Page 28 of Edge of Ruin (The Edge Trilogy #3)

Chapter Sixteen

J ohn waited until the last few people came out of the Wilder Gallery. An hour or so ago there had been an exodus of well-dressed buttheads flooding out of the big opening for some hotshot new artist. The ones trickling out now were the employees of the gallery itself.

He shrank back into the shadows behind a dumpster as the skinny foreign slut he remembered from before came out.

Her tits were shoved up into a glittering silver tube dress, her lips shiny with hot-red lipstick, and her black hair was freshly bobbed with cruelly short bangs, like a dominatrix. Wilder’s assistant, Damiana.

She was usually the last one to go, apart from Wilder himself. Probably stayed behind to suck the boss’s dick.

And there was Wilder, a few minutes later, stepping out the door. Last one to go. Bastard didn’t trust anyone else to close for him. First, he armed the alarm with his remote, punching in a code. Then he got to work on all the locks and bolts. After came the rolldown metal door.

John sauntered over while he was still working on the locks. “Evening, Mr. Wilder.”

Wilder 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 did exactly as you asked, okay?

I already told you everything I managed to learn in our phone conversation.

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, nor did I get her number, or her address.

I cannot help you any more than that. So, uh, good night.

” Wilder gave him a bright, toothy smile that said, Alrighty, then, you big inconvenient asshole, you’re dismissed.

John waited until that smile started to quiver and unravel into the raw components of pure fear.

“How about Rafael Siebling’s address?” John asked softly.

“I’m sorry, but I don’t have it. We are not colleagues.

We don’t travel in the same circles. But it shouldn’t be all that hard to find.

His gallery is very hot 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 Siebling wanted to rub it in about her new boyfriend. As if I gave a shit who that stupid, no-talent bitch fucks. She could do dogs and pigs for all I care.”

New boyfriend? Fucking dogs and pigs? 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 him.

Brian had shrunk back against the door, hands up, and his voice was a breathless babble that John cut off. “What’s the name of the new boyfriend?”

“Like I know, or 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 savage 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, ah, 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.” Wilder 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, the roar inside him. It was like a hurricane.

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 clicked and tapped on the laptop and shook his head. Too quickly.

“Sorry, no Rafael Siebling here,” he said. “Can’t help you.”

“Look again,” John said.

The guy looked miffed. As if he were way too important to perform such a basic, simple favor for John as looking in an address file. As if he were better than John.

He was giving him that look. The look that said, “You big, dumb fuck.”

John began walking toward the desk. Wilder turned gray. Then he scrambled to punch Siebling’s name into the search engine.

“Ah! Here it is!” His voice sounded passionately relieved. “I don’t have his personal number, but here is his gallery’s home site. I’ll just print out this page for you.”

The printer’s buttons lit up. It hummed and then spat out a sheet of paper.

Wilder grabbed it and handed it to John with a teeth-clenched smile.

“See? Address, phone number, email, and website address. So glad to be of 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? No shit.”

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 Wilder 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. He 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 abruptly.

Ah. Now he could breathe again, in the sweet, calm silence.

John panted for a moment, enjoying a sensation of intense relief, and then 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 now. His vision had cleared, his breathing deepened, his heartbeat normalized. He was even feeling a bit 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.

A couple of juicy pineapple chunks from the remains of the fruit bowl.

He’d be wise to tank up on food right here.

There would be no time for a meal tonight.

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 gotten a lead at last. Maybe it would earn a break from the scolding.

It was lucky, that he’d been able to unload some bad energy. He could function now.

He stuffed his face with some more 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. Very nice.

He’d gotten a feeling, weeks ago, when he first saw those sharp, spiky teeth pointing straight up into the air, that the sculpture was missing something. It lacked that extra little thing, some color, some interest, that would really make it pop.

It was perfect now.