to touch anymore.
Makes me want to puke.
But the closet is the perfect hiding place.
Footsteps on the carpeted stairs. Unsteady footsteps and a thud each time she falls against the wall. She’s stopped. Don’t let her pass out down there.
Glory, glory, she’s moving again.
There’s a soft pink light, turned down real low, by the bed. Of course the silly bitch won’t have anything but all white on that bed. What do you call that old-fashioned stuff where they cut holes and embroider around them? Cutwork. That’s it. And she has the coverlets made for her. They cost a fortune. She’s a drain, a waste, a user of what she’s got no right to—and she is in the way.
Not for long now.
Come right on in, whore. Look at you, you’re too drunk to stay on your feet, but you’re still drinking. Just make it to the bathroom, sweetie, that’s it. Shit!
Great. Flat on your face. Gin all over the rug. Makes me want to laugh. That’s right, up you get, hold on to the bed—that’s it. Now, into the bathroom with you.
You can’t clean up the rug. That’s right, you pick up that glass and see if there’s a drop left.
Hurry up.
More than a drop, huh. But you don’t want anything in the drawer. Just go in that bathroom. We’ll get you all clean and white.
What the hell is she taking? Lordy, Lordy, it could be the painkiller from when she broke some ribs. The stuff that sent her to la-la land. Quite a story about that. Got a headache, baby? Drinking doesn’t pay, not when you can’t hold it. You made that gin go a long way. Forget the pills. Mixture like that could kill you….
Everything’s ready. The box of razor blades. They’ll say you bought them for the job. Unwrap a blade. Careful.
It’s getting hotter. I hate it like this—unless I’m in a pool—or skin to skin and getting it off.
Don’t just stand there, crying. You’re even uglier when you cry.
Move, damn it, move!
That’s…shit, shit, shit. Why’d you have to pass out on the bed?
I’m going to walk right up and see just how out of it you are. Lock the door and go look at her.
Out cold. And she’s sweating like a pig. Let’s get this done, piggy. Wake up too soon, and I’ll tell you I’m saving you from yourself.
I’ve got to make sure she doesn’t bleed on me. Push her arm above her head.
She’s out of it.
I’ll keep down and make one tidy slit. No, not too tidy, it ought to jerk around a bit like she’s having trouble aiming.
My hands are shaking, dammit. Chill out. Nobody’s going to interrupt you.
See how easy the blade slides. The blood wells, then pours. All over the white coverlet—such a shame. Whoa, good job I got myself out of the way.
Now the other one, Miss Piggy.
Damn, she’s heavy. No falling off the bed. That’s it. Cool. I wish this had been in the bathroom.
If she cut one wrist here and got to the bathroom for the second, would it look strange?
Stay there, baby doll, while I take a look and decide. Oh, yeah, the shiny white bathroom. You’d bleed everywhere on the way. Best finish it where you are.
What was that? She’s fallen off the bed. Just like her to mess things up. Nobody else to have heard her bump onto the floor like that, but I’ve got to get out of here. Hurry.
She looks dead already.
Used razor in left pocket. Can’t risk leaving it. Could have marked it somehow. Quick, got to leave the weapon. Another razor. Rip paper off one side. Finger and thumb, and squeeze. There you go, Miss Piggy. Now, stick it in the wound. Hah, it’s going to stay there, like an ax in wood.
It’s perfect. It feels like sex. The rush. Ride it, go with it.
I’m outta here. Next stop, a great fuck.
6
Father Cyrus Payne sat on the stairs inside the rectory. Using an old, broken-bladed but extremely sharp knife, he peeled an apple, the skin falling in one long, unbroken strip. He glanced repeatedly at the front door. From his right came the muted click of Madge’s keyboard as she worked late in her office. Madge always worked late. He gave a satisfied sigh at the thought. She was his assistant, the best he’d ever had, but she was also his best friend and he liked having her where he could see her when he needed to.
He couldn’t settle to do anything, so he’d given up and planted himself where he could see when Guy Gautreaux approached. Cyrus would have volunteered to go to Guy’s place if the Impala hadn’t been out of commission. Gator Hibbs had shown up at the accident scene and left Cyrus with a small, rusty pickup. It ran. That was about the best you could say about it. The lights dimmed without warning and Cyrus didn’t want to drive the vehicle at night, or in isolated places like the location of Guy’s house. Cyrus was still grateful for Gator’s kindness.
Madge’s keyboard stopped clicking and she put on one of the hundred or so zydeco CDs she owned.
The wallpaper in the hall and up the stairs, “ducks in flight” folks called it, had finally turned yellow, mostly along the seams. He’d like to strip it and paint instead, only the place was so old Cyrus feared he’d be knee-deep in crumbling plaster if he tried.
The doorbell rang. Cyrus saw a tall man’s shadow through a pebble-glass panel in the front door.
“Coming,” Madge called, and shot from her office to let the visitor in, noticing Cyrus as she took off the bolt. “I didn’t know you were there.” She smiled with her dark eyes. So much warmth came from the way she looked at him.
“I’m expectin’ Guy Gautreaux.”
She opened the door and Guy stood there, hat in hands, around a foot taller than Madge. “Come on in,” Cyrus told him.
“I’ll get you something to drink,” Madge said. “What would you like? I’ll bring it up to the sittin’ room. Are you hungry?”
“There’s no need, ma’am,” Guy said. “Thank you.”
“There’s fresh coffee in the kitchen,” Cyrus said. “Okay with you if we sit out there?”
“Like your taste in a tune, ma’am,” Guy said with a nod at Madge. He set off down the hall toward the kitchen and Cyrus followed him.
Guy made straight for the big oak table in the window that overlooked the yard and Bayou Teche. “No coffee for me,” he said. “Madge is dedicated to you. She’s here late and she’s still got quite a drive getting home to Rosebank.”
Madge rented rooms from Vivian Devol at Rosebank Resort. A floor in one wing of the hotel was dedicated to long-stay guests. Cyrus did his best not to show how much he worried about Madge making that drive alone. “I don’t know what I’d do without her. I’m going to have a glass of wine, how about one for you?”
“Red?”
“It can be.”
“Thank you, then.”
The man looked even more buttoned-up than usual. Cyrus glanced at him between pouring glasses of wine. Guy’s palms were pressed together and he tapped his joined small fingers on the table. Right about now Cyrus would guess Guy had forgotten where he was.
Carrying the wine, and with a can of nuts clamped beneath one arm, Cyrus approached, and Guy went right on staring straight ahead. “Something on your mind?” Cyrus asked quietly.
“Nope.”