“What happened?”
“Anythin’ can happen back up there in those woods.” She raised an eyebrow coyly.
“Is Bobby still in the repo business?”
“No, he hurt hisself, got disabled, but he’s doin’ real good last I heard, real good. Got hisself a little cottage industry. Works at home, makin’ temporary license tags, sells ’em to people who can’t get tags otherwise, you know, cuz they don’t have the paperwork. Beauty of it is, there’s a big repeat business. The tags’re only good for thirty days.”
“Counterfeit?”
“A-course.”
A trio of noisy truckers came in, loud and laughing, and took the table next to ours. Keppie had a way of flicking her hair back with her fingertips, lowering her lashes, and stealing glances. They all noticed.
“’Bye, boys,” she teased, with a twitch of her hips as we walked out.
The sun, an eye-piercing orange blaze, could blister your eyeballs. I felt a blinding headache minutes away.
“See that?” she asked indignantly, as she let me into the car. “Ya see them damn pricks drooling all over the place?”
“You’re like a fisherman who throws out bait and then complains about all the damn fish that keep coming around,” I said. “You have to admit you put the idea in their heads.”
“You don’t put that kinda idea in a man’s head. It’s already there.” She slammed the car into reverse.
I sighed, pulled down the visor to cut the glare, and picked up the notebook. “Okay, tell me about your first sexual experience,” I said, pencil poised.
She eased up on the gas. “Just curious?” Her pink tongue flicked across her perfect white teeth. “Or is this part of the interview?”
“A relevant part.”
“Lemme see now. Well, when I was little, a neighbor, an old guy everybody called Duke, offered me twenty-five cent to go in the chicken coop with him. I was ’bout six, I think.”
“How awful,” I said, thinking of the small orphaned girl. “Were you very traumatized?”
“Hell.” She cocked her head and grinned. “That was the easiest twenty-five cent I ever made.”
She stopped at a liquor store to stock up on tequila and limes and then gassed up the car. On the way back to the turnpike, she slowed to turn left into a small shopping center. “We need a couple more things,” she said.
“Why don’t we just keep on?” I said. “I’d like to finish this up.” I was eager to discuss the individual homicides and tote up the numbers. Did it all begin with the man she and her Uncle Bobby had cornered in the woods?
She looked hurt. “I just thought you might want a new pair of shades.”
“Sure,” I said eagerly. “And some aspirin would be great.”
It was a combination general store and souvenir-selling tourist trap, next door to a Christian book and gun shop. Across the street, a marquee on the House of Prayer warned, DUSTY BIBLES LEAD TO DIRTY LIVES.
“Mind your manners,” she said as I slid out her side.
The man at the cash register only glanced up from his book as we browsed. I tried on sunglasses from a revolving rack next to rubber alligators and Sunshine State T-shirts. Keppie roamed nearby.
“Britt, what size underpants you wear?”
“Five,” I said, selecting a pair of wraparound Ray-Bans with lightweight lenses.
She sauntered up to the counter with a stack in various colors, along with several T-shirts, a halter top, and three pairs of shorts.
“Like these?” she trilled, holding up a pair of see-through bikini panties with the word TUESDAY lettered on one hip. “’Member, you need a toothbrush,” she said.
“And some toothpaste, too. We’re nearly out…
“Want a bathing suit?” she asked, as my heart went into a free fall. “That little flowered two-piece would sure look good on you. Oh, and we need a few more notebooks,” she told the clerk, “those thick black-and-white ones.”
I stared. I wasn’t going home today. That was never her intention. Stricken, I turned to the cashier, eyes pleading until he blushed. Keppie warned me with a look, then reached abruptly into her bag. The gun was inside. My stomach roiled, and I regretted breakfast.
Instead, watching me, she withdrew a credit card and paid. As I climbed into her side of the car, she grabbed my wrist in an iron grip.
“Don’t you ever pull that shit again!”
“What?”
“I saw what you were doing with that guy,” she hissed. “I’m not stupid.”
“You don’t understand,” I said. “I’m upset. I have to go home today. My mother must be hysterical. My bosses have no idea where I am. The man I care about is in limbo—”
“Thought you wanted to do this story right,” she said, driving toward the turnpike.
“I do, but we could finish today. I could be home tonight.”
“In such a big hurry to spill your guts to your cop friends,” she said sarcastically.
It had been a mistake to mention McDonald. “It’s not that,” I said. “I need to get back home. I’ll lose my job. I have a little dog and cat. Nobody’s feeding them.” Mrs. Goldstein was caring for them, I knew. But the good woman must be bewildered and worried sick. Tears sprang to my eyes.
“Now don’t let’s have a pity party here,” she said. “Haven’t I been nice to you? Feedin’ you, buyin’ you stuff, givin’ you a decent place to sleep? All of that, after what you tried to do to me!” Her voice rose dangerously, as she worked herself up into a rage.
“You have been decent,” I said calmly. “And I agree, we both want the story to be good, whatever it takes.”
I desperately scanned the unfamiliar streets as the landscape slipped by. This was Dixie, the Bible belt, light-years away from the Gold Coast condos and the bodegas of Little Havana, a place where raising sugar cane, citrus, cattle, and vegetables was a way of life, where Yankees and city slickers from Miami were mistrusted, if not unwelcome.
In Miami, I knew every back street and alley, every squalid night spot with blood on the floor. I am part of the city and share its heartbeat, but I was out of my element here, disoriented, lost, and flat-out scared.
Where was the best place to jump from the car? Which way to run? I had no idea, but I had to do it before we hit the high-speed turnpike with its long desolate stretches. I had no identification. Notebook in my lap, pretending to check my notes, I scrawled the city desk number on my palm, in case I was injured, unconscious, or worse.
FLORIDA TURNPIKE TWO MILES. It had to be now. An intersection ahead, Chevron station on one side, mini warehouse on the other, a pickup with two men and a gun rack behind us. I would run for the truck. If they didn’t stop, I’d try for the gas station. The red light might change. I had to do it now, as she slowed down. I wrenched the door handle, to hurl myself out and roll. My body jammed up against the door. It did not open. Fumbling frantically, I tried to unlock it.
“Hee-hee-hee-hee.” Keppie laughed and hit the gas as the light turned green. “Wondered when you’d finally figure out it didn’t work.”
She had dismantled the door handle. It would not open from the inside. She slowed to let the pickup pass. She grinned, looking relaxed until it did, then turned on me screaming, yanked out the gun, and slammed me in the face. My own blood flew as I shrieked and tried to struggle.
“You bitch! I’ll kill you right now! I’ll kill you! You’ll never go home!”
She pointed the gun at my head.
Twelve
“NOW SEE WHAT YOU MADE ME DO!” SHE SCREAMED. “You’re bleedin’ all over the damn car!”
I had deflected the blow’s full force by throwing my hands up protectively, but the gun butt had struck the side of my face and my nose, which was bleeding profusely. She’d also yanked out a handful of my hair and slammed me in the right eye with her fist.
She reached into the backseat for a box of tissues and flung it at me. The hand holding the gun shook in fury. I fought hysteria, w
anting to lunge at the weapon, try to wrestle it away, but I knew if we fought for it in such close quarters one of us would die, more likely me. Don’t let me die in this strange and unfamiliar place, I prayed. I want to go home. I wanted never to have had this story.
“Look at you now!” she screamed, as I tried to stop the bleeding. “Look what you’ve done!”
“I don’t think it’s broken,” I snuffled.
“Shi-i-i-t!” She tossed her hair back. “More goddamn proof that no good deed goes unpunished. Here I’m tryin’ to give you the scoop, tryin’ to make you comfortable and help you get to go home, and you…put your fuckin’ head back or you’ll bleed all over the goddamn notebook!”
I did as she said, applying pressure with a wad of tissues.
“Please don’t point the gun at me anymore, I managed to say, my voice muffled.
“Give me one good reason not to.”
“I know what kind of ammo it’s loaded with. I’ve seen what it can do.”
“Well, you just remember that, missy, and how goddamn lucky you are to still be alive. You wanna stay that way, you do what I tell you. What’s wrong with you?”
“I won’t give you anymore trouble,” I said.
She perked up, with another 180-degree mood swing, after we hit the turnpike. Her tequila bottle by her side, she sang country-and-western at the top of her lungs along with the radio, songs about trucks and trains, honkytonks, cheating hearts, prisons, and dead mothers. Thoughts of my own mother made me want to weep. When not singing, smoking, or swigging from the bottle, she ranted angrily against men one minute and spouted jokes the next, as we careened north.
Finally out of range of the radio station, we resumed the interview.
“What was it like,” I asked, “the first time you killed somebody?”
“Hell, I had no clue what I was doing,” she murmured, smiling as though in fond reminiscence. “Me and this guy, we’d been oofing in the back seat. Man, I was drunk, wasted, trashed, out of control, ripped, sauced, hammered. It felt real sweet, I tell you, cuz I knew what was gonna happen. I’d been thinkin’ ’bout it for a long time, hypin’ myself up, gettin’ ready, boostin’ my adrenaline, blockin’ everythin’ else out. But I tell you, I panicked that first time. I was runnin’ around, kep’ hearin’ gunshots followin’ me, till I realized it was me shootin’. Had to calm down and lift my finger off the trigger, cuz every time I moved, it kept goin’ off!” She broke into a peal of laughter and lifted the bottle, as grazing cattle, farmhouses, and orange groves flashed by.
I shuddered at how many times the gun had been pointed at me.
Wavy shimmering-wet mirages rose off the pavement ahead.
“Was that the sheriff?” I asked.
“Hell, no, I was a lot younger then,” she said. “He wasn’t all that bad a guy. We used to fish for striped mullet. He was tall and lanky, had hands twice as big as most guys, huge bone structure, but he was clumsy, walked like somebody put him together on strings, like a puppet. Really dumb, too, but he wasn’t that bad. Most of ’em have wanderin’ minds and rovin’ hands. There was this other guy, a lawyer—one real sick puppy—wanted me to dance for him. Wanted to be handcuffed and masturbate.” She talked nonstop, jumping from one topic, one man, to another.
“Ever see a dead body ’at’s been out in the woods a long time? Some of it rots, but other parts get like cork, like a big hunka flesh in a pant leg, just like cork. I could show you one,” she offered. “A couple ain’t too far from here. It’s kinda weird. The nose—the nose just collapses when he decomposes, and he looks like he’s got no nose at all.”
“There are others who haven’t been found yet?”
“I know a few still out there,” she responded cheerfully. “Cuz I been back to see ’em. You know, when I’m in those areas, I go by to visit. It’s kinda weird.” She grinned and waved at the driver of an eighteen-wheeler, who flashed his lights as we passed.
“How many are there?”
“Hee-hee-hee,” she chortled. “That’s for me to know and you to find out.”
“Your MO, shooting them in the genitals, leaving lipstick on the bullets: is that a ritual or some sort of message?”
She looked startled. “It’s for the press,” she said. “That son-of-a-bitch sheriff got shot sorta spur of the moment. Sorta coincidental where he got hit. You know, I was mad as hell and all. But the press made such a big deal out of it that I kep’ it up. It sounded good. The lipstick on the bullets was kinda weird. See, after I done my makeup I was reloadin’, happened to hold one-a the slugs between my teeth for a sec. Didn’t even notice the lipstick on it. Then that Kiss-Me Killer shit got started; it was in all the stories. I hadda play along—you know, give ‘em somethin’ to write about. You can’t disappoint ’em.”
That sobering possibility had never occurred to me.
“Keppie, did you ever wish your life was different?”
Her brow furrowed. “Sometimes,” she said slowly, “when I was younger, I almost wished I was a neuter and could erase my sexuality, cuz my feelings, my passion, was so strong. I used to study men with an unreal cravin’ that sucked in every bit of information without me knowin’ it—but what I could never see is how I would fit best with one. I had so many conflicts, tryin’ to decide what is meaningful to a man and how one could be meaningful to me, without endin’ up bein’ a tragedy.”
“What made you think a relationship with a man would end up in tragedy?”
She shrugged. “Just saw so many, hearda so many mental and other kinds of tragedies between mates. I felt paranoid about the sexual aspect.”
Her psyche was a mystery to me, but I dutifully jotted down her ramblings word for word. The side of my face throbbed, my nose was swollen and congested. What would happen, I wondered, if I saw a highway patrolman and lunged forward to lean on the horn?
“Do you think your life might have been different if you hadn’t been introduced to guns so young? If you hadn’t learned to shoot and had access to weapons?”
“You ain’t one-a them gun-control nuts, are ya?”
“No.”
“Good, cuz those people piss me off. Winchesters, Colts, Smith and Wessons, they built this country. Pioneers used ’em to fight Indians, outlaws, and rattlesnakes.”
“Right,” I said. “But are you aware that gun accidents killed more pioneers than Indians or outlaws did? They didn’t have air rescue or trauma centers. Alone in the wilderness, a branch or a twig would catch on their gun and the thing would go off. A lot of lonely unmarked graves out there.”
“Tell me about it. How d’you know all that?” she said.
“Researched a piece on gun safety after a rash of accidental shootings in Miami.”
“I like Miami,” she said. “I’d go back there. Everybody’s packin’. You don’t feel out of the ordinary when everybody’s got a gun.”
The flat landscape flashed by. I fought the urge to lean back for a moment to rest my eyes.
“I’m not a bad person. I wouldn’t call myself real religious,” she was saying. “Dabbled in Satanism as a kid, wore a pentagram, and all that shit, but I had a real religious experience over in Clearwater—you know, where the Virgin Mary appeared in the finance company window?”
“I read about that.”
“Me too. Heard about it and went there. Saw a sign, said VIRGIN MARY PARKING, and drove right in. People come from all over the world to see it, thousands of ’em. You can see ’er, plain as day, when the light hits it. You can see ’er. I could feel the energy. The entire parking lot is coated with wax from all the people burning candles. You should see it,” she said.
“But the experience didn’t change your lifestyle or cause you regrets?”
“I’m not a bad person,” she repeated. “Write that down. Every one-a them brought it on himself. Only regret I ever had,” she said, raising her voice, “is I never got to know my mother better before she was taken from me.”
“How about the peopl
e who raised you? What are they like?”
“Good, churchgoing, God-fearing folks. Damn, did I drive them nuts. I was just a little girl who wanted her mama.”
She lapsed into a morose silence, sipping from the bottle. A highway patrolman passed, southbound, as we crossed into Seminole County. He glanced our way. He appeared to tap his brake and I held my breath. Keppie watched in the rearview but he continued south.
She began to curse at the radio signals, fading in and out, and at other motorists, gusts of momentum in a gathering storm. She finally switched off the radio in a fit of pique and focused on me. “What the hell you think you’re lookin’ at?” she demanded.
“Nothing,” I murmured. “Think I’ll rest my eyes for a while.”
I washed my swollen face at the next rest stop, where she bought sandwiches and soft drinks from a vending machine. She drove to a nearby picnic area and parked near the last wooden table, in the shade near a small lake. We were the only ones there. Everybody else was inside the air-conditioned restaurant. Keppie said she needed to tretch her legs. She strolled up and down a paved pathway between the picnic area and the traffic rolling off the north and southbound lanes into the rest stop. She had that bad-girl look that turns men on. Several truckers and male motorists ogled as she stretched, tossed her hair, and strutted back and forth, like the mating dance of an exotic bird. A big sports utility van, a Lincoln Navigator, pulled in, the driver giving her the eye. A guy in his late twenties or early thirties climbed out. He was tall and rangy, with tousled hair, wearing blue jeans and a T-shirt. His little boy was with him. The father gave her a wave and she smiled.
A few minutes later they came out carrying sodas and sat at the next table.
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