Derrick knew something was about to happen. He could feel it in his bones. From behind his drawn living-room drapes, he peeked out his window, but saw nothing. He knew the cops were on him, though. Just ’cause he couldn’t see them, didn’t mean they weren’t out there, pointing rifles at his head with a scope and a laser. Waiting for him to twitch so they’d have a reason to take him out. He’d spent the four-hour drive up to Ormond Beach on Thanksgiving checking his rearview, looking for that black Taurus three cars back. Then he’d spent the whole night peeking out behind curtains that smelled like boiled eggs at Gemma’s ancient aunt’s condo watching for that same Taurus, because it was always a Taurus and it was always black. His holiday had been ruined.
Then he’d caught the news last night and he knew they were out there.
They’d found the nest. Sitting on the bed in his stark La Quinta motel room, he’d watched as the crime-scene jokesters paraded in and out of his special place in their HazMat protective gear and face masks, wearing gloves and carrying out black bags loaded with … stuff. It had filled him with anger. He’d felt violated. Then anxious. He’d gone back to the window, looking for that fucking black Taurus in the parking lot. All night long he’d sat there, smoking cigarettes, keeping watch. He and Gemma had left before the sun was up and headed back to Boca.
They had no evidence, but that wasn’t going to stop them from pinning this on him. Or focusing their scopes, waiting for that twitch they could say was a reach for a gun, and eliminating the problem they’d never get a conviction on in the courts with one pull of the trigger. He took a deep drag of his cigarette and blew the smoke through the crack in the drapes. All they had were fibers. Little snips of thread that might lead them to Profe, but they were never gonna lead them to him. Because he didn’t make mistakes. He didn’t shed fibers like fucking Hansel and Gretel dropped pebbles, leading the police all over the land to all the places he’d been. The fibers might seal Profe’s fate – if they could ever catch him – but they had nothing on him. Nothing. Because he didn’t make mistakes.
He rubbed his temples. His head throbbed.
Problem was, they didn’t have Profe. The fucking pebbles had led them to his fucking car, not Profe’s, and then his fucking door and someone was gonna need to answer, someone was gonna need to pay for those sluts’ deaths even though no one gave a shit about any of them when they were alive. But the someone who was going down was gonna be him: Derrick Poole. They had called his mother and tried talking to his crazy grandma, then they’d gone to every school he’d ever attended and tried getting someone to tell them he killed animals and lit bathrooms on fire. They were trying to build a case against him. He wasn’t so worried until he’d watched the news yesterday. And while he knew he had left nothing of himself behind, he had his doubts about fucking Hansel, which was ironic since Profe was supposed to be the mentor. He dropped the cigarette in the half-empty mug of coffee. Even if Ed had left nothing of himself behind, it was only a matter of time before the black Tauruses would be gathered outside his home and knocking on his door. Asking questions.
Gemma stood up from the couch and started for his kitchen. ‘You want a beer?’ she asked sweetly. ‘More coffee?’
He shrugged.
‘Anything going on outside?’ she asked, trying to sound casual. He knew she was nervous, too. She’d seen the news.
He turned and stared at her. ‘Nope.’
‘Can I do anything for you?’
‘You’ve done enough. Thanks.’
It was Fucking Gemma who had set the cops on him. She didn’t know he knew that, but she was trying her best to make it up to him, anyway. She cleaned his apartment, attempted to cook him dinner, and fucked him anyway he wanted. Maybe she was scared of losing him if he found out she had a big, gossipy mouth. Maybe she was scared of him.
‘I think I might get going then,’ Gemma said, fingering the belt loop on her jeans.
He shrugged again and she headed into the bedroom. He left the window and walked over to the dining-room table. The mail was splayed all over it. First she had retrieved it from his mailbox without asking him if he wanted her to get his mail, then she had tossed it on his table, without asking him where he’d like his fucking mail placed. He clenched his teeth. He spotted a mailer from Mullinax Ford. He tapped his finger on the picture of a Ford Explorer.
Blondie, Blondie, Blondie. What are we gonna do about you?
That bad was on his head. Profe had wanted to kill her and her kid. String them both up and have a slow go and feed them in pieces to the gators, but Derrick didn’t kill kids. He wasn’t a monster. He wasn’t into mommies and little girls. And what did he get for cutting that bitch a break? He rubbed his pounding head. ‘I need some more aspirin,’ he shouted.
How come Profe’s ugly mug wasn’t next to his caricature in the local section? How come the cops hadn’t announced that they were searching for two killers, not one? He had allowed her to live, and she had sicced the cops on him. Like she was so righteous. Like she was above it all. That made him so angry it was hard to think.
He stared at the mailer. The night air was cold, the trees were dripping wet, lightning flashes erupted across a black sky. Please don’t cut me up! Please don’t make me go with him! I have a baby! I won’t tell anyone what you did to those girls: I promise! Don’t hurt that lady! There’s a kid in that car – I saw her!
He hated when they cried. It annoyed him.
Blondie had her own secrets – and they were whoppers. He saw her slam into that stripper slut and take off like she didn’t care. He knew she was bombed and probably sleeping it off when ironically the chick she’d mowed down an hour earlier had come hobbling back to her looking for help on that lonesome, deserted street, only to be turned away. Boo-hoo.
He crumpled the mailer in his hand. There was nothing that was going to link him back to the nest or to those girls. That was all Ed. The only problem he had was a drunk housewife who could possibly help the police connect the teacher to the student. He hated to admit that Profe had been right: they should have eliminated that problem before it became one. Now it was a little more complicated – for Derrick, anyway. He smiled to himself. If Blondie was fretting over grocery-shopping again for fear of running into her not-so-friendly neighbor … well, just wait till she met the man who’d taught him everything he knew.
‘Here’s your Tylenol, hon,’ said Gemma, handing him two painkillers and a glass of water. She had her jacket on and purse on her shoulder. Ready to bolt.
He swallowed them dry, his eyes locked on hers. Before she could ask for permission to leave, there was a loud pounding on the door.
‘Police!’
Gemma looked at him like she was thinking about opening it and he shook his head – she’d done enough damage. He pushed her aside, just as another loud bang sounded and the door broke in with a thunderous crash. Standing there was the fat detective from the stop and lineup and what looked like an army of suits and uniforms.
‘Hi there, Derrick. I didn’t think you heard us,’ said Nill.
‘You can’t come in here like that!’ cried Gemma. ‘You can’t bust in doors! You broke the door! Holy shit! What is that about?’
‘Do you live here, Gemma?’ asked Nill with a frown as the army marched in behind him.
‘That doesn’t matter! He’s got rights! You can’t come—’
‘I didn’t think so.’ Nill nodded at the purse on her shoulder and then pointed at a uniform. ‘I see you’re headed out. Officer Kilpatrick’s gonna make sure you find your way home. Bye now.’
‘I’ve got nothing to say to you,’ Derrick yelled as Gemma was led off down his front walk. Blue-gloved crime-scene techs in khakis and polos passed them on their way in. ‘I have a lawyer! Talk to my lawyer!’
‘Not a problem,’ replied Nill, handing Derrick a piece of paper as the invading army spread out and marched upstairs to the master bedroom. ‘I’m not here to talk, anyway.’