If Eileena takes half of the Walker wealth and runs, Karl is going to work me overtime to recuperate his loss. If Karl does produce a son, the kid might not delight in drowning kittens, but he will still be a Walker—and he will still own me.
Basically, I fold.
“My mother leaving or not has no impact on where the inheritance goes, anyway,” Sylvia says, interrupting my thoughts. “It's all about blood. If he does have a son, I hope it gets eaten by a bear.”
“All right, Queen Bavmorda, take a deep breath. You can stay the night at my place if you promise to keep your clothes on and not steal any of the neighbors' pets.” I glance at her. “Got it?”
She lights another cigarette and flutters her eyes. “Whatever, Dim.”
“No, not 'whatever'. I have to get rollin' as soon as we're in Phoenix. I'll take you back to the mansion after I'm done.”
“What is there to do around your place?”
“What do you mean? You're wanting to go out?” I frown, because Silvia running amok on her own does not sound like a good idea.
“No, Dim, I'm going to watch Wheel of Fortune while you're away.”
I sigh. “Just go get something from McDonald's and chill for a bit. This wish shouldn't take too long. Maybe you'll be calmed down by the time I get back. Maybe you'll be ready to talk to your father by then.”
She takes a puff. “Maybe he'll be dead by then.”
***
I swing through Tempe to case Mark's house. Tonight, I plan to break in and shoot him in his sleep. Simple. The neighbors are best not to investigate noises until morning. I'm not in the mood to give anyone a head start.
When I reach Mark's place, my enthusiasm sinks. He lives in a condo, on the fourth floor. It's upscale, with rounded balconies and glass walls.
I head for home. Silvia sits quietly in the passenger seat, chain-smoking half a cigarette after another.
While she's scheming how to Cain her Abel, I try to figure out how to get into that condo. The windows are likely damn near shatterproof, and bashing them in would be too loud anyway.
So I'm left with outwitting Mark. I don't want to put a significant amount of thought into this—I just want the guy dead before the hum evolves—but I can't risk showing up on camera again. I've gotten lazy over the years. All I worry about anymore is getting rid of the hum. Fear, worry, and guilt all come in second.
My first kill wasn't like that, though.
I had been under Karl's command for a year, fulfilling petty requests. He summoned me one afternoon, and I expected to have to lift from a store again. Instead, the envelope had contained the profile of a man he wanted dead.
The man had been the owner of commercial real estate. Karl had wanted several of the man's properties, but the man wouldn't sell. Since the properties were still under mortgage, Karl decided to put an end to his existence and then pick up the buildings at auction.
He isn't one for noble causes.
But something had glimmered on Karl's face when he made his wish. A look I have tried to forget, but without much luck.
As soon as he had spoken, I knew all the prior requests—the ones that I had decided I could live with—had been tests. Nothing more. He had been building his confidence in me before ordering the crux of the operation: kidnappings and murders.
I didn't want to kill the man. In fact, I told Karl straight up I wouldn't.
Karl shrugged. I thought I got away easy.
I was wrong.
I tried to deny the truth, that the hum was growing because I wasn't obeying. It made me angry, realizing that I had to do what I was ordered. And I was scared that the situation was completely out of my control.
Somewhere near the twenty-fourth hour, nearly blinded by a migraine unlike any other, I caved.
I found the man.
And I killed him.
His body crumpled to the floor, and the pain vanished.
I told myself I would resist next time, but the only thing that changed was how much easier it became with each wish. Death was just an arrangement between me and my victim, one they didn't know about and had no say in.
I didn't have a say either.
So I hunted and killed. I became secure in my false identities, assured that if I was tracked down for a crime, Karl would just move me. Not like I need to live nearby. All he has to do is summon me, and I will come crawling out of my spider hole.
But now I have to be careful.
Something has changed. He isn't telling me the truth, but I have no reason to try to stop him anymore.
So I'll figure out a way to take down Mark. I could lure him out somewhere, but that is time consuming and requires energy I just don't have. I need to get inside his condo. That's the only reasonable solution. And I know only one way that isn't going to get the cops called before I finish the job, won't land me on camera, and won't take months of bro-bonding.
I know exactly how I'm going to kill Mark.
It's going to be just like my first time.
***
Back at my house, Silvia amuses herself on my computer. Not like I have to worry about Syd showing up anymore.
I roam between the bedroom, the closet, and the living room, but I'm not really doing anything.
By the time the sun sets, I'm already feeling worn out. Since I won't be able to sleep, I put coffee to brew before heading into the shower. The hot water does nothing for my state of mind. Doesn't invigorate me, and doesn't relax me. I'm not sure anything can right now.
When I step out of the bathroom, I find Silvia asleep in my bed. Under the covers.
As much as I would like to shove her to the floor, I would rather not wake the beast.
Instead, I check my guns, load up my jacket, and leave the house. I blast the car radio, but more from habit than anything else.
Maybe after the hum is gone, I'll take a benzo and sleep for a day. Otherwise, I will just sit around contemplating what to say to Syd and eventually acting on it.
She doesn't want to hear from me.
I refocus my thoughts on the kill. I will ring the doorbell. He will answer the door. I will shove it open and pop a bullet into his brain. He will die.
He only has two parts. I'm confident he will see them through to the end. Literally.
I park my car outside of the condo building and take the stairs even though the elevators are closer. I like charging up the steps, like I'm building momentum. The climactic scene in a movie.
I'm not even winded when I reach the fourth floor, and I follow around the balcony to his unit. I knock with my left hand, my right grasping the gun in my pocket.
He opens the door.
My gaze lands on the child at his side. My right hand stills on the hidden gun. The girl is maybe four, with red hair and freckles. She's eating a blue Popsicle.
Mark's voice interrupts my shock. “Can I help you?”
My gaze snaps back to him. He's wearing a polo shirt and cargo shorts—in pastel. The dude has sunglasses resting on top of his head, even though it's almost ten at night and he is indoors.
First time I've ever been sent to whack a frat boy.
“Oh, um, yeah,” I say, my brain clamoring for an actual reply. “I'm new to the area. I was wondering if you knew what there was to do around here?”
Mark shrugs. “Well, it's a university town, so there's plenty. What do you like to do?”
I stare at him, lamely.
I can't even give an honest answer to that one. Not have a hum in my head? Not have the Walker family argue over their ownership of me? Not have the most amazing woman I've ever met mad at me for forgetting to buy an apple?
“Drink,” I say. “I like to drink.”
A goofy grin forms on Mark's face. “Listen, I just got back in town, and my buddies and I are going out tomorrow for a few beers. Why don't you swing by?”
I nod, trying to regain my composure and put on a good front. He doesn't look like someone who would normally hang with a guy in a trench coat, so I have to play this right. My plan has been totally screwed up. I wasn't expecting a kid to be here with him. Intel has let me down again.
Mark continues talking, and I try to pay attention.
“If you turn south out of the parking lot and take a left at the light, you'll see the bar on the corner. Around seven tomorrow night, okay?”
“Sure, thanks, man.” I shrug and walk away.
The hum mellows out a little. I'm sure Mark was just trying to get the weirdo off his porch and doesn't expect me to actually show up at the bar. The hum, however, knows I will. It knows Mark's death is imminent.
I have no idea how I'm going to bait the trap, but I'll figure it out. I always do.
***
When I arrive home, Silvia is sitting in the living room chair with a glass of water on the end table next to her.
“At least your clothes are still on,” I say as I lock the front door behind me. “Did you kill anything?”
“Did you?”
I halt in my steps. The semblance to an after-work conversation between a married couple is uncanny. And terrifying.
Please, Karl, have a son.
I head to the kitchen.
“Not yet.” I grab a coke from the fridge and return to the living room. “Met him, though. He's a douche nozzle. Got some serious frat boy shit going on.”
She lights up from the pack sitting on her lap. “How are you going to do it?”
“Why? You want video?” I yank the cigarette from her hand and lean over her to submerge it into her glass of water. “No smoking in the house.”
She flutters her eyes. “I was thinking we should do something tonight.”
I cross the room and drop onto the couch. “Oh, god, here comes the we-don't-spend-enough-time-together talk.”
She gives me a blank stare. “Well, we don't.”
“Let's spend the next two hours side-by-side, then.” I drink my soda, waiting for her response, but she doesn't give me one. “Two hours in a car driving you back to the mansion.”
She frowns, but still doesn't say anything. Then she picks up her pack of cigarettes and heads for the door.
I spend the trip between the mansion and back trying to figure out what to do about Syd. Even though I want to convince myself letting her go is the right thing, my mind keeps switching back to the conversation with Coleen. I made Syd happy.
Somehow, that derailed, and the longer Syd and I go without speaking, the further into the distance I will become. Yet I don't know what to say to her. Something tells me there is only one right answer, and I only get one guess.
Back home, the house is silent. The way it used to be. I had never realized just how lonely this place is. Now I can't stop noticing it. No text messages going off on my phone. No anticipating the sound of an engine in the carport. No beautiful woman to undress and slather with devotion.
I can't believe I let her think it was just about sex.
After I crawl into bed, I text her the only thing I can:
I'm sorry, Syd.
I settle down to sleep, pretending she will wake me with a reply. My phone, however, remains silent.
***
I don't notice until I'm actually inside that the meeting place with Mark and his pals is a strip club. On the stage across the room, women grind up against poles and perform maneuvers I'm pretty sure were not the intentions of gymnastic class.
All of the dancers look hot in the purple and blue light. Any last bit of cognitive skill is drowned by the thudding music.
Lucky for me, the hum in my head returns me to task. I would wager the anchor with Syd's name on it in my chest helps, too.
I spot Mark at a table about the same time he sees me.
He stands to shake my hand and pat my shoulder. “Hey, glad you made it. Some of the guys are playing pool.”
I grit my teeth, trying to slink out of his hold without putting him off.
Focus. Need to find my in with this guy. I already know we have nothing in common, so I have to figure out a way to fake it.
“So, catch the game?”
Mark flags a cocktail waitress. “Hm, which one?”
Shit. I have no idea.
“Doesn't matter.” I pull up a bar stool. “It sucked, anyway.”
The cocktail waitress is wearing a bra and small, tight shorts that have ridden up so much they're practically just underwear.
“What can I get you guys?”
Her gaze lingers over me. She's actually pretty, in the sort of way she should be wearing something modest with a lot less makeup. I bet she made all A's in school. Got along well with her mother. How the hell do people wind up in these situations?
Says the killer genie.
I shrug. “Just a coke.”
She nods and turns to one of the other guys in the group.
Mark looks at me. “I thought you said you drink?”
“Oh, I do. Driving. Ya know.”
It's almost amazing how many things I lie about in any given day.
“One of the cab services will pick you up for free.” He reaches over to hit one of his buddies in the arm. “You remember that taxi?”
The guy—also decked out in pastels and a pair of sunglasses—shakes his head. “Nah, just ask the bartender. She has it.”
Somehow, these guys are less of a dick about taxi jab than I ever am. Thankfully, the waitress is already gone. I have a policy against drinking and killing.
The guy goes back to his conversation with another frat brother at the table. I don't even try to follow what they're talking about, but I bet one of them will discover Mark's corpse tomorrow.
The waitress delivers our drinks.
Mark takes a sip of his beer. “Where are you from?”
“San Diego,” I say, because it's the first city that comes to mind.
Apparently blowing up an anthropology lab left an impression in my brain.
“Great city. I just came back from spending a year in the Middle East.”
I halt, my glass mid-raise. That's the last place I would expect the frat boy to have been spending time. Not much slaying going on there, I would imagine.
I try to act casual. “You in the army?”
“Nah, studying.” He takes another gulp of his beer. “Good to be home. You think it can't get hotter than Phoenix, but it can.”
“Yeah, I don't see any point trading one desert for another.” I stare down at my drink.