by Harvey Click
“I’ll keep an eye on her,” Esther said. “Y’all go have a peek.”
The bedroom door hung open, and Sarah and Marcy looked there first, drawn by the strange sight of a casket surrounded by wooden candle holders. The lid was open, and they leaned over to look inside. Sarah began to gag; the lining was crusted with vomit and excrement.
“Sure stinks,” Marcy said, backing away from the coffin and into the hallway.
Sarah noticed that the closet door was open a few inches. She peered in, but before she could make sense of what she was seeing, she heard Marcy calling from the bathroom: “Lord! Lord! Lord!”
The dark interior of the closet came into focus. Bones. Arm bones, leg bones, rib bones, finger bones and hip bones. A closet heaped with bones.
“Lordy Lord!” Marcy kept saying from the bathroom.
Sarah was getting sick; the room was swaying, and she could taste the cereal she had eaten for breakfast. She rushed out of the bedroom, needing some air, but before she could get out of the apartment, Marcy grabbed her arm and tugged her into the bathroom.
In the tub was a naked, headless man. Sarah stared at the stuff hanging out of the butchered neck, veins and muscles, a bloody esophagus. Then she looked down at the body, bound with chains, and noticed how fat it was. Fat like Paul Finney.
“Mm mm mm,” Marcy said.
Part Three: With a Word like Wind in a Graveyard
Chapter Fifteen
“So many boxes,” Howard Goldwin sighed.
Sarah thought he was referring to the boxes she was packing to move to his house. She had already boxed up her computer, books and clothes. The furniture could stay here; it was junk anyway. Now she was filling boxes with piles of paper, trying to decide which ones were essential and which she could throw away. Though Howard had insisted that she stay with him, she didn’t want to clutter his house with anything she didn’t need. He took such pride in his place.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I really am. Look, I should just get a place of my own.”
He looked puzzled for a moment. “Oh no, my love, I didn’t mean these boxes. I mean every time I glance out the window, I see policemen carrying boxes.” He lit a cigarette, his brow pinched into an uncharacteristic frown. “Do you suppose they’re all filled with bones?”
“Yeah, probably. Bones, fingernails, hair, all kinds of horrible stuff. You know, I don’t think I saw any skulls in the closet. I wonder what happened to the heads.”
Sarah shuddered as she pictured the headless body in the old claw tub. Darnell must have boiled down his victims in it, using lye or some kind of acid. She imagined the mess in the drain, the melted flesh in the pipes. She thought of how sluggish her own drains had been, maybe because the main drain was clogged with skin and hair.
“Don’t think about it, my dear,” Howard said. “You must try to put all this grotesquerie out of your mind.” But a few seconds later he said, “And then there’s that other dreadful box. The coffin, I mean. I saw them lugging it out a few minutes ago, like pallbearers at a funeral.”
He sighed again and moved back to the sunroom for another ghoulish look. Sarah stared at a pile of articles she had photocopied for her thesis—ritual murders and serial killings. Jeez. She threw them into a box and looked through another pile.
Howard returned from the front room. “The rabble!” he said. “All those reporters out there with their cameras like a horde of vulgar Cyclopes staring with glass eyes. And tonight the whole country will be staring at the glass eyes of their TV screens. It’s so terribly revolting.”
Sarah had noticed, however, that he had dressed for the cameras. He was wearing a natty blazer and a crisp white shirt with gold cuff links—not the best outfit for moving boxes.
“Hope they’re getting ready to pack it in,” she said. “One of them shoves a camera in my face, they may have a brand new murder to report.”
“Perhaps one needs to view it philosophically,” Howard said. “Fame is fame. Tell me, Sare, and be quite honest—do you believe I would make a photogenic psychopath?”
“Sure, you were born for the role. You’d be the pinup boy in every loony bin in the whole loony country.”
Howard brushed something from his lapel and smiled. “Imagine, all these long years I’ve toiled for a poor scrap of honest recognition. Better I’d spent those thankless hours dispatching dowagers with the point of my bodkin.”
Sarah knew his banter was intended to cheer her up, but it wasn’t working. She kept seeing bones, a fat headless body, the icy look in Darnell’s eyes when she had torn off his glasses. She peered at a pile of papers: religious belief as an indicator of criminal behavior. She threw them into a box. There was a knock at the door.
“Not another fucking cop!” she said. She stomped to the door and opened it. It was a slender, dapper man, his skin perfectly black, dressed in a gray suit. He pulled a handkerchief from his breast pocket, dabbed his high forehead, and gave her a wide smile.
“Excuse me. I’m Detective Sebastian Okpara. May I please come in?”
“Yeah, sure, like I have some choice in the matter.” Sarah turned her back on him and returned to the study to glare at her papers.
Howard was more gracious. She heard him introducing himself and asking the cop to sit down. “Sare,” he called from the living room. “Do you have something nice for the detective to drink?”
“No!” she said, more loudly than necessary.
She’d had enough cops and stupid cop questions for one day. They asked the same things over and over. Maybe before she boxed up her computer, she should have printed up dozens of copies of everything she knew.
“Thank you, but really I’m not thirsty,” she heard the detective say. The accent sounded Nigerian. “Miss Temple, I apologize for bothering you. I know it has been a trying day.”
“All right, all right,” she muttered. She flung a fistful of papers into a box, wiped her sweaty hair off her forehead, and came to the living room. “Look, I’ve answered so damn many questions already, I don’t see how there can be any more.”
Okpara rose from the sofa long enough to give her another wide smile. “I understand,” he said. “I’m sure it’s very frustrating for you, but we are simply trying to do our jobs. I understand that you were acquainted with Darnell Brook?”
She told him what she had already told a dozen other police today but, unlike them, Detective Okpara actually seemed to be paying attention. Soft spoken, polite, nothing like the others who had badgered her all afternoon. He was maybe 40 or 45, his short hair still mostly black around a high, balding dome, his ebony skin smooth and clear, his well-made suit fitted nicely to his trim frame. Unlike the others, he seemed keenly interested in Peter’s visit to the upstairs apartment.
“I’ll speak to Dr. Bellman,” he said. “He was released without charges pending further investigation, which means the department is waiting for you to make the next move. I recommend you press charges against him and seek a restraining order, though if he’s deranged he’s not likely to pay it any mind.
“Now, please forgive me for adding to your anxiety, Miss Temple, but Dr. Bellman is not your only concern. Darnell Brook may hold you responsible for the discovery of the evidence, so until he’s apprehended you must consider yourself a potential target of this highly dangerous suspect.
“And you too, Mr. Goldwin. It’s kind of you to help Miss Temple, but be aware that it places you in a risky situation. It’s a pity that you came here today. Already the cameras have seen you, and after the evening news everybody in town will have seen you, so the suspect will have a very good idea of where Miss Temple is staying. And so will Dr. Bellman.”
“Did you find Finney’s head?” Sarah asked.
“The remains haven’t yet been identified.” Okpara stood up. “I’ll be in touch, and please call me if you remember anything else. I’m giving you my cell number as well as my office number. Again, consider your situation vulnerable. I’m going to request round-the-clock surveillanc
e of your house, Mr. Goldwin, but I probably won’t get it. Realistically the best you can probably expect is a squad car driving down your street every hour or so. So please be vigilant and don’t be afraid to call 911 if you see or hear anything out of the ordinary.”
“What a pleasant man!” Howard said when Okpara had left. “A gentleman of breeding. Impeccable manners, good diction—so rare these days.”
“You heard what he said. He said I’m going to end up getting you killed.”
“He said nothing of the sort, my dear. I heard perfectly well what he said. He said we should call 911 in the very unlikely event there’s any trouble. Those were his exact words.”
“Now even if I go to a motel they’ll think I’m at your house,” she said. “I’ve fucked you up good.”
“Sare, I won’t listen to another word of this foolishness. You’re staying with me, and that’s final. We’re going to have a lovely time together, and we’re not going to worry about some scrawny transvestite or that imbecile Peter Bellman either.”
Sarah went to the sunroom to see if the news teams were still out there. Some were, but they seemed to be preparing to leave, perhaps catching a whiff of another scene of misery, a family crushed in its car or a baby smothered by its mother.
“Was Peter in that coffin?” she asked. “Is that why he’s off his rocker?”
Howard came up behind her and placed his arms around her shoulders. “Let’s not think about that,” he said. “There have been enough horrors already without trying to dream up new ones.”
It wasn’t possible, she thought. Not Peter; not someone she had known so intimately. Trapped inside that box of misery.
As she looked out she saw the young boys who ruled the sidewalks looking in. They were staring at the building as if it could teach them some secrets of their trade. Just a few years ago they must have had the same innocence that she had loved in Johnny, but already the world had beaten it out of them.
The hard lump of pain that had been growing in her heart began to crumble, and suddenly she was sobbing it out in jagged chunks. Howard led her to the sofa and sat holding her, pressing her face gently against his blazer, which grew damp with her tears.
“There, there,” he said.
Chapter Sixteen
Angel stood in the shadows beneath the marquee of a defunct strip joint. She was watching a young prostitute work the nearby corner without success. She was too skinny and pimply, drugs written all over her face. The only feature in her favor was the shoulder-length, bright-red hair that shimmered brilliantly in the streetlight. Sometimes a car would slow down, flagged by her hair, only to speed up again toward healthier-looking prospects on the next corner.
After a cop car had crawled past, Angel stepped out of the shadows and approached her. “Ever party with a woman?” she asked.
The girl sized her up and said, “If you got money.” She named a price, her brow knitted in preparation for haggling, but Angel wasn’t worried about the price.
“Is there a place to go?” Angel asked.
“My place is right up there.” The girl pointed to an apartment above a bar just across the street.
They climbed a dark littered stairwell and walked down a narrow hallway. Angel heard the groans of lovemaking through one door, the groans of a fight through another.
The girl fished in her red plastic purse for keys and opened the last door on the right to a tiny room buzzing with flies. There was scarcely enough room for a narrow bed, a large dresser with its veneer peeling off, and a night stand.
“Where’s the money?” the girl asked, and Angel handed her some bills. The girl stuffed them into her red purse and began to undress.
Angel placed her hands on the girl’s skinny shoulders, kissed her gently on the acne-pocked cheek, and reached town to touch her flaccid little breasts with their silly silver rings. One of the piercings was infected, and the nipple was purple and swollen.
“Love your hair,” she said.
“Thanks.” The girl lay down flat on the bed. A fly landed on her shoulder and walked toward her armpit.
“You do kinky stuff?” Angel asked.
“Depends. What kind a stuff?”
“I want to do all the work,” Angel said. “I want to pleasure you. I’ll give you an experience like you’ve never had.”
“I don’t take nothing up the back alley,” the girl said.
“No, nothing like that. But I need to tie your arms to the bed.”
The girl studied her carefully. “Cost 30 dollars more. Just my arms, and not too tight.”
Angel laid 30 dollars on the dresser top. She got two neckties from her purse and set to work while the girl watched apprehensively.
“I don’t let men do this to me no more,” she said. “I learned my lesson the hard way.”
No, you haven’t learned anything yet, Angel thought. When she was finished tying, she got a rubber ball from her purse and shoved it into the girl’s mouth. Fear wiped the drug haze from her eyes, and she kicked with her skinny legs, making the bed rock and squeak. Angel tied her feet to the foot of the bed and got a scalpel from her purse.
“This will only take a minute,” she said.
She pinched the girl’s nostrils shut, and the girl thrashed violently until she lost consciousness. Angel lifted her head from the pillow and cut carefully and skillfully along the hairline from forehead to temple and around the ear to the nape of the neck. When the cutting was done, she grabbed the hair and gave it a sharp tug. There was a wet snapping sound as the scalp pulled loose.
Angel carried her acquisition to the grimy little bathroom and used a wet towel to wipe the blood from the inside of the skin. She removed her blond wig and stuffed it in her purse for later disposal. She fit the new hair on her head and scrutinized it carefully in the mirror. The girl’s cheap cosmetics were strewn on the lavatory countertop, and Angel smeared them lavishly on her face, deliberately doing a sloppy job. In a few minutes she had transformed herself into a gaudy harlot.
She retrieved her 30 dollars from the dresser top and dug through the girl’s purse for the rest. There wasn’t much money other than what Angel had given her, but it was better than nothing.
The girl had regained consciousness and was pulling so hard on her bindings that her skinny arms looked ready to snap. Angel sat on the bed beside her and studied her pimply face. Already a few flies had discovered their bloody feast. Angel brushed them away and walked her fingertips delicately over the girl’s naked skull. Hard to believe that a few millimeters beneath her fingers lay the labyrinth of consciousness, a whole universe throbbing inside its bloody hull. There was an iron sitting on the dresser, and Angel considered using it to crack the skull like an eggshell so she could gaze at the pulsating mystery beneath.
But no—the girl looked as if she’d had such a sad life; surely she deserved a more interesting death. Angel glanced around the tiny room and then stepped into the tinier kitchen. Beneath the old linoleum countertop were a few drawers and one large cupboard about two feet deep, two feet high, and just a bit less wide. Perfect. She pulled its pots and pans out onto the floor and discovered a hammer and some nails behind them.
The girl struggled fiercely while Angel untied her from the bed, rolled her over to lash her arms and legs together behind her back, and dragged her to the kitchen. She started thrashing even more desperately when Angel shoved her into the cupboard. It was difficult to get her crammed in there, fighting the way she was, and then Angel had to force the door shut with her shoulder until she could get it nailed securely.
Even though she had things to do and really couldn’t spare the time, Angel fixed herself a cup of coffee and sat on a kitchen chair drinking it and happily contemplating her work. The thuds inside the cupboard grew weaker, and before her cup was empty they ceased.
“So there!” she said.
Chapter Seventeen
Tuesday morning Sarah stood in a gun store staring at a tiny pistol beneath the glass of
the long counter. “What’s that?” she asked.
“That’s a .22 caliber Beretta semi-automatic,” the salesman said.
“Is that a good gun?”
“Depends in what you’re interested in. Self-defense?”
“Yeah.”
“You pull that thing on a thug he’ll probably laugh at you. You done much shooting, ma’am?”
“No. Never.”
“Then you might be better off with a revolver. Nice and simple—just aim and pull the trigger. And you’re gonna want something strong enough to make the guy change his mind.”
The salesman led her to another section of the long counter, where the shelves were filled with revolvers of all sizes. Sarah pointed to a small one and said, “What’s that?”
He pulled it out and handed it to her. “This is a Ruger LCR,” he said. “It’s about as lightweight as you can get in a high-power revolver, thanks to the polymer frame. Good smooth trigger pull too.”
It felt comfortable in her hand, nice and light, small enough to fit easily in her purse or a jacket pocket. Kind of pretty in a weird way.
“Is this a .22?” she asked.
The salesman grinned. He looked like a biker, burly and balding with a beard, but his manner was friendly. “No ma’am,” he said. “This baby holds five rounds of .357 Magnum.”
“Jeez,” Sarah said. “Isn’t that some kind of Dirty Harry small nuclear device?”
“Dirty Harry carries a .44 Magnum Smith and Wesson. Now, .357 will have some recoil for sure, especially in a little gun like this, and you want some training before you try to handle it. But the nice thing is, this’ll also shoot .38 Special.”
He opened two boxes of ammo to show her the difference in length; they both looked big enough to haul astronauts to the moon. “Now in my opinion .38 Special is the minimum adequate self-defense cartridge, with a pretty decent stopping power, and after a good afternoon of shooting you should be able to make it stand up and sing Dixie.”