Page 23 of Pure Killers

It doesn't take much sitting at the bar before I get company. The guy is good-looking, in a slightly scary kind of way. He's managed to pull off the bald head and the spacers in his ears as well as the indefinable neck tattoo.

At first, he’s leaning his elbow on the bar, peering at me. "I thought you looked familiar," he smiles, a drawing, magnetic kind of smile only the truly confident can seem to manage as he props on the stool next to me. "You're that detective." He glances around, raises an eyebrow, and adds, "Didn't think this would be your kind of place."

I consider lying and then decide I've had enough of that lately. "It’s not, really."

"No?"

"No, I'm here to see what the public is saying about my target, actually."

His head tilts, and he slides a little further onto his seat, getting comfortable. "Needler."

"The very one."

His eyebrow twitches upwards. There’s a piercing in it, shaped like a spike. "What are you willing to give for…" he waves a hand. "Taking your survey?"

I laugh, meeting his eyes. In this light, they could be any colour. He’s not exactly my type, but I’ve forgotten what this, the flirting and unknown, could be like, how good it could feel, and I let myself imagine how good other things could feel too… "How about a drink?" I gesture at the bartender.

My new friend lets out a soft laugh. "Usually I'd be buying, but what the hell, my taxes pay you, right?" Something tells me this guy doesn't pay his taxes, but I bite my tongue on that. "I ain’t giving you my name, though."

"That’s fine,Matt," I say. After ‘Matt’ tells the bartender what he's drinking, I ask, "So the Needler?"

He grins. "Seems like a pretty cool guy."

"But a murderer."

He shrugs like this is a minor detail. "Of murderers."

"He killed two cops. On his first hit."

Matt sips his drink, tilting his head side to side. "Depends what you believe."

"And why hasn't he taken out Cocooner?" I ask, getting too swept up in the debate. Thinking somehow, one argument at a time, I can convince the public of what he truly is. "If he really is ‘serving the people’.”

"Well," Matt says with a grin, "If you believe what they say, he already has."

That stops me. "How’s that?"

"Well, that charred body in the reports could be the needled cop’s partner… but could be somethin’ else."

"What?" I frown, then shake my head. "People can't thinkthatwas the Cocooner?"

"Well, look at the vics before and after. If you do, it seems pretty clear. What we got now is a copycat."

My mouth falls open. Sure, the Cocooner's style changed slightly from about three years ago. But that’s a mad theory.

And yet a part of me, a beat after absorbing it, wants to believe it. Because this would mean, all this time later, that Caleb didn’t die for nothing. He got the Cocooner, after all. Even if the Needler got him right after.

"Hey, you still with me? Why don’t you finish that one and I’ll buy next?"

I blink back at my companion. My legs are unsteady as I stand up from my stool. "I've got to uh…"

I walk away, ignoring his call after me as I shoulder blindly through the crowd. The annoyed faces that turn to me, the flashing lights and darkness between struggling to push into my awareness, to bring me out of the churning thoughts. I need to think. There's a dark table in the far corner, right next to the entrance to the urinals, and smelling as you'd expect for the proximity. My head is spinning too much to care about the smell, and I sink into one of the chairs, elbows propped on the table, to lean my head into my hands.

Dirk was right, I suppose. There are things only being out among the public will reveal to you. Why did we never consider this ourselves? Because everything fit neatly as it was. Caleb and Tristan, victims of the same killer, the Cocooner carrying on, constantly evolving but always the same psychopath.

A man in a hood sits across from me, close in the small booth. I'm about to excuse myself, hardly in the mood for more conversation, when I look up and my heart stops.

“Been asking around after me?” The voice is quiet, obscured. For the first time, there's a lower half to the mask. Black metal curves to fit snugly against the silver top half, moulding into smirking lips and a slim jaw. I can see nothing of his face. But it’s him, alright. My breath catches, and I straighten, glancing to my left and the crowd of people. He can disappear in an instant if I call for help.

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