He smiled.
Some years ago he’d faced the unfortunate but necessary task of removing the key witness for the upcoming murder trial of one of his business associates. The woman was the victim’s grieving wife — around thirty-five, mother of three young children. Highly paranoid since the death of her husband, she for-tressed herself and the kids in her extensively alarmed house. But they owned a cat. One night the cat slipped outside, right through the legs of the three-year-old girl. She and her older brother ran to catch it.
Mamba slid inside the house.
He hugged shadowed corners and silent rooms, waiting, listening as the nervous mother herded her children back into the house, locked the doors.
Before she could activate the alarm, he struck. As she lay moaning, pleading for her children, he urged the alarm’s code from her lips.
He was forced to kill the children too. They’d seen his face. But they died quickly, painlessly.
The strewn bodies were discovered two days later in the locked house with the burglar alarm activated. No sign of forced entry, reported the media. No foreign fingerprints.
By then Mamba was sunning himself at the beach.
Without the witness, the prosecution’s case took a fatal hit.
Mamba’s colleague walked free.
He stretched his languid limbs. Those killings had been more of an annoyance. But this one was for him. Others among his secret associates could have done the job, but they lacked the patience to stalk, to scheme an ingenious plan. He needed to do just that to prove himself to his superiors. What he had lost through letting down his guard, he would regain.
They would applaud his creativity.
He sighed with satisfaction, gazing at the lake. The water glimmered under the faint moon like cooling obsidian. The sight lulled him, drugged him. His eyelids drooped . . .
Black Mamba slipped off the couch and into bed, where he succumbed to a blissful and well-deserved sleep.
TWELVE
Amazing how the mind conceals unfathomed depths of strength. Two hours ago Paige could not have conceived of herself in such a ghoulish situation. Now her brain hummed and churned, pushing aside emotion, seeking new pathways of action.
She needed to wrap the body. Fast. Drag the chain around and around from neck to feet, over chest and under spine, down the legs. And pray it would never come loose.
She would start with the anchor end.
For long seconds Paige pawed at the chain, pulling the anchor close to Edna’s shoulder. She heaped the bulk of the chain over the body, raised Edna’s arms high, and worked the first taut links right up to the armpits. The smell of rust, dirt, and wet, death-perfumed silk swept into her nose.
Paige rocked Edna’s body toward her own and pushed the length of the chain underneath Edna’s side as far as possible. Then she rocked the body the other way, fingers scrabbling to work the chain beneath the torso. Back and forth, back and forth she maneuvered the body, wrapping the chain around two, three, four times. She tugged and rolled, her slackened lips puffing. When the chain looped around the torso five times, she ran it around another five, this time pinning the arms. Then she turned the body onto its back and threaded the links underneath the thighs, up and over the tops of both legs. Again and again she pushed and tightened the chain, taking it down to the knees, the calves, the ankles.
About two feet of chain remained.
Sweating profusely, Paige wove the extra links in and out of the leg coils until she reached the end.
She satback and gazed at her work.
The indignity of murder. Edna San, revered seventy-something actress, stunning beauty in her day, lay on her back, eyes piercing the heavens with glittering violation. Her bleached hair was matted and snarled, her body swathed in rusted links.
Paige’s eyes narrowed. What if the job was too sloppy? What if the chain worked free?
She should have brought a lock. At least she could have secured that last link to a coil. Too late. What was done was done.
Now to get the body into the water.
Paige pushed to her feet. Above Edna’s head she bunched the extra sheet together in both hands and prepared to tug backward —
The flashlight.
Paige pulled up short. How was she going to hold the flashlight and move Edna’s body at the same time? She needed both hands to pull. Gazing past the soaring treetops, she studied the sky. Was it just her imagination, or was it lightening with every second?
She grabbed the flashlight. Hurrying past the car to the top of the bend, she aimed the illuminating arc down the rocky road and toward the water some thirty feet away, memorizing ruts in her path. The road ended about eight feet from the water. Then down a slight hill and she would enter the lake.
It would be cold. Replenished in spring from the winter snow’s runoff, Kanner Lake had the reputation of not warming completely until August. But Paige didn’t care how chilly the lake would be. Her muscles burned, and she almost longed for the shock of frigid water.
She checked the sky again.
Paige set down the flashlight, aiming its beam in the direction she would go. She scurried back to the body, wrapped her hands around the bedsheet, and pulled.
Edna San began to slide.
Paige moved backward on the balls of her feet, picking up speed. Her teeth clenched, and she could feel the cords of her neck pushing out, pulsing. The body moved a foot, then two. Three. Four. A chant rose in her brain — Go, go, go, go. Paige’s arm and shoulder ligaments burned, but she couldn’t lose her momentum. Back she shuffled, looking over her shoulder for direction, Edna’s iron-wrapped body and the anchor scraping and clanking over protesting earth. The flashlight now aimed at Edna’s bouncing feet as if to say, Look, see the crime being committed, the evil performed!
Paige’s jaw creaked open, air piercing like nails in her throat. Don’t stop now. Go, go, go! The flashlight receded with every step. Sweat trickled down Paige’s forehead and into her eyes. She blinked hard and kept moving.
She stumbled off the road onto soft earth, fought to regain her balance, then fell hard, teeth clacking. Scrambling up, she swept up the sheet once more and pulled until Edna’s entire body left the road. A second’s rest, then Paige hauled again. Chink-chink went the chain and anchor.
Paige’s right foot splashed into water. No time to flinch, no time to think. She stepped backward, trying to watch her footing. The water wrapped cold fingers around her ankles, her shins. For a moment Paige could almost believe the lake had come alive, sought to draw both her and Edna into its grave. She fought to push the thought away, focus only on the splashing of her legs, the chill creeping up to her knees. The squishy chink of Edna’s body sliding from dirt into the expectant and carnivorous Kanner Lake.
The corpse sank immediately into the soft mud of the shallow lake bottom.
Paige clung to the sheet, feeling the pull of Edna’s body. She shook and tugged then, trying to yank the sheet from under the corpse. Edna’s hair floated up like fine seaweed, tickling Paige’s legs as it had in the hot tub. She fisted the sheet little by little, and with the help of the water, rocked Edna off.
The sheet came free. Paige gathered up the sopping fabric, waded a few steps toward shore, and tossed it onto the dirt. Only then did she realize — she could see the dirt better than before, and the lapping water.
Daylight was coming.
Paige threw herself into the lake, its chill smacking her in the chest, the neck. She thrashed around, seeking Edna’s body. Her fingers brushed skin. She sensed the form of a cheek, two of her fingers slipping into an open mouth, scraping teeth. Paige gasped, her mind filling with a vision of Edna biting off her fingers. She snatched back her hand, caught Edna by the chain links around her shoulders, and pulled.
The body came easily now, already growing accustomed to the lesser gravity of its coffin. Paige waded until the water reached her waist, preparing herself for the sudden drop of earth beneath her feet. One final heave back
ward, and Paige found herself swimming a one-handed dog paddle, still gripping the chain. The body’s legs scraped the mud before the cliff. Paige treaded the frigid water, angling her head up to breathe, seeking leverage to pull.
Two more hand strokes, and Edna’s corpse launched itself off the cliff.
The sudden weight yanked Paige under.
Water shot up her nose. Her body jolted to its side, pulled down by her left hand. The world muffled; hard bubbles pinged against her ears. Her eyes opened wide in terror but she saw only blackness. She struggled to pull Edna up, wanting to take her further from shore, but the drag was too vicious.
Let go!
Paige’s fingers uncurled but the chain caught her knuckles. She shook her arm violently, trying to wrench away. The metal clutched her hand like some ravenous monster come to life.
More bubbles echoed in Paige’s ears. Rolled in taunting little balls up her face.
Time flattened into a long, dark void.
As Paige sank, as she fought, her mind screamed against the irony. In death, Edna San had found a way to destroy her. Paige was going to die here, now. Die for the choice she made to save herself.
THIRTEEN
Mom has brought a new boyfriend home to live.
Rachel sits cross-legged on her bed, trying to do math homework. Loud music from the den beats through her thin bedroom walls. R. Kelly — Mr. “Bump ’n’ Grind.” Rachel hates R. Kelly.
How many boyfriends does this make? Rachel has lost count.
Only ten years old, and surely she’s seen her mother with at least a dozen different ones. They’ve been fat, skinny, tall, short.
All have been ugly, as far as she’s concerned.
Every time it ends the same. Her mom and the guy have some huge fight, and he knocks her around, and she slaps him and pulls his hair. They both scream nasty names at each other. He bangs out the door, yelling that he’s had it with her, and she can just blankety-blank pay her own rent from now on.
Until the next guy comes along, it’s quiet in the house. Well, as quiet as it can be, living with a mother like Rosa Brandt. At least then Rachel only has to worry about being hit by one adult instead of two.
This new guy’s name is Wayne. No last name. Just Wayne.
He’s tall and skinny like a telephone pole. Has a mean look in his beady eyes. He smokes cigarettes all day and his breath stinks.
He’s got needle marks on his arm and the knobbiest knees Rachel has ever seen.
What does her mother see in this guy?
Not that it’s any of Rachel’s business. She goes to school, does her homework, cleans the house, waits on her mom and the boyfriend-of-the-month, and otherwise tries to stay out of the way. Most of the time she’s in her room. There she dreams about being popular and having friends come over after school. Living in a big, pretty house with a nice mom who lets her have sleepovers. On Saturdays she goes swimming with her dozens of friends, maybe to the movies. They watch TV at night and eat popcorn. And three or four boys, all very cute, like her at once . . .
Thump-thump pounds the bass drum, going right into her chest. Rachel presses her hands over her ears and reads the math problem for the fifth time.
“Raachell!”
She jerks up straight at the screeching voice. Anger rises within her so quickly, it scares her. She jumps off the bed, opens her bedroom door. The music hits her in the face. She trots down the hall into the den. Her mom and Wayne are slouched on the sofa, eyes slitted open. How can they stand the noise? Rachel has to yell over it.
“What?”
Wayne scratches his scruffy face slowly, like he’s thinking very wise and wondrous thoughts. Rachel fastens on the long nail of his little finger. His mouth moves. Rachel can’t hear what he’s saying. She turns down the volume on the stereo.
“Hey!” Mom’s voice sounds thick. “Turn that music back up, now.”
Rachel surveys her mom, calculating. The woman’s too high to move very fast. Wayne doesn’t look much better. But Rachel doesn’t know him well enough yet. He could surprise her.
Wayne waves a hand at her. “Get me some food, girl.”
Rachel sets her jaw. “What do you want?”
One day she will be free from this.
“A turkey sandwich. Put lots of mayonnaise on it, and some pickles. And make it quick — I’m starving.”
Rachel’s gaze slides to her mom. She’s slumping against Wayne, eyes closed. Head slightly swaying. “Do it, Rachel, or I’ll beat the tar outta ya.” The words flow like cold syrup.
In Rachel’s mind she tells Wayne to make his own bleeping sandwich. Then like Superwoman she picks him up, hauls him to the door, and kicks him outside. Mom soon comes out of her fog and realizes how terribly she’s treated Rachel, and she breaks down and cries and cries, saying she’ll be the best mom in the whole world from now on, and ever after that she walks Rachel to school and helps with her homework and packs homemade cookies in her lunch —
“Rachel!” Wayne glares at her. “Go.”
She turns toward the kitchen, her own anger bubbling.
At the battered refrigerator she pulls out leftover turkey, a loaf of bread, the mayonnaise. There are no pickles.
Don’t hit me for that, Wayne; it’s not my fault.
“Rachel! Get in here and put the music back up!”
She closes her eyes and sighs. Returns to the den, ratchets up the music. The noise slices through her head.
Back in the kitchen Rachel pulls out a knife to spread the mayonnaise thickly. She hopes she uses the right amount. If not, she’ll pay.
She cleans up after herself, then takes the sandwich on a plate to Wayne. “Here.” The bitter word drops from her mouth like stone.
Wayne’s head comes off the couch. He narrows his eyes.
Fear prickles the back of Rachel’s neck. What on earth was she thinking? She forces a smile. “Hope you like — ”
Wayne’s arm jerks out and catches her wrist. The sandwich flies off the plate and lands on the floor. He yanks Rachel close, his cigarette breath stale in her face. “Don’t ever talk to me in that tone of voice. You hear?”
He shoves her backward. Rachel stumbles and falls, one arm whacking the coffee table. Pain shoots up her shoulder.
A minute later Rachel is back in the kitchen, teeth gritted, making another sandwich.
FOURTEEN
Paige’s lungs shrieked for air. Any second now they would burst apart, exploding her trapped body into a million pieces. She shook her arm harder, desperately stroking upward with the other hand, fighting for even an inch of water and gaining none.
Still she sank.
In a final desperate move, she ceased fighting with her free hand. Paige plummeted faster. She forced her right arm down into the water, fumbling and pulling at the revengeful links that captured her left fingers. Yanking her knuckles from their grip.
The chain loosened.
Edna San’s body slipped away.
Too late to reach the surface. Paige knew that. But her primal instinct would not heed impossibility. Frantically she swam upward in the darkness, lungs packed with pressure. Up and up, knowing her sin would sink her to the bottom of Kanner Lake to lie with Edna San — the telltale sheet and her car left at the scene.
Her mouth opened. Bubbles bounced upward with a muted clatter.
Paige stroked harder.
Like a launched missile, she erupted from the surface. Choking, thrashing furiously. She went under again, fought her way back up and broke into the night. Air stutter-creaked into her throat. Paige dropped her jaw, sucking precious oxygen. She started to sink a third time. Somehow her arms churned into a tread. Fighting to keep her head above water, she groaned in more air. Not enough. Never enough. Paige breathed and stroked, breathed and stroked.
Her limbs were weakening.
In a final defiance of death, Paige twisted her body toward shore. She threw out her arms, dragged her aching body toward safety.
Her
kicking feet sank, seeking the feel of blessed earth.
Nothing.
Two more strokes.
Three.
Her toes hit the cliff. She heaved herself forward and let her legs sink. One foot touched bottom. The second.
Spluttering, Paige came to rest on squishy earth. For long, rending minutes she gulped air. Her limbs threatened to give way. She had to gather herself, get out of the lake. She sneezed and coughed. Pulled in more oxygen. Rubbed water from her eyes.
Mid-breath, the airflow stopped. Paige looked ahead, her heart stalling. The forest, the road. They were much lighter.
Paige threw herself toward shore, pushing through the water. It receded to her thighs, her knees. She splashed through the last ounces of it, hit shore and stumbled over the sheet. With an awkward two-step she caught herself, grabbed up the sodden, cold fabric, and scurried up to her car, wetness squishing in her shoes, goose bumps popping down her chilled arms. Her ears hurt from the cold.
She reached the Explorer, flung the sheet into the hatchback, then jumped into the driver’s seat. Only when she slammed the door did her eyes fall on the path she’d created with Edna’s body, as if some giant slug had dragged itself down the road. Air hitched in her throat. She stared at the signs of passage, then gazed at the sky.
No time. She had to get out of there.
Paige started the car, turned around, and sped up the road, bouncing, teeth clamped and heart racing. She’d done it now, no taking it back, and all she could do this day and forever was hope against hope that her deed would not be discovered.
Her near-death experience replayed in her brain.
Eons passed before she hit Lakeshore, turned right. She leaned on the accelerator, praying that no one would appear from the opposite direction. Her tires ate up the ground as she slouched over the steering wheel, already thinking that perhaps the following night she should return, dive into darkness, and somehow, some way drag Edna’s body out farther, where it wouldn’t be found . . .
Violet Dawn Page 5