Tim trudged up the stairs, reminding himself not to grumble out loud, and saw a young mother with a baby in her arms and a toddler at her side. The toddler had all four fingers of one hand in his mouth, sucking on them, and the mortician tried not to shudder.
“May I help you?” he asked, surprised to see someone young and healthy-looking in his velvet-curtained realm.
“Hi,” the woman looked nervous, and Tim cocked his head, waiting. “My name is Shelby Myers, you did my cousin Sally’s funeral a couple of months ago, you probably don’t remember me, but it was very nice,” she began.
A memory flashed through Tim’s mind. He remembered Sally. She’d been in a car crash, and he’d had to make a wax replica of the bones in her face in order to reconstruct her well enough to be seen in an open casket. The job had been a delightful challenge, and his work had been flawless.
“Yes, of course. I remember Sally,” he replied truthfully.
“Is there…uh…someplace that we can sit down and talk for a minute?” Shelby asked, looking around as though she was afraid of being followed or overheard.
Tim died a little inside. He had a feeling that this wasn’t going to be a quick and easy casket quote.
“Certainly. Follow me,” he led the way to the spotless office where he met with those who were shopping for caskets and funeral services. “What is it that you’d like to talk about?” he asked, clasping his hands in front of him after settling into his desk chair.
Shelby Myers pulled some toys out of a large tote and placed them on the floor in the corner of the office, instructing the toddler to play for a few minutes. When she sat down in one of the chairs across the desk from Tim, the baby that she’d been carrying sat in her lap, patting little pink hands on the highly polished mahogany. The mortician blinked at the tiny human, thinking that he’d have to polish the desk top after the woman left.
“I feel really strange coming here to talk to you about this,” she began, looking embarrassed. “But I’m at my wit’s end and I just don’t know where else to turn.”
Tim frowned, wondering what on earth she could possibly want. “Go on,” he encouraged warily.
“Our cat, Bootsie, is really old, and really sick,” she explained, lowering her voice and glancing over at the toddler, who was seemingly entranced by a pop-up book about trains. “The vet said that if we just gave her the right supplements, she’d be fine. He has this really expensive line of supplements that are supposed to be the best thing ever, but they’re not working,” she bit her lip.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Tim replied, using the line that he’d been taught in mortuary school. It was a good, solid, seemingly sympathetic response that could be used whenever someone was expressing grief or discomfort and it had served him well in the past.
“Thank you,” Shelby sighed, looking uncomfortable. “So, she’s getting worse instead of better…and I even asked the vet to…” she glanced over her shoulder again and whispered, “…put her down.”
Tim nodded, wishing that he had somewhere else to be.
“Because she’s suffering, you know? And I can’t stand watching the suffering.”
Having exhausted his supply of supportive responses, the mortician simply blinked at her.
“I’m sorry, I can do small caskets for animals, but it’s quite costly, and I don’t believe that most cemeteries will allow you to inter pets,” he put on his professionally kind mortician face.
“Oh, no, that’s not why I’m here,” Shelby had begun absently stroking the fine, wispy hair atop her baby’s head.
“Oh?” Tim was befuddled.
“The vet said no,” she confided, leaning in a bit.
“Okay.”
“That’s why I’m here.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Well, I know that because of the kind of work that you do, you might have access to certain chemicals and things, and I hoped that maybe you’d be able to help me out with my…situation,” Shelby said in a rush, her eyes downcast, cheeks aflame.
Tim’s eyebrows shot up to his hairline.
“Are you asking me to…?”
“She’s suffering, please…I don’t know where to go or what to do,” her eyes filled with tears and sweat beaded in tiny dots on her forehead.
“I work with those who are already dead when they get here.”
“I know, but…your wife has small animals that she raises for food, doesn’t she? Would she maybe know of some humane way to…you know…?”
Tim stared at the young woman in front of him, feeling a bit ill. He had no problem working with lifeless flesh, but the thought of taking a life, even a feline one, turned his stomach a bit.
“I…” he started to demur, but she reached a hand across the desk, placing it palm down in front of him, pleading.
“Please…can you at least ask her, or think about the chemical thing? Please? I wouldn’t have come, but I can’t stand it anymore, I really can’t,” Shelby begged, her eyes filling with tears.
One thing that Tim had never been able to handle was tears, particularly in the eyes of a sweet, young female. He looked down at the hand on the desk in front of him.
“I’ll talk to her,” he sighed.
CHAPTER 9
* * *
Colorful Leaves
Jorge had been late for the last two days in a row, creating extra work and stress for Susannah, and the worst part was that he thought he could erase all ill will by smiling that dazzling smile. The head chef loved Susannah’s work because it was always precise and always perfect. He had the creativity to imagine the dish, and she had the discipline to craft it in exactly the manner that he described. Jorge was a thorn in her side because his tardiness messed with her schedule and her insistence upon perfection. Her fingers itched to snip off several large leaf-shaped pieces of his skin. Any guilt that she might have felt about wanting to flay him from stem to stern with her filet knife was quashed when she considered his potential impact upon her performance as an assistant chef. The more he tried to flirt his way out of consequences, the closer he came to being turned into various pieces of art.
Susannah glanced up from the chicken that she was boning to see the smarmy grin on Jorge’s face as he brought over a tray of breadcrumbs that he had just grated for the chicken batter. Her blood boiled when she saw the uneven chunks and pieces on the tray. The crumbs were an abomination, and she took a breath as a consuming red rage brewed within her chest.
“Here you go, chica,” he grinned, setting the tray next to her, his hands resting on the counter.
One quick chop of the cleaver that was in her hand, and she’d have four new appendages to include in a sculpture. Her fingers twitched with want, the cleaver heavy in her grip. She raised her head, leaving the cleaver on the joint between the chicken’s leg and thigh.
“The crumbs need to be more even in their consistency,” she said calmly, having spent a lifetime learning how to appear normal, even when she was seething inside.
“Ah, come on…what difference does it make, it all gets smashed down in the pan anyway,” he wheedled, edging into Susannah’s personal space, and setting her teeth even more on edge.
She refused to step back, knowing that he was trying to manipulate her by getting too close. When she turned to speak to him, his face was so close to hers that she could smell what he’d had for dinner. His lips were perfectly kissable, soft and full, and all that Susannah could think of was what they’d look like after drying out in her dehydrator for a couple of weeks.
“It makes a difference,” she said tonelessly, staring into his long-lashed brown eyes. “Re-do them and get it right this time.”
Jorge touched his tongue to his teeth, bringing on his hottest techniques to try to melt the iceberg in front of him, and Susannah had a strange desire to turn the pink organ into a specialty dish.
“Don’t be so upset, beautiful,” he ran his fingers lightly along the back of her upper arm, raising goosebumps,
which he took to be a good sign. It wasn’t. “It’s just bread crumbs,” he husked, eyeing her mouth.
Susannah employed every bit of willpower that she had within her to hold back from using a melon baller to scoop out his eyes.
“They’re not just bread crumbs, Jorge, they’re part of the foundation of the dish, and as such, are important,” she glared at him, not budging an inch.
“Susannah!” she heard a shout from behind her that made her jump, and turned to see Andre, the head chef, standing, hands on hips, eyes narrowed suspiciously as he took in the scene in front of him. “Where are we on those chickens? We’ve got a full house tonight,” he reminded her sternly.
He shouldn’t have done that, no matter what he thought he saw. She didn’t like it when men spoke to her sternly. Bad things happened when men talked to her sternly. Things that offered a permanent solution to their control issues…
**
Susannah crouched outside Jorge’s house, thinking how handy it had been that there were huge evergreen bushes next to the shabby structure. It made for a scratchy but fragrant wait. She’d been plotting for weeks now, biding her time and pretending to be nice to the prep cook so that he’d be as shocked as possible by what she was about to do to him. He’d come home with a pretty little redhead, and had taken her immediately to his room for some nocturnal recreation.
Susannah sat, listening to the sounds of their passion which filtered right through the flimsy walls, not bothered in the least. One of the “side effects” of her killing was a fierce desire for sexual gratification afterwards, so she considered the grunts and groans that she was hearing from Jorge and his tart-du-jour to be nothing more than a bit of foreplay for her. Tim might be quiet and shy, but he was more than man enough to satisfy her needs when she came home from a kill, even if he was a bit awkward about it. He knew nothing of her activities, thinking that she was merely working on her art when she’d disappear for hours at a time.
Finally, sometime after midnight, the redhead giggled and kissed her way out the door and into her car. When the red taillights became tiny dots disappearing around the corner, Susannah’s adrenalin kicked in, making her senses more keen, and her anticipation profound. She’d never taken drugs, partly because she could never imagine anything that might feel better than the rush she experienced when eyes went wide and realization dawned on the oppressors that they were no longer in control. She was. Polite, plain, ordinary Susannah had all the power – now that was a high.
She’d been inside Jorge’s house a few times in preparation for the event. She’d learned the floor plan, as well as where he kept his cutlery. For the fine work, she’d use her own special instruments, but to just get the dirty deed of de-animation done, his would suffice. It wasn’t very long before Susannah heard the soft rumbles of Jorge’s snoring through his bedroom wall, and she was glad that he’d be nice and relaxed, it would make his terror upon waking all the more delicious. He couldn’t charm his way out from under the blade of a knife.
Her hands were encased in thin, baby-soft leather gloves, and she used the key that she’d had made from Jorge’s spare, which he kept under the doormat, to enter the dingy ranch-style home. She planned to melt the small brass key down to coat the tooth that she was going to extract from him, post-mortem. Soundlessly entering the home, Susannah headed straight for the kitchen, pulling open the drawer next to the stove and withdrawing a meat cleaver and a butcher knife, stifling a giggle over the thought that the knife would finally be used for its named purpose. She felt giddy with anticipation, but controlled her movements and her breathing for maximum effectiveness.
When Todd had passed, her mother had given his gym equipment to their chubby daughter, hoping that she might honor the memory of her father by finally getting in shape. Susannah actually did work out regularly, but only so that she could be more effective and precise in her morbid activities. Her adrenalin-fueled strength had allowed her to subdue grown men on more than one occasion, and she knew it wouldn’t fail her tonight.
She crept down the hall to where Jorge snored, blissfully unaware that the relaxed breaths that he took were to be among his last. Susannah felt alive. Every nerve ending in her body was tingling with anticipation and she could practically hear the blood flowing through her veins. Her focus was singular – the house could burn down around her at this point, and she’d notice nothing but Jorge.
She stood beside his bed, watching his chest fall and rise with breath, excited by the pulse that she saw thumping in his neck. The light of the moon shone through the dirty window, illuminating her victim as though he’d been placed on a stage just for her entertainment. Her heart thudded within her. This was the most dangerous time, that time where all stood still and she observed her target, watching and waiting for them to swim upward to consciousness so that she could see the terror in their eyes just before she struck.
Jorge slept peacefully, while Susannah’s need grew. When she could take it no longer, she put just the tip of the butcher knife to his neck to wake him, but still he slept on. She pressed the tip further, and he still did not wake. Frustrated that he wasn’t responding like most of her victims did, she pressed the knife even further, until it pierced that beautiful skin just a bit, and at last, he startled awake, slapping at his neck as though he’d been bitten by a mosquito, and crying out when his hand came back with a wicked slice through the palm.
Dazed, he looked up at Susannah with an expression that was both pained and dumb, reminding her of a newly branded calf. He saw her hovering above him and was confused…until he saw the glint of moonlight on the meat cleaver in her left hand. Just when his eyes went wide, as the horrific reality of his plight dawned on him, she plunged the knife into his neck with all of her strength, reveling in the jet of blood that spurted from the wound when she withdrew it, enjoying the gurgling sounds he made as he tried to scream, and drawing an almost sexual satisfaction in the way his eyes begged her for mercy, for help, as he lay there twitching, bucking and dying. There it was. The control. He had just ceded control of his blood, his bodily functions, his life…to her, and she gloried in it.
She stood back and watched him struggle, but he couldn’t gather the strength to even leave the bed, so that’s where he would die, and she waited for him to get on with it. While she took great pleasure in watching the process, she had more work to do before she left the house, and she wanted to get a good night’s sleep before her opening shift at the restaurant tomorrow.
She had slipped her feet into Jorge’s shoes before killing him, so that when she left, if the police found footprints, they’d be his, and she always made sure that her clothes were washable and unable to shed fibers and that her hair was tied tightly into synthetic cloth so that none escaped. Tim had shared a wealth of forensic information with her, unknowingly making her much safer.
When the last rush of breath left Jorge’s lungs, Susannah flopped his hand onto the nightstand and in one quick motion, brought the meat cleaver down, severing it at the wrist, slipping it into a plastic bag that had been tucked into her belt. She then placed the cleaver in his other hand, wrapping his fingers around it to leave fingerprints, and left it where it fell, on the floor beside his bed. She could get skin leaves for the tree from the back of the hand, and if she wanted to play with texture a bit, she’d take one from the palm as well.
Susannah shuffled out the back door, to the little shed that was hidden in a tree-filled corner of the yard, where the moonlight couldn’t penetrate. Stepping into the shed in Jorge’s shoes, she sopped up the blood on her gloves with a rag used for wiping down the lawn mower, and peeled off her soiled clothes, placing them in a plastic bag that she’d stashed there a week ago, after Jorge had last mowed. She pulled a handful of disinfectant wipes from a container on a nearby shelf, and after dropping her gloves in the bag with the bloody clothing, she wiped down all the visible blood that had splashed her and threw the wipes on the floor of the shed. Dressing in clean clothing that she
’d left in the shed along with the plastic bag, she listened for a moment before slipping back outside, carrying the evidence of her gleeful experience with her to dispose of later.
Susannah had an industrial sink in the building behind their house, where she butchered chickens, which would serve quite well as a washing machine for now. Tomorrow, after Tim left for work, she’d come home on her lunch hour and put the clothing in the actual washing machine. The gloves would burn in the fiercely hot oven that she used to fire an occasional clay pot, many of which were at least partially composed of the ashes of human and animal remains. They always sold well at county fairs.
Jorge’s hand would be stashed in a freezer that she’d put in a secret room she’d discovered in the basement of the old cottage, until she could give it the attention it deserved. She couldn’t wait to add Jorge’s leaves to her tree. It had been a good night and a good kill, with plenty of time to savor the experience and plenty of souvenirs to include in her art. Now, she had business to take care of, and if Tim wasn’t awake enough, she’d make sure that she made him ready to satisfy her. They’d keep all the lights out, just the way they liked it, and she’d shower after, in case she’d missed any blood spatter.
CHAPTER 10
* * *
Mortal Mortician
“Susannah, I need to ask you a rather strange question,” Tim remarked, poking a spoon in and out of his bowl of oatmeal to mix in the butter and brown sugar that swam on top.
Susannah’s spoon stopped halfway to her mouth and she looked at him in an odd, rather panicked way.
The Quiet Type Page 5