The Night Watchman Read Online Free PDF

tender meat hooks into my hip, the rest of the world goes fuzzy and I yearn to lose consciousness for a while. But then I loosen up and adjust to her brutality and somehow survive her sadistic sessions.
    This morning she had run me through a series of stretching exercises that any civilized nation would deem cruel and unusual. Then she had me do some pool work, which wasn't quite as bad and provided some distance between my minder and me. But I often wonder, as I'm frog swimming laps and dear Helga keeps a watchful eye from the side of the pool, if I slip under the water, would she rescue me? I don't think she likes me very much. I can't imagine why.
    I eased out of my pickup, my legs in full rebellion as I planted them on terra firma. I took my time getting to the gate. Between Helga pushing me too hard and just a couple hours of tortured, fitful sleep, my mind and body were spent. Jim and I would have to wrestle later, to be sure. I didn't have to work tonight and might do a John Wayne marathon. Just John, Jim, and me. Not a bad group of guys. No one in Hollywood now was like the Duke. Clint Eastwood came close, maybe like a stepfather, but John Wayne was the man.
    As I approached my apartment, a woman was perched on the bar stool next to my front door. I can lean against it for support and still stretch my leg out when the pain is at its worst. Sometimes I like to sit out there and work a puzzle, when I'm in the mood to get a nostril full of Eau de Toxic Pool.
    She stood and clasped her hands over a large manila folder. I recognized her from the murders at the condos a month or so before. She feigned a smile as I got closer, but the grief was still evident. Maybe it was my years as a cop, but after a while you can just read the emotions on people's faces, even when they're trying to fake it.
    “Mr. Quinn.” She extended her hand. “I don't know if you remember me. I'm Pam Winters. My brother was killed at Coral Bay Condos last month.”
    “I remember.” I didn't tell her that I read the newspaper accounts. Her brother wasn't “killed,” he'd murdered his exotic-dancer lover and then turned the gun on himself. Over several days, the Orlando Sentinel had plastered the story about David Hendricks, his ministry, and his fall—the salacious details that sell lots of papers—on the front page. I shook her hand, then placed both of mine on the cane. What in the world was she doing at my place?
    “Can we talk for a minute?” She glanced at my front door.
    I should have been ecstatic to have a pretty young woman show up at my door and invite herself in, but this didn't have a warm, cuddly feel to it. And I have a tendency to suspect the worst in people. I'd feel like something was wrong with me except for the fact that I'm right most of the time.
    I nodded and unlocked my door. I keep a pretty clean place, all things considered. I've always been that way, not much for clutter or dirt, a minimalist at heart. A room should have a sense of order. But it's still not the slickest abode around; the management hadn't given me much to work with. I hadn't had any visitors since I moved here, and after just having Helga belt me around a little, I wasn't in the greatest mood.
    I grabbed last month's copy of Black Belt magazine off the coffee table and stashed it on the television, like that would soften the man-appeal of my living room. She studied my portrait of the Duke, as if it were a precious work of art in the Louvre (it was to me), and my DVD shrine below it.
    “You have a nice place here.” She moved around the room in the roach motel. She lied well. I made a mental note of that.
    “I'm sorry about your brother.” I figured that was why she was here. No use dancing around it, or we might be here all afternoon making pleasantries.
    “You were very nice to me that night.” She flashed a genuine smile. “I wanted to thank you for that.”
    I shrugged. If I were ever on trial for being a nice guy, I didn't think there'd