The Good Guy Read Online Free PDF
Author: Dean Koontz
billet.
Beyond the windshield lay the kitchen. Surreal.
The keys were in the ignition, but Linda didn’t switch on the engine for this virtual ride. Maybe when her mug was empty, she would fire up the Ford and drive over to the coffee brewer near the oven.
She smiled at him. “Isn’t this nice?”
“It’s like being at a drive-in theater, watching a movie about a kitchen.”
“The drive-in theaters have been gone for years. Don’t you think that’s like tearing down the Colosseum in Rome to build a mall?”
“Maybe not entirely like.”
“Yeah, you’re right. There never was a drive-in theater where they fed Christians to lions. So what did you want to see me about?”
The coffee was excellent. He sipped it, blew on it, and sipped some more, wondering how best to explain his mission.
Crunching through dry eucalyptus leaves on the front walk, he had known how he would tell her. When he met her, however, she was different from anyone he expected. His planned approach seemed wrong.
He knew little about Linda Paquette, but he sensed that she did not need to have her hand held while receiving bad news, that in fact too much concern might strike her as condescension.
Opting for directness, he said, “Somebody wants you dead.”
She smiled again. “What’s the gag?”
“He’s paying twenty thousand to get it done.”
She remained puzzled. “Dead in what sense?”
“Dead in the sense of shot in the head, dead forever.”
Succinctly, he told her about the events at the tavern: first being mistaken for the killer, then being mistaken for the man hiring the killer, then discovering that the killer was a cop.
She listened open-mouthed at first, but her astonishment faded rapidly. Her green eyes clouded, as if his words stirred long-settled sediment in those previously limpid pools.
When Tim finished, the woman sat in silence, sipping coffee, staring through the windshield.
He waited, but finally grew uneasy. “You do believe me?”
“I’ve known a lot of liars. You don’t sound like any of them.”
The pin spots, in which the car gleamed but also darkled, did not much brighten the interior. Though her face was softly shadowed, her eyes found light and gave it back.
He said, “You don’t seem surprised by what I’ve told you.”
“No.”
“So…then you know who he is, the one who wants you dead?”
“Not a clue.”
“An ex-husband? A boyfriend?”
“I’ve never been married. No boyfriend at the moment, and I never did have a crazy one.”
“A dispute with someone at work?”
“I’m self-employed. I work at home.”
“What do you do?”
“I’ve been asking myself that a lot lately,” she said. “What did this guy look like, the one who gave you the money?”
The description didn’t electrify her. She shook her head.
Tim said, “He has a dog named Larry. He once went sky-diving with the dog. He had a brother named Larry, died at sixteen.”
“A guy capable of naming his dog after his dead brother—I’d know who he was even if he’d never told me about Larry or Larry.”
This was not playing out in any way that Tim had imagined it might. “But the skydiver can’t be a stranger.”
“Why not?”
“Because he wants you dead.”
“People are killed by strangers all the time.”
“But nobody
hires
someone to kill a perfect stranger.” He fished the folded photograph from his shirt pocket. “Where did he get this?”
“It’s my driver’s-license picture.”
“So he’s someone with access to the DMV digital-photo files.”
She returned the photograph. Tim put it in his shirt pocket again before he realized that it belonged to her more than to him.
He said, “You don’t know anyone who’d want you dead—yet you aren’t surprised.”
“There are people who want
everybody
dead. When you get over being surprised about that, you have a high amazement threshold.”
Direct, intense, her green gaze seemed to fillet his serried thoughts and to fold
Beyond the windshield lay the kitchen. Surreal.
The keys were in the ignition, but Linda didn’t switch on the engine for this virtual ride. Maybe when her mug was empty, she would fire up the Ford and drive over to the coffee brewer near the oven.
She smiled at him. “Isn’t this nice?”
“It’s like being at a drive-in theater, watching a movie about a kitchen.”
“The drive-in theaters have been gone for years. Don’t you think that’s like tearing down the Colosseum in Rome to build a mall?”
“Maybe not entirely like.”
“Yeah, you’re right. There never was a drive-in theater where they fed Christians to lions. So what did you want to see me about?”
The coffee was excellent. He sipped it, blew on it, and sipped some more, wondering how best to explain his mission.
Crunching through dry eucalyptus leaves on the front walk, he had known how he would tell her. When he met her, however, she was different from anyone he expected. His planned approach seemed wrong.
He knew little about Linda Paquette, but he sensed that she did not need to have her hand held while receiving bad news, that in fact too much concern might strike her as condescension.
Opting for directness, he said, “Somebody wants you dead.”
She smiled again. “What’s the gag?”
“He’s paying twenty thousand to get it done.”
She remained puzzled. “Dead in what sense?”
“Dead in the sense of shot in the head, dead forever.”
Succinctly, he told her about the events at the tavern: first being mistaken for the killer, then being mistaken for the man hiring the killer, then discovering that the killer was a cop.
She listened open-mouthed at first, but her astonishment faded rapidly. Her green eyes clouded, as if his words stirred long-settled sediment in those previously limpid pools.
When Tim finished, the woman sat in silence, sipping coffee, staring through the windshield.
He waited, but finally grew uneasy. “You do believe me?”
“I’ve known a lot of liars. You don’t sound like any of them.”
The pin spots, in which the car gleamed but also darkled, did not much brighten the interior. Though her face was softly shadowed, her eyes found light and gave it back.
He said, “You don’t seem surprised by what I’ve told you.”
“No.”
“So…then you know who he is, the one who wants you dead?”
“Not a clue.”
“An ex-husband? A boyfriend?”
“I’ve never been married. No boyfriend at the moment, and I never did have a crazy one.”
“A dispute with someone at work?”
“I’m self-employed. I work at home.”
“What do you do?”
“I’ve been asking myself that a lot lately,” she said. “What did this guy look like, the one who gave you the money?”
The description didn’t electrify her. She shook her head.
Tim said, “He has a dog named Larry. He once went sky-diving with the dog. He had a brother named Larry, died at sixteen.”
“A guy capable of naming his dog after his dead brother—I’d know who he was even if he’d never told me about Larry or Larry.”
This was not playing out in any way that Tim had imagined it might. “But the skydiver can’t be a stranger.”
“Why not?”
“Because he wants you dead.”
“People are killed by strangers all the time.”
“But nobody
hires
someone to kill a perfect stranger.” He fished the folded photograph from his shirt pocket. “Where did he get this?”
“It’s my driver’s-license picture.”
“So he’s someone with access to the DMV digital-photo files.”
She returned the photograph. Tim put it in his shirt pocket again before he realized that it belonged to her more than to him.
He said, “You don’t know anyone who’d want you dead—yet you aren’t surprised.”
“There are people who want
everybody
dead. When you get over being surprised about that, you have a high amazement threshold.”
Direct, intense, her green gaze seemed to fillet his serried thoughts and to fold
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