by D. M. Pulley
“Can I get a thank you?”
“Thank you,” she said flatly and went back to washing her glasses.
“How about a smile, girlie? I bet you’d be a real looker if you smiled.” Mullet Head leered at her.
Kris caught her own reflection in the mirror over the bar. She looked as bad as she felt. The whites of her eyes were shot with red, and bags puffed out like she hadn’t slept in days. Her hair was a mangled mess. A real looker. She shook her head. On a good day, she considered herself pleasantly average with her brown hair and narrow frame that she usually kept hidden under baggy clothes. The only remarkable thing about her at all was her eyes. They changed color from green to hazel to amber. When she was a little girl, her father used to call them her mood rings. In the dim light of the bar, they’d gone dark.
“I don’t think she likes you, Sal,” the balding man on the stool next to him taunted.
“Nah. You like me. Don’t you, sweetie?” He grinned at her until she turned away. “Man, she’s got a cute ass, doesn’t she? Nice and tight. Kinda sporty.”
“I seen better,” Baldy chuckled.
“You’re a runner, right? Played some volleyball? Which is it?”
“I’m guessing softball,” Baldy said with a big laugh.
“Nah. She’s a nice girl. Right? Tell it to us straight, sweetie. You’re not a dyke, are you?”
Kris clamped her lips into a thin smile to keep the stream of curses in. “Sure am.”
Baldy nearly fell over laughing. “I told you she played softball.”
“Nah. Do you?”
She didn’t answer. Instead she said, “Can I get you boys another round?”
“Well, that depends. You gonna have another drink with us?” Mullet Head slapped a twenty on the counter. “There’s a big tip in it for you. Even if you are a dyke. Shit, that might be even better. Bring your girlfriends along, and we’ll hit the town. They all as cute as you?”
Ugh. At this point she was ready to drink an entire bottle. “Me and the other dykes have plans.”
“Oh, yeah? So what time y’all get off?” Mullet raised his eyebrows at her.
Why is everything out of this asshole’s mouth a double entendre? Kris decided to ignore the question. “What’ll it be, gentleman?”
“A shot for me. One for you. And another couple of beers.”
Kris did her best to ignore the beady eyes roaming up and down her body as she poured two Miller Lites and two more shots of Jäger.
Mullet Head picked up his shot. “C’mon, girlie. Don’t leave me hangin’ over here.”
Kris picked up the tiny glass and clinked with him. She waited until he knocked it back before slapping hers back down onto the bar, untouched.
“Damn. She just dissed you,” Baldy laughed.
“Nah. You wouldn’t dis me, would you, sweetie? Have the shot.”
“Thank you, but I have to keep working.” Kris could usually flirt her way out of a bad situation with a well-timed joke and a smile, but she had nothing for this idiot. She made her way down to the other end of the bar to check on her other customers. The frat boys stared slack-jawed at the Cavs game on the TVs over her head. Unfortunately, all of them had full beers.
She served the two drunk girls a couple of poorly mixed cosmos, all the while keeping her eye on the door. There is no way any of those murder fanatics know where I work. She hadn’t even given him her name, but the nagging fear kept pulling its strings. It couldn’t just be a coincidence—the books, the chat room, the killer that liked to chop up bodies. David Hohman may be an obsessed wacko, but he was also a private investigator. If he went looking for her father, he might find her too. He could be watching her at that moment.
Mullet and his friend tried waving her back down, but she ignored them as long as she could, restocking the condiments and checking the kegs. After a full five minutes, she decided she couldn’t shun them any longer.
Her shot was still sitting at the end of the bar.
“Y’all doin’ okay?” she asked, hoping for a fresh start.
“I have to apologize for my friend here.” Mullet slurred his mea culpa. “We shouldn’ta called you a dyke. That was inappropriate. Meant no offense.”
“None taken.” And to prove their idiotic remarks hadn’t bothered her in the slightest, she picked up the shot and downed it.
“Atta girl!” Mullet grinned. “So you got a boyfriend?”
Really?
“I do,” Kris lied. She hadn’t been with anybody but Troy in her entire life, a fact that he loved to throw in her face. We’re meant to be together, baby. You’re mine.
“Does he know you’re down here, talking to me?” Mullet’s eyes dropped to her tits. “Wearing that tight T-shirt?”
“Yep.” Kris grabbed a rag and started wiping down the counter.
“I wouldn’t let you out of the house lookin’ like that. Would you, Donnie?”
Donnie didn’t answer. He was looking up at the TV. The Cavs had a run going.
Mullet kept going. “So that’s the game, isn’t it? You put on these tight clothes and flirt with us to get better tips, right?”
She looked down despite herself. Glen insisted that she wear a tight T-shirt as her “uniform.” She hadn’t been thrilled, but she hadn’t refused. Man’s got a point, Krit, her father taunted from her subconscious.
Mullet laughed. “Well, c’mon then.” He threw a five-dollar bill onto the counter. “Earn your tip, sweetie. Tease me.”
“Why don’t you shut the fuck up and go home to your wife?” The words were out of her mouth before her lips could catch them.
“Oh, shit!” Donnie let out a laugh and gave her an approving nod.
“What’d you just say to me?” Mullet straightened up in his seat, suddenly sober.
Kris threw her washrag onto the bar and shook her head. Glen still wasn’t back. She couldn’t leave the bar. All she could do was bite her lips together and count to ten to keep from saying more.
“Didn’t anybody ever teach you manners? Shit. If I was your daddy . . .” The bastard leaned over the bar, closing the distance between them, his lips curling into a sneer. “I’d put you over my knee right here. What do you think of that? Huh? You lookin’ for a daddy tonight, honey?”
Without thought or warning, Kris punched the son of a bitch dead in the face. Ten years of hauling logs to her father’s woodstove had apparently paid off, much to her horror and utter satisfaction. His stunned expression before he hit the ground was almost worth it.
Next came a blur of shouts and threats and profuse apologies as the shock of what she’d done reverberated from one end of the bar to the other. Minutes later, Glen was shoving her out the door and into the alley.
“What the hell’s the matter with you, Kris! You’ll be lucky if they don’t press charges!” he shouted.
“I’m the one who should be pressing charges! You wouldn’t believe the shit he was saying to me. He said he liked my ass and offered to be my daddy!” The words And my daddy might be fucking dead right now! nearly slipped out, but she’d be damned if she was going to break down sobbing in front of Glen.
“I’m running a business here. I can’t have bartenders belting the customers. He could sue!”
“He was wearing a fucking wedding ring. You really think he’s going to drag you to court to discuss his right to grab my ass? This is sexual harassment!”
“Grow up, Kris. You want to work in a bar, that’s the business. You’re fired!”
The words hit her like a slap. “F-fine . . . That’s. That’s fine.”
Shaking, Kris staggered across the gravel lot to her car. Panic swept up and down her body. Fired. I’m fired. As she sank behind the wheel, a single thought skittered through the empty dark outside her windshield.
My dad’s gonna kill me. Then she broke into tears.
HUNT FIEND IN 4 DECAPITATIONS
Head Found in Kingsbury Run
Somewhere in the countless byways of the c
rowded Southeast Side, detectives believed today is the grisly workshop of a human butcher who in the last 10 months has carved up and decapitated four persons.
—Cleveland Press, June 6, 1936, p. 1
CHAPTER 10
April 5, 1938
“You’re late. Quick. Come inside.”
Mary Alice grabbed Ethel by the arm and dragged her through the loading dock door and down a narrow corridor. They passed the doorway to a sweaty kitchen where three women in matching blue dresses stood toiling over steaming pots. None of them looked up.
“Wait,” Ethel protested, her feet nearly stumbling over themselves. “Where are we going?”
“Shh!” Mary Alice hissed and dragged her into a tight broom closet at the end of the hall. “Sister Frances can’t see you. Not like this.”
“Like what?” Ethel looked down at her low-cut bodice and torn stockings. She’d been with five men that afternoon and had eight dollars stuffed between her tits to prove it. It was enough to buy a room for the night, but finding a hotel that would have a woman like her was another story.
“Take off those clothes,” she demanded and started undoing the buttons herself.
“Hey! Hands off!” Ethel shoved her into the wall. The whiskey she’d drunk that afternoon still sloshed in her veins. The terrified look on the poor girl’s face amused her enough to laugh. She pushed up against her for effect. “You want to touch, you gotta pay. You got three dollars, Sister?”
Mary Alice’s eyes bulged from her head in utter shock. “I have no idea what it is you’re suggesting, but we do not keep money here. Not ever. The Lord’s work is its own—”
“Well, then no titties for you. Now get me out this damned closet.”
“They will not let you stay! I’ve tried to let in strangers before, but if you aren’t one of us, they won’t let you in. Not unless . . .” Her voice trailed off as her eyes circled the tiny room.
Ethel looked down and saw the poor thing was carrying a plain blue dress just like the one she was wearing. It was the same frumpy smock the maids in the kitchen sported. “So. You want me to put on this ugly dress and pretend to be what exactly?”
Mary Alice smiled weakly. “My cousin Hattie from Mount Airy?”
“Hattie? Jesus. You couldn’t think of an uglier name? Or find an uglier dress?” Ethel snatched the wool monstrosity out of the poor girl’s hands. “You really think this’ll work?”
“Hattie’s family has drifted badly from the faith. The corruptions of modern life have overtaken you all. But you’ve been writing me for months about your call to the Lord.”
Ethel arched an eyebrow. My call to the Lord? “Sure. Why the hell not?” She fished the eight dollars out from her cleavage along with her knife and handed them to the bewildered girl. “Hold these.” Then she stripped down to her corset with the efficiency of a professional.
“You can’t wear . . . we don’t do that with our . . .” Mary Alice pointed to the lace and bone holding in Ethel’s gut and pushing up her breasts.
“With your what? Tits? You girls just let ’em swing?” Ethel reached up and squeezed one of Mary Alice’s breasts. The girl stumbled into the corner, aghast. “Well, shit. I guess you do.”
Ethel slapped her corset on top of the pile. Her own breasts flopped onto her ribcage, bruised and bitten, and she pretended not to notice the concern in the girl’s eyes. She threw the ugly blue sack over her head and covered up all her sins. “How’s that?”
“Better.” Mary Alice forced a smile. “But we have to cover your hair and . . .” Her voice trailed off as she noticed Ethel’s high heels sticking out of the bottom of the hem.
“You don’t like ’em? Fine.” Ethel kicked off her heels. Her feet fell to the ground like broken bedsprings.
“Good.” Mary Alice started stuffing the harlot’s hair under a ridiculous white tea cozy of a hat.
It all reminded Ethel of the time she’d dressed up as a nun to titillate some perverted priest, or maybe he was just some regular pervert pretending to be a priest. She chuckled to herself and was tempted to share the story, but she was fairly certain it’d make the poor girl currently fussing with her hair faint.
“Now. If you want to stay here, you need to keep a vow of silence. I told Sister Frances that to atone for your sins, you have taken the vow. It’s the only way anyone might believe you’re one of us. Do you understand?” Mary Alice grabbed Ethel’s hands for emphasis. “No talking.”
“No talking.” Ethel forced a smile and a nod. “For how long?”
“As long as it takes.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“Do not curse. It is not our way.”
“Your way? Who the hell are you people?”
“Do not speak so lightly of hell.” Mary Alice’s eyes flashed with anger for a fleeting second. “Our people lead a simple, modest, plain life. We live for the Lord. We follow His teachings. We keep His customs. When we come of age, we are baptized and born again in the Lord and keep His faith. And cursing is not our way.”
“Well, it sure as shit is my way.”
“Do you want to go back out there? Back in the cold? Back to him?” Mary Alice’s voice was developing a bit of a bite. “If you want to stay here and eat and bask in the warmth and love of the Lord, no talking. Not a word. I am risking everything to bring you here.”
“Risking everything? Why? What will happen if they find out?”
Mary Alice just shook her head. “The Lord has brought us together. He has sent a message with you, and I will do His bidding.”
Ethel almost felt the need to correct the poor girl but thought better of it. If Mary Alice thought saving a washed-up whore was her mission in life, so be it. As long as there was a roof over her head and the food was hot and the wine was . . . Wait. “Will there be drinks with dinner? Wine? Beer?”
“Goodness no. Never! Liquor corrupts the spirit. Our bodies are our temples and—”
“No hooch? Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.” Ethel nearly tore the stupid hat right off her head and marched right out to the nearest tavern. What was the longest I’ve ever gone without a drink? Two days? Three? She could already feel the hollow itch that would creep under her skin once the buzz wore thin. She would leave tomorrow. Or later tonight. She’d just sneak out when the urge struck and . . .
The girl stood there pleading with her doe eyes.
“Right.” Ethel gave the moppet a smile. Warm bed. Hot food. Warm bed. Hot food. “I understand. It’s not our way.”
Mary Alice pressed a finger to her lips to shush the woman. “Vow of silence.”
“Right.” Ethel mimed locking her lips and throwing away the key.
Satisfied, the girl opened the closet door. “Welcome to the Harmony Mission, Hattie.”
It was the best meal Ethel had eaten in years. Pork roast, potatoes, carrots, cabbage, fresh baked bread, and sweet fried corn. She was on her third helping before she noticed it.
None of the women were talking.
The din of forks and knives and bowls being picked up, passed, and set down again filled the enormous cavern below the wood-plank ceiling hanging high overhead, but that was it. Her eyes circled the ten tables in the center of a large room. They were set in five orderly rows with six to eight women at each table. Ethel glanced over at the dour women on either side of her, at Mary Alice across the table, then at the table next to theirs and the next.
Not a word.
Ethel chewed her corn in amazement. She’d never seen so many women in one place without a single thing to say. Not even in prison.
Mary Alice caught her staring and almost imperceptibly shook her head in disapproval. She raised her eyebrows and demonstratively clasped her hands together and bowed her head. They were praying, Ethel realized. Her eyes rounded the room once again at the rows of silent women. Some had closed their eyes. Some were nodding their heads in some secret rhythm. She was pretty sure the fat one in the corner was snoring, but they were all m
aking like they were deep in meditation.
Good Lord.
After a solid five minutes, she realized she’d forgotten to ask about cigarettes. With her head held low, her eyes wandered the sides of the room, searching for an ashtray. The walls were red brick. The floor was fresh varnished wood. There wasn’t a speck of dust or a cigarette butt in sight.
Ethel shut her eyes and silently cursed. Damn it!
She’d never considered herself much of a talker. Never had much to say, really. Her story was just another hard-luck sob nobody wanted to hear. Her mother died too soon. Her father drank too much. Her brother was far too young to take care of himself. And the landlord knocked on the door every day. There weren’t many ways to make money after the crash of ’29, but Ethel was sitting on one of them. She learned that hard lesson when she was a mere fifteen years old, but she was hardly the youngest she’d seen dragged into the trade. There wasn’t much else for a girl like her to do. Not when the landlord wanted the rent. Not when her little brother wanted food.
“Good evening, Sisters.” A deep voice boomed from the end of the room. The man attached to it held his hands up like one of the soapbox preachers that prowled Public Square.
“Good evening, Brother Milton,” the ladies all answered in unison, all except Ethel. He wasn’t particularly tall, maybe a bit fat, but in that room full of silent, simpering women, he was a giant.
“I’d like to take a few moments to commend the work of a few outstanding servants among you,” he announced, then grabbed a slip of paper from a pale girl standing beside him.
A soft murmur swept through the room. The silence settled back in its place with a disapproving arch of his brow. He continued, “Sister Helen typeset more pages today than three of our youngest sisters combined. The Lord is at work in those nimble hands. Praise be to God.”
“Praise be,” the sisters repeated, nodding together.
Ethel searched the room out of the corner of her eye until she found one woman blushing and stifling a smile. Helen, I presume?