Read Memory Man for Free Online Page B

the gas and the metal rhino charged down the road.
    Decker inched closer to the street, joining a bunch of citizens who had appeared from the crevices of their lives to watch this disturbing spectacle. He listened to the others to see if they knew what was happening, but everyone there seemed to be stunned by what they were seeing.
    Decker hurried across the street when he saw the man emerge from the precinct.
    “Pete?” said Decker.
    The man was dressed in a suit with stains on the sleeve. He was in his early sixties, very near retirement, slightly stooped and with comb-over gray hair. He stopped and looked up at him. Decker could see that Pete Rourke had his service weapon out and was checking the mag.
    “Amos? What the hell are you doing here?“
    “I was just passing by. What’s going on?”
    Pete turned pale and looked ready to collapse on the pavement. “Got some sicko at Mansfield High School. Walked in loaded for war and started shooting up the place. Lots of bodies, Decker. Mostly kids. I gotta go.” He let out a quick sob. “Shit, my grandson goes there. He’s just a freshman. Don’t know if he…”
    He turned and stumbled toward his car, a light tan Malibu, fell inside, started it up, and left tire rubber on the street.
    Decker watched him go. An army of cops heading to a shot-up high school? Mansfield High. Where Decker had gone, a thousand years ago.
    He looked around as the sounds of the sirens dissipated. The folks across the street were dispersing, returning to their slivers of existence. Many were checking their phones for news. Decker did the same, but there was nothing as yet. It was all still just happening. However, the news would pick it up and then not let it go.
    Until the next shooting came along. Then they would rush headlong that way.
    Until the next one.
    Decker stared up at the door to the precinct. He wondered how many personnel would be left in the building. Surely they would have kept some behind. They had a high-profile prisoner in a cage there.
    He touched the bulge of the gun at his waistband. That would be a problem. A magnetometer was right inside the front door. He looked around and spotted the trash can next to the building. He walked over and lifted the top. It was barely a quarter full. Trash pickup wasn’t until the end of the week, he recalled. There was a rag on top of the trash pile. He slipped out his gun, wrapped it in the rag, and set it down in the can.
    He looked down at his clothes. Another problem. He glanced around and saw the storefront. He had bought some things there before. A long time before.
    Grady’s Big and Tall Shop.
    Well, I’m big and I’m tall. Right now I’m bigger than I am tall.
    He slid out his credit card. It had a limit. A pretty low limit. But it might just be enough.
    He went to the shop and the doorbell tinkled when he walked in.
    A well-dressed, rotund man came over to him and then just as quickly took a step back.
    “Can I help you?” he said from a respectful distance. He probably thought Decker was homeless and looking to rob him.
    Decker took out his wallet and flashed his PI badge. He did it fast so it looked like something else. He glanced down the street toward the precinct to add another layer to this subterfuge. Lying did not come naturally to him. And after the hit on the gridiron his filter had been vastly reduced, so it was even harder for him not to always tell the literal truth. He instinctively craved precision and was reluctant to accept anything less than that. Yet as a policeman who often moved in the underbelly of the criminal world, he had had to prevaricate. As a detective and now a PI, he had to be able to bullshit, otherwise his job would have been impossible. He had finally struck on a method that had seemed to work.
    I will lie, perfectly.
    He said to the man, “I’ve been working an assignment for too long. Let myself go. Chase rats you have to look like one. Gotta get back to civilization.