9 Hell on Wheels Read Online Free PDF Page B

“I ran into her mother a few years after she left. She told me Linda had finished school and gotten married. She lives outside Philly, I think.”
    He gave my hand one last squeeze and let go. “So, how about that room service?”
    I got up and retrieved the room service menu. Greg followed me inside. “So it’s not far-fetched that Peter was seeing Miranda?” I scanned the menu, but my mind wasn’t on dinner.
    “Not far-fetched at all. He seemed to go out of his way to steal women from other quads and paraplegic athletes, like it’s part of the sport. He’d done it a couple of times to other players before he took up with Linda.”
    “For sport,” I repeated, processing that information. “To men on his own team or on opposing teams?”
    “Never his own teammates.”
    “So it was like a strategy to get inside their heads?”
    “Maybe.” Seeing me making no progress on our dinner, Greg took the menu from me. “Or maybe it was just to prove his virility off the court as well as on.”
    “Seems to me his bad sportsmanship wasn’t just reserved for the games.”
    “Nope,” Greg said. “He’s a dirty player all around.” He put down the menu and looked me square in the eye. “I’m not saying Peter Tanaka deserved to die for being an ass, but I’m not sorry he’s dead. I’m only sorry, deeply sorry, that Rocky got caught up in it. We have to help him.”
    As soon as he said those words, Greg pulled his cell phone out of his pocket. “I forgot—Rocky wanted me to call his brother.”
    “Yes, I noticed Lance wasn’t at the tournament. He usually is, isn’t he?”
    Greg nodded as he looked through his contacts list for Lance Henderson’s information. “Yeah, but Rocky said he had to work this weekend.”
    Greg made the call, reaching only voice mail. He left a message for Lance to call him. I tried calling Miranda and also only reached voice mail. I told her what had happened and asked her to call me or Detective Martinez as soon as possible. I left both of our numbers and Greg’s. We then ordered dinner, but when it arrived we only picked at it, our minds trumping our hunger as we went over what had happened right in front of us.
    It wasn’t the first time I’d seen someone die or be killed right in front of me. It’s not like I keep track of it, but I think it’s close to a half dozen people whom I’ve seen gasp their last breath. And, sadly, the number of dead bodies I’ve seen is far more than that. I seem to attract them like cat hair to a sofa or like Velcro to…well…most anything. I know women who keep track of how many sexual partners they’ve had. I’ve never understood that. Was there a magic number where if they reached it, they stopped having sex? Or was it a matter of secret and sometimes not-so-secret pride of conquest, like jocks in a locker room? In my case, it’s dead bodies that pile up like cords of wood in my brain. Seth Washington, friend and husband of my best friend, Zee, had dubbed me Corpse Magnet several years back, and the nickname has clung to me like a sticky booger.
    Several years ago, I even pulled the trigger of a gun that ended someone’s life. In doing so, I’d saved another person from death. But even though it was not considered murder, it changed my life forever. For the first six months there wasn’t a day I didn’t think about it. I’d walked around in a dense fog of depression and cried without warning. I’d even gone into therapy for a short while to deal with the overwhelming sense of guilt. Now I only think about it occasionally, like on the anniversary of the event or whenever I see another dead body. Seeing Peter Tanaka’s corpse on the floor of the gym had brought it all back. Tonight I’ll beat it down until it’s no longer in the forefront of my mind. It takes much less time and effort to do it now, but the knowledge that I’m a killer will remain, buried deep, like a fungal infection that lives under toenails, just waiting for