I LOOKED at the words HAPPY, HAPPY. JOY, JOY. I knew exactly where the saying on his sweatshirt came from.
Nickelodeon. Children’s TV. Damon and Jannie loved it. In a way, so did I. Nickelodeon was about families, and it probably infuriated Danny Boudreaux.
He grinned at me! He had such a fiendish, madhouse look.
Then he spoke quietly, as I just had. He expertly mimicked my concern for him. His instincts were sharp and cruel. It scared me again. It also made me want to rush him and punch his lights out.
“You don’t have to whisper. Nobody’s sleeping in here. Well, nobody except George the Doorman.”
He laughed, reveling in his crazy, creepy inappropriateness. Here was the real psychopathic deal. Danny was a thrill killer in the flesh, even at thirteen.
“Are you all right?” I asked Christine again.
“No. Not really,” she whispered.
“Shut the hell up!” Boudreaux yelled at both of us. He pointed his gun at Christine, then back at me. “When I say something, I mean it.”
I realized I wasn’t going to get the gun away from the boy. I had to try something else. He looked close to the breaking point, way too close.
I decided to make a move immediately.
I concentrated on the boy, trying to gauge his weaknesses. I watched him without seeming to watch.
I took a couple of slow, deliberate steps toward the living room window. An ancient African milking stool sat there. I glanced outside at the police lines staggered across the front lawn, keeping their distance. I could see riot shields and Plexiglas masks, battle dress uniforms, flak vests, guns everywhere. Jesus, what a scene. This mad boy had caused all this.
“Don’t get any funny ideas,” he told me from across the room.
I already had a funny idea, Dannyboy. I already made my move. It’s done! Can you figure it out? Are you as smart as you think you are, creep?
“Why not?” I asked him. He didn’t answer me. He was going to kill us. What more could he do?
There was a real good reason for me to be near the window. I was going to position myself and Christine Johnson on opposite sides of the living room.
I’d done it. I had already made the move.
Boudreaux didn’t seem to notice.
“What do you think of me now?” he snarled. “How do I stack up against those assholes Jack and Jill? How about against the great Gary Soneji? You can tell me the truth. Won’t hurt my feelings. Because I don’t have any feelings.”
“I’m going to tell you the truth,” I said to him, “since that’s what you want to hear. I haven’t been impressed by any killers and I’m not impressed by you, either. Not in that way.”
His mouth twisted and he snarled, “Yeah? Well, I’m not impressed by you, either, Dr. Hotshit Cross. Who’s got the gun, though?”
Danny Boudreaux stared at me for a long, intense moment. His eyes looked crossed behind the lenses of his glasses. The pupils were pinpointed. He looked as if he were going to shoot me right then. My heart was racing. I looked across the room at Christine Johnson.
“I have to kill you. You know that,” he said as if it made all the sense in the world. Suddenly, he was speaking in a bored voice. It was disconcerting as hell. “You and Christine have to go down.”
He glanced around at her. His eyes were dark holes. “Black bitch! Sneaky, manipulative bitch, too. You dissed me bad at that stupid school of yours. How dare you disrespect me!” he flared again.
“That’s not true,” Christine Johnson said. She spoke right up. “I was trying to protect those kids out in the yard. It had nothing to do with you. I had no idea who you were. How could I?”
He stamped one black-booted foot hard. He was petulant, impatient, unforgiving. He was a mean little prick in every way.
“Don’t tell me what the hell I know! You can’t tell what I’m thinking! You can’t get inside my head! Nobody can.”
“Why do you think you have to kill anybody else?” I asked Boudreaux.
He flared at me again. Pointed his gun. “Don’t fucking try to shrink-wrap me! Don’t you dare.”
“I wouldn’t do that.” I shook my head. “Nobody likes lies, or people trying to pull cheap tricks. I don’t.”
Suddenly, he swung the Smith & Wesson toward Christine.
“I have to kill people because… that’s what I do.” He laughed again, cackled, and wheezed like a fiend.
Christine Johnson sensed what was coming. She knew something had to be done before Danny Boudreaux exploded.
The boy turned to me again. He swiveled his hips and almost seemed to be preening. He’s watching himself act like this, I realized. He’s loving this.
“You’ve been trying to trick me,” he said. “That’s why the calm Mr. Rogers voice. Backing off from me, so you’re not so almighty big and threatening. I see right through you.”
“You’re right,” I said, “but not completely right. I’ve been talking like this… real softly… to distract you from what I’m really doing. You blew your own game. You just lost! You little chump. You weasly little son of a bitch.”