[There is an explosive ball of hate rioting in his gut. Richie spits and seethes at the phone, lets it go for several minutes. Fetches himself a snack. Puts on a record, one of the new ones dropped in his lap from some magical split in the sky, and throws back a shot of rye.
Yet he comes back. He can't say why, but he finds fingers clasping at the phone, pulling up the message, and letting the surge of anger bring high colour to his cheeks, the tips of his ears. It's obvious now, he was being led on, goaded, and he wants nothing more than for Byerly to regret fucking asking in the first place. He needs something stronger than a drink.]
i don't know, how many twelve year old boys can rip a kid's arm out of his socket so fast he dies from shock in the middle of the street?
[ Byerly, though, in his own strange way, isn't goading. It's a puzzle, and he's drawn to puzzles like a moth to flame. He's a man of many appetites - for wine, for sex, for finery, for recognition - but no appetite is stronger than his hunger for knowledge. Even knowledge about child murders that occurred more than a thousand years ago.
It takes him a few moments to respond, because he's wandered away from his phone. Once he sees there's a reply from Richie, though, he picks up again, answering: ]
A twelve year old driving a heavy vehicle, I suppose.
[too late, he realizes his mistake. That was almost as good as a picture and a set of dusty prints that they had the perpetrator upstairs.]
i don't even know what he looks like. I was eleven and i got out clean. People here are mind readers and fire spitters and all that magical crap. Pretty sure if a killer got loose they'd smoke him out real quick
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no. he got pinned for child murder.
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Someone you knew?
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How many children, exactly?
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am i interesting enough to fuck yet
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Why did they think it was poor monster Henry?
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but you're right, totally cocked that one up good didn't I? Let me make it up to you By-By, I promise I'll be sweet
[And later...as a most reluctant addendum.]
there was no one else to blame
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Yet he comes back. He can't say why, but he finds fingers clasping at the phone, pulling up the message, and letting the surge of anger bring high colour to his cheeks, the tips of his ears. It's obvious now, he was being led on, goaded, and he wants nothing more than for Byerly to regret fucking asking in the first place. He needs something stronger than a drink.]
i don't know, how many twelve year old boys can rip a kid's arm out of his socket so fast he dies from shock in the middle of the street?
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It takes him a few moments to respond, because he's wandered away from his phone. Once he sees there's a reply from Richie, though, he picks up again, answering: ]
A twelve year old driving a heavy vehicle, I suppose.
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Is your dick hard yet?
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I'm certainly not saying it's likely, but I assume there was more than simply discomfort with the method to go off of.
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i don't even know what he looks like. I was eleven and i got out clean. People here are mind readers and fire spitters and all that magical crap. Pretty sure if a killer got loose they'd smoke him out real quick
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Why are you afraid to speak? You don't strike me as a coward.
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Forgive me if I'm not nancy drew over here. It's ancient history anyway
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