Page 82 of Close Up

“What rumors?”

“The minute you notified the Broker that you were interested in buying a certain book of handwritten poems at any price, no questions asked, the rumors began circulating.”

“So much for the Broker’s promise of anonymity,” the Poet said. “You can’t trust anyone these days.”

“The Broker kept his word. That’s why he has survived as long as he has. But when something extremely valuable comes on the market there are always rumors.”

“Who stole my journal?” the Poet screamed.

His pistol roared in the night, punctuating the words.

One down, five shots to go, Nick thought. Unless the Poet was carrying extra ammunition. Probably not. Judging by the accounts in the journal he was not accustomed to using a gun for his kills. He preferred more subtle methods.

“You like to think of yourself as a poet,” Nick said. “I was inclined to agree after I read your early works. I was impressed by your originality. Back at the start of your career you were brilliant. But obviously your glory days are behind you.”

“Shut your fucking mouth.”

Nick sensed the hysteria in the words and aimed for it.

“Maybe you should have gone into psychotherapy instead of taking this last commission,” he said. “Dr. Freud would probably have some interesting theories about your case.”

Another shot cracked in the night.

Two down. Four to go.

“I will admit I’ve got a question for you,” Nick said. “Who’s your client? The one paying you to murder Vivian Brazier.”

“You really think I’m going to tell you?”

“The information would have been helpful but it’s not necessary. You’re a spider who likes to sit at the center of a web. Now that you’re finished it won’t be hard to follow the strands to get all the answers. There are just so many details in those poems.”

“You have no idea who you’re dealing with.”

“Does insanity run in your family?”

“You fucking bastard.”

Another shot cracked in the night. Three down. Three to go.

“I’ve analyzed several of your poems,” Nick continued. “Figuredout how you work. You lure your clients with veiled offers to make their problems go away. For a hefty fee, of course. Make it look like an accident or natural causes. The client probably tells himself or herself that is exactly what happened. An accident. Natural causes. Suicide. But one of these days you’ll start blackmailing your clients, won’t you? It’s a clever business model but it’s got one flaw.”

“What are you talking about? There is no flaw.”

“It’s the money,” Nick said. “It always leaves a trail.”

“You’re crazy.”

“I’m not the one who gets excited about murdering people and then falls into a deep depression after the kill. We both know you belong in an asylum.”

“No.” The Poet’s voice rose to a shrill scream.“That’s a fucking lie.I escaped the curse.I’m in control.”

Fury and panic shivered through each word.

Interesting,Nick thought.

“Your mental state is deteriorating, isn’t it?” he said. “You’re losing your grip on sanity. It’s all there in the poems, you know. The euphoria of the kills used to last you for weeks, months even. But not now. You need to kill more often and you are no longer doing it carefully. It was just a matter of time before you got caught.”

“That’s not true. Not true. I’m in control.”

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