He took one step toward the door when it hit.
His eyes rolled up into his head and he stumbled forward, crashing face-first to the floor like an Olympic diver hitting the pool. His nose mashed the thin carpet and he rolled onto his side, the motion accomplished more by momentum than by planning. He struggled to his knees, blood cascading down his face, and fought hard to maintain his equilibrium.
Milo Cain was caught in the grip of another disturbingly intense vision, his third within the last eight hours.
This time when it finally faded, Milo was prepared. The overwhelming feeling of lethargy he had experienced following the first two visions was there this time, too, but he was ready and tried to fight through it. It seemed unlikely the Boston Public Library would allow him to nap on their floor. He blinked a few times to ease the watering in his eyes brought on by the throbbing in his nose, then wearily pushed himself upright, using his sleeve to stanch the flow of blood.
And a hand grabbed his elbow. It was a small hand but one with a surprisingly firm grip. Milo turned to see a fussy-looking bespectacled man pulling him back into the chair he had so recently vacated. The man was chubby, not overweight, exactly. The word “portly” sprang into Milo’s head unbidden. A vague suggestion of a mustache colored the man’s upper lip and his thinning salt-and-pepper hair had been combed meticulously across his head, the act serving no real purpose other than to alert everyone around to the fact he was going bald.
“Please have a seat, sir,” the man insisted, his voice high-pitched and nasally. He sounded exactly like he looked. “You nearly fainted,” he explained, apparently on the off chance Milo was somehow unaware of that fact.
Milo allowed himself to be eased to a sitting position. He had to admit it felt pretty fucking good to get off his feet. Goddammit, he was tired.
The nasally man continued. “Don’t worry, the EMT’s have been called and will be here soon.” His faced wrinkled in an unconscious display of disgust, clearly displeased at having to touch Milo, his manner belying the caring tone of his words.
Milo jerked his elbow out of the man’s grip. “EMT’s?” he said as if he didn’t quite understand the meaning of the word. “I don’t need any freaking EMT’s, I’m just fine.” He knew exactly what the fussy little man was thinking: drugs. This street bum had come into the library seeking a comfortable place to enjoy his high and had suffered a bad reaction. The call for medical assistance had undoubtedly been made more to get the bum with the dirty, smelly clothes the hell out of the Boston Public Library than out of any real concern on the fussy man’s part for the bum’s welfare.
“They’re on their way,” the fussy man said as if he hadn’t heard Milo. “Don’t worry, you’re going to be fine.” The man turned and walked across the spacious lobby to the glass front door, clearly hoping to look out and to see an ambulance with flashing red lights screeching to a halt in front of the building, followed immediately by two competent professionals rushing into the library to take control of the situation.
The moment the guy reached the front door, Milo lifted himself off the chair and followed. He shouldered past the smaller man, juked left when he sensed a hand snaking out to grab his arm, and was gone, bounding down the granite steps with an energy he did not feel. Behind him the man sputtered and complained to no one in particular. “You need medical attention, do you hear me? Get back here, the EMT’s will be along any second. Hey! Do you hear me?”
On the sidewalk the pedestrians paid no attention to him. He might as well have been invisible. Every head turned toward the fussy little man—presumably the curator, or head librarian, or whatever the hell the guy in charge of the library was called. Milo was grateful for the distraction.
In the distance an ambulance raced straight at him, the sound of the siren growing steadily louder. It blew past and then turned toward the library. Might as well slow down, Milo thought. You’re going to have nothing to do when you get there, unless of course the fussy little man strokes out. He smiled. It seemed like at least a decent possibility.
At the end of the block, Milo turned and melted into the crowd, anxious to get home. He had work to do.
CHAPTER 25
Rae Ann the Schoolgirl Hooker was turning into a problem. Milo had had such ambitious plans for her, but now, with all of his attention focused on the mysterious bitch in Everett, Rae Ann had become nothing more than a risky loose end.
He supposed he could leave her tied up—or, more accurately, taped up—in her chair, immobilized in the middle of his living space while he went away and took care of business. That was the obvious choice.
But doing so came with some serious downsides. He had no idea how long it would take to accomplish the things he wanted so badly to do to the Everett bitch. That in itself wasn’t a problem, but every hour he was away was an hour the unattended Rae Ann could potentially wriggle free of her bonds and either escape or remove her gag and begin screaming for help.
And if that happened, everything would fall apart. Rae Ann would be rescued and the police would come and stake out the tenement. They would wait for him. The police weren’t terribly bright but they could be very patient. When he returned, no matter how long it took, he would be captured and arrested, and after that all of his previous murders would fall into place like dominoes.
Milo had no doubt about how it would go down, even if he kept his mouth firmly closed and admitted to nothing. The pigs would search the tenement with a fine-tooth comb, evidence would be discovered that would lead the authorities to the remains of one or more of his previous playthings, and DNA or some equally inconvenient piece of scientific mumbo-jumbo would lead to life imprisonment or worse. Milo didn’t think guys like him got the death penalty in Massachusetts, but he wasn’t certain and damned sure didn’t want to find out.
So leaving Rae Ann alive was just too risky.
Milo knew what he had to do. Eliminate the risk.
It was a goddamned shame. He had worked hard to get Rae Ann here, and had only just begun to enjoy her. But Milo Cain was nothing if not a big-picture type of guy. The annoying little bitch who had suddenly begun haunting his visions was more important than Rae Ann the Schoolgirl Hooker, Milo knew that as surely as he knew his own name, and as long as he concluded his business with Rae Ann properly, Milo reasoned he could always find another hooker to play with later.
Milo sighed. Life was so unfair sometimes. He could still enjoy himself while eliminating the risk Rae Ann represented, but the days and days of bliss he had been anticipating were not going to happen; at least not right now and not with Rae Ann.
He glanced up at his guest from the corner of the room where he sat leaning against the wall, legs crossed in a modified lotus position. Her pretty eyes returned his gaze skittishly. He wondered what she was thinking, and whether she knew her fate had just been decided. Probably not. As far as Milo knew, he was the only person in the world gifted—cursed?—with this strange psychic ability to experience random slices of people’s lives served up in his head like the devil’s home movies.
More to the point, if Rae Ann realized her life span was down to minutes, a couple of hours at the most, she would most likely not be sitting there in relative calm. Milo had learned enough about his guest by now to know she would be doing that amusing writhing, complaining thing he enjoyed so much.
In fact, with that pleasant picture foremost in his mind, Milo decided it was time to get to work. The sooner he finished this little sideshow, the sooner he could begin the main event. He rose, stretched, and playfully said, “Hey, schoolgirl, guess what the principal has in store for you now?”