Tomorrow I Will Kill Again

by Matthew Allred

“Writer, we can consider her condition later. You know I want her dead, and in time you will see the wisdom in that, but for now she is safe. It will be your choice. All we need to do right now is learn, correct? Where she is from, who might be looking. Focus on this for now, all else will come later.”

  Paul felt the strength of his friend’s words, the prudence of them.

  “Yes, Deeny.” Paul said. “Can you make her more coherent? More awake and with us?”

  “If I had my full power, certainly. I think I might be able to do anything you might ask of me, but getting her to obey us now would be—”

  “No, no, I don’t mean obey us. I know you are too weak to coerce her, and I wouldn’t want you to now, anyway. I think I can handle getting the information from her. I just need her functioning. Cognitive.”

  “Oh,” Deeny said, standing to full height behind him. “I do not know. I have never tried.”

  “Well, try now.”

  “Alright.”

  Paul watched him expectantly for a moment, and then Deeny said, “What are you waiting for?”

  “Aren’t you going to do something to her?”

  Deeny said, “If it works, I already have.”

  “I guess I was waiting for you to do something with your hands.”

  They shared a nervous chuckle.

  Paul couldn’t see the girl’s eyes since she was turned away, but she did seem to be sitting more erect with more of her own strength. He wasn’t sure if Deeny had done anything or not. He said, “If you turn your head to try to look at me I’ll kill you, understand?” The words tasted like bitter shattered promises in his mouth.

  He felt as if he were committing suicide and adultery in one action.

  He could tell she was more with them now. The words meant something to her. She sat up even more firmly and stopped swaying so much.

  He said, “Do you understand?” in a commanding tone.

  After a pause she nodded, but it was not the nod he expected, full of fear and confusion.

  He reached through her matted, tangled hair and untied the gag. Absurdly, he felt a faint rush of desire when he touched her, which was out of character for him. This feeling, as much as anything he’d done in regards to the girl, burdened him. Though free from her gag, and apparently awake, she said nothing. She looked almost at home tied up this way, bound in some yellow braided rope they’d found in one of Harmon’s tool drawers, sitting upright against the backdrop of Harmon’s fine oak-style closet door. Perhaps it was Deeny’s influence that made Paul think briefly what a nice painting the scene would make.

  Paul said, “Where are you from?”

  “What…?” she tried to turn a little, but Paul grabbed the back of her head, much harder than he intended, and she yelped as he turned her head back toward the wall.

  “I said you can’t look.” He also wanted to say I’m sorry, but he knew he needed to keep the position of power here. This misogynistic, violent behavior sickened him.

  She swore, then said, “I was just trying to wipe this spit off my face.”

  He wiped the gag across her mouth from behind. Again, feeling the firm give her lips had, he felt he wanted her. Or perhaps… it made no sense, but Paul thought he might want, not her, but something she had. What could a girl like this have that Paul would desire?

  “Thanks, pops,” she said.

  He knew he should probably punish her in some way for the nickname if he wanted to create the right atmosphere for interrogation, but he couldn’t bring himself to do so.

  He said, “Where are you from?”

  “U… Utah.”

  “Yeah. What city?”

  “West Valley, sort of.”

  He was almost positive that was in the Salt Lake Valley, but he was taking no chances, “That’s in Salt Lake, right?”

  “Not the city, but yeah, yeah, it’s close. And anyway, that’s where I’m from. I live in Salt Lake these days. Where am I now?”

  He had no idea why he said, “Welcome to planet Earth,” but he did. Then: “What’s your name?” He wanted to follow any of the news stories about her, the more he learned about her now the more clearly he could ascertain the level of risk. He had no way of knowing this was the most coherent conversation the girl had engaged in for months.

  “Clare Clark.”

  “Sounds fake, you’re not lying to me, are you, darling?” Another poison word, a word that he should only ever have used with Jen, or maybe some future daughter. He couldn’t believe he was using his own mouth to say this.

  She barely laughed, almost imperceptibly, but it was enough to convince him she was being truthful. “No. That’s my name.”

  Deeny waited quietly at the door, wisely allowing Paul to drive for this stretch of their journey. He would not have known how to ask her anything in an effective way. He would have used one of the entities that called themselves the unborn. He had no knowledge of where they came from or who they were, but they knew a lot more about regular people, and this modern world, than Deeny. There was no way he’d be able to summon one now, though. Nor would they have been as good as Paul at it. Deeny was proud and impressed.

  Paul said, “Where were you last night?”

  “I was hoping you could tell me.”

  “I mean it. What do you remember?”

  “Champ, my head is throbbing right now. I don’t know. The last thing I remember is leaving Café del Fuego. That’s where I work sometimes. Under the table. Literally.” She laughed again.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I let the manager give it to me from behind. Like an animal.” She laughed hollowly. “Rawr, ha ha.” For a moment she said nothing, it looked as if she had forgotten they were talking. Just as Paul was about to try to shake her, she spoke, perhaps not realizing she had stopped, “Sometimes right there in his office. He doesn’t even lock the door. I think he likes the rush of it, you know? Like, what if we got caught? He loves it. Always uses the proper protection though, and that’s nice. This skinny white guy. His name is Danny Davis. He’s the only one there that’s not a Mexican. The other workers think I’m his niece. Isn’t that cute? He gives me free food, and it’s good.”

  Paul didn’t know what to say. He wanted to hug this girl, tell her that he’d get her serious help, get her out of the life she was living; so young, too young. Not that anyone was old enough to live that way. Instead he said, “What time would that have been, when you left?” Some of the fire had come out of his voice.

  “About eight I guess. A lot of times I go straight from there to a bar. Eating that Mexican food makes you thirsty you know? That’s probably where I was.”

  Paul was dismayed to feel so pleased that things were working out so well. They might actually get away with this.

  She said, “Um… do you have any… I mean, are you holding?”

  At first Paul hadn’t a clue what she meant, but then memories of his some of his college roommates came back to him. “I don’t have any drugs. What are you on?”

  “That’s the problem, man. I’m on nothing now.” She muttered another obscenity. “I like junk.”

  “Heroin?”

  “Yeah, I’m a real saint.” She laughed again and leaned forward, her hair covering her face like stage curtains.

  He said, “I don’t have any.”

  “That’s okay.” She fell face-first into the floor so suddenly that Paul had no time to catch her. Her nose crunched sickly on the thin carpet. When he lifted her up, her nose was bleeding and she was asleep.

  Paul looked to Deeny, who only shrugged. It was the most human thing Paul had even seen Deeny do. “I guess I am all out of energy,” Deeny said. “The time has come to kill.”

  “Okay,” Paul said, sighing, “but not her.”

  At this, Deeny sighed, too.

  3

  The blonde girl, Clare Clark, woke up the next afternoon, having slept for over twelve hours curled up on her side. She was alone. The sunlight coming in through the window was sof
t and dusty, reminding her of a barn or some other safe country place. Her brain should have been screaming. Not with words, just screaming, screaming out to the universe to provide her with the heroin she needed. But it wasn’t. She didn’t know why.

  She noticed that she was tied up, and waited for the pang of fear to come. It didn’t. In fact, she felt the way she did sometimes during a cool, silvery high. She was, however inappropriately for her situation, contented. Her back was mildly sore from sleeping in restraints, but with a minute readjusting of the body, she actually felt comfortable. The clean, plush green carpet was nicer than many other surfaces she had woken up on various times throughout the last couple of years.

  She did not know what the day was, exactly, but she knew Christmas could not be far away. Christmas was by far her favorite holiday. Last year she had spent it with Mitchel. She remembered all the stuff he had bought her from the Blue Boutique, one of the adult-only stores in Salt Lake, especially one gift in particular that glowed in the dark. She had gotten him a bong that turned from black-and-clear to black-and-orange when heated. He’d named it “Shere Khan” from “The Jungle Book,” but whenever he used it he couldn’t remember it’s name and just called it “El Tigre”. She was sure she had loved him. After her dark childhood, dating Mitchel had felt something like dating Jesus. He was dead now, but he hadn’t risen three days later. He’d been smeared across State Street like so much road kill. His friend Mickey said he didn’t remember the night clearly, but thought they’d been playing Human Frogger, a favorite game of Mitchel’s when high.

  Now, pressing her face into the nice carpet like a cat, she knew she would be killed here—wherever here was—and then she would finally learn if what the religious folks said was true. If it was, she would see Mitchel on the other side. Her hope for anything on the other side was low though; the more heroin she’d pumped into her veins, the surer she had become that there could be no God. The drug was like a pair of eyeglasses that made everything clearer. In her enhanced clarity she had seen the purposelessness of eternity. She had seen nothing beyond her pitiful life. And yet—she supposed it was because of the survival instinct evolution had branded into her DNA—she still wanted to live.

  The man who tied her up must have helped her use the restroom, for she did not have the urge to go. She was shaking slightly, little tremors, nothing she hadn’t felt before. But she knew it should be worse, especially right after waking. And she knew it would worsen soon if she didn’t get some. She stretched out as much as the binding would let her, which wasn’t much. That’s when she noticed the smell. It had to be a dead body decaying, but not where she could see it. And there was another smell, too: burned flesh.

  She wondered vaguely where she was geographically.

  At least she didn’t have to go to Café del Fuego. She wouldn’t miss Danny Davis’ backside lovin’, but she wouldn’t mind some of that Mexican food. She wasn’t even hungry; it was just good food.

  She’d made only the most perfunctory attempt to remember what events had brought her to this place, but quickly she realized she didn’t really care. It was better to think of Mitchel. In fact, the last time she’d been tied up like this it had been voluntary. Mitchel had been there, hadn’t he?

  That had been a nice night.

  †

  An hour or so later, the man returned to the house. He made her sit up and face the wall on her own (not an easy feat while bound) before he came in. He brought her fast food and water in a thermos. He made her choke down a few bites of a Whopper and take a sip of water before talking.

  He said, “I found your purse in his car and checked your ID. Looks like you weren’t lying about your name or address. That’s good.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “I checked your phone. You don’t have any missed calls or texts. Why is that?”

  “No one to call, no one to ring, cause no one’s home.” She briefly laughed. “That’s from a song, you know.”

  “You’re in a town called Peoa. Ever heard of it?”

  “No.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yeah.”

  “So if someone were to come looking for you, they wouldn’t come here?”

  “How would I know?”

  “But you’ve never been here before?”

  “Not to my knowledge.”

  He said, “Why are you being so helpful?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t know why I would lie; you’re going to kill me anyway, right? I mean, you’re not hoping to get any ransom out of me, are you? I can tell you, you won’t get anything.”

  “No. This is no kidnapping.”

  “Weird, I wouldn’t have guessed that with these ropes and everything.”

  “You just chose the wrong night to come home with Donald Harmon.”

  “Who?”

  “The guy you slept with last night. This is his house.”

  “Nah. Doesn’t ring a bell,” she said, sounding more distant than when they’d begun talking. “You killed him.”

  To this, Paul said nothing.

  Clare said, “Is that him I smell rotting in the next room over? He smells burned.”

  Paul said, “Yes,” feeling an unexpected satisfaction. He realized he was actually a little proud of what he had done. He couldn’t help but add, “Chemicals and fire,” but then he wished he hadn’t.

  She said, “Now you’re going to kill me. But not before you have your way with me, huh?” She spread her legs out in front of her body in a wide V; her flexibility was impressive. “You’re gonna stick me just like Danny Davis, and all you brought me was a hamburger. Listen, Danny gives me these really good burritos. Next time you abduct someone, consider burritos. Well, I think you’ll enjoy me. I’ve been told I’m good.”

  Paul just watched the back of her head for a time. He could see the little tremors slowly rolling over her, but he didn’t think they were evidence of her trying to hide her feelings. He thought it was the beginning of withdrawal. He said, “How can you be so calm if you think that’s what’s going to happen to you?”

  “I don’t know.” She folded her legs back together, Indian-style. “I don’t know how you want me to act.”

  What Paul wanted her to do was fight and plead and beg for her life. He wanted her to break the barriers Deeny had made in him, tear down the walls, destroy his resolve. He wanted anything but a silent acceptance of her fate.

  He said, “I’m not going to have sex with you,” and he almost added I’m married, but stopped himself, realizing how ridiculous he’d sound.

  “Pity,” she said. “You’re the one missing out, not me. I don’t say that to be rude. I’m sure you’re great. I just don’t feel anything anymore, you know? I’m over it. Hey, how did I get here, anyway?”

  Then his mood shifted without warning. A harsh giggle bubbled up from the pit of his stomach. Then he couldn’t help it—he was laughing steadily. He hadn’t felt in control of himself since the killing. He brightly said, “See you tomorrow, sweetheart,” and got up to leave.

  “Hey,” she said, “I know you’re a loon, but you don’t expect me to piss my pants, do you? I can’t wait till tomorrow.”

  “Do your best.”

  He left.

  4

  Christmas was just a day away, but Jen had never felt less in the Christmas Spirit. For one thing, she was still working when everyone else was gone for the holiday.

  Well, almost everyone. She had been shocked to hear someone still typing at his or her cubicle. Even more so when she’d realized it was Sean. She had not seen him or said hello all day. If he wanted to talk to her, he could come in. He would realize she was still here; her office light was the only illumination on the floor aside from the bar lamp in his cubicle and some always-on security lights. But she hoped he would not come to her, and longed for the sounds of another worker, a janitor, a passing leprechaun—anyone who would keep them from being alone.

  They had not talked nor gone out to eat since the
incident at Red Lobster two days before, and she was not sure why. Certainly the scene he caused, collapsing on the table like that, had embarrassed her, but he had been revived before the ambulance even got there and had refused any kind of treatment, saying he was fine. He took the rest of the day off work, so maybe that’s why he was working now.

  Her door was open a crack and she could still hear the typing. She tried to imagine what he might be working on that would cause him to type almost non-stop for hours, but she wasn’t going to invite conversation if she didn’t have to.

  On the drive back to work that day after leaving the restaurant, she had asked herself a few hard questions, like why did she think it was appropriate for her, as a married woman, to go out to eat alone with another man—gay or not—five days a week? She realized that she had not even mentioned Sean to Paul. This observation, above all others, disturbed her. She and Paul had been talking lately, much more than they had been before their argument in the car. He knew all about the deaf conference, she’d mentioned Dorma Taylor and Randy Thomas the event director, much more minor figures in her day-to-day, but she hadn’t mentioned Sean. Reflecting on this made her feel like a woman outside herself, as if watching parts of her life through a too-small screen.

  Sean seemed to embody everything she needed in a friend at that time. So perfect in fact, that it had begun to make her uncomfortable, though only since the incident at Red Lobster did she really see that. How could he know just what to say, to do, to be? Especially since he had been so annoying and irritating when she first met him?

  She was so lost in these thoughts that she did not notice—as she stared blank-eyed at some form—Sean opening her door. He’d recently cut his hair rather short, and had started using gel to push the front of his bangs up. In his tightish pinstripe shirt and tidy khakis he seemed more like a stereotype of homosexual style than an actual human being. He stood on the other side of the threshold like a vampire waiting only for the invitation to come in.

  She wasn’t going to give it.

  She said, “Yes?”

  “May I come in?” He asked.