In a way, she couldn’t blame him. Roxie hadn’t been too keen on the ritual part of it, either, but Lena Harding, who’d invited her when she’d stopped in for coffee, explained that the candles and cutting were just a formality, something that added an extra bit of spice. The point, she’d said, was the sex, which was “totally hot.”
Roxie had been surprised to find herself open to the idea. Not that she was a prude by any means, she wasn’t, but a ritualistic fuck-party in the woods just didn’t seem like the type of thing you found yourself jumping right into. But she had, and only very briefly had it seemed out of character.
And Lena had been right about the sex. It was totally hot. Roxie had especially enjoyed the sword fight Shawn Barzetti and Bobby Beckstead staged in her mouth. She sighed, looking forward to the next session. Good times.
“Miss? Excuse me?”
Roxie, who had her knees on the seat of an empty booth as she gazed out at the street, glanced toward a woman at the next table. She was obscenely fat and wore a bright sundress and too much junk jewelry. Humongous sunglasses held her sweaty ketchup-colored hair back. She sat with several other women - all of them clearly tourists. “Can I help you?” Roxie asked.
“I certainly hope so!” said the woman. She pulled back the bun of her Double Delight Burger- or Double D, as the crew called it - and pointed. “I specifically asked for no pickles. And look. There are pickles. And I can’t simply take them off because I’m allergic.”
Roxie glanced at the woman’s friends who were bent over a phone, cooing at pictures, oblivious to their bosom-buddy’s bitchy attitude. “Sorry,” said Roxie. “I’ll make you one fresh. At no charge, of course.”
“I should hope not!” huffed Fatty.
“I apologize, ma’am. I’m short-handed today.” She took the woman’s plate, carried it into the kitchen, and told Julio, the cook, to make another one. He didn’t speak a lick of English outside of “burger” and “fries” so she added, “And do it right this time, or I’ll give you a spanking you’ll never forget.”
He blinked at her, not understanding.
Roxie stood there a moment, wondering how firm and smooth his Hispanic bare ass would feel under her hand. Though she’d never noticed before, he now looked pretty hot. Maybe I’ll invite him to our next fuckfest. And I’ll definitely make him wear the hair net. Kinky. Then she thought better of it - she didn’t want to scare off the best cook she’d had in years. But that didn’t mean she couldn’t have a little fun. “Julio?” she said. “How many inches are you packing?”
He searched her face. “Que?”
Roxie held up her thumb and forefinger. “Is it little? Or is it …” she raised both hands, a foot apart. “Muy, muy grande?”
He smiled, uncertain. “Footlong?” he asked, reaching into a stainless steel container that housed the hot dogs.
Roxie rolled her eyes. “No, Julio. Never mind.” She peeked past his shoulder at the frying beef patties. “That’s good enough. They’re done.” She held Fatty’s plate out for him. Uncertainly, he slid his spatula under both undercooked patties and placed them on the bun. “And I’ll dress it myself, since you can’t be trusted,” she said, licking her lips.
He nodded and smiled. “Si, si!”
“Idiot.” She moved to the condiments table and squirted the bun with ketchup, mayo, and mustard, tossed some lettuce on, then tomatoes and onions. She paused, looking over her shoulder. Julio had his back to her. Quickly, she took a handful of sliced dills and vigorously shook pickle juice over the top patty, trying not to giggle. She’d never mishandled a customer’s food before, would never have dreamed of doing such a thing, but it felt amazing.
She dropped the pickles back into their container, sopping up the excess juice on her fingers with the bun. She couldn’t wait to see what kind of allergy the woman had to pickles; she hoped it was a deadly one.
She managed to keep a straight face as she strode back to the table. “Here you are, Fatty. Enjoy.”
The woman’s jaw dropped. Her friends went silent.
Uh-oh. What did I say? Then she recalled. Oh shit!
“What did you just say to me?” asked the woman formerly known as Fatty.
“I said that I made it fresh, complete with new patties!”
The woman blinked, doubtful, then inspected her hamburger. “This is fine, thank you.”
Roxie threw her a beamer and turned.
Tiffany Rhodes, a half an hour late, hurried through the door. “I’m so sorry! My alarm didn’t go off!”
Roxie put a hand on her shoulder, looked around, and spoke low. “If it happens again, I’m going to fire you. Then I’m going to hire you back just so I can kick you in the cunt then fire you again.”
Tiffany’s eyes were orbs of shock. “Whaaaaat?”
Oops! I did it again! Roxie didn’t know what had gotten into her. “I’m just kidding!” she said, and laughed a little too hard.
She ushered Tiffany, whose jaw still scraped the floor, into the back room where the time clock waited. “I was just having a little fun with you is all.” Roxie pulled a tan apron off a hook, pushed it over the girl’s head, and said, “Now get that sweet little ass of yours out there and wipe some tables!” She slapped Tiffany on the butt. The girl’s stunned reaction told her this wasn’t proper, either. Shit! What’s wrong with me?
But Tiffany took it in stride, pulling out her pad and hurrying to greet a family who’d just entered.
Alone, Roxie sat on a plastic crate and rubbed her forehead. What the fuck has gotten into me? She’d always thought of herself as “brutally honest,” but lately, it was out of control. Maybe I’m cracking ...
Her train of thought was interrupted when a scream resounded from the dining area.
“Quick!” someone cried. “Get her Epi-Pen!”
Roxie began laughing so hard she peed a little.
* * *
The massacre that Nick Grayson now stared at made Stardene Cassel’s suicide look like a scene from a Disney movie.
“You don’t see that every day.” Beside him, Marty Pullman shook his head. His square Nordic face looked drawn and though nearly as tall as Nick, he looked small, as if the things he’d seen this morning had wilted his edges. After arriving at the LeBlatte residence and seeing the extent of the carnage, Marty had called in Nick and a couple of others. Clint Horace was outside, draping yellow tape - CRIME SCENE DO NOT ENTER - around the trees and telling the rubberneckers to go home.
“I recognize Olivia LeBlatte,” said Nick. “But who’s the other?”
“That’d be Nedra Gimple. Long-time enemy of LeBlatte’s.”
“Gimple? As in Jeffrey?”
“You know him?”
“He’s my landlord.”
“Well, shit. I didn’t know he owned that property.” Marty scratched at the sandy gray stubble on his jaw.
“Who made the call?”
“A client of LeBlatte’s. She didn’t show up, so the client went down to the office, talked to LeBlatte’s assistant who came here looking for her, and ...” Marty sighed. “She had to be tranquilized and taken to the hospital.”
Nick raised his brows. “The hospital?”
“She slipped in the blood and broke her ankle.”
“Christ on a cracker.” Nick grimaced at the bloody tangle of death in front of him. “Has anyone been sent to-”
“I sent Bannon to the Gimple house, to inform Jeffrey, yes. And Andrew Morley, the ME, is on his way.” Pullman grimaced at the bodies. “What the hell did these women do to each other?”
“You think they did this to one another?”
“No signs of a third party. And like I said, they hated each other.”
Nick bent and stared at the corpses - and there was no doubt that’s what they were. No one would have survived this. They lay facing each other in a bloody cluster of scattered silverware. A couple of inches closer and they might have been kissing.
A butcher knife protruded from Ol
ivia LeBlatte’s abdomen. Her paper-white hands were curled into claws, her mouth a blood-crusted, jagged-toothed hole, and livor mortis had turned the floor side of her face the color of a rotting Adirondack Blue potato.
The other woman, Nedra Gimple, had been stabbed with a fork in the throat. It protruded like a proudly planted flag. Her eyes were clotted pockets of red and black crust. Her jaw hung so far to one side she looked like a cartoon villain frozen in an evil grimace.
It was fucking ugly.
The word ‘bloodbath’ had never been a part of Nick’s vocabulary, but that’s the term that came to mind now. Given the amount of pooled, smeared, streaked, and congealed crimson, Nick figured one or both of them had bled out. Of bloody handprints, there were plenty - on drawers, the floor, all over the cabinets, and on the bodies. Forensics would tell them more, but to Nick’s eye, he’d have to agree with Pullman. Mutual murder.
“Shitty way to start the day, huh?” said Marty.
“For us or for them?”
“Actually, I meant for us, but,” Marty glanced at the carnage, “now that you mention it, I suppose we shouldn’t bitch too much.” He suppressed a laugh by coughing into his hand.
So did Nick.
Regardless of how inappropriate it was, a little black humor always helped. Nature’s way of keeping us sane.
Outside, Clint Horace’s metallic voice trumpeted through a loudspeaker. “Get back inshide your houshes folksh! Nuffing to shee! Go back inshide your houshes and let ush do our jobsh!”
Nick headed back into the living room, Marty following close behind, and crouched to look at the pink bowling ball. It poked halfway out a hole in the drywall. It was covered with dried blood. “I think this explains the dislocation of Ms. Gimple’s jaw.”
Marty sucked air through his teeth. “Ouch. Yeah. Looks right.”
“And I suppose that’s when those got knocked out.” Nick nodded at a plate of dentures on the carpet near the kitchen doorway. He stood. “I’m guessing the altercation started in here.”
“This is why I don’t bowl,” said Marty.
Nick peered at the empty bowling bag on the coffee table, careful not to touch anything. His gaze swept across the carpet. “Brutal.” He pointed to a few stray teeth with bloody roots strewn on the floor.
“Jesus Christ,” said Marty.
Nick rubbed his temples, wanting his bed. Though he’d had no more supernatural surprises after the Reverend Bobby incident, he hadn’t slept more than a couple of hours. Every noise the house made seemed an ominous precursor to new and hellish activity. But his own problems were petty in the wake of the Gimple/LeBlatte massacre. Real horror had a way of draining the color from lesser tragedies.
Other teams began showing up - photographers, forensics, and eventually the medical examiner. Andrew Morley stood at least six-foot-six with a head of lush ginger hair, and no time for formalities. Both he and the forensics team validated Nick and Marty’s theory: These women had killed each other.
“Heh,” said Morley. “You don’t see a cat-fight like that every day.”
“No go, Chief.” A new voice entered the room. It was Corey Bannon, the deputy who’d been sent to the Gimple’s.
“What’s that?” asked Nick.
Bannon swallowed, glancing at the scattered teeth. “No answer. I’ve looked all over for the husband. No one’s seen him.” Bannon was young, no older than twenty-five, and Nick doubted he’d ever seen such a crime scene. Hell, I’ve never seen such a crime scene. “Good work. I’ll check again on my way home.”
Bannon nodded and left the house, looking queasy.
And now Jeffrey Gimple is missing? Nick wondered what that meant.
* * *
In the days before Founder’s Day, there was no shortage of work for Shawn Barzetti and Bobby Beckstead. The electricians had been called to do some rewiring on the lighting in the stables and pens behind the arena and had the area to themselves. The rodeo was Shawn’s favorite part of the fair and Bobby agreed. There was just something about men getting thrown from horses that turned their cranks. Demolition derbies were cool as hell, too, but not as personal.
While Bobby crouched on one knee, tinkering with an outlet, Shawn watched a dust-covered truck lumber past. It towed a massive trailer and he inhaled the smell of horses, feeling the same stir of excitement he always did when the rodeo came. “Dude,” he said. “I think I just saw Old Tornado.”
Bobby looked at his friend. “Seriously?”
“Seriously.” Last year, the mean-looking mustang had bucked his rider off, stomped on his back, and put him in the hospital. Shawn thought for sure they’d pull the horse from the show after that.
“That’s messed up, man.” Bobby went back to his task. “Hand me the wire strippers.”
Shawn, like a surgical nurse in the operating room, handed the tool over. “Hurry, dude, and we can go take a leak on the merry-go-round again.”
Bobby snickered. “I’ve been holding it all morning, man. I’m going to pee like a racehorse!”
Last year, they’d hosed several of the fiberglass animals off proper, and when the sun started beating down, they’d gotten a pretty high stink out of it. Still, it hadn’t earned them more than a few pulled faces, and this year, Shawn was hoping to make at least one kid cry.
“Hurry up, I gotta go, and the coast’s clear.” Shawn nudged Bobby with his knee.
“Quit it.” Bobby swatted him away.
Shawn grinned as another natural urge presented him with a golden opportunity. He turned, grabbed Bobby’s head, and shoved it against his own ass, squeezing out a ripsnorter of historical proportions.
“Jesus fuck!” Bobby punched Shawn right in the asshole.
Shawn stumbled back and doubled over in hysterics as his friend got to his feet, face red with fury.
“Asshole!”
“Yeah,” said Shawn between fits of laughter, “that’s who was talking to ya! You have to admit, I got you good!”
Bobby’s mouth tightened and his jaw flexed. “Not like I’m gonna get you.” He stalked toward the tack room.
“Bobby?” asked Shawn. “You’re not really pissed are you?”
The other electrician emerged moments later with a cattle prod, looking like a Jedi with a light saber, the hard glint in his eyes answering for him. “Come here, fucker.” There was nothing humorous about the rage on his face.
“I was just joshing you, man. Come on, you know it was funny!”
But there wasn’t a hint of a smile as Bobby thrust the prod forward, zapping Shawn right in the nuts.
Fiery hot pain shot through him. He dropped, hitting the ground in full-body collapse. “Aaaagghhhh!!” He rolled into the fetal position, clutching his junk.
Now Bobby broke into laughter.
“You prick!” Shawn wailed, managing to roll onto his stomach, certain he would hurl.
Pain shot through his ass as Bobby struck again.
Shawn shrieked as the burn zinged through him. “Stop!” he cried, flopping onto his back to see Bobby looming, cattle prod aimed. “Truce, man.” Shawn held up his hand. “Truce, okay?”
Bobby considered, then shrugged and lowered his weapon. “All right, as long as-”
Shawn kicked Bobby’s legs out from under him, sending fresh pain into his groin. It felt like someone was splitting his sack open.
Bobby hit the dirt face down, and Shawn staggered to his feet, gripped the prod, and zapped his friend.
“How do you like it, bitch?” Zap! Zap! Zap! He saved the best for last, thrusting the prod right between Bobby’s ass cheeks, and hit the trigger.
Bobby shrieked, his body bucking so hard it would have made Old Tornado proud. He writhed and rolled onto his back, his face a mask of agony as dust puffed in clouds around him. The crotch of his jeans went dark. Apparently, he really had been holding it all day.
Shawn fell apart, his eyes tearing. He laughed so hard the carnies on the midway probably heard it.
And
then he, too, was on the ground. Bobby had caught him unawares, rolling into his feet to knock him down. Shawn fought for the prod. “Give it!”
Bobby’s grip was firm.
They rolled, knotted in a tangle of limbs, locked in a battle of wills.
Shawn got the advantage, rolled on top of Bobby and clutched his wrist, squeezing and shaking until the cattle prod came loose and landed in the dirt several feet away.
Dust began settling as he lay on his friend, both of them gasping for breath, their faces inches apart. Shawn smelled the sweetness of tropical fruit-flavored Pucker-Button candies on his friend’s breath, felt the heat of Bobby’s soothing warm urine against his aching testicles.
It might have been all the dust, dirt, and excitement of the upcoming rodeo. Or it might have been some bizarre and unforeseen aftereffect of the cattle prod’s electric charge, stimulating dormant things in his brain. He didn’t know what it was, but Shawn found himself giving into something he’d wanted to do since they were thirteen years old.
He kissed Bobby, hard and deep.
Bobby returned the kiss with a passion that rivaled his own.
Sickness in the Streets
With a set of keys found in Nedra Gimple’s purse, Nick Grayson and Officer Corey Bannon let themselves into the Gimple house in search of Nedra’s husband - and Nick’s landlord - Jeffrey. The Gimple’s lived in a gray and white ranch-style house on Marquee Drive where, apparently, the neighborhood watch program was tip-top; Nick had never seen so many people bustle outside at once to check their mailboxes, wash their windshields, or stare at their gardens.
Inside, the house was silent.
“Mr. Gimple?” Nick knocked on a bathroom door then peered inside. It was empty. “Police.” He continued to the bedrooms. After checking the closets, Nick went back into the kitchen/dining area where Bannon stood, looking down a stairwell.
“There’s a basement.”
“Let’s check it out,” said Nick.
At the bottom of the stairs, a metal folding chair was wedged beneath a door’s knob.
The Angel Alejandro Page 39
