One to Go by Mike Pace Read Free Book Online Page A

redraft so she’d see it in her computer inbox when she arrived. But while his eyes faced the document, his mind focused on the Ruger lying next to the laptop. He knew next to nothing about guns.
    Strike that. He knew
nothing
about guns.
    He’d shot a 12-gauge once when his cousins had taken him duck hunting the previous December. He’d frozen his ass off in a rickety duck blind, blowing rain and sleet, conditions his enthusiastic cousins said were perfect for ducks. As Tom had explained in as clear a logic as he could muster: that’s why they’re ducks and we’re not. It had been misty, so when Estin said, “There’s one!” he’d shot at what he thought was a flying duck. His cousins had laughed so hard he thought they’d knock down the damn blind. Seems he was shooting at a passing airplane on its approach into BWI airport.
    Tom had never held, much less fired, a handgun. He’d grown up in a suburb of Baltimore, a safe, middle-class community with wide streets, shady trees, and good schools. He supposed the Second Amendment gave people the right to have guns in their homes, and when he thought about it, believed the idea of everyone turning in their guns for some violence-free Utopia was naïve. But he rarely thought about it. Now, he had to think about it.
    Scratch one
. What if the
one
had been Janie? What if the next one’s Janie?
    Then again, what if the whole Chad & Brit show wasn’t real, and Rosie’s death had been a coincidence? Coincidences happened, hence the need for the word. And here he was contemplating how to shoot a Ruger GP100 so he could kill a perfect stranger.
    He’d looked up the weapon online and learned it was a double-action model, meaning he wouldn’t need to fan the hammer with his palm like the gunslingers in old TV westerns. Just point and shoot. Snuff out a life. Easy peasy.
    He knew he needed to talk to someone, but who? Zig? Zig knew of his bridge vision, but any suggestion that the vision might be real would result in his friend informing him in no uncertain terms he was bonkers—stress from Rosie’s death, pressure at work—and take away his shiny Ruger.
    And then, what if two weeks from now he’d get a hysterical call in the wee hours telling him Janie or Angie or Emma 2 was dead? No, he decided he couldn’t tell a soul.
He would actually have to contemplate killing another human being
. But, not knowing whether Janie or one of the other three girls was on deck, he’d also have to make sure he didn’t get caught because he might have to kill again.
    Tom Booker, serial killer
.
    Okay, okay. Think logically. As his Georgetown professors used to say, think like a lawyer. Could he take a chance with his daughter’s life? No. He rubbed his fingers down the barrel of the Ruger. He now had the means, and he had the motive to kill, to save Janie. But did he have the balls?
    He picked up the 5 x 7 framed photo on his desk. Halloween, two years earlier. Janie’s face filled the frame. She wore a Hello Kitty costume. Eyebrow pencil-applied whiskers, a wide grin with a missing front tooth. Eyes sparkling with life.
    He’d have to find the balls.
    And a victim.

CHAPTER 11
    Over the next ten days, Tom felt like he was wearing someone else’s body. He attended Rosie’s funeral, focused on his legal work, and had beers with Zig at Napoleon’s where they gossiped about their coworkers.
    On Saturday, he took Jess out to dinner where he was charming and appeared interested in her every word. She looked sexy in a low-cut blouse and a short, yellow miniskirt. He’d barely taken a sip of his beer before she began rubbing first his thigh, then his groin under the table. She appeared perplexed, even hurt, when he didn’t respond.
    â€œSorry, just a little self-conscious.”
    â€œNo problem,” said Jess. “I can wait. A little while.” She giggled.
    It was after