Nightwatcher (Nightwatcher #1)(70)

Touching her. Killing her.

Maybe even cutting off her finger, taking it along to add to the collection.

Jamie smiles, remembering.

With Kristina, that was a fitting punishment—cutting off the finger she’d used to humiliate Jerry after he’d worked up the courage to ask her out.

When Jamie sawed it off, she was still alive, still conscious—at the beginning, anyway. She passed out before it was completely detached. Jamie woke her up, showed her the bloody stump of bone and tendon between her index and ring fingers.

“Look! See what you made me do? Look at that!” Jamie shoved the severed finger in her face. “How do you like it? How does it feel to have someone give you the finger?”

She didn’t answer, of course. She couldn’t. Jamie had gagged her with a dish towel from her kitchen.

But her eyes registered enough horror and pain to make up for the screaming or moaning Jamie yearned to hear, but couldn’t risk letting others hear.

And then there was Marianne.

She might not have actually given Jerry the finger, but Jamie cut hers off anyway, just for the hell of it. Just because it was fun, and funny, and oh so satisfying.

The moment the knife split the skin about an inch below the knuckle, bright red blood appeared, like water filling an irrigation ditch. Just a little added pressure was needed to cut through the thin layer of flesh. And then came the hard part—sawing through the bone. The blade was nice and sharp, though. It didn’t take too long.

In fact, it didn’t take long enough.

Jamie made Marianne watch. She didn’t pass out, but she vomited and, because she was gagged, nearly choked to death.

Jamie couldn’t have that. Marianne still had to talk to Jerry. By the time the vomit-soaked gag was removed, she was too weak to scream and alert the neighbors. But she managed to do what she was told. She told Jerry she was sorry, told Jerry she loved him. That made Jerry feel a lot better, after the way she had treated him.

All Jerry needs is love. Such a simple thing, and yet, such a difficult thing for someone like him to find.

It isn’t his fault that he is the way he is.

It’s his mother’s fault.

And finally, she’s been punished.

So have Kristina and Marianne. Next, it will be Allison’s turn.

Should I cut off her finger, too, when the time comes?

How will she react? Will she faint? Struggle? Try to scream?

Jamie can’t wait to find out.

Yet as the afternoon dragged on, even the anticipation of Allison’s murder has worn thin.

I really thought it was going to happen today. I wanted it to happen today. I so wanted to see blood, feel blood, touch blood . . . today.

Today . . .

Even now, Jamie’s hands ache to grab hold of that knife handle again; they’ve been aching so badly that Jamie couldn’t bear to leave the knife behind at the apartment.

No, it’s right here, in Jamie’s pocket, just like the old days.

There’s something deliciously empowering about walking down the street knowing the knife is at the ready, just in case . . .

No. I’m not going to use it.

I could, though, if I felt like it. That’s what counts.

But Jamie won’t be taking any chances. Not today. Not with the police actively investigating Kristina’s murder, and undoubtedly aware—thanks to Allison—that Jerry was in the vicinity that night.

It wouldn’t be easy for them to track down Jerry, though. He gets paid off the books, strictly in cash; there’s no record of his address in the office files—Jamie checked—and Dale Reiss probably doesn’t even know where he lives.

But what if he does?

Or what if his nosy wife, Emily, the good-deed-doer, has Jerry’s address written down somewhere for some reason, like to send a Christmas card or something?

For all Jamie knows, the cops are on their way to the apartment right now. And if they get inside, they’re going to find a lot more than they bargained on.

Dammit.

This is all Allison Taylor’s fault.

She has to be punished. The sooner, the better.

But first . . . Jerry needs cake. It’s the only way to keep him quiet and content.

Mo’s bodega is open, of course. Today there’s an enormous American flag hanging in the window.

Maybe that shouldn’t be surprising, given the sudden burst of patriotism all over the city, but something about it seems . . . off. Jamie isn’t sure why. Maybe the flag is just too big, or too prominently displayed, covering all the sale signs taped to the glass. Just too . . . deliberate.

Inside, Mo is behind the counter, as always. Today, though, he’s not lost in a newspaper. He’s keeping a wary eye on a young man who’s standing over by the refrigerated soda compartment.

Potential shoplifter? Probably.

He’s just a kid, really—sixteen, maybe seventeen. Short and skinny. He’s wearing low, baggy jeans and a backward Mets cap. Leaning against the open door to the compartment, he’s obviously taking his sweet old time looking through the soda cans.

Jamie brushes past him and checks the end cap where the bakery goods are kept. The shelf is bare. Dammit!

Ah, that’s right—Jamie bought the last box of chocolate cake yesterday, and restocking is obviously an issue with all that’s gone on. Still . . .

Jamie’s hand twitches, wanting to touch the knife . . . just to make sure it’s still there, of course. Not to . . . do anything. Because of course, there’s nothing to do. Running out of cake—that’s not a reason to—