He stopped reading and slipped the yellowed cutting back into his pocket.
And that was his story, The Trinity Killer, in his last breath a child killer, the lowest of the low, Carlos Lamenzo found life, breath, sanctuary in the arms of a God he’d never believed in.
Father Joe was gone and the truth was spreading thinner. He could smell them in the city, smell their guns, the air back to their bullets. Lawson was dead, and Bogdanovich. The others, the women, were just window dressing, to drag the eyes from the truth. Was he in their dreams? The men who had killed him? He hoped he was, hoped every time they closed their eyes they saw him rise again. He wanted to live in their dreams as much as they lived in his.
He wanted them to know they were spiritually if not physically dead.
Soon, he would look for the others.
Soon.
Maybe today, maybe not. Either way, he couldn’t let the day end without tears.
He watched the woman pass, sniffed, could smell the dark skinned cop on her, smiled to himself, a dead smile, then followed her.
“Sweet Ashley, save the last dance for me.”
His cold laugh shivered through the glassy sky.