Page 197 of Brainwashed
“Not sure if he was always like this, but he’s sort of… troubled. Struggling with substance abuse. And he was picked up a few weeks ago for a disturbance in an upscale nightclub in Beverly Hills. Drunk and a little strung out, claiming a guy owed him money… It was a whole thing.”
My stomach is turning. “So he’s a sex-worker.”
“Seems that way,” Sven says reluctantly.
I don’t know what to make of all this. My head is spinning, and all I can think about is Felix.
How he might react knowing Cameron is suffering…
Suddenly, my lungs are a bit tight.
“But he’s okay… right?” I ask, clinging to it. “I just mean he’s not… he won’t gethurtor anything…”
Sven goes quiet again and the silence, with a dead body on the floor next to me, feels exceptionally heavy. “Look, Lem, what do you want me to say?”
Pinching the bridge of my nose, I give myself two more seconds to stress about this before I lock it up. “Thank you, Sven. Just… keep in touch. About Trevel.”
Hanging up the phone, I say a quick good riddance to my dead uncle on the floor, and I leave.I’m jittery as I hop into his black Honda Accord—very inconspicuous, it makes perfect sense—and drive away, leaving my first body and Chicago behind.Despite the knowledge I now have, slithering about inside me like a snake, I’m zoned in, and determined. Possibly even more. I’ve made my choice, actions performed, consequences surmised.
It’s all happening, the way it was always made to. And now I’m on my way home. The firstrealhome I think I’ve had since I was a child.
Because I’m a killer now. And if there’s one place I know where brutal murderers are welcomed with open arms… it’s Alabaster Isle.
Felix Harmon Darcey
Age: Twenty-two
Location: Brooklyn Heights, NY
Imet him outside of the coffee shop by the park…
The one who got away.
You see, I was riding high from the success of posing Lee. The cops, the FBI, the entire city of New York… even much of the country was in a tizzy.
I wasfamous.
And the cops hated me.Loathedme.
I mean, they were highly pissed off. After all, they’d spent the last year linking my crimes based on a psychological profile—you know, thatMindhunterstuff—but they had no physical evidence. No murder weapons. No DNA.
Those were the things I made sure never to leave behind. Because those were the things that got you caught. Well, that and a body, which I must admit, I became rather grandiose with my scattering about.
Leaving Lee Turnov on the Rockefeller Center tree was my Sistine Chapel, my symphony forty-one… MyCitizen Kane. It was the masterpiece that took me from unknown monster lurking in the shadows to having my kills listed alongside the motherfucking murder of Sharon Tate.
He wasn’t even my last kill. I’d brought home a couple more guys in the last few months, but all anyone cared about was Lee Turnov—the bloody Christmas decoration.
Their attention was being held by him, and it was a good thing. Because I was definitely still in business. Still doing my thing, working at the bookstore three days a week, then at night, following guys around the park.
The city was my playground.
And that was when I saw it in the paper…
City Cowers Under Threat of The Carver.
The Carver.
That wasme!
