John sauntered over while he was still working on the locks. “Evening, Mr. Wilder.”
The guy jerked back, hit the door, and dropped his keys. “What?”
John smiled, toothily. “Good evening,” he repeated.
“What are you doing here?” Wilder’s forehead was already shiny.
“I’m here to discuss the phone call we had a couple of hours ago.”
“What’s there to discuss? I already told you everything I managed to learn. Rafael Siebling was here tonight at the opening. He ran into D’Onofrio yesterday, in Oregon. Some place called Pebble River. She’s opening a shop there. That’s what I was told, and that’s absolutely all I know. I did not speak with her, or get her number. I cannot help you any more than that, so…so, uh, good night.”
Wilder gave him a smile that said, Alrighty, then, you big inconvenient asshole, you’re dismissed. John waited until that smile started to quiver, and unravel itself. Into the raw components of fear.
“How about Rafael Siebling’s address?” John asked softly.
“I’m sorry, I don’t have it. It really shouldn’t be all that hard to find. His gallery is very ‘in’ these days, though I can’t imagine why. He has no taste. All flash, no content. I don’t have his number in my cell phone because he’s the last person I would ever call. I don’t even know why he came in here tonight. To gloat, I suppose.”
“Gloat?” John cut off the guy’s babbling. “Why would he gloat?”
Wilder made an impatient sound. “Oh, he and Viv are old friends,” he said. “I think he wanted to rub it in about her new boyfriend. As if I gave a shit who she fucks. She could do dogs and pigs for all I care.”
New boyfriend? A hot, red glow began to obscure John’s vision. His hands clenched. Boyfriend. So, it was true. Vivien, too. A slut, just like her slut sisters. He pictured her writhing and begging, taking it in every hole. And, all the while, laughing at him. Mocking at him.
Brian had shrunk back against the door, hands up, and his voice was a constant breathless babble that John cut off.
“What’s the name of the new boyfriend?”
“Like I care,” Wilder said. “Some big redneck farmer clod.”
John immediately pictured the raw-boned, thick-necked guy, naked but for a John Deere cap, fucking Vivien from behind. She was bent over a bale of hay, squealing with delight at each poke, and looking up at John, that pink mouth open and panting, eyes bright with lust and malicious glee. Calling John a tub of lard. A big, dumb fuck.
Punish. He had to punish someone. Had to calm the screaming inside him. The wild hurricane wind. It wanted something. Tidal waves, atom bombs rigged to blow, hammers crushing. Had to be appeased.
Punish. Now.
“You must have Siebling’s number in your office files,” he said.
Wilder looked blank. “I don’t think so.”
“But you’re not sure, hmm?” John picked up the bunch of keys, and shoved them into Wilder’s limp hand. “Let’s go check.”
“I really…uh…I don’t think that would be a good—”
“Let’s…go…check.” John hissed the last word, a sharp, silibant punch that made Wilder cringe against the door.
“Ah, um, whatever,” he muttered. He unlocked the door with hands that shook. “But I’m sure it’s useless.”
“We’ll see,” John said. Blood roared in his ears.
The place was dark, but Wilder flipped an all the big hanging banks of lights that hung from the high ceiling. He muttered as John followed him through the main gallery. They passed tables, one of which had several bottles half full of white and red wine, and trays of food with silver brocade cloth napkins flung over them.
Wilder’s nervous prattle came briefly into focus, like a radio tuning into an elusive frequency. “…useless cunt didn’t even finish cleaning up the food,” he said. “I’m kicking her scrawny little Italian ass tomorrow. If we get rats, it’s her fault.”
He started up the staircase, shooting nervous little looks over his shoulder. As if he thought John was going to play grab-ass with him.
But Wilder’s ass did not appeal to him. And it would take a lot more than that to calm the screaming, the pounding inside him.
He followed Wilder all the way around the upper balcony level of the gallery, to the lavish office in the back. Wilder unlocked the door, and pushed it open, blocking the door with his body. “Ah, one moment,” he said. “Wait here. I’ll check that address for you.”
Not in this universe, you little squeaking shitbird. John smiled and followed him in. Wilder rolled his eyes and scurried to his desk. He powered up the laptop and thumbed through his desk Rolodex. He clicked and tapped on the laptop, and shook his head.
“Sorry, no Rafael Siebling here,” he sang out. “Can’t help you.”
“Then why don’t you just do a search for me, on your computer?”
The guy looked miffed. As if he were way too important to perform such a basic, simple favor for John. As if he were better than John.
Giving him that look. The look that said, “You big, dumb fuck.”
John began walking toward the desk. Wilder turned gray, and scrambled to punch Siebling’s name into the search engine.
“Hey!” His voice was passionately relieved. “Here’s his gallery’s home site. I’ll just print out this page for you.” The printer’s buttons lit up. It hummed, and spat out a sheet of paper. Wilder grabbed it and handed it to John with a big, fake smile. “See? Address, phone number, e-mail, and website address. So glad to help. And now, if you’ll excuse me, I have another appointment that I’m already late for.”
John glanced at his watch. 2:39 A.M. “At this hour?”
Wilder yanked the door open. “Don’t want to keep her waiting. You know. Women.” That genial tone, that world weary-smile irritated the shit out of John. Condescending to him. You big, dumb fuck.
The mocking words echoed in his head as he followed Brian out the door onto the gallery walkway. Wilder began walking faster. John lengthened his stride, closed the gap. Wilder began to trot.
Enough. John leaped, took him down. Wilder’s shoulder hit, with a brutal crunch, against the iron balcony rail. Wilder started to scream.
It hurt John’s head. There was already too much screaming inside, that constant screaming, driving him crazy. He grabbed the guy by his collar and his belt, lifted, swung, heaved him over the rail….
The screaming stopped.
Ah. He could breathe again, in the sweet, calm silence. John panted there for a moment, enjoying a sensation of intense relief, and began to stroll the entire perimeter of the balcony. It gave him an opportunity to enjoy the effect of his handiwork from every angle.
He was feeling much better. His vision had cleared, his breathing deepened, his heartbeat normalized. He was even feeling…nibblish.
He stopped at the table next to the enormous Waylan Winthrop bronze that held pride of place in the center of the gallery. The one he’d been so fascinated with a few weeks before. The one entitled Teeth.
He grabbed one of the napkins, and loaded it up with water crackers, mini caviar sandwiches, chunks of cheese, artichoke tarts. And a couple of juicy pineapple chunks from the remains of the fruit bowl. He’d be wise to tank up on food. There would be no time for a meal. He’d need to race to whatever airport had the earliest flight to Portland, Oregon. That old turd Haupt would insist on going, too, but at least John had finally gotten a lead. Maybe it would earn a break from the scolding. Lucky, that he’d been able to unload some bad energy.
He stuffed his face with tasty tidbits as he gazed up at the new, revised version of Teeth. Dark drops of blood plopped heavily down, dangerously close to his shoes. He moved his feet out of range and ate another couple of juicy chunks of pineapple as he gazed up, admiring the effect. He dug out his cell, framed the shot, snapped a few pictures.