I Don't Want To Kill You by Dan Wells Read Free Book Online

I said, ‘but the face you just made almost makes this conversation worth it.’
     
    ‘John . . .’
     
    ‘It’s still not worth it, but it almost was.’
     
    ‘To the lake then,’ she said, plunging onward. She was tenacious this morning. ‘It’s wonderful weather for the lake. Did you go swimming?’
     
    ‘We went skinny dipping.’
     
    ‘Can you please just answer a simple question without the attitude?’ She stepped back around the corner again. I thought I’d get a moment of respite, but she kept talking, shouting from the bathroom. ‘It may surprise you to know this, but there are children – some of them teenage boys, just like you – who actually carry on open, honest conversations with their mothers.’
     
    ‘I find it very hard to believe that there are other teenage boys just like me.’ I finished my cereal and stood up. ‘I also find it a little terrifying.’
     
    She came back around the corner, having readjusted the curler again. Her face was no longer playful. ‘I’m sorry; I didn’t mean to talk about anything uncomfortable.’
     
    I walked past her into the living room. ‘Finally something we agree on. Let’s stop talking right now.’ I turned on the TV. I could probably still catch most of the morning news.
     
    ‘Come on, John,’ she said. ‘I’m just asking how things went on your date. I want to be involved in your life.’ I ignored her and flipped through the channels. ‘The cord reaches in here even better than the kitchen,’ she said. ‘We can keep talking.’
     
    ‘We can,’ I said, ‘but we can also stop. That’s called “freedom of choice”.’
     
    ‘You know, I was really getting to like the fact that we didn’t watch the news during every single meal any more—’ She stopped abruptly, caught by the news footage. It had caught me at the same moment, and we stared at it. ‘That’s City Hall.’
     
    ‘Yeah.’
     
    There was a reporter at Clayton’s City Hall, talking intently to the camera while several policemen milled around behind her, armed and edgy. In the background, parked right in front of the steps, was an ambulance with flashing lights, and near it a swarm of paramedics clustered around something on the ground. I caught a glimpse of Ron, the Coroner, standing with them. Someone was dead.
     
    ‘Turn it up,’ Mom said softly.
     
    ‘We have Sheriff Meier with us,’ the reporter said, and the camera zoomed out and panned over to reveal the Sheriff standing stiffly on the reporter’s left. ‘Sheriff Meier, what can you tell us about this attack on the Mayor?’
     
    Mom gasped. ‘The Mayor!’
     
    ‘It appears to have happened late last night,’ said the Sheriff. He looked tired, and I guessed that he’d been up for several hours already. ‘The Mayor and one of his aides were the only ones in the building at the time, and both were attacked; the aide received a blow to the head but was otherwise unharmed, and he’s on his way to the hospital now.’
     
    ‘The Handyman typically attacks his victims in their homes,’ said the reporter. ‘Do you have any idea why he might have attacked the Mayor here, in his office?’
     
    The Sheriff bristled at that, as he so often did with the press. ‘This case bears remarkable similarity to the Handyman killings, yes, but we want to stress that the connection is still conjecture. We are investigating any and all evidence, and if it turns out that this is the real Handyman and not a copycat, we will proceed from there.’
     
    ‘Besides,’ I added, talking to the screen, ‘the Handyman kills people at home and at work – he killed a police officer in his car once. This reporter doesn’t know what she’s talking about.’
     
    Mom shook her head. ‘I can’t believe this is happening. The Mayor.’
     
    I whistled. ‘She’s mad, all right.’
     
    ‘The reporter?’
     
    ‘No,’ I said, ‘the demon.’
     
    ‘Then God help us all.’ Mom stood up and walked back to the