TPG (7 page)

It was that quick.

But he wasn’t
going to debate the gesture, or purchase, with Bree.

“Tell Greg I said
thank you,” Kyle said, setting the box down on the table and shifting topics.
“Now, tell me why your mom was home so early when I called the other day. She
feeling okay?”

Bree shrugged
again. “Just another checkup about the baby.”

“
Baby
?”

The blood drained
from Bree’s face. “Oh, shit.”

Kyle stared at her
as his mind quickly processed what her answer and reaction meant.

Sheila was
pregnant.

He couldn’t
believe it. He never expected it. But maybe he should have. Having a child at
thirty-nine wasn’t a big deal anymore. And definitely not in the City.

Bree didn’t say a
word, but the pale, nervous look on her face said it all.

“Don’t worry,”
Kyle said, “I’m not going to say anything.” And then he paused and narrowed his
eyes a bit, slipping back into his fatherly role. “And watch your language.”

“Sorry.”

He took a sip of
water. “How many months?”

“Four, I think.”

She was pregnant.
The news shouldn’t have surprised him, but it did. He had assumed their
problems were largely due to the fact that they
had
had a child. He thought Sheila was looking for something
different, and had always assumed that was why she’d been cheating on him for
so long. But Sheila having another child tore away at that theory and led to
the realization he didn’t want to deal with. She didn’t want something
different, she just didn’t want him.

He looked at his
still silent daughter. “And are you okay with it?” he asked.

She nodded. “Are
you?”

He let the
question linger before saying he was.

“You sure?”

He gave the most
sincere smile he could muster.

“I couldn’t be
happier for her,” he said. “Couldn’t be happier.”

CHAPTER TWELVE

It was time. And it couldn’t have
come sooner.

He needed a fix
more than ever. His body and mind felt as if they were falling apart,
disintegrating into a puddle of mud. He wasn’t even sure if he could wait for
the night. The urge to soak in some more was too hard to ignore. But he had to.
It wouldn’t work if he went too soon. So he barricaded himself inside all day,
downing as much Ambien as needed to ward off the urges, and slept almost the
entire day. Something that was becoming all too familiar between hits.

But the night had
finally come. It was a little before midnight. If he went out now, he’d have
enough stored up for the next day. And it would be needed. If he didn’t have a
bounce-back outing, things would start to fall apart.

So he dressed in
his usual nondescript gear, the same outfit he always wore—jeans, dark
T-shirt and a baseball cap pulled low on his forehead. The muted outfit enabled
his long, lean frame and unblemished skin to blend in and not draw much
attention. Someone would have to be trying to recognize him to actually
recognize him. And he never gave them that chance. Except maybe the guy in the
alley.

He opened his car
door and nestled into the seat. He paused as he slipped the key into the
ignition, wondering if it’d be better to take a taxi rather than let his
unsteady hands and reflexes navigate the streets of Manhattan. He took his hand
off the key and held it out in front of him. There was only a small quiver. The
tremors from earlier were almost gone. He took stock of himself. He definitely
felt better than he had most of the day. Maybe because he was so close to
getting a fix. Perhaps the adrenaline pumping through his veins masked the
frayed nerve endings that seemed to be falling apart. Or maybe it was because
the triple dose of Ambien had worn off, or perhaps the caffeine he’d pumped
into his system was taking effect. He didn’t know, but he felt better. Much
better. Definitely good enough to drive.

He turned the
engine on, backed out of the spot, then made his way downtown, having decided
to hit the Lower East Side again. There was little traffic, so the shot
downtown was quick. He was able to find a spot on Essex Street. Keeping his
head down as he shut the door, he walked down the sidewalk avoiding eye contact
with any passersby. He crossed the street when he came to the end of the block,
taking note of the smokers outside the bars as he continued walking, feeling
his antennas pop, but holding back as he looked for a spot to duck into the
shadows. But while the Lower East Side was great for its bustling young crowds,
its buildings, like pretty much every other area in Manhattan, were packed close
together, the developers having taken advantage of every bit of space they
could get their hands on. He kept walking until he noticed a small recess
covered by some scaffolding that went all the way through, which worked fine
since he’d be able to exit through the other side. He didn’t know what type of
foot traffic he’d get, but figured he’d settle in there for a while to see if
he got any bites. He sat down on a brick ledge about ten feet from where he
entered, his dark clothes covered by shadows, his hat pulled down.

Watching the
vibrant young walk by, he again wished he could get his fix from the sick and
elderly instead. But they didn’t have enough to give, not for what he was
doing.

It had been one of
the reasons he’d been so tentative to go forward with the plan at the
beginning, reluctant to take those so innocent without any just cause.

But that changed
when he realized how quickly time was slipping by, and how much he’d already
lost. He needed to grab some of it back before it was too late.

Even if that meant
taking someone else’s time before it even started.

Compartmentalize
, he told himself as the
thoughts began to creep up a little too much,
compartmentalize
.

He sat still for
quite a while, quietly letting his mind and body focus on all around him,
falling into the semi-meditative state he’d learned worked best for finding a
match
—
a good match
that would stimulate him in a way no drug ever could. He hoped the foot traffic
would pick up to increase his odds and wondered if he should find a different
spot.

But before he
could act on the thought, a sudden spark shot down his spine and prickled the
hairs on the back of his neck. His eyes narrowed as he peered up the block,
looking to locate the source and find the person who had his entire body taut
with anticipation. But before his eyes were able to focus on who it was that
had set him off, he heard the cackles and laughter, a bunch of voices loudly
rehashing the night.

He immediately
felt his stomach sink, his body relax. He wouldn’t be getting his fix from
whoever in the group had set him off. There were too many of them. No matter
how much he wanted to chance it and just grab what he needed, he knew it
wouldn’t be wise. Not with a group. Once it happened he’d be spotted under the
scaffolding, and it’d be too much of a nuisance to justify darting away.

He stood and
watched them walk down the block, waiting for the feeling to wane.

But it didn’t. Not
like he expected it to.

Instead, it was
re-directed.

He turned around
to see where the jolt was coming from.

He didn’t have to
wait long, as a young man rushed over to him, like a moth flying smack into a
deadly light.

The young man had
his hands on his zipper as he ducked into the alley to relieve himself.

“Sorry,” he said
as he unzipped his pants and started peeing on the wall. “I never do this. But
the chick’s bathroom was busted so they took over the guy’s, and it was either
this or pee into a bottle.”

He didn’t return
the comments with any of his own, just walked over as the young man relieved
himself. As he got closer, he saw the youthful face, scraggly spotty scruff on
his cheeks covering up some acne, a spark of youthful hopefulness in his
drunken eyes. He was skinny, wearing a dark blue polo shirt and jeans that were
actually tight around his waist, not hanging halfway down his ass with his
boxers hanging out. Looked like an Honor Roll type, someone whose parents would
be proud of him.

He looked like a
good son.

“Been holding it
in all night,” the young man said as he continued to spray the wall. “Didn’t
want to leave the girl I was talking to with my friends.” He smiled a drunk yet
innocent smile. “She was way too pretty to let get away. Not sure how I got
her, but I wasn’t letting one of those guys take her.”

He didn’t deserve
this. This dorky, nerdy guy who probably hadn’t even been laid yet didn’t
deserve this. His parents didn’t deserve this.

Compartmentalize
.

The young man
finally stopped peeing and zipped up his pants. “Think that was the longest
piss I ever took,” he said, still smiling.

Compartmentalize
.

And he did.

He
compartmentalized.

Tucked it away,
tucked it all away. Tucked every single thought about this little geeky nerd
and his surely proud parents into a part of his mind he’d never visit again.

He had to if he
wanted to get it done.

And then, without
even touching him, without speeding up his slow and deliberate walk over to
him, he attacked, latching onto the young man’s energy like a lion snapping
down on the jugular, grabbing it like a vise.

His body basked in
the much needed hit, reveled in the high, the rush, a sensation that continued
to reach new heights each time, as did the cleansing and replenishment that
came with it. Like the first drop of water after days of wandering the desert.

It was incredible.

He watched the
young man stiffen, his eyes widen, and knew for that brief moment, for those
precious few seconds, the commingling of their energy
had the nerdy young man experiencing an extraordinary high,
one unlike anything he’d ever experienced in his young life before.

But it wouldn’t
stay that way.

He wished it
would.

It’d make things
so much easier.

But the young
man’s rush was gone in seconds, his high crumbling as quickly as it had risen.
And when it left, the young man grabbed his temple to stop the pain, just like
all the others had before him. But there was nothing he could do. The pain was
the result of the explosion of blood that had built up in his brain as it
rushed to feed the enormous activity that had his synapses shooting off like
the Fourth of July.

And then, like the
rest, he collapsed, dead before his skull even struck the sidewalk.

It was done.

“Peter!”

The shout came
from behind, under the scaffolding. It was a young woman. She looked to be
about the same age as the guy he’d just attacked. Pale skin, shoulder length
blond hair with a few pink streaks running through it, skinny legs sticking out
of skimpy shorts. A tight white Yankees T-shirt showed off a flat stomach, with
an almost equally flat chest. She was probably the one the kid was talking
about as he peed.

“What happened?”
she cried out, staring straight into his eyes, seeing them clearly.

And then there was
the flash of recognition.

She knew him.

He scoped the
block, looking for anyone else. There was no one.

Just them.

The girl was still
stuck on him, maybe trying to figure out how she knew him, where she’d seen him
before. Probably too shocked, or maybe too drunk, to piece it together right
then. But as the man glanced at the “NY” symbol on the shirt, he knew she would
figure it out eventually. She wasn’t even focusing on the young man anymore,
probably thinking he’d just passed out because he was drunk.

He couldn’t let
her go. He couldn’t risk it. The next day was way too important.

Compartmentalize
.

He didn’t pick up
the slightest vibe from her. She wasn’t a match.

So he did what he
had to.

He reached out and
grabbed her, shock registering in her eyes as she recognized what was
happening, realizing her worst fears were coming to life, knowing every
neurotic worried thought her mother and father had voiced telling her to be
careful, worrying when she came home late, every damn fear was happening right
then. She was about to die, and there wasn’t a damn thing she could do to stop
it. And she knew it. For those horrifying few seconds, she knew. Her life was
going to be over before it ever really started.

He hesitated this
time, though. Paused for a brief second. Somehow killing her with his hands had
a different impact on him than doing it with his mind.

It felt more real.
Harder to justify.

“Please,” she whimpered.
“Don’t do it. Please.”

The voice was so
gentle, so soft, so much like a little girl’s.

But he had no
choice.

It had to be done.

He turned her
around and wrapped one arm around her chest and grasped her forehead and
paused, looked down at the pink streaks in her hair, wondered what her parents
thought when she came home with them, if they yelled at her or just let her be
who she was. He hoped it was the latter. He hoped they were accepting,
supportive. He didn’t want them to regret not having been easier on her.

It would be hard
enough.

Then, without
further hesitation, he twisted her neck violently, snapping it.

He let go and
watched her limp body fall to the ground.

It had to be done
, he told himself
again.

He was about to
leave when he realized leaving them in that condition would be too blatant an
act for anyone in-the-know to ignore. Random strokes were one thing, but a
gruesome murder next to one of those strokes was something else entirely.

He had to clean it
up.

He knelt down next
to the young man and cradled his head in one arm, pushed the other one against
his chest and, just like with the girl, twisted and snapped his neck like a
toothpick, making sure it remained in the awkward position.

Then he stuffed it
all into that deepest corner of his mind, never to be visited again.

Just like Dale
Carnegie said to do.