Sam lay on the bed in his little
motel room, shoes and jacket off, pillows propped behind his head, right leg up,
knee bent. It was a squalid place: TV, wardrobe with one broken door leaning up
against the inside wall, bedside cabinet warped by damp. Half a crescent of
wallpaper six feet high had been ripped off and underneath were flaking painted
bricks. It was cheap and adequate. Luxury was not necessary and ultimately frivolous.
He still couldn’t sleep; too many snatches of thought in his brain to let him.
He had already crossed a line with
the old man. That was fact now. Any notion of pre-crime guilt about what he
would have to do to the girl to make her talk was redundant. That was fact too.
The only fact he needed to consider was that his sister’s murderer was free,
rich and travelling the world on an endless holiday. That was what had to
remain the principle focus that sorted all other considerations.
The girl knew where Jack was. He
needed her to tell him. She wouldn’t tell him when he asked before. By now she
had certainly connected him to the old man’s beating. She would be even less
likely to impart information. He had to do to her what he did to the old man or
he had to do more.
These were the facts.
Except he wasn’t one hundred percent
certain she did know where Jack had gone.
Lying around wasn’t accomplishing
anything. It was possible that Jack would move on again outside the knowledge
of the girl. The longer he wasted time trying to sleep, the colder the trail
became.
Sam climbed to the edge of the bed
and reached for his shoes.
There was a vending machine in the
lobby. He’d get something to eat from there to get his energy levels up then
stake out Molly’s house until she got there. Then he’d do what he had to do to
find out where Jack Catholic had gone, however difficult that might be.
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