chapter forty-nine

I knocked on Zimmerman’s door, conscious of my HK P2000 left and low beneath my jacket. I was thankful I didn’t have Shiro’s Desert Eagle lurking back there. She loved the gas-powered cartridges, but I hated the weight and the length.

“Helloooooo?”

(Nobody out here but us fake FBI agents.)

“Anybody hoooooome?”

I heard footsteps, rested my hand on my hip just above the holster, and put on a big smile.

(Nobody here but us armed Girl Scouts. You want five cases of Thin Mints or ten, punk?)

The door swung open and there was, again, the banality of evil. I would never get over being amazed that bad guys could look so ordinary. I knew it was Ian Zimmerman because he matched his driver’s license picture exactly. That was almost worse than contemplating his murders. You know how every single driver’s license picture in the world is unflattering and looks nothing like the actual person? Not Ian Zimmerman’s pic. The watery hazel eyes, the pockmarked skin, the greasy hair (what was left of it), the bulbous nose … all in vivid living color right in front of me.

Before I could draw down on him, he brightened and smiled, a grin so natural and sweet it was as dazzling as it was startling. His smile was glorious, and his nicest feature. “Cadence! Hi! You finally here to arrest me? Great! Oh, boy, been waiting forever, feels like.”

“What’d you say?”

Ian Zimmerman was the most polite and welcoming killer I had ever tried to fake-arrest. “They told me you’d be along.”

Then, from behind: “Freeze, Zimmerman! Or don’t! Or freeze for a second and then change your mind! Either way I might pistol-whip you to death! I am a fake FBI agent, so don’t fuck with me!”

“No, it’s okay,” Zimmerman said. He’d raised both arms at George’s shrill “Freeze.” “I’m ready. I can’t believe you’re finally here! Jeez!”

“Umm…” George was standing about seven feet behind Ian, his weapon out and pointed at the back of Zimmerman’s head. “In my mind? This went a totally different way. D’you get the same feeling?”

“It seems Mr. Zimmerman’s been waiting for us.”

George just stared. “I have no idea how to feel about this. You tell him why we’re here?”

“To arrest me for killing Wayne Seben, Rita McNamm, Carrie Cyrus, Wendy Dennison, Mike Perry, Sara Torp, Roger Phillips, and Mark Graham. Oh, and I almost forgot—”

“Let me guess,” I said. “Wendy and Mike and Sara and Roger and Mark didn’t fight you.”

“They were the truth. Those other ones were the lies. Which one are you?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Are we gonna have a conversation with this guy or beat him or kill him or what?” said George, as always impatient with social niceties.

“Are you Shiro, Cadence, or Adrienne?” At my dumbfounded stare, the killer said, “The twins told me all about you. They told me what to do and they said you’d be the one to come get me.” He beamed. “I’ve been waiting awhile now.”

“Not twins,” I said, feeling the world start to tilt away from me. “Twins now, yes, sort of. But once they were triplets. We fixed that, though. Didn’t we, George?”

“Oh, fuck me,” George groaned, and I left. I was a coward, yes, and I ran because I was afraid, but I also knew Shiro would catch me.