“I’m a state of the union,” she replied.
Without missing a beat, he’d said, “New Jersey. Wow.”
“And you’re what? A cop from some TV show?”
“No, I’m a cop from a cop shop. Ferrington PD. I was too lazy to come up with a costume.”
“So,” she said, smiling coyly, “that means the handcuffs’re real.”
They’d talked the entire night. Well, most of the night. The two had ended up in his small bachelor apartment, where the chemistry continued into the early hours of the morning...
Now, in an instant, consumed with rage, breathing impossibly fast, Parker drew back her fist and aimed for the center of the mirror, two feet in front of her, not caring what shattered, what sliced.
She heard “Mom?”
The girl was calling from the hallway.
A deep breath. Two.
“What, honey?”
“I’m cold. Where’s my gray sweatshirt?”
Parker’s shoulders slumped. “I think it’s in my gym bag. Let’s take a look.”
55
They sat in the white Transit, Moll behind the wheel, tapping it with his long thick fingers.
They were in a 7-Eleven parking lot, having finished a late lunch—from cellophane containers. The long-awaited barbecue was still on hold.
They’d driven twenty miles west on Route 92 from the Sunny Acres motel, to put distance between themselves and any law, pausing only to pitch the motel’s security hard drive into a creek. They’d then flipped a mental coin and decided to keep north, though avoiding the cameras at the intersection of Routes 55 and 92. They’d join the former well into Marshall County.
Merritt had a lead and they were now waiting to see if it panned out.
Hurry up and wait...
As he sprayed his neck, Moll glanced at the passenger seat, where Desmond continued to work on the willow branch.
It was an interesting thing, this hobby of his. You pounded the branch until the bark was loose enough to work off. Then you cut a notch—called, for some reason, a fipple—in a three-inch plug of thewood and slid it back on the hollow tube of bark, the end result being a musical flute.
Desmond now set his SOG knife down and lifted the green instrument to his lips. He played, producing a soothing, resonant tone. He stopped and continued to refine the instrument with the blade. Then he played some more.
These flutes lasted only a week at most. Once the willow dried out it was useless. It turned back into a branch. This at first seemed like a waste of time to Moll, but then he realized: What in life lasted very long?
Forty-three years or a week... Both were nothing. Finger snaps of time.
Desmond played some more notes. It was a tune Moll didn’t remember but it had something to do with one of the rebellions in Ireland, fighting the British for independence. A girlfriend had once turned Moll on to the idea of reincarnation and he sort of believed it. He had suggested Desmond might have been a rebel in a former life.
The man had considered this and liked the idea. He asked Moll who he thought he’d been. Maybe Jack the Ripper.
But Moll had seen some movies and TV shows and he had said no. Jack had killed for lust and was sloppy. Moll killed for money and was organized and neat. Making bodies was, to him, like painting faux furniture.
It was all art. No difference.
Desmond cocked his head. “So? Jean?”
Moll hesitated a moment. “Gone.”