A Dangerous Man: A Novel by Charlie Huston

Author:Charlie Huston [Huston, Charlie]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Thrillers, Fiction, Suspense, General
ISBN: 9780345481337
Google: oNstSw0DZOQC
Amazon: 034548133X
Published: 2006-09-18T14:00:00+00:00

– How do you kill?

She speaks English beautifully, just the trace of an accent to let you know it is not her native tongue, so I know there is no misunderstanding. I know it’s not what she means, but still, I think of all the many ways I have killed.

– How?

And she is not speaking to me in any case.

– How can you kill another human being?

She is speaking to the wall-to-wall carpet.

– And a boy?

She gestures to the carpet, trying to eke an answer from it.

– How do you kill a boy?

She shakes her head.

– A simple boy. A beautiful boy.

She looks at the ceiling now.

– You. You have killed so many people. A boy, more or less, what was he to you?

She puts her hand to her chest.

– But he was everything to me.

She clutches a handful of material at her breast.

– Everything.

Her eyes fall back to the carpet.

– You have killed so many.

Her hand goes to her forehead.

– And I cannot kill even one.

And now she looks at me.

– Not even if that one is you.

She spits on my face.

– A murderer. A killer of boys.

She stands, gets up from the floor where she has been sitting right next to me.

– I cannot kill you.

She is straightening her dress, her hands scuttling over her body, tugging at wrinkles.

– But I know who you are.

She steps to the ottoman and picks up the small black handbag sitting next to it.

– I know who you are.

She opens the bag, takes out two pieces of paper and unfolds them.

– I know who you are.

The papers have been handled much, and she smooths them against her thigh.

– See, I know who you are.

She separates the papers, holds them one in each hand, and sticks them in my face.

– This is who you are.

The paper in her left hand is a photocopy of various pieces of ID: my driver’s license, a library card, a credit card, a gym card. They are mine, really mine. They say Henry Thompson. These are the pieces of identification I left with a forger named Billy.

The paper in her right hand was torn from today’s Post. It’s a fragment of Page Six, a photo of Miguel, half-naked Jay tossed over his shoulder. But that’s not the best part, the best part is me, right behind them, pushing them out the door of Hogs amp; Heifers.

She drops the papers on the floor and wipes her hands on her thighs, cleaning away any trace of me that might have clung to them.

– They told me.

She points at the two young men.

– They told me you were alive. And that David knew. They told me, Go to David, go see your brother-in-law. Ask him. But I did not believe them. It was too much. Too much.

She brings her hands to her forehead and turns her back to me. She stands like that, hands pressed to her forehead, holding something terrible inside. The blond walks to her, starts to whisper in Russian, but she takes one of the hands from her head and holds it out, silencing him.

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