The October List by Jeffery Deaver Read Free Book Online Page B

masticated and swallowed the one you’re working on. He noted that the soda – because it was frigging warm – had sprayed onto the Samsung monitor when he’d opened the can. He wiped the glass with an old T-shirt, aromatic with Windex he kept beside the computer. He’d have to wash the cloth soon. That was gamy too. Like the Maybe Greek Fisherman hat.
    Write it down.
    He would.
    Frank didn’t write it down and returned to the computer, unable to stop thinking of the knife fight again.
    Oh, it was beautiful. Choreography. Dance. Beautiful.
    His knife sweeping down then stopping halfway as his victim went into a defensive posture – which Frank had anticipated.
    And he’d then spun around backward and whisked his steel blade along the exposed neck.
    Blood flew and sprayed and danced into the sky.
    Then fast – you never hesitated – he leapt to the right and slashed again on the other side of the neck.
    And the dying eyes stared, motionless for a moment. Then closed slowly as the pool of blood spread.
    Wait, Frank Walsh thought. Was that his phone? He grabbed for it.
    No.
    He’d hoped Gabby would call.
    Well, he knew she’d call. But he meant now. This moment. He stared at the phone, willing it to ring. It didn’t.
    He thought more about the coming Tuesday.
    A brief fantasy played itself out: The doorman, Arthur, ringing on the intercom and saying, ‘There’s somebody here to see you. Her name’s Gabriela.’
    Frank Walsh would smile. ‘Send her up.’
    And he’d be waiting for her in his black jeans and black shirt – his best look, his thin look – teeth brushed and hair sprayed and body deodorized. His fisherman cap would be in a Baggie, if he hadn’t washed it first, which probably wasn’t going to happen.
    He’d pull out the present she’d just had delivered today.
    She’d turn her beautiful, piercing eyes on him. And they’d crinkle with fun and flirt. She’d say, ‘I’ve never seen your bedroom, Frank.’
    He looked at the note that accompanied the gift.
     
Dear Frank. Thinking of you …
     
    Oh, man …
    Then Frank revised the fantasy. In the remake, a slightly more risqué version, they sat on the couch, knees touching, and watched an old movie on cable, instead of going to the film festival. The present – he found himself actually stroking the box now – would play a role in this fantasy too. A central role.
    They’d pick something noir to watch, of course. Maybe The Asphalt Jungle . Or Pulp Fiction . It would be like Travolta and Uma Thurman dancing. He loved that movie (though he always wondered: If Travolta was such a brilliant hit man, why the hell did he leave his machine gun outside the bathroom, for Bruce Willis to find it, when he went to take a dump?).
    They could watch that, or Reservoir Dogs or Inglourious Basterds .
    Or hell, they’d watch anything that Gabby wanted to watch.
    They’d talk, they’d fuck. He pictured her crying with pleasure, maybe with a little pain.
    And then they’d talk some more. She’d learn all about him, she’d learn who was the real Franklin Walsh.
    He flopped down on the saggy bed and sent her a text. He thanked her for the present and then – he couldn’t resist – described what he had in mind for their date next Tuesday. He included a few suggestions about apparel.
    All very tasteful, he decided.
    Then he replayed in his mind the knife fight. Once, twice, again and again. The blood, the screams, the body twitching.
    Mostly the blood.

CHAPTER
28
     

1:00 p.m., Sunday
40 minutes earlier
     

 
     

 
     
    In his rhythmic, purposeful gait, Joseph Astor walked through the maze-like streets of this curious neighborhood like a tourist, eyes constantly moving.
    He’d swapped the long black trench coat for black cargo pants, T-shirt and leather jacket. He was making his way back to the apartment he’d been to earlier this morning, though via a different route. This part of town was confusing. Avenues going every which-away. His GPS