He could shoot himself now for taking the training wheels off the bike. The kid hadn’t been ready, but he’d wanted to see Jamie get the thrill of that first ride as a big boy. He could still see Jamie’s face now, looking over his shoulder to see if Dad was there, hitting the mailbox hard. Going down, breaking his arm.

It had been selfish on his part. And stupid.

“It’s just for tonight, baby,” his mom told him again, leaning over and kissing her baby’s damp cheek.

“I know twenty kinds of monkey business,” Hooter called out.

Jamie laughed through his tears, hugging his new toy tightly against his face.

His father leaned over and kissed his son. “You’re a real good boy,” he said.

“Hooo-hoo-hoo. Monkey see, monkey do,” said Hooter.

But Jamie’s smile died on his face as his parents stepped softly away, calling out, “Good night, Jamie. See you soon,” lingering in the doorway, waggling their fingers good-bye.

Chapter 113

Chapter 113

THE NIGHT WALKER MOVED quickly along the corridor, feeling a little queasy about the police in the halls and even some of the waiting rooms, feeling the need to do it anyway.

The need was bigger than anything.

Bigger than safety, bigger than never being caught.

The door to room 268 was closed, the child alone, sleeping deeply under the effect of his meds.

The shadowed figure pushed open the door and saw the boy in his bed. The streetlight was hitting the child, his tanned skin contrasting with the white sheets. The entire bed seemed to float in the eerie darkness.

The Night Walker picked up the stuffed monkey that had fallen onto the floor, put the toy into the hospital bed, and leaned over the side rails, thinking how nice the child smelled. Vanilla pudding and sleep.

Jamie Sweet.

The name suited him. With his long lashes and swollen cupid’s-bow mouth, his arm set in a cast, the five-year-old looked every bit an angel with a broken wing.

Too bad.

There would be no more baseball games for this little boy. He wouldn’t be falling off his bike again, either.

Nothing could change that now.

Jamie Sweet was going to die. It was the boy’s destiny, his fate on this earth.

The Night Walker loaded the syringe, pocketed the empty bottle, and moved closer to the bed, quickly injected morphine into the tube leading from the IV bag into Jamie Sweet’s left arm. The prescription was meant for the 250-pound fireman in room 286—a man with second-degree burns and a broken hand who wasn’t going to get much pain relief tonight.

Minutes passed, the only sounds being the whizzing of traffic in the street below and Jamie Sweet’s soft breathing.