wild cards 21.2 - the button man by george r r martin

Author:george r r martin
Format: epub
Published: 2014-11-08T05:00:00+00:00

He let himself inside and closed the door, leaning back against it to make sure it was shut. He slid the cheap metal bolt to lock it, knowing it wouldn’t hold more than a moment if anyone insisted hard enough.

To his right was a bathroom, its door open no wider than two fingers throwing a peace sign. The dripping he’d heard . . . that’s where it came from. A light burned within, casting a slim shadow in reverse. It struck into the lower-lit gloom of the bedroom, a pale yellow line like an arrow.

She was in there. He could feel it in his bones. In his skin, which already crawled with the mushrooms yet to come.

He drew his gun and steadied his breathing. This was old hat. This was the job. She’d known the rules, ignored them, and this was what it cost. He wasn’t the executioner, not her friend, not her lover. Just the messenger. Same as always. No surprises for anyone.

With the back of his free hand, he nudged the bathroom door. It groaned open.

She was in there, all right. And he was surprised.

Harriet O’Dwyer reclined naked in the tub, wrists slashed and body bobbing slowly; that part didn’t bother Raul. He’d had seen plenty of blood and he’d already stepped in hers. He would’ve cursed himself but he didn’t, he only took one step back and wiped his shoe on carpet the color of guacamole. The bathroom was painted with gore, and it looked like more than one woman’s corpse could hold, except that he knew from experience that it wasn’t.

A razor sprawled open on the floor below her dangling, lifeless hand. Obvious as can be, even before he saw the note on the mirror. She’d left it in lipstick, in handwriting barely legible, and when he saw the empty bottle of valium, he knew why.

All it said was “Forget me.”

Not “forgive me.” Not “I’m sorry.” Not even “good-bye.” Raul guessed she had no one to say it to. Just a message for him, because she’d known he was coming. Or if not him personally, someone else she used to know. The odds were pretty good on that one.

He looked at her again. Her hands were scaly and rough. They reminded him of a pair of snakeskin boots he’d bought on a gig in Houston, for laughs. He’d never worn them. Her breasts were scaled too, and when he couldn’t stop himself—he turned her over, her body making scarlet tides and messy splashes as she swayed and sank again—he saw the protrusion from her backside, a foot-long tail that ended in a rattle.

He jerked his hands away, letting her flop back to her original position.

And now he was soaked in bloody water up to the elbows. His knees, his stomach. No escaping it. No graceful, quiet retreat, and no more kidding himself. Legs O’Dwyer was a joker, for Christ’s sake. She’d drawn a card, and it hadn’t been pretty. That card had turned, sometime since Raul’d last seen her.

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