Page 37 of The Grave Artist
Then he tucked away thoughts of women with pale skin, hunched over in sorrow, and blades and Miss Spalding too, and eased into the brush, following the man he was about to stab to death, as he walked back to the cemetery from an intersection to the north where he and the other investigator had been poking their goddamn noses into Damon’s business.
Nearby was a statue of William Shakespeare. He was not a person you saw memorialized in bronze much like here—he was apaintingkind of historical figure—and Damon wondered who had erected it. And wondered too: Why Southern California?
His victim was on his phone, though not speaking. Looking down, reading texts.
This was like fishing.
His father had never taken him. Of course.
But Miss Spalding had done so—several times—because he’d asked, and she did almost anything he had the least interest in. In a grim suburban lake in San Fernando Valley he’d caught a big sunfish and then hadn’t known what to do with it.
She looked at the thing distastefully and rather than take the hook out, she dropped it onto the ground and with a big rock smacked it into death.
“Didn’t want it to suffer,” she said, as if to allay his concern for the creature’s murder.
Though watching the fish die didn’t trouble him any more than it did her. He did not, however, gaze down at the guts and the final twitch with a gleam in his eyes, like her.
Maybe it was just the sunlight, that gleam. Or maybe not.
A jogger trotted past and vanished.
Alone now, Damon was free to attack.
He moved in fast, silently, and brought the hunting knife down hard between the man’s shoulder blades.
A shout from the pain.
The blade went straight in, through the dark cloth of the jacket. Deep.
He yanked the knife out, then plunged it in again, feeling the satisfying resistance as the blade pierced skin and organ. In seconds, the man was lying face down, hands clenching and relaxing spasmodically, feet kicking.
Motion from nearby.
Another jogger. Damon had planned to do a bit more stabbing, but he was satisfied he’d done sufficient damage. He turned and jogged away, glancing back to survey the Tableau. All was good. The figure was lying motionless. The jogger had jogged elsewhere, unaware of the attack. No one else was present.
Well, that wasn’t quite accurate. William Shakespeare had witnessed the whole thing. Damon glanced at the dark metallic face. It held a curious expression, as if the violence the eyes had just witnessed were a thing of familiarity.
Which made sense, considering that here was a man who had, in his literary imaginative mind at least, engineered a hundred bloody murders.
Chapter 20
Carmen had hit the twentieth shop or restaurant along Cedar Hills Road during her canvass.
Asking about: A White man. A dark suit. White shirt. Purple tie. Dark hair. Thirties, ish.
“Uhm, well, I guess, I think I saw a bunch of guys like that.”
“Thanks. Have a good day.”
She hated canvassing.
Carmen was about to turn and head back to the cemetery to help Jake interview the girl witness, Sylvie. Her phone vibrated in her pocket. She put it to her ear without taking the time to check caller ID.
“Agent Sanchez.”
“I figured it out, Carm.” Selina was breathless with excitement.
Apparently the girl had gotten over whatever had made her hang up so rudely not long ago.
