1990 - Mine v4 (16 page)

"Show me." Mary stood up, backed away, and held the gun steady as Shecklett staggered up. She followed right behind him as he went through a hallway into the bedroom, which looked like a tornado had recently roared through. The bed had no sheets. On the walls hung yellowed, framed black-and-whites of a young Shecklett with a dark-haired, attractive woman. There was a picture atop the dresser of Shecklett wearing a tasseled fez and standing amid a group of smiling, paunchy Shriners. "Open the drawer," Mary said, her insides as tight as a crushed spring. "Easy, easy."

Shecklett opened it in fearful slow motion, blood dripping from his nose. He started to reach in, and Mary stepped forward and pressed the gun's barrel against his head. She looked into the drawer, saw nothing but boxer shorts and rolled-up socks. "I don't see any money."

"It's there. Right there." He touched one of the rolled-up socks. "Don't hurt me anymore, okay? I've got a bad heart."

Mary picked up the wad of socks he'd indicated. She closed the drawer and gave the socks back to him. "Show me."

Shecklett unwadded them, his hands trembling. Inside the socks was a roll of money. He held it up for her to see, and she said, "Count it."

He began. There were two hundred-dollar bills, three fifties, six twenties, four tens, five fives, and eight dollar bills. A total of five hundred and forty-three dollars. Mary snatched the cash from his hand. "That's not all of it," she said. "Where's the rest?"

Shecklett held his hand to his nose, his puffed eyes shiny with fear. "That's all. My social security. That's all I've got in the world."

The lying bastard! she thought, and she almost smacked him across the face again but she needed him conscious. "Stand back," she told him. When he obeyed, she pulled the dresser drawers out one after the other and dumped their contents onto the bed. In a couple of minutes it was all over, the pile contained Shecklett's Tshirts, sweaters, copies of
Cavalier
,
Nugget
, and
National Geographic
, handkerchiefs, a full bottle of J. W. Dant and one half killed, and other odds and ends of a solitary life but no money to speak of except for the errant few quarters, dimes, and pennies.

Mary Terror turned to face the old man, who had crushed himself up against the wall, and she said, "Paula thinks you've saved a lot of money. Is it true or not?"

"What do you know about Paula? You've never even
met
my daughter!"

Mary went to the bedroom closet, opened it, and ransacked it as Shecklett kept asking her how she knew his daughter. Mary overthrew the mattress and then the entire bedframe, finding nothing but TV dinner trays and old newspapers under the bed. She bulldozed through the bathroom's medicine cabinet and tore into the kitchen cabinets, and when her search was over she realized she knew Shecklett a lot better than Paula did.

"There's no more, is there?" she asked, training the Colt on him.

"I said there wasn't! Jesus Christ, look what you did to my place!"

"Give me your wallet."

Shecklett fished it from his pants and handed it over. There were no credit cards, and the wallet held a five and three ones. "Listen," Shecklett said as Mary pocketed the cash and tossed the wallet aside, "you've got every cent now. Why don't you just get out?"

"Right. The faster I get out, the faster you can call the pigs, huh?"

Shecklett's gaze dropped to the gun. He looked up from it into Mary's face, then back to the gun again. His Adam's apple wobbled. "I won't tell anybody," he said.

"Take off your clothes," Mary ordered.

"Huh?"

"Your clothes. Off."

"My
clothes
? How come you want me to —"

She was on him before he could utter another word. The gun rose and fell, and the old man dropped to his knees with his jaw broken and three teeth loose. Moaning with pain, he began to take his clothes off. When he was finished, his bony white body nude, Mary said, "Get up." He did, his eyes deep-sunken and terrified. "Into the bathroom," she told him, and she followed him in. "Get in the bathtub on your hands and knees." He balked at this, and began to beg her to leave him alone, that he wouldn't tell anybody, wouldn't ever tell anybody. She pressed the gun's barrel against the staircase of his spine, and he got into the tub in the position she'd demanded.

"Head down. Don't look at me," she said. Shecklett's skinny chest heaved, and he coughed violently for maybe a minute. She waited until his coughing was done, and then she slid the knife from her waistband.

"Swear I won't tell a soul." His chest heaved again, this time in a sob. "God, please don't hurt me. I never did anything to you. I won't tell anybody. I'll keep my mouth shut, I swear to —"

Mary picked up a washrag from the sink and jammed it into Shecklett's mouth. He gasped and gagged, and then Mary leaned over his naked body. She thrust the knife into one side of Shecklett's throat, her knuckles scraping the sandpaper of his skin. Before Shecklett could fully realize what she was doing, Mary cut his throat from ear to ear with the serrated blade, and crimson blood fountained into the air.

Shecklett tried to scream around the washrag. As the blood sprayed into the bathtub from his severed carotid artery, Shecklett grasped at his throat with his one hand and started to rise to his knees. Mary put her foot into the small of his back and jammed him down again. His body thrashed and writhed under Mary's strength, blood spewing into the tub as if released from a pulsing faucet. "My name is Mary Terrell," she told him as he bled and died. "Soldier of the Storm Front. Freedom fighter for those without rights in the Mindfuck State, and executioner of the state's pigs." He was trying to get up again, his knowledge of death affording him a last surge of power. She had to bear down hard on him, and his adrenaline flood ceased in a few seconds. He writhed at the bottom of the tub as if doing a breast stroke in his own gore. "Defender of the just. Protector of the weak. Crusher of the Mindfuck mentality, and keeper of the faith."

He had a lot of blood for a gaunt old dude.

Mary sat on the edge of the tub and watched him die. There was something about him that made her think of a baby swimming through a sea of blood and mother's fluid to reach the light. He died not with a shudder or a moan or a final desperate thrashing; he simply got weaker and weaker, until the weakness killed him. And there he lay in the tub with his life going down the drain, his eyes open, and his skin the color of a fish Mary had once seen washed up and swollen-bellied on a gray beach.

Mary stood up. She slashed the mattress open in the bedroom, just to make sure no money was hidden inside. Cotton wadding puffed out, and it served to clean the blade. Then she left Shecklett's apartment and closed the door behind her, richer by five hundred fifty-one dollars and some change.

The uniform was ready. She took a shower with God cranked up on the speakers, the bass pounding at the walls like an eager fist. Before the day was done, she would be a mother. She scrubbed spatters of blood from her hands, and she smiled in her veil of steam.

Big Hands

ON SATURDAY MORNING JUST AFTER ELEVEN O'CLOCK, DOUG stood at the window of Room 21. He watched the clouds move in the pewter sky, and he thought about the question Laura had just asked him.

How long has the affair been going on?

Of course she knew. He'd seen yesterday that she knew; it was in her eyes when he'd told her he hadn't been able to get away from work until long after midnight Friday morning. Her eyes had looked right through him, as if he were no longer truly there. "I don't want to hear it," she'd said, and she'd lapsed into silence. Every time he spoke to her, he was met with the same wall of words: "I don't want to hear it." He'd known she'd be upset because he wasn't there at David's birth, and that fact gnawed at his guts like little piranhas that meant to devour him to the bones, but then he realized there was more to it. Laura knew. Somehow, she knew. How much she knew he wasn't sure, but just knowing was bad enough. All day yesterday and all night last night it had been either "I don't want to hear it" or cold silence. Laura's mother, who'd come to Atlanta yesterday with Laura's father to see their grandson, had asked him what was wrong with Laura, that she didn't want to talk, that all she wanted to do was hold the baby and croon to David. He hadn't been able to say because he didn't know. Now he did, and he watched the pewter sky and wished he could think of something to say.

"The truth," Laura said, reading his mind in the stiff reluctance of his body. "That's what I want."

"An
affair
?" He turned from the window, a salesman's smile plastered to his mouth. "Laura, come on! I can't believe you —" He stopped speaking because his son was down the hall in the maternity window, and he couldn't carry off the lie.

"How long?" she prodded. Her face was wan and pale, her eyes tired. She felt light of body and leaden of spirit. "A month? Two months? Doug, I'd like to hear it."

He was silent. His mind was searching for cracks like a mouse who hears a footstep in the dark.

"She lives at the Hillandale Apartments," Laura went on. "Apartment 5-E. I followed you there on Thursday night."

Doug's mouth opened. Hung open. A small gasp escaped his chest. She saw the color bloom in his cheeks. "You…
followed
me? You actually… my God, you actually
followed
me?" He shook his head incredulously. "Jesus! I can't believe this! You followed me like… like I was some kind of… common criminal or something?"

"STOP IT, DOUG!" The thunder crashed out of her before she could contain it. She was not a yeller — far from it — but the anger sprang forth seemingly from every pore in her body like scalding steam. "Stop the lies, all right? Just stop lying, right now!"

"Keep your voice down, will you?"

"Hell, no, I won't keep my voice down!" The expression of shocked outrage on Doug's face was like kerosene on her charcoals. The flames leapt high, out of her control. "I
know
you've got a girlfriend, Doug! I found the two tickets! I found out Eric was in Charleston the night he was supposed to have called you to the office! Someone called me and told me what her address was! You'd better believe I followed you, and by God I was hoping you wouldn't go to her, but there you were! Right there! How was the beer, Doug?" She felt her mouth contort in a bitter twist. "Did you two enjoy the six-pack? My water broke right there in the parking lot, while you were walking to her door! While our son —
my
son — was being born, you were shacked up with a stranger across town! Was it good, Doug? Come on, tell me, damn you! Was it good? Was it really really good?"

"Are you finished?" He was grim-lipped and stoic, but she saw the shiny fear in his eyes.

"NO! No, I'm not finished! How
could
you do something like this? Knowing I was about to have David? How? Don't you have a conscience? My God, you must think I'm so stupid! Did you think I'd never know? Is that it? Did you think you could have this secret life forever, and I'd never figure it out?" Tears burned her eyes. She blinked them back, and they were gone. "Come on, let's hear it! Let's hear how you figured you'd have your little piece of cake at home and your little piece of…" She couldn't say the word she was thinking. "Your little girlfriend at the Hillandale Apartments and I'd never find out!"

The bloom had faded from Doug's cheeks. He stood there, just staring at her with his eyes that glinted like false coins, and he seemed very small to her. He seemed to have shrunken in the space of a minute or so, until his Dockers khaki trousers and his Polo sweater hung on a framework of bones and lies. He lifted his hand and touched his forehead, and Laura saw his hand tremble. "Someone
told
you?" he asked; even his voice had gotten small. "Who told you?"

"A friend. How long has it been going on? Will you tell me that, or not?"

He drew a breath and let it leak out. He was deflating, right in front of her. His face had gotten pasty and pallid, and he spoke with what seemed a great effort: "I… met her… in September. I've been… I've been seeing her since… the end of October."

Christmas. All through Christmas Doug had been sleeping with another woman. For three months as David grew inside her, Doug had been making his heated runs to and from the Hillandale Apartments. Laura said, "Oh my God" and pressed her hand to her mouth.

"She's a secretary at a real estate agency," Doug went on, flaying her with a small, hushed voice. "I met her when I was doing some work for one of the realtors. She seemed… I don't know, cute, I guess. I asked her out to lunch. She said okay. She knew I was married, but she didn't mind." Doug turned away from Laura, his gaze scanning the clouds again. "It happened fast. Two lunch dates in a row, and then I asked her out to dinner. She said she'd make dinner for me at her apartment. On the way over there I pulled off the road and just sat and thought. I knew what I was doing. I knew I was stepping on you and David. I knew it."

"But you did it anyway. Very thoughtful of you."

"I did it anyway," he agreed. "I have no reason for it other than an old tired one: she's twenty-three, and when I was with her I felt like a kid again. Just starting out, no responsibilities, no wife, no child on the way, no house payments, no car payments, nothing but the wild blue yonder ahead. That sounds like bullshit, doesn't it?"

"Yes."

"Maybe so, but it's the truth." He looked at her, his face ancient with sorrow. "I meant to stop seeing her. It was just going to be a one-time thing. But… it got away from me. She's studying for her real estate tests, and I helped her with her homework. We drank wine and watched old movies. You know, talking to somebody that age is like talking to a person from another planet. She's never heard of Howdy Doody, or Steppenwolf, or Mighty Mouse or John Garfield or Boris Karloff or…" He shrugged. "I guess I was trying to reinvent myself, maybe. Make myself younger, go back to how I used to be before I knew what the world was all about. She looked at me and saw somebody you don't know, Laura. Can you understand that?"