The Cleaner

by Paul Cleave

  Odd. “Um, can’t really say I have.”

  “No?”

  “No.”

  She leans up and kisses me. Hard. Drops one hand down to the front of my pants, the other down the back. She thrusts her tongue into my mouth and for a second I wonder what she would say if I bit it off. Probably nothing, though not by choice.

  The hand at the front of my pants starts moving around. It has a lot of area to cover, especially now. While she’s kissing me, she can’t be talking, but I’m curious as to what she was just talking about. This is fun. Immense fun. And it will be even more fun when I show her my knife.

  She stops kissing me and pulls away. Her hand disappears from my crotch.

  Her other hand appears as she takes another step back, and in her hand is my gun. It’s pointing at me.

  My mind’s registering what’s happening, but failing to process it into the proper information to make me scared. In seconds, I’ve been reduced to a victim. Of all things!

  No, wait. Surely there’s something I’m missing. .

  I’m being looked at by my gun. I’m seeing why people don’t like it from this angle. Is this for real? How could control have slipped away so easily? I take a small step back, and my arms rise up to my chest with my palms facing her.

  Melissa says nothing. We both stay silent, the gun the noisiest thing between us even though it’s offering no sound. I try telling myself this is a joke. Her hands are steady, any traces of drunkenness gone. Was she ever drunk? When she carried her drink with her into the ladies’, was she really drinking it? When I used the toilet, was she pouring hers out? Why would she do that?

  I could be only seconds away from dying. Then it will be a matter of hours till I’m found, and then not long till I’m linked to the killings. I try to imagine the look on Mom’s face when she finds out. I try to imagine the look on Detective Inspector Schroder’s face when he discovers my IQ was actually higher than that of the potted plant in the corner of the conference room. I think about how hurt Sally will be. Imagining their reactions gives me some pleasure. It is all I have.

  Melissa seems to be waiting for me to say something, but I don’t want to be the first one to talk. I know she’ll break the silence because women can’t stay quiet for long, and I’m sure she’ll feel the need to point something out before she shoots me.

  “Aren’t you going to say anything?” she asks.

  I shrug. “What’s to say?”

  “I thought there would be plenty for a man in your position.”

  She’s right. I have plenty of things I want to get off my chest. “Like what?”

  She smiles. “Like ‘Why are you pointing the gun at me?’ ”

  “Okay. That then.”

  “What then?”

  “What you said. About pointing the gun at me.”

  “You don’t like it?” she asks.

  “Not really.”

  “What’s this little baby loaded with?” she asks, taking a quick glance at the gun.

  “Bullets.”

  “That’s very clever.”

  “Thank you.”

  “What sort of bullets?” she asks.

  “Nine-millimeter Luger.”

  “Yes, but which type?”

  “Jacketed pre-fragmented.”

  She takes a few steps back so she can throw a longer look at the gun and not be too close for me to jump her. “Ah. Metal jacket, separate projectiles compressed inside. Reliable feeding, and fast too.”

  How could she know that? I try to add up the distance between us. I’m guessing it’s about fifteen feet. Too much ground for me to cover. Way too much ground when the person holding the gun knows how jacketed pre-fragmented bullets are made. I’m sure she wants me to compliment her on her gun knowledge. Well, she’s going to have to wait.

  “Take your pants off,” she orders.

  “What?”

  “You heard me.”

  My heart’s beating hard. It’s really slamming away, both from fear and excitement. I feel woozy, as though all the blood in my body is draining down to my feet. A good amount of it is pooling up in my crotch. I lower my hands to my waist and undo my belt. I keep my eyes on her face. Her blue eyes, even in this purple light, are sparkling. She looks excited.

  The gun stays rock steady. She’s calm and collected. She knows what she is doing. I have no idea. Has she ever done this before? I keep looking into her eyes, and though I may be wrong, they appear to be getting bluer. They look stronger now that she has all this power. She’s getting off on it. Her breathing’s becoming louder.

  I unzip my fly. Lower my jeans. Then I straighten up and stare at her.

  “Take ’em off.”

  “You gonna shoot me if I don’t?”

  “I’m going to shoot you either way.”

  She’s being honest. Nothing wrong with that. Guess her mother taught her not to lie too. I bend down and untie my shoes, flicking them off with my feet. I pull my left leg out, then I manage to remove my jeans without falling over.

  “Toss them toward me.”

  They land in a heap at her feet. The belt jingles and my keys fall out. I’m hoping she’ll get distracted and look down at them, but she doesn’t. I’m left standing in my shirt, boxers, and socks. Oh, and an erection. I’m standing here with a huge one of those.

  “Shirt.”

  “What about it?”

  “Send it over.”

  I pull the polo over my head, screw it into a ball, and toss it over to her. The morning gray is no longer gray, and the purple is fading to blue. She doesn’t look down at the clothes.

  “How did you get those scars?”

  I look down at my chest, my stomach, my shoulders and arms. Scars from women who disagreed with dying.

  “Can’t remember.”

  “Catching criminals, was it?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Socks.”

  I pull them off, wind them into a ball, and flick them over to her. They land on my shirt. The grass is cold and I’m shivering like crazy.

  “Boxers.”

  I don’t even hesitate.

  She looks at my erection. It’s bouncing slightly. She keeps looking down there, and slowly she takes a wider stance. She keeps one hand on the gun, but uses the other to flip her hair back over her shoulder. Then she touches the tip of her finger against her lips. Runs it back and forth slowly as if she is thinking deeply about something.

  “Is that all you have to offer?” she finally asks.

  “I’ve had no complaints so far.”

  “How could you? You probably gag them first.”

  “What is it you want?”

  “See that tree to your left?”

  It’s a skinny tree, but the only one there. “You want the tree?”

  “Head over there.”

  When I get there I lean against it. She fishes into her handbag and pulls something out, which she tosses over to me. I make no attempt to catch.

  “Pick them up.”

  A pair of handcuffs. Great. “Why?”

  She points the gun at my dick. I pick the handcuffs up.

  “Snap one of them on your left wrist.”

  “What are you going to do?” I ask.

  “What am I going to do?” she repeats, in case I hadn’t heard my own question. “I’m going to shoot your balls off if you don’t do what I ask.”

  I quickly snap one of the cold metal bracelets around my wrist. The ratchet in the mechanism clicks as it locks into place.

  “Lie down on your back, stretch your arms around the tree, and handcuff yourself on the other side.”

  “You sure?”

  “Positive.”

  “Still time to change your mind.”

  “Do it before I get annoyed with your charm.”

  I follow her orders. The grass itches at my back as I lie on it. I can’t get comfortable, but I doubt that would worry her. Nice view from here, though. The stars are still out but fading. It’s
as though they’re leaving this universe, dying in this purple light. I reach around the tree and lock my other wrist into place.

  She keeps the gun pointed at me, walks around the tree, and checks. Bending down she tightens the cuffs where I failed. They squeeze against the bones in my wrist. It hurts, but I don’t groan, don’t show any signs of pain. Yep, I’m a real man. A real man with no idea what’s going on.

  She comes back around to face me and pulls out another set of handcuffs. She seems to have come prepared.

  I consider kicking up at her as she locks them into place around my ankles. Won’t do me any good, though. She has the gun. She has the keys. I’ve nothing but an erection that can’t reach her from here. I pull at the handcuffs, then pull at the tree, but it’s no use.

  “Comfortable, Joe?”

  “Not really.”

  She grabs the sides of my jacket and pulls them outward. “What else do you have in here?”

  I’m not answering. Whether I lie or not, she’s still going to check. She rummages through the pockets and finds the knife.

  “You carry some interesting items, Joe.”

  I shrug, though she doesn’t see it. It’s a smaller motion when you’re lying down with your arms stretched over your head. She tosses the knife in the air-end over handle, handle over end-and catches it by the hilt, blade pointing ahead. She handles it better than I do. Maybe she’s a chef. She hunts through my jeans and finds my wallet.

  “No identification, huh?”

  “I’m old enough to drink, if that’s your point.”

  “How long you been a cop, Joe?”

  She knows I’m not a cop. Probably has known from the moment we met.

  “About as long as you’ve been an architect.”

  She laughs. “I bet the police would love to get a look at this knife. They could probably connect it to a few bad things that have happened lately.”

  “You’re talking about my salads?”

  She ignores my quip and carries on. “I bet the gun has quite a history too.”

  “Everything has a history,” I say. “What’s yours?”

  She walks up to me and tosses my wallet-now empty-onto the ground. She stuffs my money into my jacket pocket, telling me I can say good-bye to my jacket too. “I told you my history,” she says. “I used to live here, I moved away, and now I’m back.”

  Melissa, if that’s her name, crouches next to me, the gun in her left hand, the knife in her right. I remember thinking of them as the essential weapons before I left home, which starts me reflecting on the previous ten minutes that have brought me here, but my chance of stopping whatever is about to happen ended when I snapped those handcuffs on my wrists. Maybe this was meant to happen all along. In this crazy, mixed-up world. I spend another moment wondering why handcuffs aren’t called wristcuffs, then I start considering my options. Once again God is doing nothing to help me out, so there’s no point in even praying to the guy. I’ll leave the toga-wearing hippie alone and keep my prayers to myself.

  “Do you really want me to tell you more?”

  She holds the knife above me, not in the dagger-plunge style of a virgin sacrifice, more in the way of slicing the top layer off a roast chicken. She rests the side of the blade against my stomach. It’s colder than the rest of my shivering body. My erection is lying on the bottom of my stomach. The tip of the knife is only a couple of inches away. Now I do start praying to God, the same God Sally prays to, the same God she wants me to come along and visit on Sunday mornings-and I’ll go too, I promise, if He gets me out of this in one piece.

  “No,” I answer, shakily. No, I don’t want to know her history. It will only scare the shit out of me. I don’t need to know why she left Christchurch or why she came back. I don’t want to know how she has treated some of the men in her past. I show the same respect to the women I mess with. It’s my good nature.

  It’s my humanity.

  She tilts the knife so the tip of the blade touches my stomach just above my belly button. Then she pushes down. My stomach offers the same resistance as the skin of a less-than-ripe tomato, then surrenders. The knife cuts into me, but only enough to draw blood. A warm stinging rather than hurting. As I watch, straining my neck to look, she starts running it up my body. I’ve been cut before. I know what to expect.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  I’m getting the view thousands of homeless people across the country are getting: a cloudless sky, with fading stars barely twinkling like holes in a purple curtain covering Heaven. If God is up there looking through one of those holes with His large knowing eyes, I wonder what He’s thinking. Can He see me? If He can, does He care?

  “Are you scared, Joe?” Melissa asks, playing the knife along my body.

  I am scared, but I try not to show it. “Do you want me to be scared?”

  “It’s up to you.”

  “Should I be scared?” I ask, trying to control my voice.

  When the knife reaches my chest, it has formed a reasonably straight line up to the center of my body, spotted only where the skin hasn’t broken. The line is red.

  “I know I’m not,” she says.

  “No? What are you then?”

  “I’m the one with the knife and the gun.”

  “Want to swap?”

  “No, thank you.”

  “I’ll let you have the knife after we’ve finished. As a keepsake.”

  “You’re so generous, Joe, but I already have the knife. And the gun. What more could I want?”

  I’m not sure, and that’s the problem. She traces a finger down the cut on my body, moving it at the same slow pace she was running it over her lips. It tickles and feels kind of nice, yet my skin is crawling. The blood smears into the width of her fingertip.

  “How’s that feel, Joe?”

  “I can show you.”

  She gets to the end of the line and takes her finger to her mouth, then sucks on the end. She closes her eyes and starts to moan. Then she pulls her finger out, opens her eyes, and smiles. Her blue eyes are locked on mine. I wonder what she sees behind them. In a quick movement, she folds her body so her face is above my chest. Slowly she angles her tongue to touch the cut. Just as slowly, she runs the length of the cut as though she were licking the inside flap of an envelope. Her face moves down to my crotch, but stops right where she really should keep going.

  She looks up at me and shudders. “Tastes good.”

  “I try to eat well.”

  I’m aroused again. The evidence is plain.

  She stands up and looks down at me.

  “I know who you are, Joe.”

  “Oh?”

  “The gun. The knife. The scars. I’d have to be stupid not to know. You’re him.”

  “Who?”

  “The Christchurch Carver.”

  I shake my head. “No,” I say. Mom’s advice about lying hasn’t been forgotten, it’s just been relegated to the bottom of my priorities.

  She gives a small giggle, the type a schoolgirl would give when confronting her rock idol. She points the gun at me. “Pow!”

  I flinch and the handcuffs dig into my wrists and ankles. She laughs. “You’re him all right. I know it. I was going to be your next victim.”

  “Don’t flatter yourself.”

  “I’m not flattering myself, Joe. I’m nobody special. Just a girl who likes the night. Just a girl who knows the police don’t use Glock twenty-sixes. They use the seventeen.”

  “You’re basing it on that?”

  She smiles. “You’re just too smart, Joe, aren’t you? Would you like to know more?”

  “Not really.”

  “It wasn’t pure luck I stood next to you, Joe. I recognized you. I’ve seen you come and go from the police department because sometimes I like to follow cops home. I’ve seen you coming and going in your overalls. What are you, a janitor? I still thought you might be interesting to talk to, that maybe you could amuse me for a few moments. Then you said you were a cop and I was curi
ous as to where you were going with it. Then we talked about the case. Your case. You had too many insights, knew too much about the murders, way too much for a guy who shows up and leaves work in a pair of overalls and catches the bus. I hadn’t even finished my second drink when I started to suspect who you were. I’m good at reading people, Joe, really good. I didn’t used to be, and it’s gotten me into trouble in the past, but people learn faster when the mistakes and consequences are bigger, which makes me an expert these days. I just needed to test you. And that was easy. All I had to do was tell you I wasn’t from around here, and right away you saw me as a perfect victim. Someone nobody would miss right away. And this,” she says, shaking the gun a little, “this just confirms everything I thought about you.”

  “You’re wrong.”

  “I’m not wrong, Joe.”

  “You don’t know enough about police work to make these assumptions. You don’t know enough about serial killers.”

  “Don’t I? You know, Joe, I love cops. I love things that cops do. I also like going through houses. Call it a fetish, call it whatever you want, but I like being inside a place when people are sleeping. Especially a cop’s place. Like I said, that’s why I recognize you.”

  “So?”

  She raises one leg at a time and pulls off her shoes. I try to get a glimpse of her panties but can’t see anything.

  “I think it’s the control. You know all about control, don’t you, Joe? That’s part of who you are. Don’t you love the way cops can order you around? When they tell you to jump, you jump. The police are the ultimate in control, Joe, the ultimate. We know it. They know it. I like to collect police things. I’ve got all these books at home on cops, both New Zealand police and overseas. I’ve got posters, documentaries, movies. I’ve even got one of these,” she shakes the Glock, “but mine’s made from plastic. Different model too, but this will replace it nicely. I even have a Ford Falcon. Same model as the police use. I’ve got the uniforms, the badges, the batons, and the handcuffs, but you already know about the handcuffs.”

  “So you’re a buff. Fine. Some people collect shells. You collect police stuff. Big deal. You want recognition? Write in to the Woman’s Weekly.”

  She puts the gun and the knife down and uses both hands to pull her underwear from beneath her skirt. She lifts one leg up at a time. A G-string, I note, with definite approval. She turns her back, bends down to pick up the knife and gun, then walks over to me.