The 6th Target (Women's Murder Club 6)

His head still hurt, but the meds had quieted the voices so that he could think. He felt strong and ka-pow-pow powerful. The way he’d felt when he and Bucky had wasted those pitiful assholes on the ferry.

As he walked, he replayed the scene in Dr. Carter’s office, how he’d exploded into action when the cuffs came off like he was some kind of superhero.

Touch your nose.

Touch your toes.

Grab the scalpel.

Put it to the doctor’s jugular and ask the guard for his gun. Fred was laughing now, thinking about that stupid guard snarling at him as he taped the guard and the doctor naked together, shoved gauze into their mouths, and locked them inside the closet.

“You’ll be back, freak.”

Fred touched the gun inside the doctor’s jacket pocket, thinking, I’ll be back, all right.

I’m planning on it.

But not just yet.

The small stucco houses on Scott Street were set back twenty feet from the road, butted up close to one another like dairy cows at the trough. The house Fred was looking for was tan with dark-brown shutters and a one-car garage under the second-floor living space.

And there it was, with its crisp lawn and lemon tree, looking just like he remembered. The car was in the garage, and the garage door was open.

This was excellent. Perfect timing, too.

Fred Brinkley walked the twenty feet of asphalt driveway, then slipped inside the garage. He edged alongside the baby-blue ’95 BMW convertible and took the cordless nail gun off the tool bench. He slammed in a cartridge, fired into the wall to make sure the tool was working. Tha-wack.

Then he walked up the short flight of stairs, turned the doorknob, and stepped onto the hardwood floor of the living room. He stood for a moment in front of the shrine.

Then he took the leather-bound photo albums off the highboy, grabbed the watercolor from the easel, and carried the load of stuff to the kitchen.

She was at the table, paying the bills. A small under-the-cabinet TV was on — Trial Heat.

The dark-haired woman turned her head as he entered the kitchen, her eyes going huge as she tried to comprehend.

“Hola, Mamacita,” he said cheerfully. “It’s me. And it’s time for the Fred and Elena Brinkley Show.”

Chapter 131

“YOU SHOULDN’T BE HERE, ALFRED,” his mother said.

Fred put the nail gun down on the counter, locked the kitchen door behind him. Then he flipped through the photo albums, showed his mother the pictures of Lily in her baby carriage, Lily with Mommy. Lily in her tiny bathing suit.

Fred watched Elena’s eyes widen as he took the watercolor portrait of Lily, broke the glass against the counter.

“No!”

“Yes, Mama. Yes, sirree. These are dirty pictures. Filthy dirty.”

He opened the dishwasher and stacked the albums on the lower rack, put the watercolor in the top rack. Slammed the dishwasher door on the complete photographic collection of his sainted sister and dialed the timer to five minutes.

Heard the machine begin to tick.

“Alfred,” said his mother, starting to stand, “this isn’t funny.”

Fred pushed her back down in her seat.

“The water isn’t going to come on for five minutes. All I want is your undivided attention for four, and then I’ll set your precious picture albums free.”