A Kiss Gone Bad

38

Velvet was awake when he returned. Wriggling carefully, she had worked the blindfold back into place. She kept her head turned to the side to hide any lopsided silk.

‘Did you miss me?’ Corey asked.

‘Why do you hate me so,’ she said, ‘to do this to me?’

‘I don’t hate you. Not at all. I love you.’

She wanted to scream. This isn’t love, you freaking nut bastard. Even as screwed up as I am I know this isn’t love. Instead she said, ‘Are you doing this because you’ve seen my movies?’

A soft laugh. ‘I’ve seen your movies. Am I better than Pete?’

She didn’t answer.

He touched her cheek. Gently. ‘Tell me.’

‘Of course you are,’ she lied. She heard shoes easing off feet and hitting the wooden floor, the soft rustle of clothing sliding down legs, a jingling of keys tossed to the floor.

‘Don’t,’ Velvet said. ‘Please don’t.’

Silence again.

‘Why not?’ Corey finally said, sounding amused. ‘Since I’m so much better.’

‘Because,’ she said, her voice calmed with a mighty effort, ‘you don’t have to. Not this way.’

‘I need to.’

‘Corey?’

Silence again, longer this time. She heard the even rasp of his breathing, near her ear.

‘What?’ he finally said.

‘Corey. Please don’t.’ She put even more fear into her voice than she felt.

‘No talking now.’ He climbed upon her and forced himself on her again. She gritted her teeth, tried to summon memories from faraway sweetness. The tang of lemonade on a summer day, the soft pine-cologne smell of her father’s camel-hair jacket, cinnamon and butter pooling on hot toast. Sitting in the quiet dark of her daddy’s church on a Saturday afternoon, leaning back in a wooden pew while he practiced his sermon, pretending to snore if the sermon got a little dull, him never getting mad. Pete, bedecking her with roses on her birthday. But all the good failed her and she screamed and cried, muscles aching, body sore. She told herself. It will be over soon, over soon, over soon.

It was. He lay atop her when he was done, his skin sweaty and smelling of burgers, her skin clammy. His face was buried in her hair, and she felt him breathing in its scent. Lingering on her, like they were lovers. She so wanted her gun. She would fire a thousand bullets into his guts and brain and what odd lump passed for a heart.

‘Why did you kill Pete?’ she asked.

‘Who says I did?’ His voice was muffled in her hair.

‘Did you kill him to get at me?’

No answer. His seed trickled out of her and she wanted to vomit.

‘Tell me,’ she said. ‘Please.’

‘I didn’t kill him. I wanted to, but I didn’t.’

‘Liar.’ She couldn’t hide her contempt.

He sat up, going on his knees, straddling her, and slapped her hard. Once, twice, three times. Her ears rang. Blood leaked from her nose. He stopped; she felt his erection return, pressed into her breasts.

‘I thought I was your darling,’ she managed.

He made a guttural sound. She could feel his legs shivering against hers.

Velvet wet her lips, tasted her own blood. Pete loved you, Corey. He only wanted to help you.’

Another low laugh.

‘Do you want me to love you, Corey? Maybe I could.’ She heard him laugh but not move. ‘I can’t love you if I don’t know you, though,’ she said.

‘You love Whit Mosley.’ His voice grew distant. ‘I saw you hug him.’

‘I sure as hell don’t love him. I hate his guts.’

‘Don’t hate his guts. I might bring them to you.’

Velvet’s tongue felt stuck. She expected him to rape her again, but instead he clambered off the bed. She heard him gathering his clothes and then the door shutting behind him. In a minute or so the soft hiss of a shower began to run.

He was gone. And he had not shoved the gag back in her mouth. With its tiny lock. Its edged metal lock.

In the end, of course, she called David.

Claudia awoke early Saturday morning and lay on the futon for an hour, her body stiff against the flowered sheets. She had no job. She had rent, she had food to buy, she had a car payment, she would have no health insurance, she had less than two thousand dollars in her checking account and less in a savings account, she owed six hundred on a Visa card with seventeen percent interest. Twice she reached for the phone to call her mother, but even before she dialed her mother’s voice rang in her ear like discordant chimes: Whats wrong with you? You give up a wonderful husband, now you lose your job? What, you want to shrimp with your father? There’s a future. Why did we bother sending you to school? She wasn’t up for her mother’s blunderbuss catechism. Heather Farrell’s face swam before her, dream-edged, and twice Claudia stumbled to the bathroom, surrendering to dry heaves of sick and shock.

So she finally called David, whispering to him about losing her job, about failing Heather. He came over at seven-thirty in the morning, arrived with a bag of breakfast groceries, drew a hot bath for her, made omelets while she bathed and dressed in old nubby pajamas soft as a kiss. She heard him in her kitchen, sliding drawers, chopping vegetables, pouring juice, sizzling butter.

That didn’t take long, did it, Miss Tough? You’re just gonna let him right back in, aren’t you?

She popped open the drain, let the soapy water begin its downward swirl. Yeah. Maybe I am.

They ate their eggs and biscuits and juice, and Claudia, rather than talking, went under a wave of exhaustion. She fell asleep curled on the futon, David lying beside her, stroking her dark hair.

She awoke at 10 a.m. Her blinds were lowered, the room grayish dark. She stumbled to the kitchen. David sat drinking coffee, reading the Corpus Christi paper.

He lowered the paper. ‘Hope I didn’t overstay my welcome. I thought you might want to talk when you woke up.’

‘Thanks. Thanks for the bath and breakfast and everything.’

‘But I want to get something straight, okay?’ New steel in his voice she hadn’t heard before. ‘I’m not trying to take advantage of the… emotional train wreck you’ve just gone through. I’m saying that out loud because I know how your mind works, Claud, and sooner or later you’re gonna think I’m trying to tiptoe back in.’

‘Oh, David, I don’t think that,’ she said, unsure of what she thought.

‘Okay. I just don’t want you to be alone if you don’t want to be.’

She got herself a cup of hot coffee – he’d brewed hazelnut, her favorite – and added generous milk and sugar. He had his back to her, sitting at the kitchen table, and she watched the set of his shoulders, his burr of auburn hair, his wiry arms, the constellation of freckles on the back of his neck. She wanted to hold and kiss him and feel him against her, and she nearly dropped her mug.

Carefully she sipped the piping hot coffee, standing in the kitchen away from him. He turned around in his chair. ‘You want to talk options? Delford can’t just terminate you, Claudia.’

‘He could and did.’ She shrugged. ‘It’s a right-to-work state, he can fire me at will. I had to go back in, surrender my side arm, my badge. I didn’t have a box to clean out my desk, I guess I have to do that Monday.’

‘Are you going to appeal to the mayor?’

‘I’ll write him a letter,’ she said. ‘But I don’t think I’m overflowing with options here.’

‘Come work for the sheriff’s department,’ he said instantly and then stumbled. ‘I mean, you’re a good investigator. You could work for DPS, too, or Parks and Wildlife, maybe.’

‘I’m sure something will come up. I can always shrimp with Papa. That should drive Mama into the crazy house a full ten years ahead of schedule.’ She finished her coffee. ‘So what about your big Jabez Jones case?’

He shrugged. ‘He was spotted in New Mexico. I think he’s probably heading back to California, where he’s got a lot of friends. The DEA agent from Corpus told me they think Jabez’s donation receipts don’t match the figures in his books. He’s gotten maybe thirty thou in donations and three million on his ledgers. Mary Magdalene still ain’t talking. Sits in her cell like a freaking Amazon warrior, silent.’

‘I thought maybe Junior Deloache was bringing drug money into Port Leo.’

David nodded. ‘Probably. With Junior dead, and Jones running, I wouldn’t be surprised if there was a connection. That three million, maybe it’s Jabez laundering Junior’s money.’

‘I just wish Velvet would turn up,’ Claudia said, thinking of Heather’s water-paled face. ‘Her car was at Junior’s condo, her purse with a gun in it, but she wasn’t.’

‘You think she killed him?’

‘No. I mean, I doubt it, but who knows. I don’t know her.’ She gave a thin, nervous laugh. ‘I for sure thought I knew Delford, but he turned on me quicker than a rabid dog.’

David shook his head again. ‘With all this insanity, I can’t believe Delford fired you. He needs everyone he can get.’

‘Does he? If the crime’s this big, the DEA and FBI will take it over. Delford’ll just wax his mustache and make press announcements.’ She retrieved the coffeepot, freshened their mugs, came and sat next to him at the table.

‘I don’t get how the Ballew girl fits in,’ David said. ‘Comes from Louisiana to see Jones, gets involved in this money laundering, and ends up dead?’

Claudia explained what she had found about the nursing home connections. ‘It’s strange, and maybe I chased a shadow,’ she said. ‘But I found, well, not quite a pattern, but a couple of odd coincidences of timing.’

‘Are all your notes at the station?’

‘Yeah. But I can get you a copy. I mean, it’s really your case.’

David phoned the station and got a clerk to make copies of Claudia’s notes on Marcy Ballew.

‘Ask them if I’ve gotten any messages from out-of-town police,’ Claudia said.

He did. He paused, gestured at her for pencil and paper, which she handed to him. He jotted notes.

‘Well, this is interesting. You got messages from investigators in Brownsville and Laredo.’ Neither police department had made much progress on the Morris or the Palinski case. Both women seemed to have vanished into thin air: no witnesses, no evidence.

‘Let’s call them back,’ she said.

He reached for her phone. ‘Not on my unemployed dime,’ she said. ‘Let’s go over to the sheriff’s department.’

She dressed quickly and they drove over. David made the calls, asking the investigator on duty if there was a nursing home near either woman’s workplace. The Laredo detective said yes, there was a nursing home right across from the Taco Bell that Angela Morris vanished from, Bellewood. It was the same one that Placid Harbor had handled a patient transfer from. Brownsville didn’t know if there was a nursing home near the pizzeria; they’d find out and call or fax David back.

So David called the pizzeria to ask if St Mary’s Nursing Home was close by. No, not at all, the pizzeria was at the northern edge of town on Highway 77. St Mary’s was on the east side of Brownsville.

‘But 77’s the main highway,’ Claudia said when David hung up. ‘Anyone going to St Mary’s might still pass that pizzeria. I’d just like to know more about these transfers, about how they work, the time involved.’

David set the phone down. ‘You want to go talk to Buddy Beere with me?’

‘I’m not a cop anymore,’ she said. The truth of it still sounded alien to her ears.

‘You are to me. C’mon, you’ve already talked to the guy. Better than sitting around updating resumes and harboring grudges.’

Now she smiled at him. ‘Sure. Let’s go.’

The little lock lay in the no-man’s-land between Velvet’s torso and her elbow, and if she moved her arm slightly, the lock and its strap teased her skin. But she could not move it toward her hand.

She wept briefly in frustration and then she slept again. Sleep was the escape door. In sleep her father’s arms enfolded her and he said, I forgive you I forgive you and I love you no matter what.

She woke at his touch. She wasn’t sure if it was minutes later, hours, time ceased to hold meaning.

‘Need to pee?’ he asked abruptly.

‘Yes, yes,’ she said. She had peed in the night, like a baby, and the towels were sodden with the smell.

‘I don’t got no more sheets or towels to put under you right now,’ he said.

Of course not. Who has time to do laundry when you’re busy kidnapping and raping? she thought crazily.

She felt a bag – roomy, made of soft chamois, reeking of dust and fuel – go over her head. He loosened the cords at her feet first, rubbing her ankles for her.

‘I’m taking you to the bathroom. Now, you try anything, I’ll cut and gut you, you understand?’ he muttered.

‘Yes. I’ll be good,’ she answered in a timid murmur. I’ll kill you if you give me a moment’s chance.

He slipped her hands free from the shackles. She heard the toss of keys again on the floor. She slowly massaged her wrists.

‘Do what I say.’ He pulled her to her feet. Bolts of numbness shot up her legs. She nearly fell, every muscle screaming. He yanked her forward and the doorjamb brushed her shoulder, and seven steps down – she was counting – along carpet that felt frayed, he steered her to the right. Cold tile prickled her bare feet.

He pushed her down onto a cold toilet seat.

She urinated, emptying her aching bladder. He hummed along, a bouncy tune she recognized as ‘I Get Around.’

I am so gonna kill you, ‘I need to poop, too,’ she said in a very quiet voice.

‘I’m not leaving.’

She couldn’t see him with the sack over her face. ‘Corey, you’re not gonna find watching me take a crap sexy. Please.’

‘No.’

‘Please, Corey, please!’

‘No.’ He sounded amused again. He wanted her to grovel, wanted her to beg, just so he could say no.

If he kills you now at least it’s over. She had acted the queen bitch dominatrix in her movies, and now she called up that icy, imperial voice. ‘Do you get off on bathroom functions, Corey? How sad. I thought you were a real man.’

A long silence and she thought: Either I got you or you’re about to strangle me here on a toilet.

He said, ‘I’m not some freak. I’m normal.’

His denial almost sent her into peals of hysterical laughter. She gripped the cool bowl of the toilet.

‘I know, Corey,’ she made herself say. ‘You’re normal. And a normal man lets a lady go to the potty in private.’ She paused. ‘You do that, and I’ll show you fun in bed you’ve never, ever seen before.’

Long silence. She prayed a true prayer, for the first time in a dozen years. Please, God, please help me now. Please.

‘All right,’ he said. ‘I’ll wait outside. But don’t try anything.’

‘I won’t.’

She heard him step out and the door gently close.

She yanked off the cloth hood and ripped the silk blindfold from her head. The bathroom was small, decorated in sea-foam green tile at least thirty years old. The shower was a stall, and the shower rod was bolted to the wall.

There was a small bolt on the door. If she locked it he would hear.

‘Hurry up,’ he called.

‘I am!’ she yelled, putting a teary tone in her voice. She groaned, as if troubled by a pained stomach. ‘Just a second.’ If he heard her rummaging he’d crash in. She almost wept in anger. Nothing, nothing to fight with.

She knelt, gingerly opening the cabinet under the sink. Cotton balls. Toilet paper. Disinfectant spray.

Yes.

He shoved the door open. She sprang to her feet and jetted disinfectant hard into his eyes. He shrieked and fell back.

‘EEAGGGGH!’ he screamed, clutching his face.

Velvet shoved past him and ran down the hallway. To her left the hall opened up into a den and she saw a front door. She threw herself at it.

Locked.

‘YOU BITCH BITCH BITCH.’ He staggered to his feet, clawing at his seared eyes.

Six locks on the door and three were dead bolts. These she clicked open and tried the door again. Still locked. The other locks required a key.

Where would he keep the goddamned keys? Fighting a surge of panic, Velvet scanned the den. Nothing on the table except a plate dirty with sandwich crumbs and a milk-smeared glass. Nothing on the small kitchen counter.

She had heard the jingle earlier when he tossed the keys on the bedroom floor.

She turned and he charged at her, his face set in fury, his eyes red slits.

She grabbed a lamp from a side table and swung hard. It nailed him on the shoulder. He went down, and Velvet raised the lamp to smash it on his head.

He seized her legs, trying to topple her, and she slammed the lamp’s base against his neck, then against the back of his head.

Don’t let him get you down. He wins if he gets you on the floor.

Teeth closed around her ankle, biting hard and deep, down to the bone.

She screamed and fell to the floor, kicking him. His teeth tore the flesh of her ankle.

She grabbed the fallen can of disinfectant and fogged him again, trying to loop the lamp’s cord around his throat. He sobbed and lashed out with a punch that caught her hard in the windpipe. She gagged, gasping for breath. He swung the lamp hard, connecting against her skull, the lamp breaking, and she went down, eyeballs rolling up. Her final thought was, Not like this, no.

The Blade stood, then sank down again. His eyes burned like the bitch had poked hot matches into the irises. He crawled to the sink and splashed water repeatedly into his aching eyes. She hadn’t gotten him so good with the last cloudy burst of disinfectant, but the first had been unadulterated hell, toxic waste hitting his eye tissue.

She might have blinded him. Maybe even caused permanent damage.

He puked into the sink. He rinsed his eyes for what felt like an eternity. The pain subsided down to a dull roar, enough to where he could read the instructions on the disinfectant. Call a physician. Not an option right now. God, he would make this bitch pay. He went back to the rinsing.

Thirty minutes later, his hands still shaking, he could see well enough to relock the dead bolts and to drag her back to the room. Her left ankle was a meaty mess and she wheezed, but she was still unconscious.

This is what being nice brought, he thought. But none of the others had fought him so hard, and when the pain faded, that fire of hers would make punishing and crushing her sweeter than killing Mama. Oh, the fun. He hardened at the images, even with the pain in his eyes and his head. He’d hold her eyes open and spray till the can was empty. He put on his knife sheath so she could see what waited for her after their chemical games.

He choked down a half-dozen aspirin and slung Velvet over his shoulder. He tossed her onto the bed and started to retie her to the posts.

A knock pounded on the front door.