Free The Third Victim by Collin Wilcox Page B

with lingering accusation. But now she glanced down at Josh, plainly so vulnerable as he still stood midway between them.
    “Well,” she repeated, “it’s no problem. Can you stay?”
    “Yes. Fine. Thanks. But I—” He hesitated. “I’d have to leave about nine.”
    Her response was a quick, impersonal shrug, self-defensive. “That’s fine. I have to go to bed early tonight, as a matter of fact.”
    To rest up for an upcoming date, was the clear implication—or else to recover from last night. Were they sleeping together, she and the leading-man type with the aviator sunglasses? Would Josh know?
    “I’ve got to go to the store,” she said, turning away. “I didn’t shop. I didn’t know whether you were coming, so…” She let it go unfinished. This time, she’d settle for just a small twist of the knife.
    “Let me drive you.”
    With evident distaste, she glanced at the orange Volkswagen. “No, thanks,” she answered, already walking away from him. “You and Josh can stay here. I’ll just go to the corner. I won’t be long.”
    Silent, he watched her go.
    How had she meant it, telling him to stay behind with Josh? Was she rubbing his nose in his role as an absent father, sorely missed by his son?
    Was she making it plain that she didn’t expect him to pay for the groceries—that she somehow divined that his wallet was empty?
    Or was she simply telling him that she needed a baby-sitter for a few minutes—that, really, his employment classification, his earning power, was closer to a baby-sitter’s pay scale than hers?
    Leonard popped open the can of Seven-Up and dropped the small aluminum tab in a brown paper sack overflowing with garbage. With the can uptilted, he leaned against the wall of the kitchen, allowing the Seven-Up to trickle into his mouth. When his mouth was almost entirely full, he opened his throat, swallowing slowly.
    Across the kitchen, his mother was stooped over a chipped Formica counter. Her thick-knuckled fingers were patiently kneading chopped onions into a small red mound of hamburger. With her back to him, her torso was block-broad. She could be an animal—an ape, bent over a dung pile.
    Dung pile?
    No.
    Animals wouldn’t turn red hamburger into brown, fly-buzzing dung. Because apes were like men—just like men. Apes ate bananas and walked on their feet and picked lice from their babies.
    With his right hand still gripping the Seven-Up can, he allowed his left hand to drop to his side, then creep into his pocket. Because if apes could search for lice, he could search his pocket—could pretend to find pennies, or cookie crumbs. Or a toy, when he was younger.
    But he wasn’t feeling for pennies or lice. Or even a toy.
    It was the envelope—the secret brown envelope. The envelope had been folded and refolded, but it hadn’t been opened. He’d wanted to open it. In the storeroom at Gorlick’s, on the bus coming home, he’d wanted to open it. When he got home, he’d wanted to go to his room and lock the door and open the envelope. He’d wanted to see the two metal keys slide slowly out of the envelope and into his palm.
    But he’d known better.
    Because the longer the envelope lay secretly in his pocket, close against his thigh, the more power could come to him. So he’d walked from the bus to the house the way he always walked—slowly, carefully, with eyes straight ahead. He’d walked as if his pockets were empty—as if he were a stranger, going nowhere. Because that meant power too. Round, empty eyes staring straight ahead kept everything out, kept everything else in.
    They hadn’t penetrated through his eyes to reach him. They hadn’t discovered. Wouldn’t discover. Couldn’t.
    Never never never.
    His fingers were wafer-rubbing the refolded envelope. He could clearly feel the shape of the two keys. The keys lay side by side, secretly. For now, this moment, he couldn’t break contact with the two secret key shapes. He must stand motionless.
    And