The Serialist by David Gordon

Author:David Gordon
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Publisher: Simon & Schuster
Published: 0100-12-31T22:00:00+00:00

47

Who? This was the word that I repeated to myself, ceaselessly, as I ate, showered, dressed, walked around and held full conversations on completely different topics. Who? Whatever the reason for killing off Clay’s girlfriends, only someone in contact with him, or with access to his mail or prison cell, could know who the women were or the specifics of their fantasy lives with Clay. Who, then, could this be? A collaborator of course. Or else a copycat: a cop, a prison guard, a nut who somehow had access to these documents, a demented clerk in the system somewhere. Or else some kind of stalker: another jealous lover perhaps, or someone envious of Clay’s fame and female fan club. Which in turn would mean that person had been following me, stepping into my footsteps and killing each girl after I left. Each time my thoughts revolved back to this starting point, a new shot of fear burned my stomach and closed my throat and I saw Sandra’s body turning, inverted, then felt the blow to my head, and I asked myself, Who?

And what did Whoever want from me? Was I a victim being toyed with by a sociopath, like in a Jim Thompson dime novel? A patsy being framed, like in all those Hitchcock movies? Or, like in every other thriller, including my own, was I just a clueless witness about to be eliminated, too dim to realize the truth, until I washed up dead in the next chapter? And then there was the thought I could barely let myself think, much less say aloud, the idea that would have been ridiculous just the day before: was Clay somehow innocent after all? And was the real killer back in town?

One thing was certain—I couldn’t count on Townes for protection. He had done everything but spit on my shoes before he left, and even Robertson, my own lawyer, had made it plain when we shook hands good-bye: “You might want to tie up some loose ends now. An arrest could come anytime.”

“Don’t worry,” Claire had added. “I’ll bail you out. This arrest thing is just a formality, right?” Robertson shrugged.

Claire, meanwhile, was fine. Once her tears dried, she shook the horror off like a bad dream after a movie, and bounced back with the resiliency of the young, desensitized by all the media nastiness provided by people like me. She was right back at work the next day, sprawled on my couch, chewing a Twizzler. Straight from field hockey practice, she wore space-blue fractal sneakers, red kneesocks, a pleated skirt and a hoodie. Stick at her feet, and with her blond hair pulled tight to the skull and bound in a high ponytail, she looked like a cartoon warrior girl in a golden helmet.

“I know it’s a total tragedy,” she said, gnawing her licorice, showing her red tongue, “but the value of this book in the marketplace just like tripled. I mean it already had historical interest, but let’s face it: there’s nothing like fresh bodies to give it that torn-from-the-headlines feeling.

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