Dark Hearts: Four Novellas of Dark Suspense

by Bates, Jeremy

  Buddy nodded but didn’t say anything more. The memories were bringing up all sorts of emotions he didn’t care for. And what the hell was he doing telling Dil his goddamn life story? This was exactly why he hadn’t wanted anything to do with her. He was getting too close. She was going to think they were friends or some shit. She would start coming by. Soon they’d be fucking BFFs…

  “I should go,” he said. “I have stuff I have to do.”

  Dil touched his arm. She was looking at him with her big black eyes, sadly, sympathetically, and then she was stepping toward him, and to hell if she was going to do it… She was! She leaned in, tilting her chin up—and then they were kissing. He heard the wooden spoon clatter onto the counter, felt her breasts press against his chest.

  After a moment, Buddy ran his hands over the smooth satin of her robe, up and down her thighs. They were firm. So was her butt, firm, toned, like she worked out.

  A voice in his head was telling him this was wrong, this was bad, and he was about to put an end to it when Dil undid his jeans, slipped her hand down the front of his boxers.

  He fumbled opened her robe, peeled it off her shoulders. She was breathing hard, her cleavage heaving, fucking heaving, like they were acting out something from one of those romance novels on her bookshelf. His hands took on a life of their own, exploring everywhere, squeezing, pinching, plying. He was rock hard now. She knew that. She was arcing her crotch into his. And right then he wanted to fuck her more than he’d ever wanted to fuck anyone.

  Their mouths locked, their tongues danced. He drove her backward into the counter, hiked her onto it. She moaned, which made him all the more frenzied. He tried pulling the slip over her head, but she mumbled something that sounded like “no.” He stepped back, his heart pounding. Her eyes sparkled like chips of obsidian, wild, carnal. Her lips curled into a grin.

  She slid off the counter, took his hand in hers, and led him to the bedroom.

  ***

  Buddy dreamed he was in court, standing behind the bar table, addressing the judge. “We were baking a cake, Your Honor,” he said, “and she became angry and stabbed me with a knife. It was in a wood block on the counter.”

  “The police never found the knife,” the judge said.

  “It’s still inside me.”

  “The knife’s inside you?”

  “She stabbed me really deep. I didn’t want to take it out because I thought it would make the wound worse.”

  “Did you start the fight?”

  “No, she did.”

  “Liar!” Dil shouted from where she sat next to her lawyer.

  “It’s true,” Buddy insisted.

  “He doesn’t even have a job, Your Honor,” Dil said, jumping to her feet. She was completely naked, Buddy noticed for the first time, her skin a flawless nutmeg brown, her perfect breasts defying gravity, nipples at attention. “He told me this!” she went on. “He was fired. He’s a bum. Don’t believe him.”

  “What was the fight about?” the judge asked.

  “I just went over to his unit to borrow sugar,” she said, “and he went totally crazy. He started attacking me, so I stabbed him in self-defense.”

  “That’s bullshit, Your Honor!” Buddy said. “She stabs everyone, and she always says it’s in self-defense. She’s a psychopath.”

  “You are!” Dil said. “You still live with your mom!”

  “Fuck you!”

  “Fuck you!”

  The court went wild. The judge banged his gavel repeatedly—

  Buddy snapped open his eyes. It was dark, he couldn’t see, but he immediately recognized the alien feel of Dil’s bed beneath him, the fresh smell of her linens. He recalled the sex they’d had with a burst of excitement, though this was quickly replaced with dread and regret.

  He’d slept with his neighbor. His fucking neighbor. It was the beginning of the end—

  A black silhouette stood by the window. Dil? Yeah, had to be. She was just standing there…staring at him? And where was her arm? Was it behind her back? Was she holding something behind her back?

  “Dil?” he said.

  “Oh, you’re awake,” she replied, turning toward him. She hadn’t been staring at him after all. She’d been looking out the window. He’d been viewing her profile.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I couldn’t sleep,” she said. “It’s not you,” she added quickly. “I just don’t sleep much these days.”

  Buddy’s eyes adjusted to the gloom, and he now saw she wore her red satin robe. Nothing was in either of her hands.

  “What’s outside?” he asked.

  “I was looking at the stars. Or trying to. You can barely see any. I guess that’s something I’m going to have to get used to in this city.” She came to the bed, slipped under the covers, slid a knee over his legs. The robe was cool and smooth on his skin. “I just like looking at them. They remind me how small and insignificant Earth is, how insignificant I am, how much more stuff is out there that we can’t even begin to fathom.”

  “Did you smoke another joint while I was asleep?”

  She hit his shoulder playfully. “I’m serious, Buddy. I mean, people get so stressed about their lives. Their boss, or paying their telephone bill on time, or…this or that. But when you understand you’re an eye blink in something that’s billions of years old, you realize how silly all your worries are, how meaningless they are. Seriously, there’re billions of billions of planets out there, worlds and life forms beyond imagining, and I can’t sleep because…”

  “Because what?”

  “Nothing,” she said. “Anyway, I’m glad I met you, Buddy.”

  He didn’t say anything.

  “And I want you to know,” she went on, “I don’t usually do this.”

  “Do what?”

  “You know,” she said, rubbing her leg against his. “This. I’ve just been…lonely lately… I don’t know…”

  She set her head on the pillow. Her hair brushed his cheek, smelling of flowers and grapefruit.

  Buddy thought she might keep talking, but she didn’t. He closed his eyes and listened to her steady breathing until he drifted back to sleep.

  ***

  Dil woke to light streaming through her bedroom window. She rubbed the sleep from her eyes, and a warmth filled her chest as she remembered the night before. She rolled over, expecting to find Buddy sleeping next to her. He was gone.

  Frowning, she sat up. The bedroom was stark and unwelcoming. Unlike the living room, she hadn’t gotten around to fixing it up yet. She had a number of prints and picture frames ready to hang, but she held off yesterday, deciding she wanted to paint the walls first. She was thinking retro pink or tangerine, maybe even sky blue. All three would go well with the bed’s salmon upholstered headboard and dove-white duvet. She also needed more pillows. She loved pillows. Today or tomorrow she’d stop by a Wallmart and purchase a dozen colorful pillows—

  Actually, screw that, she thought. She’d visit Macy’s or Bloomingdale’s.

  After all, she was in New York freaking City.

  The door to the bathroom was open, though she didn’t hear the water running. “Buddy?” she said.

  No reply.

  She glanced about for a note but didn’t see one. She got out of bed and pulled her robe closed tighter against the chill morning air. Arms folded across her chest, she entered the living room. The cake, which they had forgotten about until they’d smelled it burning halfway through their lovemaking, sat on the kitchen counter, a charred, inedible square.

  Dil smiled as she recalled leaping off Buddy and dashing to the kitchen, stark naked, in the hopes of saving it.

  Nevertheless, her mood was already dampening. Because why had Buddy left without waking her or leaving a note? Did he think neither action was necessary given he lived next door? Or did he regret staying over? Was last night a one night stand and nothing more?

  Dammit, what had she told him when she’d returned to bed in the middle of the
night? That she was lonely? God, had she come across as clingy, pathetic? Had she scared him off?

  She hoped not. He might be odd, aloof, even a bit bigheaded, but like she’d told him, she was lonely, really lonely, and he was company. Also, it didn’t hurt he was fit and handsome and something of a stallion in bed.

  Dil hadn’t been with anyone since Jordon. A relationship had been the last thing on her mind during the trial, of course. But after she was cleared of all the baseless charges against her, she thought she might be able to resume her life as normal. That proved not to be the case. Her trial had been the talk of Newport for more than a year, and thanks to the prosecution’s portrayal of her as a manipulative, cold-hearted murderer, much of the town had formed their opinion of her long before the innocent verdict was read. The real estate company where she worked didn’t want her back, and her so-called friends didn’t want anything to do with her. Jordon had been a popular guy, and some no doubt wanted someone to blame for his death, while the others simply didn’t want to be seen in public with someone of her notoriety. Not that she blamed them. She couldn’t walk down the street without attracting profanities shouted from passing vehicles, or hostile looks from shopkeepers. The manager of one restaurant had outright refused to serve her, and she had to get up from her table and leave, humiliated, two dozen judging eyes on her. After that incident she rarely left her house, instead spending most days inside teaching herself to paint. Finally she made the difficult decision to leave Kentucky—difficult only because it meant leaving her father, mother, and brother behind, the only people she’d felt close to in the world.

  Dil went to the purple electric kettle next to the microwave. She lifted it by the handle and discovered it was half full with water. She clicked it on and started toward the fridge, to retrieve the milk, when she noticed a black wallet on the floor, pressed against the baseboard molding beneath the cupboards.

  She picked it up. A couple of twenties were tucked into the sleeve, a variety of cards in the card slots. She pulled one out—a TD credit card issued to Buddy Smith. Dil realized the wallet must have fallen from one of Buddy’s pockets while they’d been making out after baking the cake.

  Her first impulse was to call him on the phone, but she didn’t have his number. Besides, he was right next door. It made more sense to drop off the wallet. Not to mention it would also provide her the opportunity to read his face, see if last night meant anything.

  After fixing her hair in the magnetized mirror stuck to the fridge, Dil went next door and knocked. She waited a good ten seconds, then knocked again.

  Buddy didn’t answer.

  Was he sleeping? she wondered. Or had he gone out?

  Without his wallet?

  Dil thought about returning to her apartment and waiting for Buddy to put two and two together and pay her a visit. Yet she found she didn’t want to wait. She wanted to see him now.

  She tried the door handle. It twisted in her grip. She pushed the door open and poked her head inside. It was dark, the lights off, the blinds closed. The TV, however, cast a flickering glow on someone sitting before it in a wheelchair—someone with curly, white hair. For a moment Dil couldn’t fathom who the person might be until she remembered Buddy telling her his mother lived with him.

  “Uh, hi, there!” Dil said awkwardly, wondering why the woman hadn’t attempted to answer the door. “I’m your neighbor. I just moved in. Buddy, uh, forgot his wallet at my place last night. I’m just going to leave it on the table here.”

  Buddy’s mother didn’t answer.

  Dil set the wallet on the table and was about to leave—but hesitated.

  Why wasn’t the woman answering her? Was she hard of hearing? Deaf?

  Had she had another stroke?

  “Hello?” Dil said, louder.

  No reply.

  A ball of dread formed in Dil’s gut. Something was not right. Her instincts told her to turn around, leave, but she didn’t listen to them. Instead she crossed the room, slowly, tentatively. She detected an unpleasant musty smell.

  When she reached the wheelchair she gasped. The woman sitting in it was little more than a clothed skeleton sheathed in shriveled, leathery skin. Her unseeing eyes were painted with garish eyeliner, her sunken cheeks powdered with blush, her cracked lips smeared with bright red lipstick. Her hair was too white and glossy to be anything but a wig.

  Dil’s first thought was that it was a prop, a Halloween prop, one of those expensive ones you rent rather than buy.

  Her second thought: It’s real. My God, it’s real, it’s a corpse, it’s a real corpse.

  Even as Dil stumbled backward in horror, she noted the dust coating the metal arms of the wheelchair, the rubber tires, the spokes.

  For a moment she thought the dead woman was moaning before realizing the sound had originated deep within her own throat.

  She turned to flee—and sensed a presence in the bedroom doorway.

  Buddy stood there, his hair wet, a crimson towel wrapped around his waist. He was watching her impassively.

  “I knew you were going to be trouble,” he said.

  ***

  Dil ran. Buddy caught her before she reached the door. His hands curled around her shoulders. She opened her mouth to scream, but in the same instant Buddy’s right arm pressed against her throat, choking her, silencing her. All she could muster was a strangled croak.

  She scratched and tore at his arm, her nails digging into his flesh, drawing blood. Buddy swung her around, moving her toward one of the bedrooms. Inside it she glimpsed a number of glass bottles on a shelf, each containing—

  Oh God no.

  Dil kicked, squirmed, flailed.

  Buddy grabbed a fistful of her hair and removed his arm from her throat. She sucked back air. Before she could do anything else he slammed her head into the doorframe.

  Light exploded across her vision. Her face went numb.

  He drove her head into the doorframe a second time.

  Stars and blackness ferried her into unconsciousness.

  ***

  Buddy spat a litany of curses as he carried Dil’s limp body into what used to be his mother’s bedroom. He couldn’t believe his bad luck. He’d locked the front door every day for the last two years, and the one time he forgets to, his goddamn nosy neighbor busts in.

  He had excuses for not locking it. He was still loopy from the pot when he left Dil’s place earlier. He was flustered by his lapse in judgment to have sex with her. He was overeager to wash her smell off him, to get into his writing, and to forget the night ever happened.

  Not that any of these excuses mattered. The damage was done.

  She’d seen his mother.

  Buddy set Dil on his mother’s bed, which she hadn’t used since he’d slipped a plastic bag over her head while she was watching an old Sean Connery movie twenty months before. She had only been living with him for six weeks then, but it had been six weeks too long. When he’d agreed to care for her, he’d had no idea what he was taking on. He’d figured a bit more cooking, cleaning, ironing, that kind of stuff. The reality was she pissed her bed every night, which meant he had to wash her linens and shower her each morning. Then he’d get home from work only to find she’d pissed herself again, often shitting herself too. Another shower, more laundry. Come dinner he didn’t get a break because the stroke, which had paralyzed much of her body, prevented her from feeding herself. So he’d have to pound her dinner into mush and spoon it into her mouth. In the evening she might signal she needed to use the bathroom instead of letting loose in her diaper. Nevertheless, getting her undressed, on the toilet, cleaning her up—fuck, it was easier to let her soil herself and hose her down in the shower.

  Needless to say, caring for her simply became too much. But killing her wasn’t the answer. Buddy knew that right after she took her last, agonized breath. Flooded with guilt at what he’d done, he began talking to her, apologizing to her, changing her, bathing her, all the old routines. When her stench became
overpowering, he removed her lungs, stomach, liver, intestines, heart, and brain, and treated her body with salt for forty days until no moisture remained. Then he filled the cavities with sawdust from a local cabinetmaker and sewed her back up.

  Buddy knew what he was doing wasn’t right, wasn’t healthy. In fact, according to WebMD, he was demonstrating all the symptoms of a schizophrenic disorder. Even so, he didn’t feel comfortable seeing a doctor, and he didn’t have the cash to see a shrink, so he ordered a variety of antipsychotic medication from an RX pharmacy in India. They worked in the sense they stopped the voices in his head and made it very clear to him that his mother was a mummified corpse in a wheelchair. Yet he found he didn’t like this reality at all. He was much happier with the voices and his mother alive and well. Besides, the drugs made him feel depressed and suicidal and even more antisocial than he already was.

  He flushed them down the toilet shortly after he began taking them, and he had been doing just fine ever since.

  Four lengths of blood-speckled rope, each three feet long, were tied to the bed’s four corner posts. Buddy used them to secure Dil’s hands and legs, as he had done many times before to the prostitutes he brought back to his unit. He didn’t hire them from pimps or madams or other intermediaries, nor did he contact the self-employed ones via their Facebook pages. He picked them off the street so there was no way they could be traced back to him. Chinatown or Soho one month. Midtown, between Forty-eighth and Fifty-ninth, another month. The Bronx. Murray Hill. Tribeca. He’s killed thirteen in total since his mother’s death. They were all the same. Confident and sultry when they were fucking him and thinking they were in control. Weeping and moaning when they realized who was really in control, when they woke from their beating tied to the bed, their tongues cut out.

  Buddy’s collection lined the shelf on the wall directly before him. Thirteen wide-mouth, one-liter glass bottles, each containing a ten-percent formaldehyde solution and a perfectly preserved segment of tongue, each labeled with a piece of masking tape and a corresponding name: Selma, Angel, Tara, Zoe, Crystal, Tawny, Tiffany, Brandy, Lola, Ginger, Candy, Jade, Devon.