“Will you show me your writing again? Are you going to write about poison?”
“Yes and yes.”
“Go on.”
“I have a sort of question for you. Do you think witches exist? Do you know?”
“That’s quite the question. Why do you want to know?”
“I think Kathryn is a witch.”
“What makes you say Kathryn is a witch?”
“She told me she was - or kinda told me – when we were still together.”
“What did she say, Peter?”
Peter quoted Kathryn, “Peter, I’m your angel. I’m here to protect you and guide you.” That was long before the affair with Frannie, when times were better and Kathryn still wanted to help him with his business and stand by him, no matter what.
Peter went on, “So this angel could easily have turned into a witch. That would explain why a dog she hated got this horrible cancer at such a young age and died from getting shot in pretty much the same way she was supposed to die in my writing.
“I had this terrible vision the other night about killing Kathryn, this time way worse than anything I wrote about. I was smoking a little pot, but this vision - or whatever the hell it was - started before I even got stoned. I was awake and I saw the whole thing. I could even smell the gun oil. It scared the hell out of me. It started and I couldn’t stop it. Now I’m having dreams in the daytime. I think she put a spell on me and is trying to make me go crazy. The world’s gone upside down all of a sudden. I’m not thinking too clearly, am I?” Peter paused to gauge the effect of his words.
“Anyone who has lost a loved one, even if that loved one is a pet, doesn’t think very clearly. It’s called mourning and it’s part of being human. Have you lost anything else recently?”
Peter took a few seconds to tabulate. “Yeah - my money, most of my business, my wife, my best paintings, and she wants the house, too. I used to have a dog who loved me. Now I have nothing. I think I’m losing my mind.”
“You said you have your writing and that makes you feel better. And you can still paint more pictures, can’t you? Think of what you do still have that no one can take away from you.”
“Writing. Painting. Yeah.”
“I don’t know if this is the right time to tell you, Peter, but I think that what you sent me - about becoming a sniper and killing Kathryn - is an example of good writing. The voice is original and it reads clearly. I was only an undergraduate English literature major, but I know good writing from bad. I mean what I say.”
“Really?”
Peter heard Kathryn again in his mind. “All your sappy poetry could have been written by a high-school sophomore. You think that moaning and groaning about your supposedly hard life is a work of art because it rhymes occasionally. Get real, Peter!”
“Really. Your writing is rough in spots, but good. I just needed to tell you that before I forgot. Now we have work to do. Are you with me?”
“Yes.”
“Do you really think Kathryn killed your dog?”
“No, not like she pulled the trigger.”
“Who killed your dog?”
“I did.” Peter knew this was the answer she wanted. It was the answer a sane person would give, someone who is aware of his actions and takes responsibility for them.
“I thought you said he had a dangerous cancer. Did you give him cancer?”
“No, but I killed him.”
“What if you hadn’t killed him?”
“The vet would have killed him.”
“So, there was no cure?”
“There was no cure and only one treatment. The treatment would only have delayed his death and the treatment sounded more horrible than death.”
“So who killed Rex?”
“Nature. God. The universe. Fate. Take your pick, I guess.”
“Not you or Kathryn or Kathryn-the-witch?”
“No. There are no witches.” Peter knew that sane people in the modern world didn’t believe in witches, but Kathryn believed in angels. Peter figured angels and witches were just about the same thing. Maybe Kathryn was the one who was nuts. That would explain a lot. Kathryn did had a crazy sister.
“You just told me that Kathryn didn’t kill Rex. So you’ve changed your mind; is that right?”
“Yeah, but I still want to kill her and I know how to: poison. Nice and slow. I just have to do the research because I don’t know what poison to use yet.”
“And this is for your writing, this research?”
“Yeah, just for writing. I’m really tired. I’m tired of feeling bad.”
“What can you do to feel better?”
“Drink, smoke some weed, run, find a million dollars, get laid, write.”
“Which of these things do you think is healthy and which is harmful?”
“Shit, you sound like my mother, telling me the difference between right and wrong.”
“You can tell me about your mother, but first you might answer my question or at least think about the answer for yourself.”
“Fine. I get your point, and I don’t want to talk about my mother.”
“Was Kathryn like your mother? You told me Kathryn was always bossing you around.”
“Can I leave now, Lisa? I think I’ll survive … and besides, I have somewhere to go.” Peter was lying but he couldn’t stand the panicky feeling any more. He had to get out of the consulting room.
Lisa didn’t acknowledge Peter’s request to leave.
Peter paused for a minute, composed himself and then took off on a new train of thought. “I can’t let that bitch steal from me and abuse me any more, can I? Did I tell you I got a lawyer?”
“That’s certainly a wise thing to do. Who’s your lawyer?”
“Elaine Madison.” When he said her name, Peter saw something pass over Lisa’s eyes for just a tenth of a second. He took a guess. “You know her, don’t you?”
“Peter, you know better than to ask me that kind of question.” Which was an answer in itself.
“I’m sorry to put you on the spot. I just hope she’s good.”
“Peter, I’ve heard of her, and she’s supposed to be good at what she does. Our hour is about up. Will you check in with Shelly, please, on your way out? We’ll work on some of these issues in our next session. I don’t think we’ve got a good handle on them yet.”
Chapter 21
Peter went home and got to work researching poison, turning to Google for advice. Peter found the usual Internet crapload of information, much of it contradictory. Poison seemed more of a challenge for Peter to write about than guns, since Peter had little day-to-day experience with poison and a lot of experience with guns.
The really good poisons, the ones that killed quickly with no mess or trace, the ones that any normal autopsy would miss, fell into three categories: 1. available only to Russian spies from secret labs in Siberia; 2. ideally administered by injection; and 3. derived from plants and animals not native to North America.
The most practical method of poisoning seemed to be by mushroom. Peter knew something about mushrooms from having seen so many different types out hunting. He had acquired a few mushroom identification books over the years out of curiosity, which he now proceeded to consult. He had positively identified Amanita bisporigera in some places he had bird hunted with Rex. These places were within easy driving distance. This poison works nicely when ingested orally and could be missed in a cursory autopsy. The poison’s effects appear between five and 24 hours after ingestion, and then it causes quite a lot of misery for a while. The poison then pulls a nasty trick: the symptoms seem to abate but the victim’s liver and kidneys are all but destroyed. Soon after the false recovery, the victim is overcome with cramps, vomiting, dementia and tremors. A horrible death follows, thus the mushroom’s nickname, “Destroying Angel.”
Administering the poison was the hard part, since Kathryn obviously wasn’t eating anything that Peter prepared. Administering a 168-grain Sierra MatchKing bulle
t from a Remington Model 700 .308 rifle was much easier, since it only required waiting for her to show up in one of her usual haunts: Nordstrom’s, Une Paire de Ciseaux or the Slim Gym. Getting her to accept a dinner invitation was a problem requiring an unnatural amount of creativity.
Peter resolved to find additional information on poison. He hoped to find one that could be concocted in his kitchen. He also thought he should find a poison that could be absorbed through the skin or inhaled somehow, since serving a cozy home-cooked dinner with a special Amanita bisporigera sauce for Kathryn seemed far-fetched.
Peter paced around, working on the poisoning idea, and wished that he hadn’t given up smoking cigarettes a few decades before. He couldn’t concentrate. He went for a run. He cried for the first few hundred yards because he had never walked or run without Rex, except for the one time he’d given the limp a break. But the run did focus his thoughts.
Peter wondered if the pressure on him might be lessened if he took some action on the separation and divorce. He needed to see if a court would grant him some support since he was broke, the victim of robbery and vandalism, and getting poorer by the minute. His wife made at least three times more money that he did just by collecting her fat pension. He was also haunted in a dark and ancient part of his mind by the fear that Kathryn really was a witch, even though the more modern part of his mind - the rational, thinking part – scoffed at the idea.
When he got home from his run, Peter phoned Elaine-the-lawyer and got her machine. Its brusque message said that she was too busy to see anyone, “ever,” but might make an exception if the price was right. Her disagreeable tone set Peter to thinking about her probable relationship with the only other lawyer he knew, Wilbur, who also had a disagreeable personality.
Imagining a combat scenario between these two pleased him more than imagining their sexual congress. He was considering some congressional sessions with Elaine himself and wasn’t pleased at the thought of Wilbur Dupuis preceding him. The battle between these two counselors would be a monumental conflagration, but Peter had no doubt as to the outcome. Wilbur was merely a rude bully, while Elaine seemed truly tough to the core. Peter had little doubt that Elaine would win. He was glad he had hired a winner.
Peter left Elaine a message reminding her that she already had $5,000 of his, and he needed her to get him interim support to pay off his credit card.
Shortly thereafter, Elaine phoned back. “Mr. Broviak, it’s Elaine Madison. What’s up? You sound out of breath.”
“I was out running.”
“I have news for you. Kathryn’s lawyer faxed Wilbur’s office and Molly couriered the papers over to me. What do you want from me?”
“I want emergency spousal support.”
“Mr. Broviak, look down. Do you have man-things in your running shorts? You surely do from what I remember. The only support you’re going to get is from your boxer briefs.”
“Elaine, isn’t the law blind when it comes to gender in family matters? I’m the low-income earner here by far. I earn less than someone at the official government poverty line.”
“Yep, the law is blind, but the judges who interpret the law are not. You don’t have a snowball’s chance in hell of getting support. You were out running, you say? That means you’re not disabled. And you’re self-employed, are you not? To a judge, that means you’re probably hiding revenue from the taxman. Do you have any other questions? My billing clock is running.”
“Just one: did you really check out my package when I saw you the other day?”
“I did it while you were checking out my tits. You were too busy to notice. And I still don’t date married men. Good day, Mr. Broviak. I’ll forward you the bad news from Kathryn’s lawyer once I get it organized.”
“Elaine, I have one more question for you. Do you believe in witches?”
“No.” And she hung up.
“Hard case,” Peter thought. He loved the challenge of breaking down a strong woman’s defenses, but so far, Elaine seemed impregnable.
Peter’s next call was to Bobby’s land line. Amazingly, Bobby was home, and even more amazingly, he answered.
“Hello,” Bobby said in a cautious little-boy tone.
“Bobby, do you believe in witches? And how come you sound about ten years old?”
“I thought it was someone else calling and, no, I don’t believe in witches. What the hell are you on about now?” he asked in a much more mature and masculine tone.
“Well, Kathryn …”
Bobby cut him off and said, “Oh, I thought you said ‘witches’ but you must have said ‘bitches.’”
“It is about her and it is about witches. And will you please not cut me off? I think she killed Rex.”
“Rex is dead?”
“I had to shoot him. He had cancer of the everything.”
“So you killed him, then?”
“Yes. No.”
“So what are you saying? Kathryn gave him cancer?”
“Yes, well, probably no. The thing is, I was planning to shoot her and I ended up shooting my dog instead.”
“Are you alright? Did you really shoot your dog since the last time we talked?”
“I’m a guy. I’m not here to talk about my feelings.” Peter’s feelings were, at this moment, in a box he refused to open. Just half a joint two days ago had taken him someplace he never wanted to go to again. The picture of Kathryn’s brain fluid on the asphalt and her thighs smeared with excrement popped into his head.
“Well, excuse me, Mr. Macho Dude.”
“Bobby, I’m serious. It doesn’t feel like a coincidence that I planned to kill Kathryn and ended up shooting Rex instead. She did it.”
“You silly fuck, are you really planning to shoot the bitch? If you actually do shoot her, and the cops ask me about your state of mind, what am I supposed to tell them?”
“Bobby, I’m not going to shoot her. I just write about it for my therapist. Shooting’s too good for her. I’m going to poison her. Something slow and painful …”
“Peter, what does this have to do with witches?”
“Well, nothing maybe. I don’t believe in them either, but Kathryn did. She used to tell me she was my angel. She said in all seriousness that her sister Candace - her fraternal twin, the one her family keeps locking up for being crazy – was a witch. And I am getting all these voodoo messages on my car and my back door and these crazy phone calls.”
“Peter, I have to go now and get dressed. I’m expecting company. This sounds like drunk talk. Are you drunk or smoking something? Hey, maybe we can get together later this week.”
“I wish I were drunk. Okay, go away. I’m just a little upset now. I’ll be okay. Okay?” Peter prepared to hang up. He knew he was not going to be “okay.”
“Bye bye, Petey sweetie. Don’t kill anyone I wouldn’t kill.”
Peter was not satisfied with his conversation with Bobby. It was hard for him to explain things he felt were true but could not understand, either to Bobby or his therapist. He sounded like an idiot. They were just feelings, not reality, and he was a guy who always got lost in the jungle called “feelings.” When he was in the consulting room with Lisa, he either felt sick to his stomach or like a self-indulgent wimp.
Chapter 22
Peter got back to business. He thought of someone who would probably know a lot about poison, and decided to drive into town. Omar was a compounding pharmacist for whom Peter had designed and written ad brochures; a jolly man with impeccable British academic credentials. He was an ethnic East Indian whose family had fled Uganda during the reign of Idi Amin after living there for three generations. The family had stayed in Bermuda for awhile before moving to the U.S. Omar considered himself British, having gone to university in England. His store was an impossible mixture of East and West and new and old. Omar always had time to talk.
Omar was behind the dispensing counter whistling a show tune which sounded like something from South Pacific.
“Omar,
can you talk now? No customers?”
“It is a good time, Mr. Peter. What is it possible for me to do for you this fine day?”
“Omar, I need information on some drugs - poison, actually. I am thinking of writing a book, and I can’t find the information I need on the Internet. Actually, I found too much and can’t make sense of some of it.”
“I am much taken by the writings of Miss Agatha Christie. Will you be writing such literature? I would be most pleased to read it, if you plan to write like Miss Christie.”
“Omar, you hit the nail on the head. I am going to write a type of Agatha Christie novel, but set in the modern world.”
“I hope, Mr. Peter, the nail I hit is not sticking into your noggin! Do you like my joke?”
“You are a funny man, Omar. What would you use to kill someone you couldn’t get close to?”
“A rifle, sir.”
“No, I mean what poison would you use?”
“A poison with wings, Mr. Peter. I made another joke.”
“Yeah, that was a good joke, too, Omar. I’m looking for a poison that kills by contact with the skin or can be inhaled. I’m looking for something a person could rub on the steering wheel of a car or on some clothing.”
“Ah, Mr. Peter, they did not teach us those things in my excellent pharmacy school. They mostly taught us about drugs to make people well. I shall be thinking on the matter and will write you an electronic mail when my cogitation is complete. Maybe I will consult Miss Christie regarding your dilemma. I must go. I have behind you a customer who perhaps wishes to get well and it is my duty to help her.”
Peter looked behind him and saw a tiny Chinese woman waiting impatiently.
“Thanks Omar. Thanks for taking the time to help.”
Chapter 23
Peter’s cellphone rang immediately after he left Omar’s quirky little shop. It was Marty.
“Hi, Peter. Do you want to take the dogs for a run?”
Peter was silent for a moment and then said, “I’ll meet you on the trail in ten minutes. Is that okay?”
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