In Death 38 - Thankless in Death

a good, solid hit of Race. Better than anything he’d ever felt in his life.
    He yanked the knife free. She stumbled back, throwing up her hands. She said, “Jerry,” on a kind of gurgle.
    And he jammed the blade into her again. He
loved
the sound it made. Going in, coming out. He loved the look of absolute shock on her face, and the way her hands slapped weakly at him as if something tickled.
    So he did it again, then again, into her back when she tried to run. And again when she fell to the kitchen floor and flopped like a landed fish.
    He did it long after she stopped moving at all.
    “Now that was for my own good.”
    He looked at his hands, covered with her blood, at the spreading pool of red on the floor, the wild spatters of it on the walls, the counter that reminded him of some of the crazy paintings at MOMA.
    An artist, he mused. Maybe he should be an artist.
    He set the knife on the table, then washed his hands, his arms, in the kitchen sink. Watched the red circle and drain.
    She’d been right, he thought, about finding his place, about being a man. He’d found his place now, and knew exactly how to claim his manhood.
    He’d take what he wanted, and anyone who screwed with him? They had to pay. He had to
make
them pay, because nothing else in his life had ever made him feel so good, so real, so
happy
.
    He sat down, glanced at where his mother’s body lay sprawled, and thought he couldn’t wait until his father got home.
    Then he ate his sandwich.
    L ieutenant Eve Dallas strapped on her weapon harness. She’d had a short stack of waffles for breakfast—something that tended to put a smile on her face. Her husband, unquestionably the most gorgeous man ever created, enjoyed another cup of superior coffee in the sitting area of their bedroom. Their cat, who’d just been warned off the attempt to sneak onto the table, sat on the floor washing his fat flank.
    It made a nice picture, she thought: Roarke, his mane of black hair loose around his wonderfully carved face, that beautiful mouth in a half smile, and his wild blue eyes on her. The dishes from their meal together on the table, and Galahad pretending he didn’t want his nose in the syrup added to the “at-home and liking it” ambience.
    “You look pleased with yourself, Lieutenant.”
    “I’m pleased,” she said, and added that musical murmur of Ireland in Roarke’s voice to her list of morning enjoyments. “I’ve had a couple of days without a hot one so I’m nearly caught up on paperwork. The quick scan of the weather for today told me I won’t be freezing my ass off, and I’m heading out with a belly-load of waffles. It’s a good day, so far.”
    She hooked a brown vest over her shirt—both Roarke approved—then sat to pull on her boots.
    “Generally you’d prefer several hot ones over paperwork,” he pointed out.
    “We’re heading into the holidays, end of year 2060. You start on that season, you get the wackies. And the nearer I am to finishing my year-end report, the better. The last couple of days have been a walk, so if I get a couple more like that, I—”
    “And now you’ve done it.” Shooting her a look of pity, he shook his head. “You’ve jinxed any chance you had.”
    “Irish superstition.”
    “Common sense. But speaking of Irish and holidays, the family’s coming in on Wednesday.”
    “Wednesday?”
    “That’s the Wednesday before Thanksgiving,” he reminded her. “Some of the cousins are switching off so those who couldn’t come last year will. You said you were fine with it.”
    “I am. No, really, I am. I like your family.” He’d only recently found them. He’d lived most of his life, as she had, without blood kin—and the comfort or problems family bring. “I’m just never sure what to do with so many people in the house who aren’t cops.”
    “They’ll be busy enough. Apparently there are many plans in the works for shopping, sightseeing, theater, and so on. You’re unlikely to have all of them at once except on Thanksgiving itself. And then there’ll be all the others.”
    “Yeah.” She’d agreed to that, too—and it had seemed like a fine idea at the time. All the people who’d come for dinner the previous year, in addition to her partner, Peabody, and Peabody’s main man, McNab, who’d opted not to travel this year.
    “It worked okay before.” Shrugging, she got to her feet. “What is it—the more the crazier?”
    “I believe it’s merrier, but either way.