From "A Hunger"

CHAPTER 17
I told Carrie Nelson I needed some time to think and begged her to meet me after the coming night of fortune telling. She reluctantly agreed.
I wasn’t done with her. I hadn’t even had a chance to get started with her and now I’d been ambushed by another, more sinister shockwave. I needed to calm down and get a plan together. There were now two distinct moving pieces to deal with – Ms. Twilight Nelson and a Philippino drug dealer.
I had very little information and that could wind up being both good and bad. I didn’t know anything about what the police found, what direction the investigation had gone. Was there anything that could implicate me if I was on hand to offer something to compare to? Were my fingerprints in a database somewhere? I also had no idea what Franco Espinoza knew. Beyond being a professional thug, he could have had his own intelligence service up here in southern Maine; I simply didn’t know what I was truly up against.
And it hardly mattered. Should I squat here, where at least one person – Ms. Carrie Nelson – knows my crime? Should I risk that she would turn me over to either the police or worse, Espinoza? Logic said, Get the fuck out of Dodge.
My odds weren’t good and had little chance to improve, but I’m not a betting man and I never have been. I made this drive for a reason. I wanted my answers and I wanted to be alive to see Avery again. So, I thought, I’ll be careful. I’ll speak with Carrie later. I was still confident she could answer my questions. Right then, though, I thought I’d take a calculated risk.
* * *
Saco Public Library is a stone structure just north of Downtown at the junction of Routes 1 and 9. Its sheer red tile roof made me think there ought to be a fiddler up there, playing to lead the rats from Hamlin and the snakes from the Emerald Isle, etc. My metaphors, if I learn them as a child, tend to mix.
I pulled into its small parking lot and shut off my lights. Following my quick shower, it was quarter to seven and I thought a miracle would be in order for this small quiet library to still be open. One car, an old burgundy Grand Marquis with a crack across its windshield, sat in the far corner. With nothing to lose, I sauntered up and pulled on the heavy wooden door.
From her name tag, I found out that Claire was the Senior Librarian and with a smile I assumed that didn’t refer to her age. Claire’s silver hair was cropped short and thick glasses magnified gray eyes.
“Fifteen minutes, young man.” Her voice was soft and disarming, even if there was a bit of a scold in the message.
I flashed my best smile – one that Avery would have read right through. “Do you have the Press-Herald out on the floor?”
“Only the last two weeks. What’re you looking for?” This last she said glancing up at the clock on the high wall behind her vast Senior Librarian desk.
“August last,” I said, flashing some culture.
“She a friend of yours?”
I should have expected this and should have tailored my facial expression accordingly. Damn. I’m no spy.
“I’m sorry?” A story popped into my head.
“You want to read about the Espinoza girl, right?” Her face didn’t match the question in her voice. Her face told me what I was here for.
“I’m looking for historical stock quotes, actually, for a report I have to write. I don’t know anyone named Espinoza.”
Claire nodded, but didn’t say anything further. She turned away from me and circled her desk to my left. As she tugged at a wooden drawer file, I scanned the main room of the library. The two microfiche viewers were against the far wall, overlooking the parking lot and my car.
She handed me a card on which she’d scribbled a series of letters and numbers and I thought I may need a code-breaker. Claire pointed to the fiche machines and said, “Just to the right is another set of drawers like this.” She waved a hand at the digging she’d just done. “It’s labeled Portland Press-Herald.”
I snatched the card and once again flashed her my thirty-two. “I appreciate it.”
She returned the smile. “You’ve got thirty minutes for your research.” My face prompted her to add, “I shouldn’t have assumed.”
It took me seven minutes to pull three weeks of August 1993 and nearly ten minutes to load the damn machine. I printed as many pages as I could as fast as I could and Claire never made a complaining peep. By 7:25pm I’d paid Saco Public Library $11.70 for the printouts and was headed back to the Hampton.
* * *
I grabbed another drive-thru coffee, grabbed a legal pad at a drug store, and set all my materials about me on the queen bed in my room. I arranged the newspapers chronologically in one-week piles, left to right and opened the notebook. I wanted to have a clearer picture before Carrie came knocking. I started on August 11th and tried to stick to any mention of evidence, and whether the piece of evidence was confirmed by the police or only reported by the paper. I skimmed until August 18th before I slammed the pen down and closed the notebook.
Don’t get frustrated, I told myself. I glanced at the alarm clock on the night stand to my left. 9:03pm. There was plenty of time to stay calm.
I almost skipped a few days, but the urge subsided. It was a good thing. On August 19th, a source within the South Portland PD expressed frustration at the pace of the investigation and told a reporter what little they’d uncovered. The officer confirmed that Bianca Espinoza had been strangled. The only other thing they could substantiate, the officer went on to state, was that she’d been murdered elsewhere and dumped at the scene, just off the highway by the Maine Mall Road.
Holy shit.
The fact almost knocked me down. It was a powerful fact, but I almost fell over more because it was a fact I already knew – I’d read it in the paper Carrie had in her purse. My initial shock hadn’t allowed me to concentrate on it, or its impact.
I’d left Bianca at Ms. Twilight’s and bolted. Hadn’t I? Someone, and flashing neon arrows in my head pointed at the visitor I expected later that night, cleaned up after me.
I got up from my research with a renewed smile on my face and went to the bathroom. I would have whistled on the way, if I’d been able. I blew my nose and looked at my complexion. Pale. My lower back and upper legs ached and I thought influenza was wrapping its hands around my throat, if you’ll pardon the chosen personification.
It’d been a long day – packing Avery at home, the drive up to UNH, unpacking, the emotions of good-bye, the emotions of events in Maine. Television was to be avoided. If I turned on the tube, I was pretty sure I wouldn’t be awake to answer Ms. Twilight’s light knocking. A walk would have been a good idea, if not for my choice of hotel. Industrial Park Road wasn’t well lit and lacked for sights.
That was when, not Ms. Twilight, but an adrenaline rush came knocking on my door.

Through the peep hole, all I could see was the convex image of a hat. It was royal blue with two red squares and white writing – Domino’s Pizza. I exhaled, annoyed, and tugged the door open.
The guy had a wild, unkempt beard, flaming red. He was a full head shorter than me, explaining why I could only see the logo on his hat through the door. He looked as annoyed as I was.
“Two pepperoni, both extra cheese,” he deadpanned. “That’ll be twenty-five even, dude.”
“Sorry, chief.” Did I mention I hate the term ‘dude’? “I didn’t order any pizzas.”
Now it was Redbeard’s turn to exhale. “I don’t have time for this.”
Man, that’s the kind of response I would have gotten from Avery. Except that I would have been bullshitting her.
I thought direct may be the best approach here. Redbeard seemed pretty no-nonsense. “I didn’t order any pizzas, dude.”
He didn’t raise his voice, but I could tell he was getting increasingly agitated with me; which was fine. “Caller said Hampton Inn. Gave this room number.” The clipped sentences were a nice touch.
I raised three fingers in front of my face. “I didn’t order any fucking pizzas.” My voice and tone were completely neutral and all but the curse word was non-threatening. Granted, it wasn’t a clipped sentence, but…
I noticed his shoulders tense and thought he might take a swing. I was sweating and had a headache. I think I was also smiling – a sick, provoking smile. Go on, go on.
Redbeard turned and walked away, down the hall and toward the elevator.
* * *
I sat at the desk in the corner of my room, feeling small in the face of what could have been. I thought about the feeling I’d had when I thought Redbeard may give me an opening; when I thought he may make the first move. The anticipation was powerful and the tension that took hold of my muscles at that moment I could only relate to one other thing I’d ever felt before. Just before I’d stabbed Avery in that fateful dream, I’d been filled with a desire for violence – a hunger of sorts. I really wanted Redbeard, in that moment, to give me an excuse to lash out at him in blind rage. I really wanted an excuse to try and kill him.