Sooner or Later Read Online Free PDF

wondered how long she would last.
    The woman could feel his eyes, like heat on her skin. She glanced up at him, then away again. She shifted uncomfortably and held the book higher in front of her face so she wouldn’t have to look at him.
    Duveen smiled, that same knowing little curve of the lips he’d given the secretary when she’d handed him the money. He felt a surge of power as he watched her. It was a feeling he had not experienced in a long time,deprived as he was of human prey, and he knew himself to be glorious again. He had not lost his touch.
    The woman snapped the book shut. She flung it into her bag along with the remains of the sandwich, grabbed her coat from the seat next to her and eased sideways out of the seat as quickly as she could. He watched every move, every fluid ripple of her body.
    “Pervert,”
she muttered. And then she was gone, striding purposefully down the swaying train, away from him.
    Duveen heaved a pleased sigh. He was back in biz.
    In Manhattan, he checked into a cheap hotel near Times Square. He went out and bought himself a steak dinner and found a back-street bar where they stocked reasonably good bourbon. Then it was time to put his first plan into action.
    Tanked up and humming with power like an electricity pylon, he found himself a hooker. He took her into a dark alley and had her up against the wall behind a Dumpster. While he was doing it he put his hands round her slender neck and began to squeeze. He had no worries about anyone coming into the alley and seeing him, because he was in control. He was invincible.
    She gagged, fought back, so he punched her senseless. When he had finished, he let go of her and she slid to the ground. He took the knife from his pocket and carefully etched a deep cross into her forehead. Temple to temple, scalp to nose. It was something he liked to do, his personal mark. Hefting her easily in his strong arms, he flung her into the Dumpster, took the bottle of bourbon from his pocket, and poured it over her.
    He straightened his clothing, took out a cigarette, lit it, and tossed the lit match into the Dumpster. Whistling “Dixie” under his breath, he strolled back down the alley. He felt like a new man.
    As he turned the corner, he heard the
whoosh
of flames. He smiled, that curious little smile. He’d always enjoyed fire.
    He hung around awhile, mingling with the crowds on the busy sidewalks, inspecting the sleaze shops selling porn equipment and magazines, the theaters selling blue movies and the pimps selling their women. Ten minutes passed before he heard the wail of fire engines racing toward the alley.
    Mingling with the crowds rushing to the fire, he was filled with excitement at his power. He had created a little free theater for the excited populace: lights, noise, leaping flames, gleaming fire engines. All the shouting and hurry and tear of a real-life drama.
    He turned his footsteps back toward his hotel. It was only a warm-up but he thought it wasn’t bad for his first day’s work in twenty years.

         6
    H OMICIDE DETECTIVE D AN C ASSIDY WAS AT HIS DESK IN the squad room of Manhattan’s Midtown South Precinct, fiddling with the computer. There was no need; his notes were as complete as he was ever going to make them. Shutting the machine down, he turned his attention to his files. They were all in order. He opened the desk drawers and closed them again. They were empty.
    Pushing back his chair, he prowled restlessly down the hallway to the vending machine and punched out his fifth cup of coffee of the evening. Leaning his rugged body against the wall, he sipped the sluggish brown liquid, wondering anxiously if he was doing the right thing. Didn’t they always say you couldn’t go home again? He shrugged off the misgivings. It was too late now.
    Dan was dark-haired and blue-eyed, like his Irish ancestors, and built tall and rangy like his mother’s family. He’d grown up in Santa Barbara, a typical outdoorsy