I Hunt Killers by Barry Lyga Page B

late-model sedan parked in the driveway. He groaned out loud, then plastered a pleasant grin on his face. It was easy, reflexive—Jazz had been conning the sedan’s owner for a while now.
    He parked next to the sedan and climbed out. It was the only person who annoyed him more than Doug Weathers: Melissa Hoover, social worker, sat on the front porch step. She worked for the county, and ever since Billy had gone to prison, she’d had one goal in life: getting Jazz out of his grandmother’s house and then either to a foster home or to his aunt Samantha. Samantha. Who’d never even met Jazz. Who hadn’t spoken to Billy in fifteen years. Who swore she would flip the switch herself if the government ever “came to its senses” and decided to execute him.
    Yeah, sure. That would be great.
    Jazz would have none of it, meaning he spent his days striving to prop Gramma up just enough that she could maintain custody of him.
    For a week after Billy’s arrest more than four years ago, Jazz had been with social services, and he spent four of those days in a foster home. After the initial shock of Billy being arrested and of being yanked out of his home, Jazz fell back on the skills Billy had taught him—acting, conning, pretending to be normal. He’d easily fooled the social workers and the foster family into thinking he was fine. (A sneak peek at his file revealed the phrase “impressively well adjusted.”) He gave them just enough that they thought he was working on his “issues,” and they released him into the custody of his grandmother, his closest living relative.
    But the truth was he didn’t know what his “issues” were. He knew he was afraid of his own powers and prowess, but that was his demon to wrestle with. No one on earth could understand what he’d gone through, what his upbringing had been like. So how could anyone help him? He was on his own.
    He might as well do that work here, in the house Billy had grown up in. Gramma’s house was the only home remaining for him, quite literally: The wealthy father of one of Dear Old Dad’s victims had bought the Dent house at auction and had it bulldozed, then burned the wreckage and debris to ash. Jazz watched on TV as his childhood home went up in smoke, to the cheers of the gathered crowd.
    (That same wealthy father later contacted Jazz and offered to pay for him to attend the college of his choice, claiming—in a letter that went on for ten pages—that there was “no reason for Billy Dent to claim one more victim.” Jazz politely declined the offer.)
    Jazz sauntered over to Melissa, who stood and brushed off her skirt as he approached.
    “Did Gramma pitch a fit when she saw you coming?” he asked.
    “She went for the shotgun.”
    Gramma Dent was never all that sane to begin with, her head packed full with a rotting collection of twisted religious dogma, crackpot conspiracy theories, and just plain wrong , handed down from generation to generation. Now she’d gone from unpleasant to outright dangerous. She avoided doctors, so no one could be sure, but even without a diagnosis Jazz was certain she was on the road to Alzheimer’s Town, an opinion he was careful not to let slip. As bad as she appeared to the outside world, Jazz knew she was actually much, much worse.
    Hateful, spiteful, and crazier than a wind sock in a tornado, but family.
    “Both barrels are plugged and the firing pins are popped,” Jazz assured Melissa. “She’s not trying to shoot you; she’s just trying to scare you off. She’s from that generation that doesn’t trust government people, you know?”
    “I know, Jasper. When she’s in this kind of mood, I just steer clear.”
    “Probably the best move.” Jazz cranked up the wattage on his smile. “You look lovely today. I like the skirt.”
    Melissa snorted and glared at him. “Flattery will get you nowhere.”
    But it had already gotten him exactly where he wanted to be. He was less than arm’s length from Melissa. She