Page 113 of The End of the World As We Know It

He’d come to speak for the dead, after all. A few of them, anyhow.

He approached her at a quick but steady walk, camera slung beneath his left arm, gun held in his right. Her attention was on the house—she seemed to be considering the best approach across the wide lawn—and she didn’t hear him until he was almost on her. When she whirled, his gun was already leveled at her face.

“Put the bag on the ground and then put your hands behind your head, fingers laced together,” Kovach said.

She stared at him, fierce-eyed, chest rising and falling. Didn’t move to surrender the bag.

“Cleveland Police Department,” Kovach said. “Put the fucking bag on the ground.”

Her eyes widened and then she laughed. Not a pleasant sound; an astonished one, a bark of disbelief.

“Police,” she said, blurting the word out as if it were the most implausible thing she’d ever heard.

“That’s right. Detective Kovach, Homicide. We’re going to talk about Bad Boy’s Barbecue.”

Her face changed. Still shocked, but with that tinge ofuh-ohunderstanding that a suspect gave you the instant they realized you were a step ahead. Kovach had missed that look.

“I kill only the bad ones,” she said.

“Sure.”

“It’s true.”

“Sure.”

“They’re the ones who dream of the dark man,” she said. “But they still dream. That matters.” A pause, then: “You must dream, too. We all do. If we’re still alive, I think we’re all dreamers.”

He tried not to look rattled.

“What do you see?” she asked.

“I’m not the one who needs to answer questions.”

“Because you were a police officer.”

“I still am.”

Her smile was so sad it made his throat tighten.

“All right,” she said. “In that case, I’m still a doctor.”

“What kind of doctor?”

“Neuroscience.”

“Harvesting brains,” Kovach said. “Cool. Must’ve been inspiring work, based on what I’ve seen you do with a meat hook.”

“I’mnotharvesting brains,” she said with real contempt, as if the notion disgusted her. “I’m harvesting blood. I think that’s the onlyreal hope. The dreamers matter, and their blood might be valuable beyond what we can even imagine. The data is compelling.”

Though he was facing a murderer who was not in handcuffs, Eddie Kovach still lowered his gun.

“May we talk?” the murderer asked him.

He didn’t answer. He was trying to process the situation.

“Look,” she said, “you’re either going to kill me or—”

“I’m not going to kill you.”