Fixed in Blood (28 page)

“Now we’re getting somewhere.” She held up a cloth grocery bag. “I got everything you need in here to wake up with one mother of a hangover tomorrow.” She patted her purse. “And I got something in here to take away the pain, ring the bell, and start round two. Donny says you’re, what? Like, training to be a monk for your next picture or somethin’?” She shifted her weight to thrust out her other hip. “Makes no matter. He says your balls gotta be a brilliant shade of blue about now. You wanna see what I can do about that?”

Vincent Feldoni opened the door wide enough to stick his head out. He looked up and down the hall.

“I may have been born at night,” Lydia said. “But it wasn’t last night. Nobody’s seen me, if that’s your worry. Let’s get this party goin’, and in a couple a days you can go back to your method acting or whatever the fuck it is you’re doin’ up here in this hole in the wall. No one’s the wiser.”

Feldoni looked her from toe to tip. He did one last glance of the hall and opened the door wide.

“Well, get your pretty little ass in here, gorgeous.” His smile was wide behind a shaggy beard, but those expensive caps on his teeth glowed like polished pearls. “Let’s see what you got.”

They spent the next two hours drinking. Feldoni swilled from a bottle of Crown Royal. Lydia told him hard liquor made her ornery. “I got my own party juice right here.” She’d pulled out what looked like a bottle of cheap red wine, but was actually watered-down grape juice. When he started slurring his words, Lydia suggested they switch to something sexier and pulled out a joint. Feldoni lunged for it like a starving dog smelling bacon. She tossed him a lighter and relaxed against the sofa while he fired it up. He filled his lungs, held his breath, and reached out to hand her the glowing doobie.

“Oh, no, honey. That’s all for you. Donny said I’m to get you as stoned as you wanna get. Oh, I almost forgot. He says I’m supposed to tell you how proud he is of you.” She wagged a finger at him. “And there’s another little surprise waiting. You tell me when you’re ready.”

Feldoni jerked his head toward the bedroom. “It’s ripe in there. I gotta tell you in advance.” His eyes were beginning to lose focus. “I wasn’t expecting company. But I promise I got a few surprises of my own.”

Lydia twirled a piece of long blond hair around her finger. “I just bet you do. You’re one good-looking mofo. Anybody ever tell you that?”

Feldoni laughed. “I’m a movie star, baby.
Everybody
tells me that.” He reached out to touch her, but his arm fell flat. “But you can come over here and tell me again.”

“Not until you get your other surprise.” She glanced down to his crotch and licked her lips. “Donny was very specific. First get you high, then the big surprise, then we celebrate any old way we want.”

Feldoni’s voice boomed. “Then bring on the surprise! Let’s see it! We got some partying to do.”

Lydia stood. She made a show of adjusting her breasts and bra straps. “If you think Donny’s idea of a big surprise fits into one of the grocery bags, then you don’t have clue one how Donny G works, mister. You gotta come with me.”

Feldoni stayed seated. He stomped his right foot, then his left. “I don’t think my legs work. Why don’t you go get my surprise and bring it to me?” He reached for the bottle of Crown. “Just don’t take too long.”

Lydia crossed her arms over her chest. She settled her face into a playful pout. “You gonna make me ruin everything by telling you? Or are you gonna follow me down to the water?”

Vincent Feldoni blinked four times, slow and deliberate, trying to clear his head. “That sumbitch got me a boat, didn’t he?” He started laughing. “That’s it, damn it. He always gets me something when he seals a deal. Whoooo…he musta got some large coin for this one if he’s layin’ a boat on me. What is it? How big’s the engine?”

“You’re gonna have to come see for yourself.” She picked up her bags. “Now, I don’t know thing one about drivin’ no boats. You in shape for this?”

Feldoni stood. He weaved a bit but found his bearings. “Come here, sugar. Let me lean on you and tell you a little something.”

Lydia stepped toward him and let him lay a heavy arm around one shoulder. She pulled her bags to the other and wrapped her free arm around his waist. “What’s that?”

“I may need a little help walking, but I can handle a boat.” Feldoni walked along with her toward the front door of the apartment. “You wouldn’t believe what I can do and still handle a boat.”

Lydia took one last look to make sure she hadn’t left anything behind. “Oh, I think I have a pretty good idea what you’re capable of.”

And that was it. They’d walked down to the marina. They passed two men carrying fishing tackle up the ramp, finished with the day’s catch and swapping stories about the skill they’d used to haul in the big one. Neither of them paid any attention to the obviously drunk man and woman strolling down the pier.

No one was around when they got to the rowboat. Feldoni stepped in without objection when Lydia said they’d have to row out to the surprise.

“Hot damn,” he’d said. “Too big to moor in this punk-ass marina?” He squinted to scan the night sky. “He drop anchor? Is that sumbitch out there? Did he come to rescue me?” He managed to seat himself without overturning the wobbly boat. “That’d be just like him.” He reached for the oars.

“Tut-tut, Mr. Movie Star.” Lydia reached in her bag and handed him another joint. “You let me do the work. Your job is to sit back, light up, and relax.”

And that was that. Lydia rowed out into Tillamook Bay while Feldoni slurred stories about who he knew, parts he’d played, and movies he wanted to make. He stopped looking for his surprise as he mumbled tales of his glamorous life and how he couldn’t wait to get back to Malibu.

“There’s not a restaurant in town turns me away,” he said. “Doesn’t matter one fuck how crowded they are. I walk in, they make room.”

Lydia rowed on and promised he wouldn’t have to put up with Garibaldi much longer. She rowed until his words stopped coming in sentences. She rowed until his words stopped making sense. She rowed until his words stopped coming at all.

And then she slipped him into the water, turned the boat around, and rowed back to shore. She went back to the Pelican’s Perch Bed and Breakfast and once again went in quietly. It was past ten and all the guests were sleeping the heavy slumber brought on by clean salt air. When the proprietor checked her room the next morning, it was likely she’d assume Vicky Vonderask had wanted to get a jump on the day and headed out without coming down for breakfast. It didn’t matter, she’d paid in advance. The innkeeper probably wouldn’t even realize she hadn’t actually laid eyes on her recent guest.

Lydia drove back the way she came. Up through Portland, past Olympia and Tacoma. She sailed through Seattle so early in the morning she didn’t catch a hint of its legendary traffic and got to Mukilteo in time for the first ferry to Whidbey. She boarded as a long-haired blonde but disembarked as a middle-aged weary traveler. She picked up her bike at the ferry landing and pedaled back to the clearing down the lane from her cabin. She hiked to her back door, entered through the kitchen, and fell asleep the moment her head hit the pillow.

It had been so easy.

She stretched long and slow, letting her leg run the length of Paul Bauer’s.

“Are you planning on making me some coffee or should we simply die of thirst?”

He chuckled. “I wouldn’t mind staying here all day.”

“With no coffee?” she asked in mock dismay. “They’re gonna drum you right out of the Pacific Northwest with that kind of subversive talk.”

He threw off the covers and grumbled playful protests as he headed across the bedroom. Lydia let her eyes linger on his broad shoulders and narrow waist until he turned the corner and disappeared into the kitchen. She closed her eyes, burrowed down into the sheets, and wondered if this was what normal felt like.

Paul’s face lacked any trace of his earlier humor when he came back with two mugs. He handed her the one holding coffee laced with milk and honey. He held on to his mug of black and reached for the television remote.

“I had it on in the kitchen.” He clicked on the morning news. A grim-faced anchor was speaking in front of a graphic of Vincent Feldoni smiling from the red carpet.

“Give me more volume,” Lydia asked.

“…disguised by a beard and long hair.” The graphic behind the anchor switched to an older shot of Feldoni and his father, laughing at some shared joke. “Details as to why Vincent Feldoni was in the tiny hamlet of Garibaldi are unclear at this time, but spokesmen for both local and Oregon State Police say they are certain the body found floating in Tillamook Bay is indeed that of Vincent Feldoni. Seattle detectives are on their way south to write the finishing chapter in the murders Feldoni’s alleged to have committed. We here at KING 5 news will keep you posted on developments as they occur.”

The news shifted to sports and Paul clicked off the television. He sat on the bed beside Lydia.

“You okay? This has got to bring up stuff about your patient.” Paul’s voice was filled with concern. “Delbe, right?”

Lydia nodded. “Delbe. We’ll never know who was Feldoni’s last victim, her or Eddie Yaz.”

Paul laid a reassuring hand on her shoulder. He shook his head in quiet appreciation. “Justice has a habit of finding its way.”

She took a sip of coffee. “Yes, it does.”

“I imagine you’ll be hearing from Mort.”

Lydia inhaled the earthy aroma of her coffee and honey. She held her mug in both hands, letting the warmth soothe her. She looked around Paul’s bedroom. So clearly masculine, yet still comfortable and inviting.
I could stay here forever.
She shoved the dream aside and took another sip.

“Yes. I imagine I will.”

This, like everything fun in my life, is for Lance.

So many thank-you’s needed…so little space. Thank you, Random House team, for all you do. Thanks to my Supers. Super Agent Victoria Skurnick and Super Editor Kate Miciak. This entire series would be nothing without your guidance, encouragement, and support. To all my friends who suffer through plot points and help me name characters, I owe you big. Tugger and Gitch…don’t think Mom doesn’t appreciate your patience as she writes, because I do. And above all, I owe a tremendous thank-you to all the readers who have embraced this series. It touches my heart when you take the time to write me with your thoughts about the books. It connects us in a way that fills me like nothing else can. Keep reading. Keep writing. I love it.

The Fixer

The Red Hot Fix

The Unforgivable Fix

Fixed in Blood

T
.
E
.
W
OODS
is a clinical psychologist and author living in Madison, Wisconsin. For random insight into how her strange mind works, follow her:

tewoodswrites.com

Facebook.com/tewoodswrites

@
tewoodswrites

by T. E. Woods

Carlton Smydon followed the others across a thick carpet of fallen needles beneath the high pine canopy. Some whispered, one hummed. Carlton prayed.

“Last chance to say ‘no,’ ” their host warned when they reached the clearing. Four of the others hurried to the cheery campfire. The muslin shifts each was directed to wear did little to protect against the night’s chill. Carlton looked up. A crescent moon glowed in the sea of eternity. He knew some found awe in the dazzling display of stars and planets, but Carlton shivered at the revenge the designer of this vast tableau was certain to have waiting for him.

Four stakes marked the directions on the clearing’s perimeter. Carlton walked to the one denoting west. A clay mask hung from it. Bear. The totem representing unpredictability. He went to the northern stake and examined its totem. The Mouse: navigator between this world and the next. He stepped into the space between the two markers. Northwest, where he committed the sin no god would ever forgive.

“It is time,” the host announced.

Carlton joined the others at the fire, well aware they didn’t expect to see someone like him at their lodge. But the days were long past since he’d been bothered by being the lone black guest at the party. He pulled a pinch of tobacco from the pocket of his shift and tossed it into the flames as an offering to Gaia. The host rang a bell to invite the forest sprites to join in their celebration as each participant was asked to give oral blessings to their ancestors.

Carlton spared his forefathers the hypocrisy.

He was handed a sprig of smoldering sage and went through the motions of brushing his aura. He stepped aside as their host pulled red-hot river rocks one by one from the fire and carried them on the end of a shovel into the small domed structure ten feet east of where they stood. When he was finished, the host held open the heavy carpet and waved them in.

Carlton settled himself at the farthest point from the sweat lodge’s door. He sat cross-legged, uncomfortable in the slouch necessary to avoid the low ceiling. He strained to keep his toes away from the radiant rocks in the center. Two women were to his right. He recalled they were school teachers from Tacoma. To their right was the host, who pulled the heavy carpet door closed as he sat. Three men were to Carlton’s left. The one closest to their host had sat next to Carlton in the van that brought them to the trail. He’d introduced himself as Oscar, a former addict “trying to do all I can, man, to stay clean.” Carlton had no idea who the two men sitting to his left were. They hadn’t spoken to anyone.

The host ladled water onto the hot rocks, bringing steam and more heat into the cramped space. One of the women gasped. Oscar gave a nervous giggle. All but Carlton began to chant as they’d been instructed.

“Ancient Mother, We hear you calling.

Ancient Mother, We hear your song.

Ancient Mother, We hear your laughter.

Ancient Mother, We taste your tears.”

The muscles in Carlton’s neck began to throb. He struggled to shift his position but was wedged between the ceiling, the rocks, and the sweating bodies on either side. Thermal air scorched his lungs.
My preparation for hell,
he thought.

“Let us seek to pull our anchors free and fill ourselves with our deepest need.” The host poured another ladle of water onto the rocks.

“I ask my anchor to pull sadness from me and replace it with joy,” said the schoolteacher to the host’s left.

“So let it be,” intoned the group.

“I ask my anchor to pull impatience from me and replace it with serenity,” her colleague said.

“So let it be.” The group was firmer this time.

Carlton took another searing breath. He closed his eyes and prayed someone would listen. “I ask my anchor to pull the breath from my body and replace it with death.”

“So le…” The group stopped their automatic response. Carlton opened his eyes and saw Oscar and the school marms through the steamy haze, looking to the host for guidance.

“Try again, please,” was the only direction.

Carlton pried his dry tongue from the roof of his mouth. “I ask my anchor to pull the breath from my body and replace it with death.”

The group sat silent for several heartbeats.

“Moving on,” said the host.

The man to Carlton’s left said nothing. He jostled Carlton as he squirmed to remove something from his pocket. Through the steam the group watched him hand Carlton a phone.

“Give me that,” demanded the host. “You have violated this sacred space.”

The man touched the screen to light the panel. Carlton looked down to the text.

“It is over,”
it read.

Carlton looked to the man who’d handed him his answered prayer. “Now?”

The man didn’t respond.

Carlton nodded. His eyes struggled through the steam to make contact with each person.

“I am sorry,” he said. “My sins grow larger today.”

The two men to Carlton’s left sprang forward in seamless precision. Their knives worked easy havoc on the cramped group. Oscar died first with a clean slice across his throat. The teachers didn’t have time to register what was happening before they met the same fate. The host lunged back against the carpet flap and was stabbed in the thigh by one man. The second man finished him off before he had the chance to scream.

Carlton stayed cross-legged. A scalding tear burned his cheek.

“May I know who sent you?” he asked once the others were dead.

The men crawled toward him in silence. One grabbed his hair, yanked back, and held his head steady while the second stabbed his knife once into each eye.

“End this,” Carlton gasped through unspeakable pain. “Show me one small mercy.”

His request was met with a killing slice across his neck. Carlton fell forward onto the rocks now steaming with wet blood.

The two men waited until Carlton’s death spasms ceased. One crawled over the bodies and threw open the carpet. A whoosh of cool air invaded the space. He grabbed the wooden boards supporting the dome and pulled. The makeshift structure cracked on first try, sending the dry wooden frames and old carpets into the fire. The two killers stood in silence, watching the flames flare as they consumed the new fuel. They were still silent when the fire died, leaving a pile of corpses nestled in white-hot ash. The man who’d earlier handed Carlton his death message reached again for his phone. He stood, pointed it toward Carlton’s charred body, and snapped a photo.