He stares at the dead woman. Even in the unforgiving light, she possesses an uncommon beauty. Her eyes are closed, but he knows them to have been a deep, piercing blue. He had looked at her so many times, and in return, received her warm gaze, innocent and trusting. She was like that just a few hours earlier tonight, safe in her condominium just a few hours earlier, when she opened her door to let him inside. A swirl of her long, brown hair rests over the top of her shoulder, curled slightly inward on her chest, the way it might fall naturally if she were just sleeping. But she’s not sleeping. She’s dead.
He straightens himself, pulling the scalpel away from her slender body, and rolls his head from side to side, hearing the bones in his neck pop, pop, pop. Then, he takes a small step away from the gurney, his arms still positioned, ready to cut.
It is the quiet, the nothingness here in the Care Center that bothers him. This is where the dead are brought before their final journey to the grave. Suddenly he wants to hear something, anything—even the tick, tick, tick of the clock hanging on the wall in front of him. The large white face stares at him and he glances quickly at its black hands, frozen in place at just after twenty-two hundred hours, military time.
He remembers the Christmas song that was playing on the car radio during the drive to her condominium. He was bringing her gifts so she would not have suspected anything. Not from him and not on Christmas Eve. “Oh, what fun it is to ride…”
He’s always hated Christmas music, especially that stupid song, but even “Jingle Bells” would be a welcomed sound now. He wants to hear something in this embalming room besides the complete stillness, the kind of quiet only the dead can make.
He closes his eyes and remembers the last moments of her life. She fought him until the end. He remembers how strong she was, pushing back against him, struggling to get free, her face a grimace of determination, as he shoved her hard against the living room wall. She looked at him, the trusting and innocence in her eyes replaced by fear and trembling. She gasped, wide-eyed as he wrapped his hands firmly around her neck. She tried to pull his hands away from her, but his grip remained firm and, as he squeezed, he could feel the strength leaving her body. Only moments passed before she slumped into him, her arms falling limply to her sides. He released his grip, surprised at how quickly life flowed out of her body. She slid slowly down the wall to the floor, her leg twisted in a cruel way behind her back.
He wanted to leave her there, but he knew he couldn’t. It would take too long for someone to find her this way. It was supposed to look like a suicide, so he knew what he had to do. Soon, there would be a commotion with emergency vehicles and law enforcement milling around. When the police were finished, the ambulance would take her body to the Care Center, where he would be waiting.
Now he holds the scalpel in the air before him, ready to cut into her skin.
Ah, the skin, he thinks. Perhaps not only the most visible organ of the human body, but also the most remarkable. A miracle garment, really. No other organ in the body is as soft and pliable, nor as strong, waterproof, and self-repairing as the skin...
He forces himself to stop thinking. He has wasted enough time replaying the last moments of her life in his mind. The others will be at the Care Center soon, expecting him to be finished. Waste too much time and the old witch will be brutal on him.
He places his hand lightly on top of her abdomen, with his fingers held at roughly a 45-degree angle and presses down. He carefully puts his scalpel less than an inch from the tips of his fingers. One smooth, soundless slice is all that’s needed. He could never really cut a straight line with his scalpel, no matter how sharp it was or how he had it positioned.
But then he isn’t a doctor. He is just doing what he is told.
Revenge is Sweet (A Samantha Church Mystery, Book 2) Page 29