Messenger of Fear Novella #1 by Michael Grant Read Free Book Online Page B

really prepare you for the terrible sight of a human being dying before your eyes.
    I looked away. I heard rather than saw her slip to the floor. I heard grunted efforts at breathing. I heard a surrendering moan. And when I looked again, Lisa Bayless, history teacher, was dead.
    Perhaps ten minutes had passed.
    â€œSomeone put that shrimp in that chocolate,” I said, because unlike Messenger, I will occasionally say the obvious. Perhaps it’s a weakness on my part; I can be verbose, but I find that putting awful events into words makes them more manageable. It gives me a littledistance.
    I did not know this woman, but she was a human being, a human being with life yet to live. And now her life had been stolen from her.
    â€œMurder,” I said. “But how . . . Her family would have seen the chocolates and . . .” I frowned, trying to work it out. But Messenger has more direct means of explaining events. He walked away and I followed.
    We walked back through the bedroom, down the hallway, and down the stairs.
    We stood in the empty foyer. I had time enough to look at the usual family pictures hung on the wall. Lisa and her husband. Lisa and her son.
    And then, a key turned the front-door lock, and in stepped a boy.
    He was perhaps my age, sixteen, or close enough. I think he was good-looking, though constant exposure to Messenger has raised my standards in that regard. But good-looking by normal standards.
    He wore a Lorde T-shirt, and I approved since I like her music. He carried a canvas bag slung over one shoulder. He closed the door behind him and stood, listening, wary.
    He then went room by room, through the kitchen, the living room, the breakfast nook, and last, the tiny office.
    He stared, transfixed, at the box of chocolates.
    Then, his face alight with an expression of excitement and fear, he continued searching until he found Lisa’s cooling body. He stared at her for a while, too, but made no move to touch her, no move to help; and he did not call 911.
    Instead he pulled latex gloves from his bag and put them on. He ripped a paper towel from a roll on the bathroom counter, knelt down, and clumsily wiped the inside of her mouth with it. The paper towel came out brown with chocolate and wet with saliva. He stuck the towel in a plastic ziplock, which went into his bag.
    The boy looked in the bag, found what he was looking for, and pulled out the last thing I would have expected: an egg roll. This he stuck into Lisa’s mouth, and twisted it in half to leave part of it in her mouth. He took her jaw and moved it up and down, back and forth, in a macabre chewing motion.
    Now he put the rest of the egg roll in his bag and trotted downstairs to the kitchen. From his bag he pulledout a box of spring rolls no different from those you’d find in any supermarket. The box had been opened. He stuck it in the freezer.
    The second half of the egg roll he placed on a small plate, carried it to the office, and set it beside the box of chocolates.
    Any person looking at the scene would see clear evidence that Lisa had been eating an egg roll and chocolate.
    â€œVery clever,” I said. “But if she was allergic to shrimp, why would she have bought shrimp egg rolls?”
    â€œShe didn’t. The ingredients will show no shrimp listed. But the box does not match the contents. Thus the obvious explanation is that the egg roll company made a mistake, boxing its shrimp rolls in a package meant for a less dangerous product. The producer will be seen as responsible.”
    â€œVery clever,” I said again. “But who is he? And why is he doing this? And how did he get a key to the front door?”
    â€œHe does not have a key, but he knows where the spare key is kept. And his name is Barton Jones. As to why . . .”
    I should be used to it by now, but it’s still unsettling to find yourself in a completely different place at a completely different time. It had been day. Now it was