Limitless by Robert J. Crane Read Free Book Online Page B

a—”
    “Great,” I said, heading toward the car. Didn’t even bother for him to finish. I didn’t need eyes in the back of my head to see him looking as I walked away. But only because I could see his reflection in the bumper of a nearby car.

Chapter 12
    “Still think you need my help?” I asked as we cruised through the streets of London on our way back to New Scotland Yard. The rain had let up, thank the heavens. I didn’t remember it being quite this bad when last I’d been here.
    “Now more than ever,” Webster said tensely from the driver’s seat. His fingers were white-knuckling the steering wheel. “Without you, I’d probably have been butchered by our suspect.”
    “Yeah, I’m not sure why he ran,” I said, mulling it over. We’d stopped off at a department store that I didn’t catch the name of, and in spite of some frowns from the proprietress due to my attire and a certain amount of bendiness due to a crack in my only credit card, I’d managed to get pants and a new shirt. I’d wanted a trench coat to go along with everything, but I couldn’t find one that fit. The lady behind the counter had apologized profusely once I’d cleaned up and paid, but they just didn’t have anything in my shorty short size. Ah, the challenges of being a woman of average height. So I stuck with the beat-up leather coat. It wasn’t like I could ruin it much more wearing it in the rain, I supposed. “He had us. All he had to do was come right back through the door while I was out, and he could have finished me.”
    “There’s an element of play to this whole thing,” Webster said, tapping his finger on the wheel. “I mean, what he did to your friend Max—”
    “Max wasn’t my friend,” I said absently. I didn’t say it like I was indignant or upset, just stating a fact. Max wasn’t my friend.
    I didn’t really have any friends. Not anymore.
    “Well, what he did to Max was just brutal. And dumping the body like that? He had to know it’d be found. He even made sure it was identified.”
    “Serial killers like attention,” I said. “Or so I’m told.” Right, Wolfe? I got a growl in my head in reply.
    “Maybe he’s playing with you, too,” Webster said, finishing his thought. “Maybe you’re part of his game now.”
    “Maybe,” I said, not convinced. “Or maybe we’ve watched a few too many serial killer movies. Don’t these guys—I mean, don’t they typically want to keep getting away with it?”
    “One would presume,” Webster said, and the car slalomed slightly. He looked over at me, a little red. “Sorry. I just don’t understand it. It feels like there’s more here, obviously, lots of pieces we’re not seeing. But what he did to Maxwell Llewelyn makes it feel like there’s some rage in there.”
    “I don’t really understand sickos,” I said, shaking my head.
    “I, uh…” Webster started, and I could see the hesitation. “You’ve uh… had to kill a few people, right?” He froze, then adjusted. “In the line of duty, I mean?”
    I sat very still for a moment and felt my mouth go a little dry. “Yes. In the line of duty.” Not the whole truth, but never mind. “But I’ve never mangled a corpse.” Mangled a few before they became a corpse, but never afterward. “I agree, what he’s doing to them is vicious. Do you have a serial killer division or something?”
    “Or something,” Webster said. “Not sure they’ll be interested in this one. It’s being kept rather quiet, naturally, since metas are involved.”
    “Right,” I said, feeling my sarcasm had not been put to enough use today, “because you wouldn’t want to devote time and resources to stopping people from dying unless they’re full-on human.”
    “That’s not quite fair,” Webster said.
    “I totally agree; it’s very unfair to the people who are being killed.”
    That shut us both up until we were back in the parking garage at New Scotland Yard. We entered the building in silence, and