Great lines, everyone! Excellent imagery, hints of violence to come, regrets, and all kinds of other wonderful things that makes MTS what it is.
She spotted the first man as he came around the far corner, a machine pistol pointed in her direction. Before she could get her weapon up, Cole fired once and the man crumpled to the ground. Three more shots echoed from the southwest corner, a fourth and fifth from somewhere in the distance. The second man came running from around the wall and began firing wildly, bullets tearing up the lawn at her feet. She hit the ground and returned fire, striking the man in the right leg and torso. He screamed out in pain as he dropped his weapon and fell forward in a heap.
Call them what you like. Coppers. Suits. Pigs. They are the thin blue line. The ones who find the truth in the smallest details. The ones who comfort the grieving families, remember the victims that everyone else leaves behind. They catch killers and put them behind bars. The ones who do not rest until a case is closed. The everyday heroes that the public forgets. Brothers. Sisters. Friends, who all stand together in the fight for justice. No one is above the law. They're just the ones who are willing to put their lives on the line for it.
Finally, my gaze skipped over Placida's body and I looked at José Luis. He reclined on his back, between the pony's head and outstretched forelegs. He looked startled, his brow slightly knit, as if he were annoyed. The discarded syringe nestled in the shavings, not far from his open hand. If not for the grotesque dent on the side of his head, he could easily have looked very alive.
No, that wasn't true. When I painted animals or humans, I started with the eyes. Even in a photograph, eyes held a light of their own that I always tried to emulate on paper and canvas. José's eyes were mere glass marbles, reflecting nothing.
[FONT="]“My name is Indra and I think death is a pretty harsh penalty for a rusty old necklace.”
Sounds cheesy right?
[/FONT]
Kelli scooped up the last remnants of yolk with her toast and smiled at Greg. “Perfect sunny side up eggs, I never could get the hang of them, always end up overcooking them.”
“You just need the touch,” he said and grinned. “More coffee?”
“Yes, please,” she said and held up her cup.
He picked up the pot, walked over to her and filled the cup. He moved around to the other side, sat and filled his own cup. “You know, we could make this permanent.”
She spit out the sip of coffee she had just taken, coughed and stared at him. “What are you saying?”
“Just that we’ve been doing this for a while now, going between here and my place, and well,” he said and shrugged.
“Are you suggesting that we move in together?”
“He talks to me like you do, sometimes. Like I’m helpless, or too young to understand.”
At that Yakov grinned. “Did you swear at him?”
It was her turn to glower. “Why do you do it? When you know I’m not helpless, when you know I understand all this better than you do. Why do you treat me like a child?”
He shrugged and looked away. “Because I love you, I suppose, and I don’t like that things are hard for you. I want to do it for you, even when I can’t.”
[FONT="]“My name is Indra and I think death is a pretty harsh penalty for a rusty old necklace.”
Sounds cheesy right?
[/FONT]
I didn’t want to see it, none of it; not one single, solitary thing. Steve nodded solemnly and told me he understood, completely. He'd tacked that onto the end of it: “completely,” he’d said, and when he said that . . .
Imagine pity, embarrassment, and grief mashed together in a bowl, then somebody reaches in there and scoops out a big fist of it, then smears it all over a person’s face; plasters it all over a person’s face--
That’s what I saw on Steve’s face when he said that word to me.
It was an especially busy night on the San Antonio Riverwalk, and he had his choice of targets. The cool October air felt good on his face, and he felt more alive tonight than he had in years. The urge was on him again, this time with a vengeance; more intense than all the times before.
He took another sip of his Guinness as he watched the crowd jostle for position on the walkway in front of him. A pretty young blonde broke away from the human conveyor belt, brushed past him without a glance and headed into the bar. He turned in his seat and watched as the door closed behind her; he had found his target. Now it was just a matter of time; he would have to wait, and he was very good at waiting.
Cal Jessup looked up as his administrative assistant, Delilah, walked in to his office and told him that he had a call from the Police Chief in San Antonio; he thought she was pulling his leg. She wasn’t. The Chief was direct and to the point, he wanted Cal back in San Antonio. There was a reason he had left, and now there was a reason to go back.
It had been more than six years since the last victim was found, and now the killings had started again. A woman had been found floating downriver, in the Mission Reach, south of downtown. Her throat had been slit and the Medical Examiner had confirmed that the wounds were a match to the previous victims, a single incision from a scalpel; with medical precision.
Other than Christmas, Halloween was his favorite time of the year. Everyone dressed in costume on the Riverwalk, which made it easier for him to go unnoticed. He had missed his target the previous night, the red headed waitress at Waxy O’Conner’s, but he wouldn’t miss her tonight. The urge had to be sated.
He made his way through the crowd, careful to stay away from the river, and headed for his goal. As he passed Rita’s on the River, he spotted the distinctive green umbrellas and pushed past a group of gawking tourist. His heart raced as he neared his destination, pounding in his ears. It wouldn’t be long now, and he would have another trophy.
He knew that the whiskey wouldn’t kill the hurt he was feeling, but it did a good job of numbing it. The jukebox kicked in as he threw back his third shot and Hank Junior began singing Whiskey Bent and Hell Bound. He snorted at the irony.
He took his time with her, something he hadn’t done with the others, and savored the moment. It was a new feeling for him, something stronger than the urge, and he liked it. He laid out his tools but instead of slicing her throat, he sat and watched her chest rise and fall, matching his breathing to hers.
When the urge began to overpower this new feeling, he lifted the scalpel from his kit and gently cut off a lock of hair. Again this was something new for him, yet somehow it felt right. As her eyes began to flutter, he knew that he must do what the urge wanted. He pressed the scalpel against her alabaster neck and drew it across. She sputtered as the blood began to flow from the gash, but only for a second, and then she lay quiet.