That man literally gets away with murder several times a year and she’s talking to him like he’s her dippy uncle. In two of her four photos the woman is airborne and she looks different in all of them. She hangs out with scumbags and her name is a consonant. "Jack, when you met her she was surfing the roof of a Honda hatchback at one A.M., with the lights off, down the worst road on Mount Greylock. Jack was utterly smitten by Zed, which was why, Paul knew without a doubt, Jack was letting her do the talking for them-which was why Paul was certain they were about to be kicked three hundred feet off Bannerman’s Overlook into the Great Mystery.Īll Paul ever wanted was to go to business school, for fuck’s sake. Five minutes ago she looked me in the eye and told me that all three of us are walking out of here alive. How’d she get his number? How’d she know we were in the car? How did she know what to say to make him turn the car around and drive us here, rather than some piece of waste ground in the dockyard? I trust her with this, he emphasized. Look, he said, those three guys turned up. Jack collected a few flat stones from the platform’s ornamental Zen garden fringe, just before the dew-slick safety rail. Then Paul had woken abruptly as he was tossed off Jack’s couch by a side of beef with a handgun. Good times, had a few brewskis, Paul crashed on Jack’s couch. Last night Jack and Paul had taken a six-pack and the dinghy that belonged to Jack’s departed dad and went fishing, way out on the Mystic River. The four-second delay to impact knotted his guts. She’s a good-looking disaster who romanticizes your pathologies. Jack had placed their lives in her hands. A jagged tribal design curved behind her left ear and for fun she spent her afternoons bouncing off public property with the parkour crowd by the river. Her hair was a shock of dyed black and swept back like a bend-not-break stack of midnight reeds. Zed-that was the only name she gave-had blown into town a few months back, took up residence in an abandoned home, and lived invisibly: no phone, no e-mail, no social media, no Social Security number. He’s going to kill us, isn’t he? Paul said. His three enforcers hung back on the verge, with Aberfoyle’s black town car. At that moment he seemed to be charmed by the relaxed young lady bantering with him. Orrie Trigger Aberfoyle was the calm, kind-eyed murderer responsible for Riverport’s small but thriving crime industry, and had the kind of face you’d expect to surface after throwing bread onto a dead pond. Jack Joyce and Paul Serene had known each other all of their lives, a total that would forever remain at twenty-two years if the delicately voiced man behind them lost his temper. Birds lifted skyward from the university campus in a stippled black cloud, thinning as they banked westward toward the river. Cold dawn lit eastern-facing windows like bright pixels. Standing on the lip of Bannerman’s Overlook, taking in the view of the city, there should have been all the time in the world. When you’re young, time is something that happens to other people.
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