Mangled Meat (6 page)

“I...,” was all he got out.

Her face became a stolid blur.

“People are never what they seem,” was the last thing she said before he passed out.

***

God in Heaven...

Heyton lay wrecked on the floor.
What happened?
Regaining consciousness felt like dragging his head from a bear trap.

But there could be only one answer.

Sucker.
Heyton knew he’d been played.
The bitch must’ve hit me in the head.
Which could only mean...

He shot to his feet only to fall again. He felt utterly drunk. For minutes his vision was like looking through cheesecloth—everything was grain. But eventually it cleared enough to verify what he’d already suspected.

The manatee painting lay face down on the bed.
Shit shit shit! Not my wallet! Not the car!
The grim reality sobered him enough to stand, then unsteady feet propelled him to the front window. He tore back the curtains—

The LeBaron remained in his parking spot.

At least Avis’ll be happy about that...
Darkness looked back at him from behind the car, those ghastly sodium lamps shining yellow lines off the hood.
She didn’t steal the car but I know damn well she stole my wallet
.

He turned—

His wallet lay opened on the floor.
I am one lucky dumbass,
he thought with a bolt of relief. She’d taken all his cash, of course, but had left his license and credit cards. He found the cell phone and car keys in the opposite corner.

She must’ve shied away from the credit cards; they were getting easier and easier to trace, and he supposed the cell phone would be of little use; she knew it would be shut off the instant the theft was reported.

So he’d lucked out three times...

But the worst headache of his life throbbed.
What time is it?
he wondered, glanced at his wrist, and frowned.

Count your blessings, asshole.
His Rolex Submariner was gone, and that had cost him two grand used. He’d given her a thousand for the trick plus he’d lost another five hundred in his wallet.

All recoverable. She hadn’t pinched his laptop, either, which he’d stowed in its case beneath the bed. A quick peek showed him it was still inside—in her haste she obviously hadn’t bothered looking. His suitcase was another story, though; it had been upheaved onto the floor, its contents rifled. He frowned at his own shame when he saw that she’d carefully placed his magazines in strategic points about the room: NATAL ATTRACTION on the dresser, READY TO DROP in front of the bathroom, and BUNS IN THE OVEN propped neatly on the bed pillow.

I’m such a loser...

He righted the suitcase, then found something else she’d missed in her haste to get out: his backup Rolex. This one was a $75 knock-off, and little consolation for the genuine one she’d stolen. Heyton had to smile when he noticed the box of Godivas was now empty.

What a night.
He trounced back down on the bed, rubbing his eyes. He put on the knock-off, noticing it was just past 3 a.m. The presentation wasn’t for another twelve hours, so he actually had plenty of time to shake this off and prepare.

Only then did he realize how truly lucky he’d been. She’d only taken cash and the watch. If she’d taken the car, some very troubling questions would be asked, and if she’d taken the laptop, his presentation would be a bust.

Maybe the Fates were trying to tell him something. Or maybe God was...

He felt the back of his head for a cut or a bruise, but found none.
She must’ve hit me but...how?
Something flagged his eye on the carpet. He thought oddly of a condom packet but when he picked it up...

SAMPLE DOSE - USE ONLY IF PRESCRIBED BY A PHYSICIAN. MANUFACTURED BY HOFFMAN-LAROCHE, INC. The bottom of the pack read: ROHYPNOL (FLUNITRAZEPAM) - DO NOT USE WITH ALCOHOL.

So she hadn’t hit him after all.
I got roofied by a pregnant prostitute!
and then he smirked at his nearly empty glass of scotch.
The perfect horse’s ass...
Since he hadn’t really lost much, it was almost funny. Of course he’d heard of the notorious date-rape drug, something originally made for sleep disorders.

Some date,
he reflected.

He shook his head now and actually laughed.

The headache was throbbing away, replaced by embarrassment. Hookers killed johns sometimes, or sometimes their pimps followed them to the motels... Heyton knew that street thugs would make short work of him.

I hope I learned my lesson tonight,
he thought and went to the bathroom. But had he really learned anything?

He faced himself again in the mirror. The Fates? Or God? Heyton didn’t know. Nevertheless, he prayed to one of them right now:
I will never do this again. I SWEAR TO GOD....

Even the pitiful prayer made him feel better. He splashed more water in his face, then figured he’d shower, leave, and check in early at the convention center, and—

Get my shit together. I’m going to kick ass on this presentation, sell the IAP system to Florida, and be a decent person from now on...

Best of all, he knew he wasn’t lying to himself.

Then he turned and collapsed.

He would’ve screamed full-force but all that his throat would permit was a pathetic gasp. He’d turned to urinate but upon looking down...

It was not a plastic baby doll festooned by spaghetti sauce that sat in the toilet, yet that first horrific glance seemed surreal.
It’s fake, it’s fake!
Heyton’s thoughts tried to convince him. The prostitute had left it as a macabre joke.

Then the “doll” issued a death-rattle, like feeble castanets.

Heyton crawled as far into the corner as he could, paralyzed. That split-second glance froze in his mind’s eye. No, it wasn’t fake. It wasn’t a doll.

It looked smaller than his objectivity would’ve imagined—but of course, it was premature. His teeth chattered when he noticed a bloodied pen on the floor, too—one of his, with his company’s name on it, that she’d pilfered from his suitcase.

He shuddered in the corner for a half-hour, mute and insensible. Rational thought eluded him, yet through the consternation raging in his head, he knew one thing: he’d have to take action...

Call the police? And tell them what?

Get in the car and look for the girl?

That would accomplish nothing.

Heyton’s brain felt dead as clay when he eventually dragged himself up...and took action.

***

What in God’s name am I doing?
the words groaned behind his mind. The deed ensued like a dimly remembered nightmare; he felt out of his body. With empty waste-can liners, he managed to securely seal the thing within a number of layers, bags within bags.

If someone walking by sees it, they’ll think it’s just a small bag of trash...

But it
wasn’t
a small bag of trash, was it?

The abstraction stalked him like the ghost of a murderer. Worse than the impression, though, was the simple hot weight of the bag.

I’m carrying a dead fetus in a garbage bag...and putting it in my car...

Most of the organic remnants were still wet, so cleaning the toilet had been easy. He triple-checked the room—in dread from the possibility of forgetting something—then checked out and drove away.

Once on the road, he jettisoned the pen out the window.

But the parcel lay beside him on the passenger seat. He thought of a fresh package from the butcher’s, and groaned. Some arcane logic told him to get rid of it miles away from the motel, miles from the decrepit neighborhood and its horrors. Deep thought continued to elude him, his brain engaged on its own sort of auto-pilot. Had he not been able to remain detached, he knew he would’ve cracked up by now.

More alter-ego thoughts mocked him:
Dead baby in your car dead baby in your car dead baby in your car...

“Shut up!” he screamed at the windshield, knuckles white on the wheel.

A convenience store on the corner seemed to beckon, its front window bright with light but no other cars in the lot.
Look normal,
he pled with himself. He walked in, bought a paper from the amiable clerk, and went back out. The large dumpster on the side of the store sat with its lid flapped open.

Heyton moved very deftly. He didn’t get back in the car; instead he leaned in, grabbed the parcel, and lobbed it into the dumpster via gestures nearly balletic.

Then he slid back into the driver’s seat and saw the clerk through the window, none the wiser.

“God forgive me,” he muttered.

The whisper of his guilt would not relent:
You just threw a baby in the garbage you just threw a baby in the garbage you just threw a baby in the garbage...

Heyton shut the voice out of his head and drove off.

***

Guilt weighed him down as he checked into the convention center just past dawn. The room was four-star, unlike the charnel-house he’d just fled.
Why should I feel guilty?
he finally challenged himself.
I didn’t kill the kid, she did. The kid’s death is HER responsibility, HER crime. Shit, the only crime I committed was solicitation, and I wound up getting robbed before a sex act could even take place!

The placations took away some of the edge. An awful tragedy, yes, but it would’ve happened anyway...
If not with me, with the next john.
Or worse, in an alley somewhere.

The fetus would’ve died regardless, he assured himself.

He wondered where the girl had gone but the answer was simple.
Right back onto the street with my money and Rolex...
She’d pawn the watch and spend everything on crack, and when the money was gone she’d be plying her trade again.

But nine pounds lighter now,
he reminded himself.

With each minute that ticked by in the clean hotel, the more impossible it all seemed.

During the breakfast hour, he ran into some competitors. Most offered phony smiles and begrudging nods, with lines like “Congrats on Texas” or “Good job yesterday.” One, however—from a software house in Ohio—smirked the truth at him: “None of us stand a chance after you sold Texas, Heyton. You’re top of the heap now—just remember, the air gets really thin up there.” Heyton would’ve been amused by the sour grapes had he not still been coming to terms with last night’s jolt. Yet another competitor put it bluntly: “Leave Blocher and work for me. You can name your price.”

At least I’m doing SOMETHING right,
he thought.

The hotel bar opened at noon; Heyton planted himself on the corner and braced himself with multiple cups of coffee. More competitors sat about him, eyes full of either envy or disdain for his success.

Above the bar, a TV sputtered at low volume: generic news. The Yankees acquire a new pitcher for a record $500,000,000 ten-year deal. Four homeless shelters in the Bronx are closed due to budget cuts, turning hundreds into the street. Afghan insurgents level a children’s hospital with pilfered U.S. demolition material, over a hundred dead. Paroled child molester caught with the body parts of three adolescent girls under his trailer. A judge had released him after a second conviction, on good behavior.

“Great news today,” Heyton muttered a sarcasm.

A guy next to him perked up. “Oh, yeah, the new lefty for the Yanks! That
is
great news.”

Heyton smirked.

Next, a stoic newswoman who looked like a lobotomized Barbie reported: “Also in the news, Michigan’s self-described B-H-R Killer, Duane Packer, was sentenced today to 23 consecutive life terms after an Antrim County court heard forensic evidence detailing most of Packer’s victims. In the witness stand, Packer himself defined B-H-R as initials for ‘blind, hang, and rape,’ and claimed that his only regret was being caught, because, quote, ‘now the fun has to end,’ unquote. Expert witnesses from the county coroner’s office verified that Packer, a crystal meth dealer, would also inject his young victims with the powerful amphetamine so they wouldn’t pass out during his ministrations of torture. Further charges of post-mortal and peri-mortal sexual assault, child abduction, and felonious imprisonment will be processed later in the week. All of Packer’s victims were boys and girls between the ages of six and eleven.”

“Only in America,” the barkeep remarked, pale with disgust.

Next, the TV flashed footage of the killer being led from the courthouse. He could’ve been a stock broker with his well-groomed hair, tidy suit, and studied expression.