Touching Evil Read Online Free PDF Page B

finished." Greg cuddled into the quilt, moaning softly. "I'll wait here."
    "Okay." He patted Greg's knee. "Okay. Everything will be okay."
    He only hoped he was telling the truth.
    If there was one thing he never wanted to do to Greg, it was lie.
    * * * *
    Greg could hear them downstairs. It was a mixture of Artie snapping
out orders and some—two? Three?—women answering. It wasn't
impossible; people touched things all the time—customers, Alice,
Mitch. It was just hard enough to have a place that he could relax down
there; now, people would touch his little chair, his office, move the
little boxes of plastic gloves he kept so he could count money and
shelve books.
    Okay. Stop. They weren't coming upstairs. He was safe. Safe and not
acting like a dipshit. He knew how the bad episodes went, how the paths
in his head felt open and raw, open for the tiniest bit of information.
    He just had to remind himself that he survived the very first
episode, back when any touch made him scream, back when Jeff had signed
for the doctors to administer Lithium, Thorazine, enough Flexeril to
leave him unable to hold his head up, walk. He'd survived that.
    He could handle a little police investigation, no sweat.
    He walked down the steps, leaning hard against the wall, to deadbolt
the door. Artie had an elevator key, once they were all finished, and
no one would get up into his space. Touch his home.
    Of course, climbing up the thrice-damned stairs took forever, and he made the last five steps on hands and knees.
    "You could have just called, Greg." Oh. Alice. Round and familiar,
her hands helping him to a standing position. She was aggravated that
the police were messing with things, had called to have the door
replaced tonight, and had called the insurance. Artie'd sent her up to
check on him.
    Artie lied.
    This was ridiculous—the whole thing was just ridiculous. Here
he was, a full-grown man—a fucking Ph.D., for Christ's
sake—gagging and swaying, leaning on one soft 100%-pure
cotton-clad shoulder that could more than bear his weight across his
living room rug.
    "If you're kicking yourself, stop. You'll just start throwing up."
Alice settled him on the sofa, started cleaning up coffee cups and
plates, carefully shifting the backgammon game aside.
    "You're mother henning."
    Pale blue eyes caught him, worried and fond all at once. "Yes, it's my job. Artie's worried about you."
    "Yes, and you're worried about the shop."
    "My shop is fine. I'll come in early-early with Mitch. He'll help me
clean." She sighed, looked down. "I want you to stay out of the office
for a few days, okay?"
    "Artie?" If it was Artie, he could handle it.
    She shook her head. "No. Miss Leah. She got sick. I think she's pregnant; she carries herself like she is."
    "Yeah?" He should tell Artie. Leah should know that people knew, just in case. He leaned back against the sofa, sighed.
    "You want to go up to the roof, honey? The jasmine's not all gone yet."
    He shook his head. No, he didn't want to play up there, not right
now. Even if it was the best place, the reason he bought the building.
His garden. The sky.
    "Okay. I'm going to go see if they need me and then get home, doctor
up Mitch's hand. That cut from the dumpster's just not wanting to
heal." Cut hand. Greg frowned, then shook his head. No, not cut. Bit.
The K girl had bitten ... him. Alice poured him a cup of coffee, made
him toast, kept jabbering, kept talking on and on and on as she
disappeared, locking the back door behind her.
    Oh. Better.
    It wasn't perfect; he could hear them, but it was better. Touching
Alice's books and opening and closing the door. The scratch as they
moved the pyramid.
    It was maddening, and if it hadn't been Artie and Leah down there,
he wouldn't have allowed it. He wasn't sure if Leah should be down
there. What if someone saw her? Hurt the baby? Hurt Artie?
    It wasn't the urge to help that got him moving, as much as he'd like
to think it was. No, it was the phone ringing, over