But as soon as they had crossed the threshold of his home, the crash course in Simon Kurst’s marriage practices had begun. She was, for all intents and purposes, his servant. His possession. To use as he saw fit.
The honeymoon, as they say, was over.
Juniper learned many things early on in her marriage, such as how not to speak unless spoken to; how not to argue; how to correctly clean the house, wash the clothes and dishes, dust the furniture. Everything had to be done exactly to Simon’s specifications; and the smallest details were subjected to Simon’s meticulous daily inspection – down to the measuring and marking of the liquid laundry detergent bottle.
The one thing she didn’t worry about were the already opened wine bottles; the glass was too dark for Simon to see the levels of the liquid inside, so he didn’t mark them. He marked the vodka, the scotch, and the rum bottles. Juniper didn’t like any of those, so she never had to worry about replacing the contents of any of them.
One of her lessons was that even though Simon expected perfection of Juniper, he was suspicious when he received it. What she learned from this were which trace items to leave undone: enough to allay his suspicions, but not enough to earn extreme punishment.
Two years later, however, nothing had changed – except for Juniper. Finding herself repeatedly on the receiving end of Simon’s unpredictable and inescapable rage, she had become increasingly rebellious, though she didn’t show it. Where once she had been soft and loving, she had become hard and indifferent. She was just waiting.
Now, as she opened the sideboard drawer and prepared to polish the silver, she heard the familiar drone of the mail truck, which drove by every day at quarter past eleven. It never stopped there. All of the mail went to Simon’s office or to his post office box.
When the sound of the truck’s motor slowed, failing to fade into the distance, Juniper left the silver and peered out the bay window. She watched as the small, square truck drove carefully down the driveway and stopped. Cutting the engine, the mail carrier jumped out.
She reached the door just as the knock came.
The mail carrier held a small envelope. “Are you Mrs. Juniper Henry Kurst?” he asked her. She nodded, and he indicated where she should sign on the green and white receipt. He tore it off at the perforations, handed her the envelope, and touched his cap. “Have a good afternoon, ma’am.”
After the truck had reversed up the driveway and trundled away, Juniper turned the envelope over. It was an off-white greeting card envelope, roughly textured, addressed to her and lacking a return address. She hesitated only a second before she tucked it into her back pocket and grabbed the hose to wash the mail truck’s dusty tire tracks from the driveway. The warmth of the summer sun would dry the asphalt long before Simon came home from work.
Inside, Juniper sat on the sofa and slid her finger along the edge of the flap, separating it from the envelope. She pulled out a card that matched the envelope, along with a self-addressed, stamped return envelope. On the card were penned a few short lines, together with a return address. The card was signed “Uncle Drew”.
Her heart fluttered with joy and her spirit lifted. Uncle Drew was not her real uncle, but her father’s best friend, so he may as well have been family. They had grown fond of each other when she was growing up.
She sat for a moment, contemplating the postmark and thinking about what this really meant.
During the first few months of her marriage, the newly wedded Juniper had often thought of Andrew, wishing there were some way she could contact him. She needed help, but didn’t know how to get it. Her parents were both deceased; and Simon’s isolation tactics had succeeded in driving away the two or three good friends she’d once had. Now she was alone, with no one at her back. She wasn’t permitted to drive any of Simon’s three vehicles or to use the telephone, unless it was a call she was making for him or if he was close by, listening in. She was flat-out banned from using the internet.
She never attempted to do any of those things, for fear that her husband would find out. He often warned her that if she tried to leave him, he would kill her.
Juniper believed him.
She had never thought of the solution that stared her in the face for two years, so obvious that she could have kicked herself. The old mailbox at the top of the driveway, sitting abandoned and unnoticed. Finding stamps might have been a problem . . . but still, the United States Postal Service held the key.
Juni, you’re an idiot, she thought, echoing Simon’s favorite put-down.
She glanced at the clock. It was quarter to twelve! She needed to send a reply; however, she had too much left to do right now – including finding a hiding place for her post card.
She went upstairs into their bedroom and scanned for an inconspicuous spot. Finally, she decided on the carpet that covered the hardwood beneath their bed.
With some effort, she lifted the left corner of the bed. She slid the envelope between the hardwood and the carpet, at the corner, pushing it far in, beyond where the bed frame’s foot would rest. She lowered the foot gently down and stepped back to inspect the carpet.
It looked completely undisturbed.
* * *
Simon blinked groggily. His head throbbed. He turned over, pulling the blanket to cover him, and became aware of his sore arms; a steady ache that spread down through his hands. He raised his right hand to look. His knuckles were swollen and smeared with dried blood.
His slight groan brought the pounding in his head to a furious crescendo. With his knee, he nudged his wife, who lay next to him on top of the covers, still wearing yesterday’s clothes.
“Juni, go get me an ice pack and some pain killers. I’m wicked hungover.” When she didn’t stir, he nudged her harder. “Juni, come on!”
She didn’t move.
“Dammit,” he said, and sat up. Vertigo rushed through his head and nausea roiled in his stomach. He sat very still for a moment, willing both sensations to go away. When he felt a little more stable, he reached over and shook Juniper, wincing at the pain in his knuckles. “Wake up, lazy ass, I need some pain killers!”
When there was still no reaction, Simon cursed again and threw off his blankets. He swung his legs over the edge of the bed and felt for his slippers with his feet. Not finding them, he gingerly tilted his head and looked down. Juniper had forgotten to set his slippers next to the bed.
Worthless! He thought.
He stumbled around, searching. When he found the slippers, he shoved his feet into them and made his wobbly way to the bathroom.
The pain in Simon’s head made it difficult for him to focus as he rifled through the medicine cabinet. He finally found some acetaminophen and swallowed four of the tablets. Drinking from the cup he kept on the bathroom sink, he chased them down with lukewarm tap water. A wave of nausea washed over him and he clung to the edge of the sink, sweating.
Man, what a hangover! He needed something in his empty stomach.
“Juniper!” He called. “Get up and make me some breakfast!” He listened for a response, for the sounds of Juniper stirring. He heard nothing. Sighing, he looked at himself in the mirror above the sink. Squinting, bloodshot brown eyes looked back at him, the lines in the skin around them seeming somehow deeper than they had the day before.
He used the toilet and gave his hands a cursory rinse. The broken, torn skin on his knuckles smarted beneath the running water.
He stumbled back into the bedroom, to the side of the bed where his wife still lay sleeping. “You’re really letting me down, here, Juni. You know what happens when you let me down.” Ignoring his aches and pains, he grabbed her shoulder and shook her forcefully. He suddenly drew his hand back: something didn’t feel right. Her shoulder, her arm . . . felt . . . rigid. And not even lukewarm. “Oh, shit,” he said.
Simon bent to examine her more closely. Her honey colored hair looked rusty, stiff with dried blood. He pushed it away from her face. The black and blue bruise around her eye stoo
d out against her pale skin, as did the dried blood that had dripped down her cheek and down the front of her white shirt. He put his hand under her nostrils, but failed to detect a warm breath. He lowered his ear to her nose and mouth and listened, again trying to detect a puff of breath, but none came. He put his palm flat against the fabric at the middle of her chest, but felt no heartbeat; neither did he feel a pulse beneath his fingers against her chill, stiff wrist.
Nothing.
He threw his hands in the air. His thin lips flattened across his narrow, tan face. His brow furrowed, deepening the already permanent ruts across his forehead. Stupid woman should have known better than to piss me off! It was her own fault.
Now, Juniper had put him into a delicate position. He had to figure out what he was going to do with her. And he had to figure out who was going to take care of his house. Who’s going to cook, wash my clothes? At least she could do that . . . and keep house. Now I have to waste money and pay someone. Until I’m remarried.
And what about the criminal part of it? Simon was smart enough to know that law enforcement wouldn’t be reasonable enough to realize that he had simply punished Juniper for her disobedience and that her death was the result of her own actions. It was her own fault. Hell, it was more or less suicide.
At least she didn’t have any friends and family that he needed to worry about. Still, if Juniper just disappeared completely, there would be questions.
Hands on his bony hips, Simon stared down at his wife’s lifeless form.
He could get rid of her body and say that she had disappeared, that she had left him. Why not? No body, evidence no crime, right? Isn’t that how it goes?
That’s what he would do. Get rid of Juniper’s body.
But before he took care of the details, he would have a good breakfast, even if he had to make it himself. He would need his strength for the morning’s activities. Then was going to clean himself up. A nice hot shower would make him feel like a new man.
The acetaminophen had kicked in, and Simon felt somewhat normal again. Cheered that he had formed a plan of action, he whistled as he shrugged into his robe and tied it as he headed downstairs.
He stumbled down the last three steps when he saw the man sitting in his favorite easy chair in the living room.
Clean-shaven and dressed in a shiny suit that easily cost a month of Simon’s sizeable salary, the man was examining his impeccably manicured fingernails. A roaring fire burned in the fireplace beside him, signifying that he had been there for quite a while. Despite the fire, there was a distinct lack of the scent of burning wood; instead, the whole room smelled like sulfur, as though a match had just been blown out.
When he saw Simon, the man smiled. “Ah, good,” he said, and unfolded the length of his tall body from the recliner. He approached Simon, holding out his hand for Simon to shake. A blue vapor surrounded him, rising in faint trails from his extended fingertips. “You must be Simon Kurst, then. Very pleased to meet you.”
Simon stepped slowly forward. He ignored the intruder’s outstretched hand. “Who are you and what are you doing in my house? How did you get in?”
“Oh, I apologize for my lack of manners. My name is Andrew Smite, of Dieter, Worthem, and Smite, Bereavement Services, LLP.” His smile disappeared and he knitted his dark eyebrows in concern. “You are bereaved, aren’t you, Mr. Kurst? I have the understanding that you recently lost your beloved young wife.”
“I don’t know how you got in my house, but you are trespassing. If you leave immediately, I won’t call the authorities,” Simon offered.
“Come now, Mr. Kurst, let us not be hasty.” Smite folded himself into Simon’s easy chair and settled back comfortably. “I did knock, after all, and no one answered. The door was left ajar, so I simply let myself in. I can see that you find my presence unnerving. Be that as it may, I don’t think that now is the most prudent time to call the police. Do you?” He looked at Simon with sharp, gray eyes. “I don’t understand why you have no security . . . a man of your means, even if you do reside miles from civilization.”
Simon stared as the blue vapor rose from the surface of the man’s elegant clothing. “I also took the liberty of stoking your fire,” said Smite smoothly, nodding at the fireplace. “It was quite chilly in here, and I wasn’t sure how long I would be required to wait for you to make an appearance.”
Simon suddenly noticed the rivulets of sweat that rolled down his back. “Now is not exactly a very good time, Mr. Smite. I have things to –”
“On the contrary, Mr. Kurst,” Smite interrupted. “I think that now is the very best time. After all, young Mrs. Kurst has just recently departed, hasn’t she? We’ve found that the earlier we can intervene to offer our services, the more satisfied our clients are, and the outcome is so much better for everyone, all around.” His bright white smile flashed against his tan face.
Prickles of sweat broke out on Simon’s forehead. How did Smite know? Why the hell was he here?
Smite picked up a manila folder from the coffee table beside him. “I think that you might find the contents of this file rather interesting. It would be unfair of me to leave you without giving you the opportunity to peruse them.” He stood and offered Simon the folder.
Simon readied himself to protest, but something in Smite’s demeanor stopped him. He eyed the folder nervously. He reached out and grasped its corner between his thumb and forefinger, as though the paper was something disgusting that he didn’t really want to touch.
“You may want to sit down before you look at what’s inside,” Smite advised.
Shooting the intruder a dirty look, Simon moved to the sofa and sat. He opened the folder and saw one sheet of paper – and one photograph. Viewing the image, Simon cursed.
In the photo, Juniper lay on the living room carpet in the fetal position, her arms raised to protect her face. Simon stood over her, his foot just making contact with her stomach.
Beads of sweat now rolled down from his hairline as he looked up and studied Smite intently for a moment: the slicked-back gray hair, the expensive suit, the sense of money that surrounded the man. He could sense something dark and slithery beneath the surface. “Where did you get this?” Simon demanded.
“I am not at liberty to discuss where the photo came from; however, it exists, as do many others.” The man smiled widely, the carnivorous smile of a shark. “In addition, Mr. Kurst, my partners are aware that I am here and that I’m meeting with you. If you should entertain any bright ideas, it will be all over for you by nightfall.”
“What do you want from me? Money?”
“Come, now, Mr. Kurst. Do I look like I need money? Even more, do I look like the type of man who would stoop to underhanded measures to get it?”
I’m not so sure about that, Simon thought. “Why are you here, then? You must want something from me. Otherwise, you would have taken your photo – oh, excuse me – photo-zuh – to the police.”
Smite sighed heavily. “You misunderstand me, Mr. Kurst. My company does not take from the grieving; we do everything we can to give. I am here to offer you an opportunity to redeem yourself. You do feel remorse for what you’ve done, don’t you?
Remorse. Did he feel remorse? He supposed he did. After all, Juniper had always taken care of him. She made good food, kept the house and the laundry clean, and was available for sex. If he hadn’t killed her, Simon wouldn’t now be worrying about who was now going to fill her role. Or about going to prison.
“Oh, for Devil’s sake, man!” Simon jumped at Smite’s thundering voice. “That isn’t usually a question that most people have to think about! What is wrong with you?” The tall man’s lips turned down at the corners in an ominous frown. His gray eyes bored into Simon’s.
His nervousness giving way to full-fledged fear, Simon replied, “Well, yeah, I feel remorse. It should go without saying, shouldn’t it?”
“Unless you’re a lying psychopath,” Smite retorted. “Just read the paper.”
&nbs
p; Simon unfolded the sheet of paper and skimmed it. “I, Simon Kurst, do agree to take Juniper Kurst back into my home as living . . .” he looked at Smite. “What is this? It looks like a contract. And how can I take her back?”
Smite rolled his eyes in exasperation. “My business offers some very special services. We provide grief counseling, re-entry programs for those who need help to get back on their feet after the death of a spouse, and so on. This is one of our more ‘special’ services, which we offer to only a select few. People like you who have lost their loved ones through a negligent accident. We give you a chance to have your loved one with you again, provided you agree to change your habits.”
“But that’s impossible,” Simon said.
“Seeing is believing, Mr. Kurst. This is truly a second chance to have your lovely wife with you again. Wouldn’t you jump at that chance?”
“In a heartbeat,” Simon admitted. He thought how convenient that would be. No more worries about what to do with Juniper’s body; no living in fear that he would end up in prison. He did not want to be locked up, to have his freedom – and almost certainly, his pride and dignity – taken away. Far beyond anything else, Simon feared his inability to survive in a prison environment. He would be eaten alive, and he knew it.
Not to mention that he would lose the enjoyable lifestyle to which he had become accustomed: his massive paychecks, his Country Club membership, all of his perks, and his very sharp investment team, thanks to his position as Vice President of Operations at Gammo Pharmaceuticals.
“What if I won’t do it?” Simon asked.
“If you do not accept the agreement, then all of the photographic evidence in our possession will be released to the authorities; and chances are excellent that you will go to prison. If you decide on that course of action, however, you will still have your money and assets to bargain with, in the event of your incarceration.”
“I don’t see that as much of a choice,” Simon said.
Blood and Bone: A Smattering of Unease Page 9