MICHAEL GARRETT

The killer bent down to the steering wheel of a parked car, almost invisible in the dark.

He watched, waited.

Rapid breathing with a whistle escaped from the chest, the pulse was given in his ears, he was literally bursting with rage. It was a few minutes before half past ten, and she had been at the motel for more than three hours. Her car was at the door, she could not get out of the motel. And then he intended to send her to hell, the most suitable place for her.

A crash of shots, he thought, dissolve into the constant rumble of traffic flow on the freeway. “I'm going to the cinema with Debbie,” she said. Pretty movie. He realized that she was lying, even before the words broke from her tongue. Very much she deliberately avoided his eyes.

As time went. The “38th Special” revolver seemed like a toy in its huge, rubber-covered glove hand. Child pugach, he thought. He preferred the "magnnam". But the "38th" could not bring it to him, and the deadly power of the cartridge was more than enough to take her life. And boyfriend too. Fucking son of a bitch, fucking other wives! Who he was, the killer was not interested.

He took a deep breath to calm his nerves. Outside it was visibly cold. The windshield was covered with ice, and the breath of steam escaped from the nostrils. A gleaming blue neon sign painted the vapor in an unpleasant bluish color. The killer wiped the windshield that had become soaked inside, sat down more comfortably, closed his eyes tightly, and shook his head.

He warned her a thousand times that he would knock her brains out if she dared to just look at another man, but she, apparently, did not take his words seriously. And this made a mistake. Fatal mistake. “She is mine and no one has the right to touch her!” He gritted his teeth, thinking about what she had been doing all this time, wondered for the thousandth time how long this disgrace would continue.

Suddenly the motel door opened. A tall, thin man, about her age, held the door, passing the lady forward, and she fluttered out on a cold night, as if she had every right to be here at such a late hour. I smelled a long, to toe, fur coat and smiled at this gallant son of a bitch. Who, smiling broadly, paused, and then followed, not taking his eyes off her nice figure. I caught up, probably decided to say something at parting.

Restrained rage spilled out. Throat caught. The heart jumped out of the chest. The pain squeezed her head like an iron hoop. He swallowed noisily, pushed the door open, fell out of the car, walked toward her on cotton legs.

- Bitch! - he screamed. - Fucking bitch fucking!

Her head turned to him, horror reflected in her eyes. The boyfriend stopped, backed away, hoping to dive through the door and escape in the hallway of the motel.

But before he managed to grab the handle, the killer raised a revolver, clamped in his right rubber glove, his hand, fingers of his left, for stability, grabbed his wrist with a revolver. Aim, shot twice. The bitch screamed when two fountains of blood beat her boyfriend from the chest, and he lay flat on the cold asphalt. The killer sent a revolver at the hysterically screaming bitch, smoke still curled over the short barrel.

- Not! She screamed. - Not! It...

But the killer did not come to listen to the explanations. He had already heard a lot of them. Yes, and heartbeats, surrendering to the ears, drowned out her cries. It is too late for her to beg for forgiveness.

He might have asked how she could have done such a monstrous stupidity, but the light that lit up in the nearest windows of the motel, the sliding curtains scared him off: the guests wanted to know what made this noise. And she, taking advantage of the second confusion of the killer, still shouting, rushed to him, banged her fists on the chest, almost tore off the fake beard. Her scream was driving him crazy.He pushed the woman with such force that she fell on the asphalt next to his dying lover.

- Shut up! He shouted. “Your guilt is not mine,” icy tears flowed down my cheeks. “Thank you for making the task easier for me,” and released the bullets remaining in the cage.

* * *

A sharp knock at the door woke Patrick Farrah early in the first night. He barely opened his eyelids, slowly breaking free from the embrace of sleep. What's happening? He's in a motel, hundreds of miles from home. Who can knock on the door? And why did not you call by phone? Maybe a fire?

“One minute,” Patrick pulled on his pants. Reaching for the door handle, looked through the peephole. In the corridor stood a policeman in uniform. Perplexed, Patrick opened the door.

- Patrick Farr? - a stone-faced cop read his name and surname, written in a notebook.

Patrick nodded, alarmed at once. Did something happen at home with Sue and the children?

“Yes, it's me,” he answered nervously. - What happened?

Both policemen muttered their surnames and showed tokens, but Patrick, seized with anxiety, could not make out a word, could not make out anything.

“We would like to ask you a few questions,” the stone-cop continued.

Patrick let them into the room. Almost immediately gave them nicknames, their behavior was very different. The big man, the real macho, the eldest in a couple, certainly fancied himself with Superkop. The second, below average height, did not look like a policeman at all. Is that Minicope.

In a small room immediately became cramped.

“You can only sit on the bed,” Patrick apologized.

“You sit down, we will stand,” growled Superkop, and Patrick, perched on the edge of the bed, began to get angry. What happens in the end? Why do they deprive him of so much needed sleep?

“Where were you this evening at half past ten, Mr. Farr?” - asked Minikop.

Patrick's annoyance burst out. These policemen got him.

“No, wait,” he hissed, knowing that his face was flushed with paint, a sure sign that he was angry. - I am not going to answer your questions, not knowing what caused them.

Superkop inhaled deeply, puffed out his chest. And Patrick instantly realized that his false bravado would not give any result.

“I am sorry to have disturbed you, Mr. Farr,” his voice oozed sarcastically, “but we will talk either here or in another place.” The choice is yours.

Farra's anxiety intensified. In all his life he did not have to deal with the police. Moreover, he always sympathized with the cops, took their side. There must have been some annoying mistake. But now, sitting on the bed in a t-shirt and pants, looking up at the uniformed, armed cops standing above him, he felt small and ... defenseless.

Minicop stepped toward the bed, his face slightly softened.

“Looks like we had a bad conversation, Mr. Farr.” I regret it. ”He paused, took a pause to shake Patrick’s hand, then continued. - Some time ago, a man and a woman were shot dead in a motel parking lot. We interview all guests. Suddenly, someone saw or heard something.

The news did not please him. This motel, of course, is not Waldorf-Astoria, but it looked decent enough. Patrick always chose the less expensive motels, saving on travel, but did not fall to the Klopovniki. And he responded bewildered: "Wow."

“Are you here for business or for fun?” - asked Superkop.

“Of course, on business,” Patrick answered.

“When did you return to the motel last night?” - asked Minikop.

“I spent the whole evening in the room from seven o'clock,” Patrick answered.

- One? - snapped Superkop.

Patrick hesitated, swallowing saliva, hoping the cops didn't notice the confusion the question had caused him. Candy spent ...