Night Kills Read Online Free PDF Page A

Brolan, he couldn't afford to live anywhere else.
        As he guided his car into the right stall of the two-car garage, the door having just lifted automatically, he glanced around the neighbourhood. No signs of life. His neighbours weren't the partying kind, especially not on a weeknight. With the window down, he shivered slightly. During the past half hour, he had felt the weather shift. Autumn was coming to an abrupt halt in the Twin Cities. This happened most years. Tuesday it was in the seventies; Wednesday it was in the twenties.
        Then he thought about the parking garage, the sudden sense of dread he'd felt. And still felt. There was no explaining it… It was something he simply sensed.
        "Wish my garage looked this good," Foster said.
        "Huh?" Brolan said.
        "Your garage."
        "What about it?"
        "It's so neat and orderly."
        "Oh. Yeah. Right."
        Foster stared at his partner, trying to look sober. "You're acting weird."
        "Just tired is all."
        "You sure?"
        Brolan nodded. "Let's go inside and get something to eat."
        "Like the old days."
        Brolan smiled. "Yes, like the old days." And for one of those rare moments, he felt sentimental about his ex-wife. She'd always been their babysitter; Brolan and Foster would stagger back to Brolan's, and she'd fix them a midnight breakfast and they'd sit up till dawn drinking coffee and sobering up and making plans for the agency they were going to start someday.
        "That sounds good," Foster said, and then promptly banged his head against the roof of the car as he tried to get out.
        
***
        
        The moment Brolan opened the kitchen door and walked inside, he knew for sure something was wrong. This time he had a reason for his paranoia.
        Flakes and flecks of dried autumn leaves were scattered across the landing floor. He flipped on the light leading to the basement.
        He could see the leaves on each step of the staircase.
        Somebody had been in here and recently. This was the cleaning woman's afternoon. She would have worked the place into a spotless condition. Certainly she wouldn't have tracked in leaves without cleaning them up.
        "What's the hold up, ole buddy?" Foster said behind him.
        Brolan continued to stare down the steps.
        His sense of dread was almost overwhelming now. Something waited for him in the basement. Something…
        "Why don't you go over and sit down?" Brolan said to Foster, trying to sound calm.
        "By myself?"
        "Sure. I just want to check out a couple of things, and then I'll make us some breakfast. How's that sound?"
        Foster shrugged. "Great, I guess." He looked around the kitchen. It had been designed for a real cook. A butcher-block island with a huge iron rack held a battery of pots, plans, and utensils; while such perks as a new dishwasher, two big pink sinks, and enough fine china to make a duchess jealous filled the rest of the space. All this stuff had been left here by the guy who'd fled after taking Chapter 11. He'd told Brolan that in LA only wimps cooked.
        Foster tottered over to the kitchen table, pulled out a chair with some difficulty, and then, with even greater difficulty, sat down.
        Foster looked over at Brolan and waggled his fingers in a kind of Oliver Hardy gesture. Then he promptly put his head down on the table and went to sleep, like a schoolboy who could no longer endure the physics lesson.
         Maybe it was better that Foster was out, Brolan thought.
        Brolan walked over to the drawers built into the cabinet. He looked at several butcher knives before selecting one with a stout wooden handle.
        He turned and went back to the steps leading to the basement.
        Shaking his head, feeling sluggish from the alcohol he'd had earlier in the evening, he descended the steps.
        On his way down, he had an