Thankless in Death

limped through, speculating on where to set the stage.
    The living area. Sure, the second bedroom was big enough, but he liked having the easy access to the kitchen, and the dining room. It made more sense, he thought, since he was having company for Thanksgiving dinner.
    It would be his most daring kill, and he’d do it all in his own space. Good practice for when he started selling his services, he decided.Body disposal could be an option he needed to offer clients, after all.
    Sometimes people like the Mafia or the CIA or whatever didn’t want bodies found. He’d read shit about that.
    The cops didn’t have a clue where he was—how could they—or now who he was. In his own place, undisturbed, he could take all the time he wanted with his … selection.
    No, prey. He liked that term. They, all of them, were prey, and he was, code name: Reaper. He really liked it.
    Reaper. Death for sale. Anytime, anywhere. Terms to be negotiated.
    Something like that, he decided.
    When the droid got back, they’d set the place up, just the way he wanted it. Then, contact, lure, trap. Snap, snap.
    He’d have all night, through the next day to do his work, while people were sitting around pretending friends and family meant a single happy shit.
    He could stretch it out another night, if he wanted. If he got bored, he’d end it.
    Then between him and the droid, they’d take care of body disposal.
    “I have the best job in the world!” he shouted over the music, then dancing—wincing a little—out to the terrace.
    For the hell of it, he yanked down his pants and mooned New York.
    It seriously cracked him up.
    He went back in, popped another pain pill, got a beer. It was great to be able to drink when he wanted, eat when he wanted, do whatever he wanted.

    All of his life people had held him down, held him back, fucked with him.
    Now he was the one doing the fucking.
    And he was never going to stop.
    “Found myself, Ma!” He cackled it. “And today, oh yeah, I am a man.”
    He turned as the door opened, and the droid carted in a big box. He saw the droid’s mouth move, but couldn’t make out the words.
    “What? Jesus. Music off. What?”
    “Sir, I was unable to purchase and carry all the items in one trip. I—”
    “Well, fuck.” Idiot. Maybe he’d spring for another droid. Female, he considered. One with sex options. “Go back and get the rest. I want to get started.”
    “Yes, sir. Where do you want these items?”
    “Just put the whole box down there.” Reinhold pointed to the center of the living area. “And go get the rest. Make it fast, Asshole.”
    “Yes, sir. I’ll return shortly.”
    “You’d better.” Excited, Reinhold sat on the floor and pulled things out of the box.
    More rope, more tape, a carving set. He smiled at the shining blade, at the long prongs of the fork. Perfect for a turkey—or whatever you wanted to slice up.
    “Now that’s what I’m talking about!” He pulled out the portable saw, flicked the switch. And grinned as the twin, toothy blades whirred.
    “Oh yeah. We’re going to have the best Thanksgiving ever.”
    He set the saw down, laid flat on his back, and laughed like a loon.
    He honestly, sincerely, had never been happier in his life.

    E ve circled, bisected, intersected, detoured, expanded, contracted. She spent more time on the ’link in an afternoon than she normally did in a month.
    And couldn’t find him.
    Peabody poked her head in the door, correctly gauged her lieutenant’s mood. She might have preferred just slinking off again, but ordered herself to woman-up.
    “Dallas.”
    “Do you know how many supervisors, managers, landlords, owners, and clerks start their stupid holiday a day early?”
    “Not exactly.”
    “All of them, or damn near. Everybody’s head’s up a turkey’s ass.”
    “Well … lots of people have to travel to—”
    “He’s not traveling,” Eve snapped out. “He’s dug in. And he’s got a target. Whoever it is isn’t going to get a nice piece of pumpkin pie tomorrow.”
    “We’ve got protection on—”
    “We’ve got protection on most of the people we know or have reason to believe may be a target. Most gives him room, and that doesn’t begin to cover ones we’ve missed.”
    She shoved at her hair, pulled at it in frustration. “He’s a frigging amateur, Peabody. He shouldn’t have gotten through the first day, and instead, he’s had almost a week free and clear since his first kill.”
    “Dallas, we