Milo made a conscious effort to tamp down his frustration and anger. Focus. That was the watchword for today. Focus, get the answers he was looking for, and then he could get the hell out of Dodge, also known as the Boston Public Library, and escape the smothering sensation of claustrophobia threatening to overwhelm him.
He wiped his face with the back of his hand and examined the search engine results. Six million, two hundred sixty thousand results for “Granite Circle, Massachusetts”? When he started clicking links, though, Milo relaxed, even managing a tiny smile.
The first link provided the answer he was seeking: there were two.
Two towns in the Commonwealth of Massachusetts contained streets named “Granite Circle.” How the search engine managed to bombard him with more than six million other things it claimed might be a match for “Granite Circle, Massachusetts” Milo had no idea, nor did he care.
The town of Sandwich contained a Granite Circle, and so did the city of Everett. Now we’re getting somewhere, Milo thought. This was going to be easy, almost absurdly so. Sandwich was a sleepy little village on Cape Cod, east of Buzzard’s Bay and south of the Mid-Cape Highway, roughly in the vicinity of the bicep on the crooked arm forming the cape’s outline on a map.
Everett was the polar opposite of Sandwich. Located just north of Boston—not far from the neighborhood housing Milo’s current residence, in fact—Everett was a hardscrabble, blue-collar city filled with traffic and people, aging factories and mills, high unemployment and a kind of determined refusal to knuckle under to an economy that had left the city behind years, if not decades, ago. If Sandwich was latte, Everett was black coffee left on the burner too long, with muddy grounds lining the bottom of the cup.
And that was all. Out of 351 cities and towns making up the Commonwealth of Massachusetts, only two contained streets with the name, “Granite Circle.” Milo sat back and replayed the two visions in his mind yet again, hoping to unearth some detail he could use to ascertain which Granite Circle he was interested in. His line of sight during the second vision, the one that took place outside the older woman’s home, had been toward the three people having their strained conversation and away from any neighborhood landmarks or other characteristics he might have been able to use for easy identification.
Still, there had to be something. The house itself had seemed worn and bedraggled, old. It appeared beaten down by decades of neglect, maintenance delayed either by lack of funds or lack of interest, more likely a product of the bleak environs of Everett than the leafy suburbia of Sandwich.
And there was something else. Although Milo had not been able to see anything of interest during the vision, that did not mean he hadn’t been able to hear anything. As he caressed the second vision in his mind like a lover stroking his partner’s skin, Milo began to recall sounds, almost unnoticed by the long-time city dweller; things that told him the meeting had taken place in an area surrounded by people. A lot of people. Thousands upon thousands of people, all packed into a steaming concrete jungle.
The honk of a horn from a frustrated driver, the rumble of a big diesel engine, the constant white noise of city life that was curiously absent in the suburbs. It was all there in the vision, just waiting to be noticed.
And now Milo had noticed it.
And he knew. Everett it was.
He picked up the small notebook he had brought on the mistaken assumption that he was going to have multiple cities and towns to remember, pushed the chair back on the carpet, and stood to leave. He relaxed, feeling almost normal for once, thankful he had not been observed despite the fact he might have been the worst-dressed person in the library. Scratch that. He definitely was the worst-dressed person in the library.
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 probl
em. 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?”
He waited and when no response was forthcoming, said, “This is where you say, ‘I don’t know, Principal Milo, what do you have in store for me now?’”
Milo lifted his pliers from his pocket and began snapping the steel jaws for emphasis. Snap, snap, snap. The tactic was effective, the response immediate. Rae Ann’s eyes opened wide in panic and she immediately began chanting, “I don’t know, Principal Milo, what do you have in store for me now?” At least Milo assumed that was what she was saying. It was hard to be sure, thanks to the muffling effect of the duct tape, which Milo sorely wished he could remove but didn’t dare.
He smiled in appreciation. “That’s more like it. You have the potential to be my best student ever, my little teacher’s pet. Would you like to be my teacher’s pet?”
Rae Ann paused, her confusion evident. She had no idea how to answer the question and Milo could see the wheels turning in her head: Would it be a good thing or a bad thing to be the monster’s teacher’s pet?
He took pity on her, saving her from having to decide. “It doesn’t matter, unfortunately. Something has come up and class is going to have to be cancelled. Permanently, in your case. I would have loved to explore pain management in-depth with you, but the principal has been called away on an emergency—a home tutoring session, you might say—and that means this classroom must be evacuated. Do you understand where I’m going with this? I hope so; you are one of my best students, after all.”
Rae Ann’s expression had become more and more horrified during Milo’s short soliloquy, and now sheer panic took over. She bucked and writhed and tried to scream into her gag, still not accepting after all this time that nothing of any value was going to come from any of it. Milo concluded that the response meant, yes, she did understand where he was going with this. In fact, he decided she now knew exactly how her short but eventful attendance at Milo University was going to end.
And he loved it. The utter, naked terror in her eyes and indeed in her entire body was the biggest turn-on imaginable. He could not understand how everyone else in the world could not be excited by this type of display.
It had to be a classic case of people not realizing what they were missing. If they could see for themselves how enjoyable torturing a helpless victim was, there would be a run on prostitutes not seen in this country since the national conventions of the major political parties, Milo was sure of it.
He readjusted his jeans to provide a little breathing room for his massive erection and got to work, lining up his tools on the floor in the order he expected to use them. The last thing he wanted was to be in the middle of the session and have to bring the slicing and dicing to a grinding halt in order to search out the proper tool. Preparation was essential.
During prep time, Rae Ann provided the most enjoyable background music imaginable. She bucked and she moaned and she begged and all the while, Milo whistled happily, like a man who truly enjoyed his work. Because, of course, he did.
Finally, he was ready. So was Rae Ann, judging from the looks of things. Red splotches covered her face. Tears tracked down her cheeks. Another of those fucking snot bubbles had appeared in her right nostril. Milo decided she must have medical issues, nasally speaking, perhaps a deviated septum from snorting coke.
No matter. The snot problem was easily remedied, and soon Rae Ann the Schoolgirl Hooker would have much bigger things to worry about than hygiene, anyway.
In fact, she already did.
Milo grabbed a tissue and patiently cleaned her face. It was the least he could do, considering the pleasure she was giving him. Besides, what was to come would be much more enjoyable if his guest didn’t look like a disgusting pig.
Wrinkling his own nose, Milo tossed the tissue onto the floor and got started. Soon he was lost in his work, tearing and ripping and stabbing and cutting. Blood flowed and limbs cracked and muffled screams continued with renewed frenzy for a short time, and Milo was glad he had not surrendered to his misguided desire to remove the gag.
Then the screaming died away, and a few minutes after that so did Rae Ann the Schoolgirl Hooker. It was a long time before Milo noticed, and when he did, he didn’t care.
CHAPTER 26
Cait tossed clothes into her bag, not bothering to fold them, barely even looking at them. On the bed next to her, Kevin did the same. They had taken some time to play tourist before heading back to Tampa, walking the Freedom Trail and taking a Duck Boat excursion around the city. “We might as well enjoy the sights,” Kevin had said. “Who knows when we’ll be back here again, if ever?”
For Cait, though, the sightseeing had felt f
orced and unnatural. Her focus was still solidly on Virginia Ayers and the strange story her long-lost mother had related before politely asking her daughter to butt the hell out of her life and never return.
The whole situation was bizarre. Even if everything she said was true, why kick Cait to the curb now, just hours after meeting her? Virginia claimed she hadn’t seen Cait’s twin brother in thirty years, and as long as he stayed in Seattle or Minnesota or New Mexico or wherever he had ended up, there was no danger anyway.
And if the danger was long past, why couldn’t Virginia have welcomed Cait with open arms? Why reject her outright?
The pain throbbed and pulsed inside her like an infection. If she had known this was how she was going to feel after finally meeting her mother, Cait thought she might have decided to forget about learning her family history. Just let the whole thing drop and go on living in ignorance in Tampa.
But of course she would never have done that. It simply wasn’t in her nature. Cait Connelly had more than once been compared favorably to a bulldog by her fellow lawyers: relentless, unstoppable, moving resolutely forward until either achieving her goal or exhausting every last possibility. It was that personality trait that made the current scenario—packing her bags and returning home before learning her brother’s identity or establishing a relationship with her birth mother—so objectionable.
“Maybe I could…” she began, only to lapse into silence.
“Or what about…”
She realized she had stopped packing and resumed with renewed vigor, taking her frustrations out on her clothing, slamming the offending outfits into the suitcase. Kevin was right. There was no way to force herself on her mother, and if the woman wanted to live in fear of an unrealistic and paranoid scenario, there was nothing she could do about it. Maybe someday the woman would come to her senses. Maybe someday—
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