Thankless in Death (In Death 37)

Not smart, he thought, to go back to the asshole doctor. Smarter to do a little research, find out where said Asshole, M.D., lived, and take care of it. He probably had money, too.

Fucking doctors rolled in dough.

Yeah, he’d start working on that, maybe catch him some night when he left the clinic, or when he was in his own fancy apartment.

Something to think about, but he had other business first.

He ordered the bedroom screen on, had to think through to remember how to call his computer up on it. Then decided he wanted pizza.

Steak dinner had been hours ago.

“Hey, Asshole!” He enjoyed programming the droid to answer to the insult. It made him laugh, every single time.

“Yes, sir.” The droid came to the bedroom doorway.

“Get me a pizza—pepperoni, mushrooms, peppers, onions. A large. Get it at Vinnie’s, that’s my place.”

“Yes, sir. Should I go out and get one or arrange for delivery.”

“Go get it, for Christ’s sake. You think I want to wait for some fuckwad to deliver it? And make it snappy, you shithead.”

“Yes, sir.”

He liked the “sir.” About damn time somebody called him sir. In fact, from now on, he’d make anybody he planned to kill call him sir before he did them.

He called up what he termed his Shit List, studied the names, the addresses he’d found, the workplaces he either knew or had been able to find.

Beside each were their offenses, and his current—subject to change—method of making them pay.

He’d have been surprised to see just how closely Eve’s list aligned with his. But he didn’t think about the police. He’d begun to consider himself a professional. After all, each kill had generated pay—payback and cash.

Jerry Reinhold—and he had another program with possible code names—was a Hit Man with a (S)Hit List. It cracked him up. After he’d worked his way through his own list, he’d use the code name and hire himself out.

His current favorite was Cobra. Fast and deadly. Except he really liked Reaper. As in Grim.

As he studied his list, he relived each insult, embarrassment, rejection.

He thought of how it would feel to burn Marlene Wizlet’s pretty face with acid until she looked like a monster. Then he’d force her to look at herself—before he slit her throat.

Teach her to flip him off, teach her to think she was better than he was. And she’d made some good money, he was sure, whoring her face, the one he’d ruin, her body.

And the Schumakers. God, he hated them. He’d get plenty from them. He figured on beating the old man to death, drowning the old hag in her own bathtub.

Coach Boyd, good old Coach Boyd. That would be the best time ever. Wanna see me swing away? He’d figure out how to get inside Boyd’s place—just figure it out. Then he’d rape the wife right in front of him. Then he’d get busy with the snips. He really wanted to use those snips. And when that was done, he’d beat the bastard’s brains out with his trusty bat.

Pure satisfaction.

Even if he didn’t get much profit out of Boyd, that would be—what was it? Yeah, yeah, a labor of love.

He cracked himself up again, kept going down his list.

He changed a few methods. He had enough money now to get his hands on a stunner. You could do a lot with a stunner. And he figured he’d pick up a hammer, maybe a saw.

A guy wanted to be well-rounded.

He thought of Mal. The way to Mal—what kind of friend boots you just because you were short on the rent—was through his mother. That pushy bitch. He liked the idea of the hammer there. First mother, then son.

But not quite yet.