Briarpatch by Tim Pratt by Tim Pratt Read Free Book Online

sure we can persuade him.”
    “Heh,” Echo said. “I’ve seen Nicholas look at me. I think I can guarantee he’ll go along with it.”
    “Good girl.”
    “But it’ll cost you.”
    Ismael knew what she wanted. But he said, “Money’s not a problem,” hoping perhaps he was wrong, that she was just looking for straightforward remuneration.
    “Money’s never been a problem for me. That’s not what I mean. I want to try another experiment.”
    “We just
did
this,” Ismael said, irritated. “Last week, with gasoline, the backyard still stinks of it.”
    “I got something new.” Echo unzipped the duffel bag at her feet. She withdrew a gleaming chrome-plated pump-action shotgun and pressed the barrel against her cheek. “Isn’t it beautiful?”
    Ismael shuddered. He didn’t like guns. He’d seen too many people taken to pieces by guns, including people he’d cared about, back in the old days, when he still sometimes cared about people in more than the abstract. And self-inflicted gunshot wounds were either too unreliable or too quick a death to be useful for transition to the better world—they didn’t provide the crucial moments of contemplation that pills, bridge-jumps, and slit wrists did. “Where did you get that? It looks like a toy.”
    Echo shrugged. “Boosted a Mercedes last week, and this was in the trunk, in a locked box. Probably belonged to gangbanger royalty or something. I tried it out, but I just shot at a wall in an old house in West Oakland. I want to shoot something
good
.”
    “So I’ll buy you a side of beef. You can blast it to pieces. Blood and meat everywhere. Surely that will be more satisfying than shooting me.”
    “You need me to drive Darrin over the edge, so you’ll do what I want,” Echo said, absolutely confident. People almost always did what Echo wanted, but at least Ismael was aware of her manipulations.
    “Fine,” Ismael said.
    “Now?”
    “No better time.” He heaved himself off the couch. Perhaps this experience would make his headache go away, or at least make him stop thinking about Bridget’s failure—his
own
failure. He led the way through the narrow, furniture-crowded hallway, through the essentially empty kitchen, out the back door and down the three low steps to the overgrown weedy backyard. An absurdly high wooden fence screened him from his neighbours, the welcome legacy of some privacy-obsessed former owner. The sun was bright but not hot—the rain hadn’t settled in for its six-month stay just yet, but fall was cusping—and Ismael wished he’d remembered to wear dark glasses. He paused by a rusted-through wheelbarrow, gazing at the sagging, spider-filled tool shed, the shredded trampoline, and the broken birdbath with its puddle of black water at the centre. Ismael considered his backyard a metaphor for his life. Parts of it had been nice enough, perhaps, once, but it was all rundown and pathetic now, and there was no telling when or if the debris would ever be carted off to the trash heap.
    “Why do you always call these ‘experiments’?” Ismael asked, looking ahead but sensing Echo and her shotgun behind him. “It’s not as if the results are in doubt.”
    “But
maybe
,” Echo said, with relish, “
maybe
this time it will be different. The shotgun fires lots of little pellets, after all, so
maybe
some of them will strike home, maybe enough of them to do so some real damage.”
    “If so, I would die,” Ismael said.
    “Well, yes. Which would be kind of a thrill for both of us, right?”
    “Yes.” Ismael turned to face her. “I suppose so. Go ahead.”
    Echo took a stance, legs spread, feet planted firmly, and lifted the shotgun before her, pointed at Ismael’s chest. She was very close to him, and by reaching out and leaning forward a bit, Ismael could have stuck his finger in the gun’s barrel. She pumped it, grinning, clearly loving the sound of the impeccably working machinery of death. “See you, babe,” Echo said, and