The Prettiest Feathers by John Philpin Read Free Book Online Page A

to have been a final, pleasant evening of surveillance. I stood in the shadows of an alley across the street from the bookstore, waiting for Sarah to carry the day’s receipts up the outside stairway to Harry in the massage parlor.
    The blow came from behind and caught me just above my left kidney. For so large a man, my Mike Tyson lookalike was surprisingly quiet, as stealthy as a jungle cat. The movement of the pipe through the still night air was the only sound I heard. The second blow hit just below my leftshoulder, but I never felt that one. I had left my body, escaped, drifted away—knowing that what needed to be done would be done.
    I heard Slouch’s voice from deeper in the shadows. He sounded almost casual. “Don’t let him get to the piece.”
    When the big man—just shapes, shadows, and motion—stepped closer for the next swing of the pipe, a .38 was in my hand.
    My vision blurred, but I could still make out his knees—bent like Barry Bonds’s at home plate in Candlestick Park.
    I use silver tips plus P—magnum loads that fragment on impact. Typically, the exit wound is the size of a plum. To hit any joint is to render it a hash of muscle, ligament, and fragmented bone. The target always goes down.
    The report of my revolver echoed in the alley. My wannabe murderer grunted, wobbled a bit, then fell.
    Slouch never should have muttered, “Shit.”
    I aimed into the darkness six inches below where I knew his mouth was, and fired. I heard him drop.
    The big man was sitting, still clutching the pipe, when I pushed myself to my feet. His good leg was folded under him. The other extended out, bent at an awkward angle.
    I was close enough to see his face, smell his cologne. He didn’t seem to mind, didn’t object, when I thumbed the hammer back and aimed at his forehead. He was in shock. When the gun exploded a third time, I watched a slab from the back of his head decorate the wall behind him.
    I stumbled past Slouch’s body to the back of the alley, where I pulled myself over a wooden fence and headed for my car. I was behind the wheel before I heard the sound of sirens in the distance.

Sarah

    I didn’t give Dr. Street a chance to say anything before I started in.
    “Why did you let me sit here a couple of weeks ago, rambling on and on about John Wolf, without even once mentioning that he was a client of yours?”
    He put on his best puzzled expression.
    “I don’t know what you mean,” he said.
    “What I mean is that you deceived me. You let me tell you all about someone that you already knew inside out.”
    “What are you talking about?”
    “You. And the games shrinks play. I thought you were different from the others, but you’re just as much of a bastard as every other shrink I’ve ever known. You’re all jerks. I think it’s a prerequisite for the job.”
    “Sarah, I don’t know any John Wolf.”
    I felt as if a trapdoor had opened, sending me crashing to the basement. I hadn’t yet made up my mind about Dr. Street’s competency as a therapist, but I had been certain of one thing: his decency. He had been my ideal, the proof Ipointed to whenever telling myself that, yes, there really were kind and honest men in this world. But there he was, lying to me. My god, he even looked as if he believed what he was saying.
    “Sarah, it isn’t a matter of confidentiality or privilege or anything else. I’m telling you that I don’t know anyone by that name.”
    “I’m talking about the man I met,” I said, carefully articulating each word to ensure that there would be no misunderstanding. “The one who came into the bookstore, John Wolf. He told me he turned to you for help when his marriage fell apart.”
    Dr. Street shook his head. “No, Sarah. I don’t know the man.”
    I stared at him, hating him—and hating myself for ever having trusted him. That first time I went to see Dr. Street, I had settled into his huge leather chair, certain I had no reason to be there, nothing to say.