“So,” Crichton said. “What shall we do with the rest of our evening?”
“Um, I had a book I was reading, but the reader is still down in the hotel office, so I guess, more TV?”
Crichton motioned for him to sit, then reached down to the coffee table and picked up the remote before settling his bulk down in the chair. “Sounds good. Let’s see what’s on.”
Kris stared at him, fidgeting. He couldn’t reconcile today’s Crichton with the man he’d met earlier. It was unsettling that he seemed almost friendly now.
Like Bob. Well, no, not like Bob. Bob was warm and kinda fun to hang out with. Crichton is acting friendly, but he’s cool about it. Not that I suppose that matters.Kris’s body shuddered.Bob said he’d do the same things to me.
“Well, come on, sit down,” Crichton said. “I’m not going to hurt you, for Pete’s sake.” His deep voice was a rumble that filled the room.
Kris couldn’t help but compare it the rich baritone of Ishmael. Ishmael’s tones filled your bones and blanketed your skin. Crichton’s were more like barely disquieting, the notes sending warnings skittering across his flesh, raising the hairs on his arms.
Crichton glanced over at him and Kris could read irritation on his face. “Well, you just going to stand there all day?”
“Um, no. I was just thinking I might like a drink.”
Crichton grunted, a note of disbelief evident in his glance and in his tone. “Go on, then. Pour us both something cold and come sit down.”
Kris hurried over to the kitchen to obey. “What are we going to watch?” He was under no illusion that Crichton would ask for his input. The same as with everything else, he wasn’t being offered choices.
“You ever hear of Gennady Mikhasevich?”
Kris took out the jug if that day’s smoothie from the fridge and poured it into two glasses he took from the dish drainer. “Um, no.”
“He was a serial killer, from Belarus. He raped and murdered his victims, then as a police volunteer, aided in the investigation of the murders he committed. They reckon he had a body count of over fifty.”
Kris felt ice wash through his veins. “We’re going to watch a show about him?” he managed to ask, amazed at how normal his voice came out sounding. He returned the jug to the fridge and picked up the smoothie, marvelling at how steady his hands remained as his legs carried him to the seating in the lounge area.
“Yup, a documentary. One of those where it’s a re-enactment.” Crichton reached a hand out and took the glasses from Kris’ hands, setting them each down on a polished slate coaster he’d taken from a drawer in the end table. Kris had no choice but to sit in the unoccupied space marked by the glass. It was on the sofa, not even half a foot away from where Crichton himself was seated. Crichton watched him as he settled down into the seat, then picked the remote back up and hit play.
Great. Perfect viewing for the occasion. A dude and one of his captors watching another guy kidnap, rape, and murder people. Fuck my life.
