By D. W. St John
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Additional resources for Sisters of Glass
It’s not like Tate to be so tightlipped. ” Tate goes back to examining his nails, “His liver we traced as far as Paris, a kidney to Perth, skin matching his DNA profile surfaced in a burn clinic in Quebec. ” Tate leans back in his chair, linking hands behind his head. ” Karl swallows, sets down his glass. His instincts tell him to run. Far and fast. ” He doesn’t like it that he brings her up. ” Feeling caged, Karl paces the office. He hates sitting, being still, hates it worse than most everything else about being here.
He hopes not. The big man’s face relaxes. “Hey, man, sorry about that down there, but we’ve been shot at a couple times on the way to her health club. Van tears out, lights off, pulls alongside. I stand on the brakes, do a bootlegger turn. ” He shakes a bulldog head, “We counted 528 pocks in the limo. ” With protection like this, Karl’s sure she’ll live to get frailer still. ” Karl shrugs, “You got it. Bill’s got to be paid. ” The door slides open, and looking forward to meeting the woman somebody’s so eager to kill, Karl steps out.
They’re dying and nothing’s being done. ” Karl’s lost and he knows it. Five years and he’s just as much putty in Tate’s hands as ever. At his side, Tate watches him, “In ten years I never knew you to walk away from somebody that needed your help. ” Tate reaches to twist off one of the paper-like akibia blossoms, spins it between thumb and forefinger, looks up, face that of an old man. ” He sighs, “I don’t know what human is, Karl. I’ll leave the philosophy to you. All I know is if they’re not, they’re a damn good imitation.
Sisters of Glass by D. W. St John