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four inches long and shoved it into the keyhole on the dead bolt. One minute
later he heard a satisfying click. Thirty seconds later the doorknob lock was
conquered and Webster was opening the door.
"Piece of fucking cake," he said under his breath.
The first thing he noticed after shutting the door behind him was that the
apartment was freezing. It was chilly outside, but even worse in here. His fingers
started aching from the cold.
Fuck, this guy has the air conditioning set on South Pole, he thought. I better get
this over with or they'll find me frozen like a statue.
Webster figured the safest bet for the coke was to stick it under a sofa cushion.
That way he didn't have to go back into the bedroom, just in case someone was
there.
He took two steps forward and the next thing he knew he was tripping over some
large object. He stuck out his hands to break his fall and landed on the glass-
topped coffee table, which shattered with a resounding crash. The glass sliced
deeply into his hands and he felt something warm and sticky running over his
fingers.
"I've fucked up now," he said out loud.
"You certainly have," a guttural voice said in front of him. The lamp clicked on
and Webster shit in his pants.
"Good evening," said the creature sitting on the couch. "I was waiting here for a
woman named Alex, but you'll do for now."
The beast looked at the blood covering Webster's hands and licked its lips.
Webster thought he had never seen so many teeth.
"I'm hurting again," the beast said. "This world of yours is an uncomfortable
place for me. But guess what? You can help."
It reached out and grabbed Webster by the collar of his jacket, yanking him into
the air. Putting one hand on Webster's chest, the beast lifted him to the ceiling.
Webster made no move to escape.
"Thank you for your assistance," the beast said.
Webster saw the thing open its right hand. Double-edged fingernails glinted in
the light.
Damn, those look sharp, he thought.
The hand whipped across his neck and the little man thought no more.
Chapter 37
« ^ »
Quintard sat in the car, fidgeting. Webster had been gone for almost half an hour.
What the fuck was taking him so long?
He debated whether to see what had happened, but common sense told him to
stay where he was. If Webster has fucked up, don't get yourself caught in the
shitstorm.
But if Medlocke was home and caught Webster, there would be police cars
coming in, lights flashing. Medlocke would call his buddies to take care of what
he would think was a common burglar. Unless Webster was spilling his guts, a
distinct possibility.
Quintard slugged back several more shots of bourbon. Powered by the alcohol,
his curiosity got the best of him. He opened the car door and stepped out.
Cautiously he made his way across the parking lot, down the sidewalk, and
around the end of the apartment building. He looked up at the windows he
figured were Medlocke's. No lights were on. Walking around to the back of the
building, he looked at the windows back there. Still no lights.
He made his way back to the front of the building, blowing on his hands. Damn,
it's getting cold, he thought. Unsteadily climbing the stairs, he snuck quietly to
Medlocke's door. It was open just a crack. No light squeezed through.
Was Webster inside? Quintard wondered. Was he alone? Or was Medlocke in
there, questioning him? He leaned forward, but heard no voices.
Taking a chance, Quintard whispered: "Webster?"
"C'mon in," he heard Webster say. "There's no one here."
There was something strange about Webster's voice, something a bit creepy, and
Quintard hesitated.
"C'mon in," the voice said again. "Everything's okay."
Quintard gently pushed the door, which swung open easily. Motherfucker! It's
colder in there than out here, he thought. Light coming in from the lamps in the
outside hallway washed across the room and he saw Webster sitting on the
couch, his arms casually spread out along the back as if he were waiting for
someone.
"What the fuck are you doing?" Quintard whispered angrily as he stepped into
the apartment. "I told you to get in and out quickly."
Webster didn't answer. He just sat there with a blank look on his face. His
attitude enraged Quintard even further.
"Goddammit," he said a bit louder. "I asked you& "
The light fell on the gaping wound in Webster's neck and his glassy, sightless
eyes. Quintard felt his bladder begin to loosen and he turned to run out the door.
Before he had taken a step, the door slammed shut.
"Don't leave yet; the party's just begun," a raspy voice said.
The light over the dining room table sprang to life and Quintard knew his life
wasn't worth shit.
"I keep waiting for Medlocke or that woman of his to come in that door, but I
keep being surprised," Moloch said, sitting in one of the dining room chairs.
"First this tiny man, and now you. I'm curious. Why so much traffic through this
apartment?"
Quintard couldn't speak. His tongue was bone dry and clung to the roof of his
mouth.
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