Page 147 of The Grave Artist
Maddie—Lauren—started to pace. He was twisting his hands in the tape bindings to see whether he could loosen them. No luck.
“My first john was my dealer,” she said matter-of-factly. “He trained me, then sent me out to work off the drug debt. He kept me supplied, and I kept him solvent.
“I found out that if you’re rich, people say you have asubstance-abuse issue.” She air-quoted the phrase. “But if you’re poor, they call you a junkie.” Her lips lifted in a smile that held no humor. “That was me. Now you see why Allison wanted to hide me in a broom closet at the wedding?
“Then I hit bottom this spring. One of the working women in our circle died, a friend of mine. A john punched her. Some argument about money. She hit her head and died. Guess what? He never got arrested. She’s dead and he waltzes away. That’s when I realized how my life would end if I didn’t do something. So I went to see Anthony.”
She slowed and leaned against a fence rail. “He had a plan that would save me, and it was going to happen when he got back from his honeymoon. The one he never took. So I lost twice. The brother I loved ... and a chance for a new life ... I have nothing, Damon. A boring job, a cheap rental. That fifty thousand dollars? Yeah, I wish.
“You were going down. But I had to figure you out first, so I let you talk me into going to your house. And I sure got an eyeful in that weird den of yours. All that art full of sadness and misery. Then you tell me you’re an artist who finally found his true medium, but you wouldn’t say what it was.
“Well, I figured it out when I remembered you at the funeral with that creepy smile. You’re a sick fuck who gets his jollies watching people grieving. My brother’s death was nothing to you. You could have killed Allison. You could have killed anybody. It was just a way for you to create a bunch of mourners to prey on.”
He felt her words as body blows, as welts from a whipping. Yet, it was true. She had just defined Serial Killing 2.0.
And it was all shattered, the perfect union they had. All that remained was an abiding sorrow. Far worse than what he’d felt when his fiancée died.
He whispered, “Everything about you was so perfect. We were made for each other. But it was a fucking trick. You created the perfect woman for me. And then you killed her.”
She’d turned him into a mourner, just like he’d done with Serial Killing 2.0.
“How does it feel, Damon? Shoe. Other foot.”
Still, something didn’t add up. “But I saw you half murder that man.”
“Ah, you’re so gullible, Damon.”
He inhaled at the stinging words.
“You saw somebody I paid a thousand dollars to. Somebody I knew from the old days. We followed you to that address in Fullerton, whatever the hell you were doing there—spying on that girl, I guess. And faked the attack. He got hit a few times, mostly I missed. We had a baggie of fake blood. He’s an addict. He needed money. I needed a victim.”
Studying him once again. The way he might study theLamentation of Christ.
“You know, Damon, we’re like opposite sides of the same coin. Your medium is grief, but mine is revenge.” She paused while her words sank in. “You could call us grave artists. You enjoy people standing around a grave. I’m going to enjoy burying you in one. Only I do it for justice. You’re just like any other second-rate sociopath.”
Tears stung in the corners of his eyes.
She noted this with apparent satisfaction.
“I’m sure that’s a tough thought to live with. But you’re not going to have to endure it for very long.” She picked up a rusty shovel that rested on the ground nearby and with the joy of a devoted gardener began to scoop dry, sandy earth onto his body.
Chapter 72
Carmen had barely finished dealing with one crisis and she was already barreling headlong into the next.
Selina was safe, but now a killer was getting away.
Twokillers, she reflected. Damon Garr and Lauren Brock—if she’d finished her mission to murder him.
Carmen had left her sister with Ryan Hall, taking Heron with her as she raced to the SUV to help in the search. While she drove toward Lauren Brock’s last known geolocation, Heron had gotten Mouse back on the phone to coordinate communication between the satellite, CHP, Customs and the SHIT detail.
And, of course, the tireless Declan.
She had the pedal to the floor, and for once Heron wasn’t telling her to slow down. She wasn’t sure if it was a sign of the level of crisis they were dealing with or if he’d finally gotten used to her driving.
It was then, rounding a curve, that the white Camry came speeding right for them, over the centerline and forcing Carmen to steer onto the shoulder, which ended in a hundred-foot drop into a rocky arroyo.
Carmen gasped but controlled the skid expertly, missing the edge by inches.
