Let Me In - Adam Nicholls (e book reader pdf .TXT) 📗
- Author: Adam Nicholls
- Performer: -
Book online «Let Me In - Adam Nicholls (e book reader pdf .TXT) 📗». Author Adam Nicholls
Morgan squinted into the distance, raising a hand to shield out the bright light. As the car drew nearer, a wave of relief washed over him, and he knew there would be no more waiting for a bus that may or may not come. “Gary?”
Gary stopped the car beside him, leaning toward the open window. “Get in.”
He didn’t have to be told twice; Morgan was in the car as fast as his numbing legs would allow, the car moving again before he could even fasten his seat belt. “I have to say, I’m pretty glad to see you out and about. It’s colder than it looks out there.”
“I was in the neighborhood,” Gary said, his eyes fixed on the road.
“Of course you were.”
“What about you?”
“Me?” Morgan said.
“Did you check out Pizza Palace?”
“I did.”
“And?”
Morgan wasn’t quite sure how to tell him without just blurting it out, so that was exactly what he did. “A guy over there had his uniform stolen. I spoke to him and watched the footage. His story checks out. As for the thief, I think he’s our killer, but that’s all we’ll ever know about him. Unfortunately, there’s nothing more to add.”
An uncomfortable silence filled the car.
Morgan waited for a response that never came.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
Gary waved a dismissive hand, then slid it back onto the wheel. “You’re too good an investigator to quit so soon. I’m sure you’ll find something to put us back on track. What about the victim’s neighbors? Planning to do the rounds?”
“Doing the rounds” was more of a police procedure. It entailed knocking on every door on the crime scene’s street to ask if anyone saw anything. It was a mind-numbing waste of time according to Morgan, and he only ever did it as a last resort. Even then, it rarely turned up any results. “I’m sure the MPD will take care of that.”
“Right, and then put the case down as unsolvable.”
“It’s not going to be an easy one.”
Gary grunted. “You’ll manage.”
“That’s what I’m trying to tell you; I don’t think I can help.” There was another silence until Morgan added, “I’m sorry. But with only the address of a pizzeria to go on, what more can I do? If there was more evidence—”
“But there isn’t,” Gary snapped.
“Hey now.”
“I just can’t believe you’re quitting so easily. What about being my friend? What happened to applying your skills to this? I’ve told you I’ll feed you any information from the police with or without the captain’s permission, so you have a strong advantage.”
Heat rose to Morgan’s face, though he was unsure if it was from the car’s heater or simple frustration. “You can’t play the friend card on this one. I’m always here for you—always—but you can’t expect me to perform miracles.”
“Not miracles,” Gary said. “Just more than an hour’s effort.”
“Oh yeah? Then what do you suggest?”
Gary quieted.
“That’s what I thought. Just… take me home.”
Neither of them said anything for the rest of the journey. Morgan sat quietly the whole time, awkwardly shifting his eyes to Gary now and then. When they were kids, such a thing would make them both smile and the argument would end as fast as it’d started, but something told him that wouldn’t happen tonight. Something had struck his friend on an emotional level—he was hurt and wasn’t thinking straight. Only vigilante justice made for a good cure.
They arrived outside Morgan’s home, where one of the bedside lamps offered an orange glow to the only lit window. The rest of the house was sleeping, and there was a strong chance Rachel was too. Morgan climbed out of the car, thanked Gary for the ride, then stomped up his path toward the front door.
Only the voice stopped him.
“Wait,” Gary said, exiting the car. He hurried around the vehicle and jogged toward Morgan, his graying hair swishing from side to side. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be a dick. It’s just that I can’t get the image of Carrie out of my head, you know?”
“I know,” Morgan said. “Nobody should have to see that, much less somebody who loved her. And I’m sorry I can’t help. Tonight was more about exploring whether I could make any contribution to the case—kind of like a consultation but less formal. Only I can’t. At least not unless there’s a development.”
“Something tells me there won’t be.”
Morgan nodded. “Like I said, I’m sorry.”
Gary glanced up at the house and then back to his car.
“Go home,” Morgan told him. “Be with your wife.”
“Yeah, right. What am I supposed to tell her? I’m moping because an old flame finally snuffed out?”
“She’s a good woman. She’ll understand.”
“You’re probably right.”
“Good night, Gary.”
“Good night. Thanks for trying.”
Morgan watched him return to his still-running car, catching a glimpse of that morose expression before he turned. It crushed him to see his childhood friend this way, and Morgan stuck around to watch him drive back up the road until he was left in silence. Too much had happened tonight, and it would take a lot of effort to decompress. Still, at least he had a wife to talk to about his problems, and she was upstairs waiting for him.
He just hoped he hadn’t ruined her birthday.
Cold-blooded murder was hard work. The killer had thought it would repulse him, putting him off his food for at least a week. The truth was, it created an appetite he wasn’t sure he could satisfy. But that wouldn’t stop him from trying.
It was midnight by the time he got home, forcing his key into the rusted lock and kicking open the door. The TV blared from the back room, its screen flooding light into the dark hallway. The killer slipped inside and closed the door, hurrying through to the kitchen before she could see him. Before she could make him feel even less comfortable with himself.
Opening the refrigerator with care, the killer bent over and peered inside, examining what ingredients he had to work with. The problem was—and he hadn’t seen this coming—every item reminded him of tonight’s disgusting activity. The way he saw it, the chicken was human flesh. The spaghetti sauce was blood, and it would drip onto his chin the way it’d dripped from Carrie Whittle’s stomach. It stirred something up inside him, and although he couldn’t decipher it as either satisfaction or regret, he knew he would do it all over again if he could.
With any kind of food off the menu, the killer sighed and shut the fridge, returning to the dusty hallway. If he couldn’t eat then he could at least keep himself busy, maybe find an activity to keep his mind off what’d happened. He sneaked through to the door under the stairs, reached for the knob, and then heard the voice; it was her voice.
“Moonpie?” she called from the living room. “Moonpie, is that you?”
“For Christ’s sake,” the killer mumbled.
“Moonpie? Honey?”
“Yes, Mom. It’s me.”
“Come in here and give your mother a kiss.”
It took every ounce of strength to remove his hand from the doorknob, but he succeeded. Scuffing his feet across the already worn carpet, he made his way into the living room, where the only light came from the TV. A musty smell filled the air: molding food and body odor. In the one tattered armchair that’d lived in this room for nearly two decades was his horrendously overweight mother, who’d, ironically, lived in this room for nearly two decades. The killer stopped and looked at her, realizing his upper lip was twisting into a look of disgust. He always made an effort to be kind to his mom, but that didn’t mean he found her anything other than repugnant. She hadn’t washed in months, after all, and only climbed out of the dip in the armchair when she wanted to eat, piss, or shit. What kind of life was that?
“Well, don’t just stand there,” she said, her cheeks wobbling as she spoke.
The killer stepped forward, closed his eyes to imagine someone else—a princess, perhaps—and planted his lips on her ragged, frayed hair. He then patted her on the shoulder, as he knew the kiss wouldn’t be enough, before taking a step back.
“Where’ve you been tonight?” she asked.
“Just out.”
“Not up to any trouble, I hope?”
“I’m thirty, Mom. Not thirteen.”
“Grown men can still get into trouble, you know. Just look at your father. I was only a teenager when we first met, but he was a grown man. He thought he couldn’t get into trouble, but I was pregnant before I even…”
The killer backed out of the room, having heard all the stories before. Yes, his father was an asshole who’d knocked her up and
Comments (0)