Chapter Eleven

 

 

I

 

Martin Parkins felt as though his head would explode. His blood simmered; his temples felt like pins had been driven into them. Where did she get off patronizing him like that? She was playing games with him! Yeah, she's hot shit now that she's station manager. Offers me a pissant raise when she knows damn well I should get Carlton's job.

He closed his eyes, gritting at his rage. He placed his head down on the table and took deep breaths. His hands were shaking, his eyelids fluttering. Martin was mad all the time, perpetually pissed-off at the world and the people who'd given him the shaft, and he was tired of the shaft. He'd been close to the breaking point for years; today, though, was the worst.

When Jane Ryan walked away from his station, his eyes followed her out with the wildest thoughts: that tight rump in those tight regulation post-office shorts. Her shirt was tight too-probably deliberately. It made her breasts look like they might break out of it. The tease, he thought. Likes to tease old Martin, really get his goat. Wears that shit too tight on purpose.

When she'd fully left, he smiled. One of these days I'll tune that bitch up but good. I'll punch her ticket like it's never been punched.

She was good looking, though. The hot shits always were. Always thought they were a little bit better than everyone else just because they'd happened to be born attractive, and because they had a little more education. Truth was, Jane Ryan was no better than anyone, just luckier. And all Martin was getting was more of the shaft.

He finished the last of his two-foot trays, each containing exactly 460 sorted letters, and decided to take a break. He worked hard too. The only difference was he got no credit. If Ryan had given him that psycho Carlton's job, he'd make a lot more money and would finally have the respect he deserved. The bitch had played him, offered him the shit job, instead, knowing that he had too much pride to take it, and now she was probably writing that up in his eval report too.

Oh, yeah. One of these days, she'll get hers.

He slipped out when most of the processors were cutting out for lunch. Martin didn't want lunch. He went into the bathroom, took the back stall, and sat down. He slipped out his flask and took a slug. Kessler's whiskey. Smooth as silk. A couple more hits and he  tarted to feel better-

-feel better, that is, in the strangest way.

All he could think about was Jane Ryan, and those thoughts were getting pretty low-down. He wasn't mad anymore; he was thrilled. He began to feel very much in control. He couldn't put his finger on the way he felt-it was impossible for him to articulate-but it seemed as though a feeling of security had suddenly overwhelmed him. Like a guardian angel had come down upon him.

A few more hits on the Kessler's and he knew. It wasn't just Jane Ryan. It was damn near everyone. The people out there needed guys like Martin to tear down, so that they could feel better themselves. It built them up to trod on low-key, mind-his-own-business guys like Martin. Ryan was no different. They were all having a laugh.

Well, the next laughs gonna be on me.

He put the flask away, left the stall, and got ready to go back to work. He felt great. In his mind he saw all the ways he could start getting back at all these phony schmucks, starting with Ryan. Yes, he could do a job on her, all right. Just wait for a time she leaves work a little late, wait for her in the parking lot, put a gun in her ribs, and drive her out of there. Take her down the coast a ways, tie her up and have some fun with her for a few hours, and then drop her snooty ass in one of the sinkholes. Then he could start on the rest of them.

Yes, he heard.

A voice.

But not his own voice, really.

It was some other guy's voice.

And in not much more time, he'd get to know the other guy really well, and he'd understand it all.

 

 

II

 

Dusk began to pinken the horizon; sunset was always a spectacular event in Florida, even more so in a pretty town like Danelleton. Darkening orange bloomed through the masses of palm trees. A familiar warm breeze flowed over the landscape. Night was coming.

The houses weren't all the same but they were all nice: newly painted, well-kept, a suburban Utopia. The sun set lower over one house in particular- Annabelle's house, a long hacienda-style ranch with tile shingles and an arched entrance. A van pulled up in the driveway, whose side panel read strauss heating and air-conditioning, always on call.

The tall repairman with wavy hair and goatee got out with tools and clipboard, enthusiastic for the late call. Erik used to worked all days, mostly commercial units in St. Pete, and it had been hotter than hell. But these late ones, at a private residence, were a lot easier to get into, plus he'd often get a tip.

Sometimes Erik even got lucky. In Florida? All the women? There was nothing better than a residential call by a housewife whose husband was out of town, and a good-looking guy like Erik? More than once he'd gotten tipped twice.

I can only hope, he thought, strolling up the driveway.

Then the hope was dashed. So much for that idea. Another van was parked up in the drive, not the home owner's, another service truck, Paravision CABLETV.

What the fuck?

A third van read walton furniture repair.

"Great," Erik said to himself. "Two other repairmen in there, too. No nookie for me tonight." But that was okay. Erik was aware of his blessings. He never took them for granted.

He walked up to the front door, then smiled at the probability. Yeah, probably some husband and wife in their sixties, with a house full of grandkids. Still might get a good tip.

Before he knocked, something snagged his eye: the odd door knocker on the center stile. Fucked up, he thought. It was an oval of tarnished bronze depicting a morose half-formed face. Just two eyes, no mouth, no other features.

The term bad omen was not familiar to him.

When he knocked, and the door opened, though, Erik was hard-pressed not to do a rebel yell.

A woman answered, big smile and big bright eyes. She'd have been a knockout in a friggin' potato sack, but in the see-through black nightgown?

Holy shit. The motherlode, Erik thought.

"Hi," she said. "Come on in. I really appreciate you coming at this hour. It's not easy to get air-conditioning service after five."

Short, petite. Shining shoulder-length hair like dark amber. The nightgown's hem was way, way high- maybe just an inch below her crotch. And if the wind blew? It would be Muff Town; Erik wasn't sure but he could almost swear that she was pantiless. She was braless, too, and he didn't have to wonder about that one. Compact little breasts right there with big dark nipples showing through the shadowy see-through top.

"No, uh, no problem, ma'am. We make house calls around the clock."

She giggled and let him in. "A lot of them say that but try actually getting one this late. Seriously, I'm really grateful for you coming. When the air-conditioning is out, this place turns into a oven, even at night. My name's Annabelle, by the way".

"Erik. Nice to meet you."

When they shook hands, Erik found hers hot and moist. And there was a little mist of perspiration just above her cleavage, and down the front of her legs, too. Erotic.

Like she'd just been getting it on maybe.

Still awestruck by that body in the revealing gown, he followed her through the foyer into the kitchen. Nice place, just like the outside, which was par for the course in Danelleton. But again he considered the probability. First of all, he knew there were two other repairman in the joint right now. Second, Annabelle was more than likely married to some rich codger who needed the arm candy, and Erik would be meeting him in a moment.

"Yeah, you're the first repairman I've dealt with today who actually came when he said he would."

All right, this is too funny. Third time she'd mentioned "coming," that and the fuck-me nightgown, like a bad joke in a T&A flick. Was she doing it on purpose or was she just naive? Didn't matter. Erik could have some fun with it too, because he knew this couldn't amount to anything.

"Looks like you've got your share of repairmen here."

Now she was leading him down a hallway. It was a little dark but somehow that only accentuated her body in the gown. The sheer material looked like smoke floating around her.

"Oh, yes. The TV man's here too."

"Cable problems, huh?"

"Yes. Something was wrong with the channels, so he had to feed a new line into my box."

Erik had to frown because if he didn't frown, he'd bust out laughing. "Uh, yeah," was all he said.

"And then I had to call the furniture man too-"

Annabelle turned with a smile that was impossible not to describe as wanton. Her breasts stuck out in the veil-like top. "I needed him to fix the knobs on my chest."

Then she quickly turned, leading him down the hall. Erik just shook his head.

"I've got this nice blond-wood chest in the living room. So he fixed the knobs and also the drawers."

Some sweat was accumulating on Erik's brow. Just the look of her, and the deliberate words and the way she'd spoken them-it was all beginning to really get Erik going. But he knew the scoop now. This was too much, a joke. She was just another bored housewife playing with the tough-guy repairman. Hubby would be waiting with a flashlight at the a/c unit, and the fun would be over. That was all right. Just wait'll the guys hear about this at the shop. With lines like this one was dishing out? Bet they don't even believe it.

"I even had the landscapers here earlier," she said.

Erik couldn't, knew he shouldn't-he didn't need a sexual harassment complaint. But, Jesus! she was harassing him, wasn't she? He couldn't resist his response. "Let me guess. You had some bushes that needed trimming?"

"No!" she laughed. "They tilled my garden!"

You gotta be shitting me, lady.

The end of the hall opened into the garage, and through there, another door took them outside into the backyard. Darkness and pleasant night sounds waited for them.

"Sorry, the porch light is out," she said, leading him to the unit.

"I've got a flashlight," Erik said and snapped it on. The strong beam roved once across her bosom, then she turned. "So what exactly seems to be the problem?" he asked her. "You getting any function at all?"

"The unit functions too well, if you want to know the truth. It's on all the time; it's over responsive, I think. And every time I touch the little control button inside, it overreacts. I guess my thermostat's too sensitive."

"Oh, I can fix your thermostat, no problem. But let me take a look at your inductors." Erik smiled in the dark, threw the flashlight beam down into the unit's grill. Annabelle stood to the side, hands on knees and bent over.

The unit kicked on, sounded fine. There's nothing wrong with this, he knew. "Yeah, it's not out here," he said playing along. "I'll have to go inside, check that inflow switch, part of the primary front end. That's inside, can't do that out here."

"You sound like a man who knows the job."

"No brag, just fact, ma'am. I've had a lot of experience. It might also be your system's receiving nodes, too."

"Um-hmm," she said.

Erik stepped closer beside her, where she remained leaning over. A side glance showed him her bare breasts in the V of her top.

"But you said you have to go inside?" she asked.

"Yeah, your control unit. That's where the switch is. It's all integrated, ma'am. That's what you've got to understand. We're talking about a problem with the overall mechanical nomenclature of your system's front end."

"Okay." She whirled around and led him back into the garage. Yeah, this is something, ain't it? Erik thought. Now was the moment of truth, though. If this was all tease which he was sure it was-then he'd know in a minute. They were going back into the house.

"When was the last time your unit went on the fritz?"

"Oh, it's on the fritz all the time," she said.

He kept the flashlight on to light their way back. A sudden breeze swept the backyard; it pressed her gown right to her skin, highlighting the lines of her breasts.

"But I don't remember the last time it's been serviced by a pro," she finished.

Another shake of his head. It was time for a test. "Well, when we go inside, let me ask your husband, see if he remembers the last time a repairman came out. Maybe a service record was left with the receipt. I can see what was done."

"No luck there," Annabelle told him. "My husband's out of town, and I don't know where he might keep any records like that."

Okay, Erik thought. This is starting to get very interesting. But what about the two other repair guys in the house? Erik was thinking a way around that when Annabelle stopped halfway back to the outside door.

What's she stopping for? Erik thought. What, she wants to do it right here in the yard? It was fine by him.

She looked up to the moon, held out her arms. "It's such a beautiful night, isn't it?"

He stepped closer. "Sure."

"I guess you're in a hurry, got another call tonight, huh?"

"Nope, this is the last one. I'm in no hurry at all."

"Then come on! Let's have a beer!" She grabbed his hand and tugged him out toward the other end of the yard.

"Beer sounds great to me," he said, off guard. The yard grew darker the farther they got from the house. "Where, uh, where are we going?"

"The kiosk!"

Kiosk? Erik could only see darkness. But he could smell something, too, something good, but before he could ask.

"It's where I have my quiet time. There's a cooler full of beer and a barbecue."

"Ah, I knew I smelled something cooking. Smells great, by the way"

"I'm cooking a brisket. It'll be done in a few hours. You gotta slow cook it all day?

All right. That made sense. She was cooking a brisket in her backyard barbecue and she had a cooler of beer back there. Perfectly normal.

Erik strained his eyes. It was very dark, but in a few more steps the wooden kiosk came into view. His vision was adjusting now. The kiosk looked like a latticework of crystal in the moonlight. Several high palm trees surrounded it, their leaves gently flittering in the breeze.

"Have a seat!" She released his hand and popped open a cooler, withdrew two beers from ice. Erik sat down on the picnic table bench. The cold beer refreshed him. "Nice little place back here," he observed. "Kinda dark, though."

Annabelle remained standing, reveling in the gentle breeze. "I could light the tiki torches but that would draw mosquitoes."

Erik wanted to get laid. What he didn't was to get was West Nile. "Then let's pass on the tiki torches."

She seemed lost in thought, looking up to the sky. Erik was looking at her back. She raised her hands as if in some secret, exuberant prayer. Then-unless Erik's eyes were deceiving him-her hands came back down very slowly. She was caressing herself.

Then she flipped off the straps of her nightgown. The gown slipped down her body like dark fluid, pooling around her ankles.

To hell with the beer. Erik stood up, walked toward her just as she turned. Stark naked now, she smiled in the dark.

"Guess it's time to get down to business, right?" Erik said.

"Yeah," she sighed, and then they were in a clinch.

They kissed ravenously. She pressed right against him, standing on tiptoes. Erik's hands prowled up and down her sleek back, played with her buttocks. When he squeezed both cheeks hard, grinding her pubis to his thigh, she moaned out loud. Her own hand began to play too, up front. It slithered over the denim of his jeans.

Hidey-HO! he thought, sucking her tongue. This was going to be his best service call in a long time.

He could feel her nipples hardening against his shirt. Her fingers began to unfasten his belt, and then...

She stopped and stepped back, big smile on her face.

Erik's shoulders dropped. "You're not just teasing me, are you? Please tell me that ain't so."

"It ain't so," she mocked his voice. "We have to check something first."

"What?" He was getting annoyed. "There's nothing wrong with your a/c."

"Not that, silly. The brisket!"

The fuckin' brisket. Jesus. Lady, you've been all over me tonight. I don't give a fuck about the fucking brisket.

"It'll just take a second. I haven't checked it since before the sun went down. Get your flashlight."

Erik had plenty of doubts now. At least he got a good feel. She must just be some nutcase housewife who got off on teasing men. It's a good thing I'm a nice guy, he thought. You come on to some guys like that and then don't put out, you'll wind up getting it the hard way. But, no, that wasn't Erik's style.

He'd set his tool bag down at the edge of the kiosk and he thought he'd set the flashlight down right next to it. He fumbled there now in the dark. When he looked to the side, though, he noticed something white. What the fuck is that? He squinted, then reached over. Picked it up.

It was a white cowboy hat.

"What's with the hat?" he asked impatiently. "Your husband's?"

She was staring off again, distracted, only half listening. "Oh. No. It's the furniture guy's. He must've ... left it out here earlier."

The furniture guy? So she had him back here earlier, it seemed. And the cable guy, too, he presumed. Erik thought about that a second, then shrugged. Sloppy seconds didn't bother him. Hell, I got a rubber in my wallet. But-

He set the hat down on the picnic table. The furniture truck was still in the driveway, and so was the cable truck. "So those guys were back here earlier, and now they're back in the house working?"

A pause. "Um-hmm. They were ... just finishing up when you came. They've probably even left by now. So...you don't have to worry about anyone...interrupting us."

Erik guessed he bought the answer. The situation was easy to calculate. When the husband's out of town on business, Wifey packs in as much strange as she can. Nothing wrong with that.

"But..." Erik looked back at the cowboy hat. "That looks like a pretty

expensive hat. What, the guy just left it here?"

"Forget about the hat," she said and faced him. Her nakedness radiated in the dark. She was almost glowing. "He'll come back for it tomorrow."

Erik nodded, then he noticed something else in the grainy darkness. Something right next to the hat on the picnic table. It was a hacksaw.

"What's with the saw?"

"Uh..." She smiled. "The landscapers, silly. I told you, I had landscapers here."

"Yeah, I know. To till your garden."

She giggled. "They were cutting some dead branches off the trees."

Erik chewed on that one. It made sense but still... cowboy hats, hacksaw, a brisket on the barbecue, and a whack-job naked housewife. The night was getting weird fast.

Her mood switched; suddenly she was flighty again. "Now quit fooling around and get your flashlight. Check my brisket! Otherwise I'll have to light the torches and if I light the torches I have to put my nightgown back on."

Erik got the flashlight.

The bright beam bared down. A trace of smoke leaked out from under the barbecue's lid. It smelled great, like pork roast or prime rib. Erik was looking down at the barbecue, but...

...if he'd actually looked up and shone the flashlight past the kiosk, he would've seen two bodies.

He opened the lid.

He didn't have time to turn, to run, to shout. He didn't have time to react. He didn't even have time to feel the impact of the shock.

 

WHACK!

 

The bend of the crowbar hit him right at the top of the spine. The vertebrae shattered at once. Erik was quadriplegic by the time he had collapsed fully to the kiosk's floor.

He was still alive, though. Brain cells still firing, eyes still seeing, thoughts still flowing. He simply couldn't move. He lay paralyzed, staring up.

"Did you see?"

Her voice fluttered down. She was standing above him, one foot on either side, hands on hips. She grinned down at him. "Did you see what was in the barbecue?"

Erik, understandably, could only think now in unsorted fragments. His heart was slamming for all that had happened in the past few seconds, his horror and terror and fear all colliding. But, yes, yes.

He had seen.

When he'd opened the barbecue lid, two human heads looked back at him from the grill. The pork like waft of aroma had floated up amid steam. It was only a split-second glance but a split second was sufficient. The heads were roasting, crackling a little. One victim had a shaved head and goatee, the other broader, hair singeing off, clean shaven.

Annabelle was now kneeling at Erik's side, breasts swaying, glee in her smile, as she briskly began to saw Erik's head off with the hacksaw. Erik died shortly thereafter.

It took a few minutes, the grisly rip of each thrust of the blade resounding upward as all the blood pumped out of Erik's body. When the head was detached, Annabelle put it on the grill with the others and closed the lid.

Annabelle wasn't going to eat the heads, by the way. She was a vegetarian. It simply occurred to her that cooking them would be appropriate. It had the right ring to it: cooking heads. She could see the tabloid headline now: psycho housewife cooks heads!

It was just the kind of message she wanted to leave, and she knew that the Messenger was pleased.

He walked her back into the house, actually more drifting than walking. She felt wistful and dreamy, the naked night-nymph wandering aimlessly down silent hallways. She killed the furniture man in the cowboy hat and the cable technician exactly the same way she'd killed Erik. By the time night had fallen, it was safe. No one would see what was going on in the backyard. The four landscapers she'd killed in the house, each in a separate room, cutting their throats during sex.

She couldn't wait for the police to find the bodies, (especially the heads!). She couldn't wait for the message to be spread. She could feel the Messenger close against her from behind, lovingly walking her along, touching her with her own hands.

She left the light on in the bathroom. She wanted to see him behind her in the dark, and after a moment, staring into the mirror's dark veins, she did.

Did I do good?

Yes.

She took two of her dead husband's razor blades out of the dispenser. She smiled dreamily at the corroded face behind her.

Now?

Now, my dear.

Her master's messages were done, and now it was time for Annabelle to be done, too. It was time for her to go to a new and exciting place where she could serve the Messenger and his colleagues directly.

Thank you.

Annabelle gashed her wrist, then painted the master's symbol on the mirror. Then she closed her eyes and grinned and very gently and slowly slid each razor deep into the sides of her throat, severing the major arteries to the brain. She leaned back, held her hands up as if to solicit the stars as the blood pumped in soft jets to either side, like crimson angel wings.