I Kill in Peace Read Online Free PDF Page A

go!”
    As soon as I touched the case, the agony abated.
    I got out of the car and started walking. It was the middle of the afternoon. This was hardly the time or place to commit a crime. I knew I was going to get caught. I deserved to go to jail for what I did to Marcellus. I could face that.
    But could I survive without Candy and Katie?
    The shingles on the tiny, single family home were a diseased gray. I figured they’d been slapped on the house sometime during Johnson’s presidency. One of the windows had a hole in it, stuffed with a dirty rag. The roof was missing more tiles than I could count.
    People live in this?
    Bridgton was not a hick town by any means, but it did have a handful of what I called redneck pockets. All this house was missing was a ratty, mildew-infused sofa outside and an old clunker on cinder blocks. The house itself looked as if it were being consumed by the trees and wild vegetation that grew around it.
    â€œSecond window, west side,” I huffed. I was a city boy. I couldn’t tell west from north, even with a compass. I’d have to do some window peeking until I found whatever the hell it was I was supposed to be looking for.
    The tall grass that sprouted alongside the house crackled as I prowled around, peering inside the dirty windows. These people had obviously never heard of Windex.
    I saw an empty living room jammed with mismatched furniture, newspapers, empty cans of food, and an old tube TV. I didn’t spot anyone, but I did hear noises coming from inside.
    The next window gave me a glimpse of a small dining room. All it had was a table piled high with boxes and stacks of paper. Flower-print wallpaper was coming down in various places. What took my by surprise was the beautiful rosary that hung from the ceiling light fixture. It looked to be made of precious stones, each catching the light from the lone bulb.
    I ducked away from the window when I heard a child crying. Circling to the other side of the house, I counted two windows and took a quick look.
    What I saw got my molars grinding.
    The man from the preschool was in the kitchen. I could see his fat, hairy ass. He wore a Red Sox jersey—Garciaparra—and stained socks.
    But that wasn’t what set fire to my core.
    The little boy, his son, presumably, stood in front of the man, his head in direct line with the animal’s genitals. I couldn’t see what the boy was doing, but I didn’t need to. I scrunched my eyes shut, willing the image away.
    When I opened them, I was taken aback to see the scimitar in my hands. I had somehow removed it from its case without even knowing it.
    The boy cried out. I looked back inside to see his father hit him on the side of his head.
    â€œYou can cry like a sissy when you’re done,” he grumbled, scratching at his dimpled ass.
    The urge to slice him in half boiled within me.
    â€œNo,” I said, gritting my teeth.
    Not with the boy around. He couldn’t be witness to it. But I couldn’t stand around waiting for the abuse to end.
    I found a brick in the grass. Eyeing an upstairs window, I heaved it as hard as I could. It blasted through the glass.
    The man pulled away from the boy, tugging up his sweatpants.
    â€œWhat was that?” the boy said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
    Be calm , I thought. At least for another minute.
    â€œStay right there!” the man yelled at him, dashing out of the room.
    I ran to the back door, relieved to find it unlocked. The boy looked at me with resignation, as if strange men coming into the house were a regular occurrence.
    And what were these strange men allowed to do with him when they came by?
    â€œGet out of here,” I said to him. He was small for his age, with wide, brown eyes and unruly hair that curled down around his shoulders.
    â€œDaddy said to stay,” he said.
    I showed him the scimitar. Fear swept the indifference from his eyes. “I said go !”
    He tore