Page 29 of Insidious Heart
It did, anyway, but now I’m managing my time a little better.
OCD doesn’t just mean I’m a neat freak. Nor does it only mean that I hyperfixate on something—or someone—until I can’t focus on anything else before spiraling into the pits of paranoia and every possible scenario conceivable.
Having that diagnosis, the onlycorrectdiagnosis I received while living at St. Pat’s, means I’m also good at sticking to a routine in order to balance my various obsessions.
And that’s how I gradually created a routine that has allowed me to successfully stalk Stevieandher shitbag father over the last few days.
While she’s at school or once she gets settled at work, and I know she’ll be in one place for an extended period of time, I leave Stevie and take off to follow good old Beauregard around so I’m still doing what needs to be done regarding the two of them, but I’ve been slacking in my serial killer search.
Not that I can do a whole hell of a lot until another body turns up, but The Ripper hasn’t struck again since Monday, and while I’m probably the most qualified to profile the asshole, I can’t do that until I get to a crime scene before the cops do.
Which sounds tricky, I know, but I have a theory about my friendly competition and I’ll have a better idea if I’m right depending on how tonight goes.
Sick minds think alike.
I close out my files and check the time.
11:19 p.m.
Time to head out to see my little dove.
Or it would be, anyway, but that drunk bastard she callsdadjust came stomping out of the garage, and he looks like he’s on a mission.
So, I start my car, but switch to the listening device app—courtesy of a Goliath Birdeater and his bugs—on my phone and make sure it starts transcribing as I listen to Beau flap his big fat gums.
“Gotta head to Sabine Woods tonight. Jesus needs to see me.”
I frown.
He’s been visiting the newly crowned president of Cobra Cons a lot this week, but I haven’t been able to figure out why. Or why they’re meeting in Sabine Woods knowing damn well that it’s the Kings’ home base when I’m sure it would be easier to do everything here in Rolling Meadows.
Both clubs are from here originally and still seem to call this shithole home, even though the newer one had all but dissolved after I handled those two prospects that took Cy’s girl, blowing the Cobras wide open and creating a need to scatter. Birch Creek is Python territory so no one fucks around there, and typically Sabine Woods is off the table for the same sort of reasons, save for everyone hitting up MACs from time to time. So the fact that Beau is making it a regular stop to meet Jesus is just stupid.
Feather Lake seems more like a neutral area, if you ask me. It’s outside of all three cities by at least a half hour, no other club has claimed it as far as I know, and it’s even smaller than Birch Creek.Thatseems like a much better meeting place for two moronic MC presidents to get their rocks off on the regular.
But what do I know?
There’s probably some fucked up reason for the two presidents to meet right under the WKMC’s noses, and until I stop him, I’ll leave Beau to be stupid over there.
Sometimes he goes solo, other times he takes his sergeant at arms—Cal Moreland, forty-six years old, Colorado native, and convicted killer—or a few enforcers, specifically that completely insane fuckstick, Jax, and each time I’ve listened to him coordinate, it sounds like he both hates it and needs to do it.
I’ll never understand club politics, and that’s exactly why I probably won’t be joining one at any point.
“No. No, I need you to stay this time. She doesn’t work this weekend and I don’t want the bitch trying to run off or some shit.”
My hackles raise as I lift my eyes and narrow them on the fat fuck pacing by his bike.
Considering the fact that his wife has been dead for twenty years, it’s probably safe to assume Beau is talking about Stevie. And while I know he keeps her on a pretty short leash—president’s daughter and all—I’ve yet to hear him talk about her like that.
And I don’t fucking like it.
“In the house, yeah. No fucking around though. You make sure she doesn’t leave all weekend, then get your ass to the clubhouse after you drop her off at that fucking school on Monday.”
Oh, I am going to enjoy killing him when I finally get my chance.
Especially since I know he’s talking to his dim-witted guard dog.
Joker—Jax Park—is an evaluated and diagnosed criminally insane bastard that raped and killed his own mother when he was seventeen, the same night he sodomized and beat his father to death with a broomstick. I’d put money on him having more numbers under his belt, though, and since he was a minor when he was charged and served his time in the juvenile detention center, he was let out at twenty-one only to fall right in with the Demon Seeds. He’s forty-one now, and you can’t convince me that the shit with his parents over two decades ago was a one-off.
