Murder One

34

KIRK WAS CROUCHED IN an alleyway beside a Dumpster, his forehead pressed against his knees. He was not having a pleasant evening. Too many inescapable truths hounded his brain. There was no hope for him, he realized now. The priest had been right. God knew what Kirk had done. He would always know. Somehow, Kirk had fooled himself into thinking he could erase his crimes, eliminate all the traces, but now he realized that had been a child’s fantasy. No amount of pain or self-inflicted misery could ever alter the truth.

He was damned, pure and simple.

He saw something glistening at the other end of the alley. Winking at him. Something translucent and … sharp.

A broken bottle, if he wasn’t mistaken. A green-tinted jagged edge, just waiting for someone to come close enough for it to do some permanent damage.

The idea formed in Kirk’s brain with such immediate clarity that he wondered why it hadn’t occurred to him before. Enough with these halfway gestures—picking fights and mutilating his body. One swift stroke across the jugular with that bottle and he would be out of his misery permanently.

Unless the priest was right. Unless there really was a God, and he really did punish those who committed sins. Like suicide. The unforgivable sin, that was what his Sunday school teacher used to call it. Unforgivable—because you were dead before you had a chance to ask.

But to be free of this torment, released …

Kirk was distracted by the sound of footsteps at the other end of the alley. Clicking footsteps, light and even.

Stiletto heels, as it turned out.

“Jeez Lou-ise. You really are a mess.”

Kirk peered upward through hooded lids. She was a black woman decked out in a tight white dress cut practically down to the nipple, blowsy hair, and the legs of a sixteen-year-old. Not that she was much older than that.

A prostitute. Had to be.

“So anyway,” the woman continued, “my girlfriend, she says, ‘Girlfriend, don’t you be goin’ over to see that boy. He a mess.’ And I says, ‘Well, I don’t see much goin’ on out here.’ And she says, ‘Girlfriend, I don’t care how slow things are on The Stroll. That boy be trouble.’ ”

“What do you want?” Kirk’s voice was harsh and raspy.

She smiled, a broad smile that might have been called toothy but for the fact that so many of her teeth were missing. “Why, honey, ain’t you figured that out yet? I got the cure for what ails you.”

He lowered his head. “Go away.”

“Forgive me for bein’ crass, but I am a little concerned about the money thing. See, my girlfriend, she says, ‘Girlfriend, he don’t look like he got two pennies to rub together.’ But I say to her, I say, ‘Girlfriend, don’t you be jumpin’ to no conclusions there. The boy’s down in the dumps, sure. He’s had some bad knocks. But that don’t mean he’s poor.’ ” She took a baby step closer. “Does it?”

Kirk reached into the pocket of his jeans and pulled out a big wad of money, including several hundreds. “Now will you leave me alone?”

Far from causing her to leave him alone, the display of wealth had precisely the opposite effect “Why lookee there. Boy, you got all kinds of money on you!” She gave him a sideways leering grin. “I think we can do business, handsome.”

“I want you to leave me alone.”

“Now don’t you go all unsociable on me. I got the cure, remember? I’m eager and willin’ to please. And I’m very flexible. If you know what I mean.”

“You can’t help me.”

“Now you don’t know that till you’ve given me a try.”

“Look—”

“Maybe I should properly introduce myself. My name’s Chantelle. I’m a professional, know what I mean? Very experienced.” She ran a long black nail slowly down the curve of her hip. “And I think I could do you a world of good.”

“You’re wrong.”

“Look, baby, I ain’t no priest—”

“Lucky for you.”

“—but I can see you got troubles. Somebody done you wrong, right? I don’t know exactly who it was. Maybe yo’ mama done you wrong. Maybe it was your wife, your girlfriend. Your mistress. Your fiancée, even. I don’t know. But I know this. Whoever it was, I can make it better.”

“No one can make it better. Not even God.”

“Well, I got to be honest with you. I don’t know much about God. But it’s just possible I’ve got a few tricks in my bag He don’t have.”

Kirk turned his head up, teeth clenched. “Leave me alone!”

When she saw his face, Chantelle’s eyes went wide. “Honey! What happened to you?” She bent down and cradled his head in her hands. “You look like someone done you but good.”

Kirk almost laughed. “Wait’ll you see my chest.”

“Honey, you need someone to be good to you. Someone to make the hurt stop hurtin’.” She pulled him closer and pressed his head against her breasts. “I’ll take good care of you, sweet thing. Promise I will.”

The heat of her body warmed him. He felt the chain reaction it sent cascading through his body. And he panicked.

“Get away from me, you filthy whore!” He rocked her backward, sending her rolling across the alley. “I’m not like that. I’m not!”

Chantelle held up her hands defensively. “All right, boy, stay calm. Just stay calm.”

“I’m not like that!” he bellowed again. “Just because I—it doesn’t mean—” He broke down. He jammed his face against his fists, bending over, thrashing from side to side.

Chantelle pushed herself to her feet. “My friend, you are in sorry shape. Truly sorry shape.” She walked to the end of the alley. “I’m prob’ly crazy to do this, but here I go anyway. Most nights you can find me right here, on The Stroll. But I’ve also got a place, a little room just above that pawn shop on the corner of Lewis. Room 12. Anytime you decide you want to see Chantelle, you just come on up there.”

She gave him a long look, shook her head a few more times, then clickety-clacked out of the alleyway.

Kirk wanted to tear his eyes out. As his fingers pressed hard against his eyeballs, he gave it serious thought. Why couldn’t he make anyone understand? It only happened once. He wasn’t like that!

Or maybe he was. Maybe that was what really bothered him. The knowledge that he was the sinner who did that horrible thing. And what’s worse, that he did it because he wanted to. Because he enjoyed it.

He flung himself down on the pavement, pummeling himself against the concrete. His head clanged against the Dumpster, then against the brick wall, then back again and again and again, beating his head into a bloody pulp.

God, God, God, he cried, sobbing silently. Why couldn’t he make this torment end? Why couldn’t he finish it, once and for all?