Flesh and Blood

by Jonathan Kellerman

  I got out of the car, descended toward the construction site on foot, using a tentative quarter moon as my compass. Reached bottom, dodged nails and planks and shingles and boards.

  Chilly night, purplish black sky freckled by starlight, the water below inky, identically blemished. Off to the south the remains of the Paradise Cove pier listed like a drunk, pilings angled dangerously toward the ocean. Someone had peeled back the chain link that blocked access, and for a moment I wondered if I was alone. But when I stopped I saw no movement other than the breeze-nudged boughs of sycamores, heard nothing but the tide.

  I walked around aimlessly, no more insightful than when I'd arrived. A husky engine hum filtered down from the road. Then a car door slamming. Footsteps. Rapid footsteps.

  Cheryl Duke's hourglass shape appeared seconds later, descending the slope smoothly. Making herself easy to spot in a tight, pale cardigan, white T-shirt, and white jeans. Swinging her arms, purposeful but relaxed. Lithe.

  I said, “Over here,” and headed toward her.

  She looked at me, waved.

  When I reached her she was smiling. The cardigan was pink cashmere, cropped above her firm waistline, straining at the chest. “I dressed so you could see me.”

  “Oh, I saw you all right.”

  She laughed, threw her arms around my neck, kissed me full on the lips. Her tongue pressed its way through my teeth, licked my palate, filled my throat, retreated. She threw back her head, laughing. Wiggling the tongue— huge and pointed— curling the tip upward and tickling the bottom of her nose.

  “See,” she said, “size matters all kinds of ways.” One hand cupped the back of my head as sharp little teeth nibbled at my chin, and I thought of her son biting down on my ear. A family of carnivores. My arms were at my sides, and she grabbed my hands and planted them on her rear. Her breasts asserted themselves against my chest, obstructive, unyielding. Her pelvis rotated against mine; then the palms of her hands replaced the breasts as she shoved me away.

  “That's all you get, for now.” Her hair was loose, full, bleached white by the moon, and she turned tossing it into a production.

  “Shucks,” I said, still feeling her tongue in my gullet.

  “Aw,” she said. “Poor baby.” Another soft shove. “Why should I let you fuck me? We barely know each other.”

  “A guy can hope.”

  Laughing, she took my hand as she led me back toward the construction mess.

  “Where're we off to?” I said.

  She pointed to the remnants of the pier. “I love it up there— the way it just goes off into nowhere.”

  “Eternity.”

  “Yeah.”

  As we neared the peeled-back fence, I said, “Is it safe?”

  More laughter. “Who knows?” She pulled me onto the broken promenade, let go of my hand, and began skipping along the warped boards. I felt the wood beneath my feet hum in response. My toe caught on a splintered shank, and I almost lost my balance. Cheryl was well ahead of me, dancing across planks separated enough for black water to shine through. I watched her pick up speed, break into a run toward the pier's shattered end, as if building momentum for a high dive.

  She stopped short, inches from the edge, shoulders thrown back, hair wild, hands set on the arc of flesh that curved above the waistline of her jeans. I caught up just as she crossed her arms and pulled off her sweater and her T-shirt, flung both garments aside. The manufactured breasts bobbled like saddlebags as laughter shook her upper body, nipples big and erect and aimed skyward like the heat-seeking weapons they were.

  She edged backward, so that the heels of her running shoes tipped over the pier's terminus. Vertigo clamped around my gut as she began bouncing lightly, and I backed away.

  “Aw,” she said, “c'mon. It's a great feeling.”

  “I'll take your word for it.”

  “Flying's not your thing?”

  “Not tonight.”

  She bounced some more, spread her arms. “Probably not any night. What if not doing it means I don't fuck you?”

  “Like I said before. Aw shucks.”

  Louder giggles, but shaky, tinged with hurt.

  She began sidestepping along the edge. Breathing fast, she spoke again, her voice constricted. “Pretty cool, huh? I could always balance.”

  “Impressive.”

  “I can swallow swords, too.”

  “Spent some time with the circus?”

  “Something like that.” She reached the far end, sidestepped her way back, stood on one foot, arched the other behind her, into space. I watched and didn't say a word and wondered how I'd ever get across the concept of danger. She began humming tunelessly. Closed her eyes. Walked several steps, blind.

  Humming but not without fear. Starlit streams of sweat ran from her armpits and coursed the swell of her chest. She began gasping for breath but kept going.

  Finally— without warning— she stepped away from the void and shouted “Yes!” at the sky. Massaged her breasts and shouted again. Then she sat down on the misshapen planks, drew her knees to her chin, lowered her head.

  “You okay?” I said.

  “I'm great— C'mere.”

  I stepped closer, and she pulled me down beside her. “You're a wimp, but you're cute.” Nuzzling my neck, she leaned her head on my shoulder. “We could do it right here. If I was into doing it.” She grabbed my hair, tugged gently, then harder. “The picture in my mind is we're back there.” Hooking a thumb at the edge. “You on bottom, me on top, with your head hanging over the side, and you're looking up at me, deep inside me, your balls knocking against my ass, so into how I'm making you feel that you wouldn't care even if you did fall over— how does that sound?”

  “I'm open to new experiences, but—”

  “You're saying no?”

  “I'm saying I'd rather live a few more years.”

  “Wimp,” she said, airily. “You'd turn down something like that 'cause of a little danger?” Patting me on the head with smiling contempt, she stood, bent low, swung her breasts toward my mouth, then curved away.

  “Too bad, little man. I need dedication,” she said in a hard voice. “Had enough of wimps and losers—”

  I got up on my feet. “Tony Duke's a wimp?”

  Smiling, she came toward me. Reached out a hand and stroked my hair again. Polished nails spit back starlight. Touching the tip of my chin, she reared back and slapped me hard across the mouth. My head rocked, and my teeth buzzed as if I'd sucked current from a live wire.

  “You don't know me, don't make like you do.”

  My lip throbbed. When I touched it, my fingers came away wet.

  “You ruined the mood,” she said.

  “By not hanging over the edge.”

  “Aw,” she said. “You really are a wimp— your loss.” She patted her crotch. “What I've got here could snap you like a turtle and drain you like a pump.”

  Practiced patter. Hooker talk.

  Had she freelanced, just like Lauren? Between skating and dancing, or had it been her main gig before meeting Ben Dugger and Tony Duke?

  She wiggled back into her shirt and sweater, spread her legs— not enticingly, a combat stance— and shot me the finger. “He thinks he's so smart.”

  Putting me in third person. The grammar was more than symbolic, and I knew more was wrong than my failure to meet her sexual demands.

  An audience. Before I could put the threat in place, figure out what to do, a man emerged from the shadows at the other end of the pier. Approached us.

  Cheryl turned her back and walked toward him. He was barely visible because, unlike her, he'd dressed for concealment.

  Black sweatsuit, black shoes. He and Cheryl met in the center of the pier. Everything rehearsed— I'd been the only one ad-libbing.

  “He thinks he's smart,” said Cheryl.

  Kent Irving said nothing. His brassy hair had been tied back in a ponytail, emphasizing the breadth of his round, ruddy face. Impassive face. Something silv
ery and reflective in his right hand.

  Cheryl flashed teeth and tucked her white T-shirt tight.

  “Baby,” she said.

  Irving's one-lipped mouth stayed shut.

  “It's good you came when you did, baby,” she told him. “He was ready to fuck me blind, would've raped me and tossed me over the edge.”

  She kissed his ear. Irving still didn't react. He stepped closer. I had nowhere to go but into eternity, but I stepped backward anyway. The automatic in his hand was level with my face.

  “He thinks we're stupid, baby,” said Cheryl. “Thinks he can just happen to be boating by, just happen to be sitting there doing his crossword puzzle like it's some big fucking coincidence and we're not gonna suspect anything. Asshole.”

  I said, “Suspicion's a two-way street. The police know I'm here.”

  She said, “Right.” Irving remained silent and still. How far was the drop? How high was the tide? Would I hit water or slam into hard-packed sand, collapsing my spine like a twig? If I could calculate the drop in the darkness, would rolling on my side help, allow me to escape with only crushed ribs, internal injuries? I hadn't consulted a tide chart, had no reason to, terrific planning—

  Kent Irving walked some more, and I stood my ground. The barrel of the gun was ten feet away. Chromium lips and a tiny black mouth that said, “Oh.”

  Cheryl stayed behind Irving, yammering, showing all those teeth, tossing her goddamned hair—

  “Enough,” Irving told her, in that thin, high voice.

  She pouted. “Sure, baby— you saved me, baby. He was an animal, would've rammed me without mercy, just used me and threw me away.” She placed a hand on his meaty shoulder.

  “Yeah,” he said.

  “Yeah, baby, so you saved me. You're gonna be happy you did.”

  “You really think it's happy days?” I said. “The police really do know I'm here. Meeting you, Cheryl. He can't afford that. You're expendable— just like Baxter and Sage—”

  “Enough,” Irving said, softly. Same word he'd used with Cheryl. The lack of inflection said it all.

  No sweat, no strain. Eyes as animated as gravel. Business as usual.

  Maybe he'd hired someone to shoot Lauren and Michelle and Lance and Jane, but if he had, it had been out of convenience, not apprehension. He could pull that trigger like brushing his teeth. Eat breakfast moments later without giving it a second thought.

  I said, “You know I'm right, Kent. You can't chance her talking to the police. Sooner or later, she's got to go anyway. She's stupid and nuts and undependable. Actually thinks you'll leave Anita for her and the two of you will end up with all of Tony's money and live happily ever after, the Prince and Princess. You know better. She's no princess, you've had dozens like her. Just another stupid hooker with plastic tits—”

  Cheryl charged toward me, but Irving blocked her with his free arm.

  “Fuck you!” she shrieked. “Fuck you in hell— Don't let him talk to me like that, baby. He can't dis me like that— don't fucking let him!”

  Pushing against Irving's arm. He closed his hand on her wrist. The gun arm had never wavered. If he'd blinked I hadn't seen it. Giving him a polygraph would be academically interesting.

  Cheryl said, “Give me the gun and let me do him— I can do it, you know I can. I'll do it right now, just like I did her, come on.”

  “Her,” I said. “Lauren or Michelle or Jane or Shawna?”

  The last name caused Irving's eyes to wander for the tiniest fragment of a second. Uncertainty. Lack of familiarity.

  “Bitch Lauren,” said Cheryl, smugly. She spat on the pier. “Cunt Lauren. She thought she could be my friend. Thought we had rapport, that I was just like her—”

  “She had a point,” I said. “You both sold sex—”

  “Fuck you!”

  “Quiet,” said Irving. His hand was still clamped to her wrist. Something he did made her say, “Ouch.”

  Then: “Baby?”

  “Hurts so good?” I said. “What a fun couple. So how'd you lure Lauren?”

  “Art,” said Cheryl, making it sound like a disease. “She thought she was so cool— we made a date to meet at the art museum and then—”

  A twist of Irving's wrist shut her mouth. “Easy,” he soothed.

  “He's the boss, got you to set up Lauren, then do her,” I said. “With a woman she'd let down her guard— two girls and pretty pictures. She'd already told you her secret— Tell me, did you watch while he hog-tied her? Did you help him toss her in the trash?”

  “It was great—”

  Irving rotated his hand again, and she cried out.

  I said, “You're toast, Cheryl. Maybe it won't happen tonight, but don't make any long-term investments. Even if you weren't stupid and unpredictable, you wouldn't figure into his plans, because your kids are a problem. Think about that gas leak— What's the next installment, Kent? Tossing Baxter over the cliff? Then Sage happens to toddle over to the pool? Or maybe you'll just disappear them in the ocean.”

  Irving smiled. Cheryl never saw it, but his silence made her eyes go wide and scared.

  “Maybe I will let you do him,” he told her.

  “Creative,” I said. “Her prints get on the gun, then a bullet finds its way into her head— murder-suicide, lovers’ quarrel out on the pier. You're an old hand at that kind of thing— took Lauren's gun out of her purse after Cheryl shot her and used it a week later on Jane Abbot. Setting the old man up. How'd you get Lauren alone for the kill, Cheryl?”

  “Girl talk, asshole—”

  “Shh,” said Irving. “No more dialogue— Yeah, I will let you do him.”

  “Lots of bodies piling up,” I said. “At least it's not one of those senseless crime sprees. You've got a definite goal in mind. Tony'll be dead soon, and what he leaves behind is sure worth working for. You're doing Ben and Anita's dirty work, and maybe they'll even let you stick around to enjoy the windfall. But you never know— the rich can get funny with hired help.”

  Irving didn't move.

  Cheryl said, “Baby?” very softly. “You do love them, right? Bax and Sage?”

  “Sure,” said Irving.

  “He's capable of love like you're qualified to be a nuclear physicist,” I said. “He'll love them as two cute little corpses. No way will they make it to first grade. Baby. You sure are a great mom. Baby.”

  Cheryl raised clenched fists. “Shut up! Gimme it, let me do him now!”

  Irving didn't budge.

  “Ke-ent!” she whined.

  “Okay, c'mere,” said Irving.

  He removed his hand from her wrist, and as she stepped forward lowered his arm and circled her waist. Keeping the gun trained on me. Reaching around, he squeezed her breast. Pinched her nipple.

  “Umm,” she said.

  He pinched her again.

  “Ow, that was too hard!”

  “Sorry,” said Irving. Cradling her chin, he kissed the tip of her nose. Shoved her hard.

  As she staggered backward, he moved fast. Staring at me as he swung the gun around. He shot her twice in the face, stepping back to avoid the blood spray. By the time she hit the boards, the gun was back on me.

  * * *

  She landed on her side.

  “Thanks,” he told me. “You gave me a good idea. Yeah, I had plans for her, but this is even better.”

  “Happy to oblige,” I said. “But maybe she wasn't the only one with delusions. Think about what I said: Will Anita and Ben really be happy sharing? Spoiled rich kids aren't big on gratitude.”

  He shrugged. Blood streamed from under Cheryl's head, oil black in the starlight, and he inched away from the welling pool.

  “Doesn't matter, does it?” I said, not looking at the body. “You've got plans for them too. Really think you're going to walk away with everything.”

  He snorted, sighed. “Let's get this over with.”

  “I wasn't lying about the police,” I said. “You're a prime suspect. They know about your
garment biz days, meeting Lauren back when she worked the Mart. Must've been a shock when she showed up at the estate with Ben— good old Ben screwing up again, picking up another dumb blonde. He's got a thing for them, doesn't he? Uses his experiments to find them and to hit on them, but once he gets them, the poor schmuck doesn't know what to do with them. Cheryl, Lauren, Shawna Yeager— what happened to her? How did she get in the way?”