenty minutes?”
    Her head tilted in curiosity as she heard the snap of latex on his left wrist, and she looked down. He calmly slipped his right hand into the second glove.
    â€œWhat on earth?” She made a play to shut the door.
    Paolo’s shoe blocked it.
    She looked up, her mouth gaping like a fledgling, too terrified to cry out.
    â€œWe just need to have a little talk.” He seized hold of her, the loose skin of her throat rolling over the latex, lifted her off her feet by her neck, and stepped inside, nudging the door gently shut behind him.
    â€œNice place you have here,” he said.
    When it was all over, out of habit, Paolo chased down a vanilla milkshake and drank it slowly so that it wouldn’t give him a headache. His temptation was to use the cell phone to call Philippe, but he could put that off a while. A second, much stranger compulsion overcame him: a desire to call
Mother
in Italy—a woman he hadn’t seen in fifteen years. But the time zones were all wrong, and perhaps she wasn’t even alive, though if she was he knew she’d be pleased to hear from him, just as she’d be pleased to hear from any of the dozens of boys she raised along with him.
    Instead, following the milkshake, he gave in and placed the call he was required to make. The line rang three times and went silent. He typed in the code, *9645, waited for two beeps, and pushed 1.
    â€œGo ahead,” said the male voice on the other end of the call. Philippe.
    â€œIt got wet. It’ll make the news and bring the dogs.”
    â€œGo on.”
    â€œShe’s not here. Moved on. There’s a daughter named Penny.” He knew this information would stun Philippe, so he gave that a moment to sink in.
    â€œDo we know where she is? Where they are?”
    â€œShe worked at St. Luke’s Hospital here. Maybe still does. I’m heading over there now.”
    â€œThe girl . . . the daughter. We just doubled our odds of finding them,” Philippe said.
    â€œYes,” Paolo agreed, still not liking the