Page 28 of So Wicked

“The bad doctor,” the Angel corrected. “The very bad doctor.” The Angel’s head tilted. “The verywrongdoctor, in any case.”

The Angel pressed the syringe into the bottle of pentobarbitol and carefully measured 10 cc’s. The syringe prepared, the Angel carefully packed it in its travel case and recapped the drug.

“Careful, careful, careful, always have to be careful.”

The Angel muttered that word all the way to the bedroom but fell silent at the sight of the bulletin board. That board was important. It told the Angel who was still out there.

There were so many. Too many. It was impossible to get to all of them. The Angel would have to be content to get to as many as possible.

“Three down, maybe seven or eight more to go,” the Angel whispered. “And where do they go? Depends on the weight of their soul. Someone else said that too, but I don’t remember who. I’m a poet, and I know it, but I rarely show it.”

Once, simple wordplay like that would bring a smile to the Angel’s face. Once, Ralphie would be there to yip and smile and look at the Angel with such love. Such pure love.

“That’s all anyone needs is love,” the Angel whispered. “Just love, love, love, love, love. All you need is love. Love is all you need.”

The Angel continued to mutter on the way back to the living room. Sometimes talking helped. The Angel knew it looked insane, but it was better than the silence.

Poe. That was who it was. Not Shakespeare. It was a story where a man fell in love with a woman and said that she existed only to love and to be loved by him. Good story. The Angel read it once in high school.

The television was announcing the Angel’s most recent handiwork. Finally, they remembered to point out the crimes the dead ones had committed to earn themselves their fate. That was good. People were getting the point.

The doorbell sounded. The Angel answered.

“Hi! Pepper’s Pizza!”

“Yes, Pizza time. It’s a pizza frenzy.”

The delivery driver laughed politely. “That’ll be seventeen dollars even.”

The Angel put a twenty-dollar bill in the driver’s hand. “And tip too. Seventeen plus three equals twenty. A Lobster. A redback. A double sawbuck.” The Angel saw the driver’s nametag and added, “A Jackson for Jackson.”

The driver’s face instantly adopted the plastic smile of someone who realized too late that they were dealing with acrazy person. “That’s it,” the driver chuckled nervously. “Um. Thank you.”

“Yes,” the Angel said. “Goodbye, Jackson.”

The driver took off, moving as fast as he could without feeling impolite. The Angel watched him go and muttered. “A Jackson for Jackson.”

The pizza was all right. That was as good as anything got for the Angel these days.

The latest one’s face showed up on the TV screen, and the Angel smiled. Almost anything.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

“Shit,” Faith swore.

“What?” Slade asked. Then he saw. “Oh, God damn it.” He parked the car. “Stay here.”

Faith had no intention of leaving the vehicle right now. In fact, she sank as low in the seat as she could and pulled her jacket up so it covered her face almost completely. The crime scene—the Happy Heaven Pet Cemetery in Westfield—was crawling with press. Faith desperately wanted to avoid having her face in the news right now. She was taking a risk helping Slade, but that didn’t mean she didn’t care about being discovered. And if shewasgoing to be outed, she wanted it to be Slade’s department calling the Bureau, not a reporter recognizing the world’s most famous FBI agent and pointing a camera and a microphone at her.

“Hey!” Slade called as he stepped outside. “What the hell is this? This is an active crime scene. Get out of here!”

The nearest reporter called, “Detective! This is the third murder of this type in four days. What can you tell the city of—”

“No comment. And if you really need a comment, go screw yourself. Off my crime scene.”

“Sir, the people of—”

“The people of Carmel would like this killer caught. That’ll be a lot easier to do when I don’t have to deal with assholes trampling my crime scene. Move.”

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