Page 76 of Devil's Due

“Answer the question, Ben,” Simms said gently.

“I followed the leads. I worked the case. So did Jazz.”

“Yes, but you had something Jazz didn’t, isn’t that true?”

“Don’t.”

“You had luck.”

“Not everything is your goddamn psychic powers at work, Simms.”

“Not everything,” Simms agreed. “And you would have found Manny eventually. But I helped you find him before it was too late. In the nick of time, in fact. Wouldn’t you agree with that?”

Silence. McCarthy was staring intently out the window. Manny, on the other hand, was an open book—sweating, shaking, clearly and deeply rattled.

“Mr. Glickman, I’m not a stranger to you,” Simms said. “I wish I could have helped you before you experienced—what you experienced. It is not a perfect world, and what I do is even more imperfect than that. But I need you now. I need your help. And I’m asking you to give it even though I know that it’s against your nature.”

“Did he—” Manny’s voice failed, choked off. He slowed and stopped at a light, but Lucia could tell that it was just reflex, not thought. He was driving on autopilot. “Ben, did this guy tell you where to find me?”

McCarthy closed his eyes. “I knew where to find you. He told meexactlywhere to dig. Without that—it would have been another hour, probably.”

Manny’s eyes filled with tears. Lucia, even though she knew it wasn’t welcome, even though she knew he’d flinch, put her hand on his arm.

He did flinch. But not as badly as he might have.

“You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to, Manny,” Lucia said. “Ever. You know that. Neither Jazz nor I would ever ask it of you.”

He nodded convulsively, gulped in a breath and hit the gas when the light turned green.

Simms settled back, content, smiling.

She hated him, in that bright and completely lucid second.

“You know,” Jazz said, as Manny pushed together two worktables and unfolded camp chairs, “we ought to just office here. Save ourselves the trouble.”

“You couldn’t afford the rent,” Manny said. He wasn’t looking at Ben or Simms. Ben, in turn, seemed to be avoiding everyone. The tension was so palpable it was like a vibration under Lucia’s skin.

“Kidding.”

“Yeah, well, I’m not in the mood, Jazz.” Manny walked over to the part of the warehouse that was designated as his lab, opened a drawer, slammed it, opened another.

He came up with a pistol. A .38, Lucia thought. He pointed it directly at Max Simms, who didn’t—of course—look remotely worried or surprised.

“Hey!” Jazz yelped. “Manny, what the hell—”

“Speaking of serial killers,” Manny said quietly. “You think I don’t know why he went to prison? I know.” His hand was shaking. “Give me a good reason why I shouldn’t just kill him now.”

“Prison wouldn’t be kind to you, Manny,” McCarthy said. He hadn’t moved from where he stood.

“That’s it? That’s your reason?”

“The only reason I know. Hey, go ahead. Kill the son of a bitch, as far as I’m concerned. None of this crap matters to me anymore.”

“Well, it matters to me,” Jazz said. “Manny, don’t. He can help us.”

“Yeah? Like he helped me?”

“He did help you, Manny.”