It's not difficult for me to sound sick.
“Hey, Mark, sorry for calling so late.” I pause, trying to hear if the kid is in the background. Maybe she's with her mother tonight. “I need to fill a prescription, but everywhere seems to be closed. Do you know any twenty-four hour pharmacies?”
Mark hesitates. I know what he's thinking: use the goddamn Internet.
But Mark is nice. Mark is helpful. Mark is falling into my trap like many before him.
He says, “Yeah, of course. There's one about a block from my condo. I can text you the address.”
Just as I think I'm in the clear, a voice rings out in the background: “Daddy! Can I have Popsicle?”
Shit.
Mark sounds distant, moving the phone away.
“No, honey. You're going to bed in five minutes.” Then he returns to our conversation. “Okay, I'll text you the address. Anything else?”
“No,” I say, numbly. “That's all. Thanks.”
I hang up the phone. Maybe the hum will give me a few hours of reprieve because I tried. As if to remind me it's listening and not amused, the hum speeds up. I cringe until it evens out again.
Time to think fast. The kid is with Mark. I will need to break in, gag and shackle Mark without the kid hearing us, and then take her to her mother's pharmacy—whose address is now in my text messages. Mark had said his girlfriend worked overnight at a nearby pharmacy. Her location would be the first one to come to mind when asked.
Once I drop the kid off there, I will return to the condo to end Mark … and the hum.
The fact I already know so many things about this small family and have conjured a plan to fit my needs is disturbing. But it's what I do.
The hum would make Mother Teresa pop a bullet into the Pope's brain.
I park a block away from Mark's condo, verify the guns are in my pocket, and set out down the sidewalk. The neighborhood is dark, lit by only a few porch lights and a couple of street lamps. The world is quiet. Across the street, a woman is walking a small dog. She doesn't seem to notice me.
I take the stairs. I'm going to do this right this time. I'm going to kill Mark.
I reach the fourth floor and round the balcony. My heart stops, followed by my feet. A door is ajar. Mark's door.
I swallow hard and creep closer, placing my right hand on the gun in my pocket.
Maybe he's enjoying the summer night air. Even I don't believe that, though. Something feels amiss.
I'm somehow terrified and completely in control at the same time. Without hesitation, I slide through the open door, ready to kick it close and have my gun at Mark's temple.
Mark is lying on the living room floor. His head is turned away from me, but the carpet around him is black. A strange instrument is jutting from his neck.
I draw my gun and take a quick scan of the room, expecting the other killer to be lurking nearby. The room is empty. I tune my hearing toward the back rooms as I inch closer to Mark.
The instrument seems to be stone, oblong with spikes sticking out from the sides.
I head for the hallway, doing big sweeps of each room, but I find nothing. Not even the kid.
The house is silent.
I stand in the living room, turning in a slow circle. The room must contain a clue, but I don't find any. All I know is the hum is gone, Mark is dead, and I didn't do it.
Chapter 10
I stand at my bathroom sink, staring into the mirror. My eyes are dark and sunken. I can't remember the last time I slept without the hum or the incessant subconscious reminder that Syd is gone.
Not all that long ago, I had this life down. It wasn't a great existence, but it worked. I made up stories to justify the murders, but now I can't believe them. I had a system for picking up temporary female companionship. Now all I want is Syd, but she is done with me.
I used to believe I could somehow live independently of the Walkers if given a chance, but now I know my life is dependent on them. I used to believe I had some outline of a normal life, even if the details were a bit skewed.
Now, I know I'm not even human.
I am the Walkers' jinn, one in a long line of many before and many to come. Everything else is just a game to see how long I can keep my sanity.
I am losing.
I glance at the gun on the vanity counter. Even the notion that I could stick the barrel in my mouth and pull the trigger causes the dagger of disobedience to jab in my skull. Hard. My fingers grip the bathroom sink until the pain recedes.
I tried this escape already, anyway. Right before my first kill. Before I had even lifted the gun to my head, I was on the floor, convulsing. The gun had slipped from my grasp, and I didn't have the dexterity or strength to pick it back up until I knew I wouldn't harm myself.
Pounding echoes on the front door.
I sigh and head down the hallway, toward the living room.
The pounding increases.
I open the door.
Syd is before me, her eyes red.