Carter & Lovecraft Read Online Free
pet hatreds. He knew Charlie Hammond as well as anyone else on earth, and he just could not draw a line between those two moments. Carter could not begin to imagine what had happened in the three or four minutes he was out of the room, checking on the boy and making the call.
Martin Suydam had wanted to die, that much was obvious. The blatant kidnap in broad daylight using a vehicle registered to him. Using the boy’s cry to bring in the police he knew were out in the street. Provoking fire by waving an empty pistol at them. Suicide by cop, an unusually well-developed plan for it. Why he should want that was another thing.
Hammond’s funeral came and went. His ex flew in from Chicago to attend, and she wept real tears at the graveside. His girlfriend was still in shock; she’d seen him just a few hours before when their paths had crossed. He’d been fine, talking about taking her out before the end of the week. Good times. His ex sat with her afterward, and they talked quietly.
Carter felt like an intruder. Every cop present knew he’d been right there when it happened, and couldn’t say a word as to the “why” of it. Some of them seemed to resent him, as if it was his fault. Others pitied him, and Carter liked that less still.
* * *
He stuck it for barely six months after that. He got a new partner, but there was no empathy between them at all. The guy had come up from Miami and pretty obviously wasn’t happy about it. Carter never did find out why he had transferred if he hated New York so much. There were rumors he’d been forced out of Miami, but Carter didn’t care about the gossip one way or another; he simply didn’t want to be a cop anymore.
He handed in his resignation, astounding his lieutenant, who then spent an hour trying to talk him out of it. If he stayed on for another six or so years, the lieutenant argued, he could take early retirement instead. Why jump now when he’d covered half the distance? Carter couldn’t give him a straight answer. He didn’t have one even for himself. It was just time to go, that was all. He missed Charlie, and the job wasn’t the same anymore. It was time to go.
He didn’t mention the dreams he still had, of Charlie standing there with the gun in his mouth. Except, in his dreams, Suydam wasn’t dead yet. He was sitting there, just like he had been, but he was looking at Carter. Carter could never quite read the expression on Suydam’s face in the dreams. It wasn’t a nightmare where things were arranged to scare him, it wasn’t as if Suydam was grinning like Freddy Krueger or any shit like that. It was more like Suydam was in a bad situation, had made his best play to get out of it, and failed. He looked desperate. He looked scared. He looked hopeless.
Then the clack of gunmetal against teeth, and Carter’s first thought was always, Don’t do that, you’ll chip your enamel , and then the gun went off.
Now Charlie was dead, and Suydam was dead. Suydam always went from being alive to dead at the shot, without actually dying. Suydam was alive, or he was dead. In the dreams, there was no transition.
The dream didn’t end there. Carter would turn to go and get the boy, but he would stop because there was something behind him. He turned, and there was nothing there but two dead men, and the psycho wall. The threads billowed as if there was a wind blowing through the wall.
When he went to fetch Thiago Mata, sometimes he was alive, and sometimes he was dead, skull cracked open and amateur surgery carried out on his brain. Either way, he always complained about the bruise on his arm. Once, and once only, the dead version of Thiago Mata told Carter why Suydam had been killing boys, but Carter didn’t understand the words—simple, English words—and awoke confused and frustrated.
* * *
Daniel Carter did nothing at all for a month after resigning from the NYPD. Then he printed off a DOS-0075-f-l-a from the Department of State’s
Martin Suydam had wanted to die, that much was obvious. The blatant kidnap in broad daylight using a vehicle registered to him. Using the boy’s cry to bring in the police he knew were out in the street. Provoking fire by waving an empty pistol at them. Suicide by cop, an unusually well-developed plan for it. Why he should want that was another thing.
Hammond’s funeral came and went. His ex flew in from Chicago to attend, and she wept real tears at the graveside. His girlfriend was still in shock; she’d seen him just a few hours before when their paths had crossed. He’d been fine, talking about taking her out before the end of the week. Good times. His ex sat with her afterward, and they talked quietly.
Carter felt like an intruder. Every cop present knew he’d been right there when it happened, and couldn’t say a word as to the “why” of it. Some of them seemed to resent him, as if it was his fault. Others pitied him, and Carter liked that less still.
* * *
He stuck it for barely six months after that. He got a new partner, but there was no empathy between them at all. The guy had come up from Miami and pretty obviously wasn’t happy about it. Carter never did find out why he had transferred if he hated New York so much. There were rumors he’d been forced out of Miami, but Carter didn’t care about the gossip one way or another; he simply didn’t want to be a cop anymore.
He handed in his resignation, astounding his lieutenant, who then spent an hour trying to talk him out of it. If he stayed on for another six or so years, the lieutenant argued, he could take early retirement instead. Why jump now when he’d covered half the distance? Carter couldn’t give him a straight answer. He didn’t have one even for himself. It was just time to go, that was all. He missed Charlie, and the job wasn’t the same anymore. It was time to go.
He didn’t mention the dreams he still had, of Charlie standing there with the gun in his mouth. Except, in his dreams, Suydam wasn’t dead yet. He was sitting there, just like he had been, but he was looking at Carter. Carter could never quite read the expression on Suydam’s face in the dreams. It wasn’t a nightmare where things were arranged to scare him, it wasn’t as if Suydam was grinning like Freddy Krueger or any shit like that. It was more like Suydam was in a bad situation, had made his best play to get out of it, and failed. He looked desperate. He looked scared. He looked hopeless.
Then the clack of gunmetal against teeth, and Carter’s first thought was always, Don’t do that, you’ll chip your enamel , and then the gun went off.
Now Charlie was dead, and Suydam was dead. Suydam always went from being alive to dead at the shot, without actually dying. Suydam was alive, or he was dead. In the dreams, there was no transition.
The dream didn’t end there. Carter would turn to go and get the boy, but he would stop because there was something behind him. He turned, and there was nothing there but two dead men, and the psycho wall. The threads billowed as if there was a wind blowing through the wall.
When he went to fetch Thiago Mata, sometimes he was alive, and sometimes he was dead, skull cracked open and amateur surgery carried out on his brain. Either way, he always complained about the bruise on his arm. Once, and once only, the dead version of Thiago Mata told Carter why Suydam had been killing boys, but Carter didn’t understand the words—simple, English words—and awoke confused and frustrated.
* * *
Daniel Carter did nothing at all for a month after resigning from the NYPD. Then he printed off a DOS-0075-f-l-a from the Department of State’s
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