Grave Situation

by Alex MacLean

  Instinctively, she dipped a hand into her purse. The canister of pepper spray that she touched gave her a sense of reassurance.

  When the passenger window lowered, a young man with lank, black hair peered out at her. He was maybe twenty years old. His face was long and angular, pale and wasted. His eyes were glassy.

  The woman took a step back when she sniffed the pungent scent of hashish spilling out of the car. All at once the young man’s face suddenly disappeared before her, transforming into the haggard face of her younger sister, Cathy. Images shot across the hooker’s mind—Cathy slumped unconscious over a toilet, a syringe hanging from the crook of her arm; the wail of sirens; the EHS paramedics rushing her out on a stretcher; Cathy lying in a hospital bed, feeble, shaking, tubes in her body; then later, Cathy’s ravaged eyes staring up, her palsied fingertips on her older sister’s arm as she struggled to speak.

  “I’ll never do drugs again.”

  The hooker winced.

  If only I could believe that, she thought.

  The slurred voice of the young man cut through her thoughts. “Hey, baby. How much?”

  The woman blinked. She noticed a twenty-dollar bill in the man’s hand. Since her job was fraught with danger, she always made a point of examining the occupants of any vehicle before getting in. She bent over and looked at the driver. Another young man with short brown hair. He sat forward with a fixed, aimless gaze to his eyes. A shadowy figure moved in the backseat, the silhouette of a hash pipe to the person’s lips. Whether the figure was male or female, she couldn’t tell and it didn’t matter.

  There was no way she would get into this car.

  “Move along, boys,” she said.

  “Oh, c’mon baby,” whined the young man. “Come a little closer.” He flicked his tongue in the air. “I want to taste you.”

  She flushed. Her fingers curled around the canister of pepper spray. Ignoring him, she looked down Barrington Street toward the lights of the city’s core.

  “I have money.” The man waved the twenty. “How much for a blowjob? Are you worth it?”

  From the backseat, she heard laughter. Another male, she realized at that point. Her face tightened with anger. In one fluid motion, she brought out the canister of pepper spray and aimed it at the young man, her finger ready on the actuator. She willed her hand not to shake.

  “I said move along,” she hissed.

  The young man snapped his head back, his eyes wide.

  “Take it easy.” He raised his hands, as if in mock surrender. “We’ll leave. No harm done.”

  “Move,” the woman repeated.

  “Fuck this,” the driver muttered.

  With a squeal of tires, the car sped away. The hooker expelled a sigh. Watching the taillights, she put the canister of pepper spray back inside her purse.

  Idiots.

  She lit another cigarette to calm her nerves.

  Headlights flashed on the street. She turned her head to see another vehicle approaching.

  A pickup this time.

  Great.

  Smoking, the hooker watched it stop at the curb three feet from her. She saw a man inside reach across the seat for the window crank. Then she heard a voice, soft and warm, say, “Hello there.”

  She flipped the cigarette to the sidewalk. Its tip glowed orange on the cement. Gingerly, she took a step forward, one hand on the door, the other on her purse. She bent, examining the man inside with a contemptuous quiet.

  “Looking for something?” she asked.

  7

  Halifax, May 9

  4:03 a.m.

  He stared into the hooker’s face and immediately became allured by her ocean blue eyes.

  Perfect. Those are just perfect.

  “I’m just looking for some company,” he answered finally.

  The hooker looked around, darting glances here and there. “You a cop?”

  In spite of himself, he smiled. “No. Not at all.”

  Every so often, a car would pass. He remained vigilant of the police. Being picked up soliciting a prostitute was the last thing he needed. He drew himself up behind the steering wheel. He touched his forehead and his fingers came away wet.

  “It’s a little late for company.” The hooker glanced at her watch. “My office hours are almost over.”

  He inhaled, sensing her reluctance to get in. Somehow he had to persuade her that it was safe. He watched the fidgety movements of her fingers grazing the zipper of her purse.

  “I won’t take much time,” he said, quietly.

  The hooker gave him a faint smirk and when she spoke, her voice dripped sarcasm. “Most men don’t.”

  “If you’re not interested,” he reached for the gear shift, a ploy he hoped would work, “I can take my business elsewhere.”

  At once, the hooker leaned in through the open window.

  “What are you looking for?” she asked, her tone softened. “A blow? A lay? I can give you an hour if you want, but that’s it.”

  A sudden wave of relief washed over him. Smiling, he casually petted the empty space beside him.

  “C’mon inside,” he said.

  A flip of the handle and the passenger door opened. He could feel a breath of cool air spill into the cab, carrying the scent of the hooker’s perfume, faintly citrus. She climbed onto the seat. Swinging one leg inside, her foot stubbed the duffel bag and glass clinked inside.

  Her lips parted and she looked down at the bag. He tensed. Completely still, his gaze followed hers. A rivulet of sweat rolled down the side of his face. The door was still open, one leg out. If he grabbed for her, she could escape or scream for help.

  When at last she turned to him, he fought to remain calm.

  “What’s in the bag? You work out?”

  “No.” A convulsive swallow. “Just work stuff. I’ll put it in back.”

  He picked up the duffel bag and stepped outside with it. After checking the street in both directions, he put the bag in a storage box mounted behind the rear window of the truck. For a moment, he paused. Through the window, he watched the hooker pull in her other leg, reach out and shut the door. The dome light went dark.

  Standing there, he made himself imagine what had to be done.

  He took one long breath and muttered a prayer for the resolve to see this through. Then, after steeling himself, he slid in behind the wheel.

  “We should go somewhere no one can see us,” the hooker told him as he closed the door. “I know a place.”

  Silent, he nodded his acquiescence.

  “But before we go anywhere.” The woman touched his shoulder. “There’s the question of my fee.”

  He looked at her. “How much?”

  She gave him a curious expression. “You’re new to this aren’t you?”

  He felt his chest constrict. He saw the woman searching his eyes. Almost shyly, he turned away. When he spoke, his voice was quiet.

  “I am. I’ve never tried this sex for money thing before.”

  “Then why are you here? Troubles in paradise?”

  Briefly, he hesitated as his mind scrambled to come up with answers. At last he said, “Yes. It’s my girlfriend. We have been going together for nearly a year now. Don’t get me wrong, our relationship is great, except for the sex.” He faced her now, wondering if she was buying into his lie. “She just can’t get into it.”

  “She’s frigid?”

  “Like an icebox. Maybe it’s my performance. Maybe her strict upbringing has a lot to do with it. Her parents are deeply religious.”

  A car drove past, headlights streaming through a sleeping city. Together, they watched it disappear.

  The hooker spoke first. “If you came to me looking for pointers, I can help you with your performance. If your girlfriend is game, I could even help her out.” She winked and her tone became a bit playful. “I have no problem with other women.”

  He stared back at her with a kind of fascination. “Really?”

  Another wink, a pucker of he
r lips, answered him.

  It was funny, he thought. Two different people, submerged in separate lives, all of a sudden connected. It would be almost a shame to kill this woman.

  “How’d you ever end up doing this type of work?” he asked.

  “What are you, a priest? Do you want me to profess my sins?”

  “Stupid question, huh?”

  The hooker smiled a little. “I love the sex.”

  He raised his eyebrows. “Really?”

  She laughed aloud, tossing her head. “No, not really. To tell you the truth, it bores the shit out of me. I meet some strange people in this business. Some real losers. Lucky for me, most of them come pretty quickly. I do this for the money, honey. Speaking of which.” She held out her palm, tone impatient now. “What is it you want? To talk? To fuck? Either way, I get paid. Understand?”

  Abruptly, his eyes narrowed.

  Sharp-mouthed bitch.

  He saw her other hand on the door handle. She was going to bail soon, he realized. He knew he couldn’t let her do that. Not being this close. Tugging his wallet from a back pocket, he opened it, and then paused.

  “I never did get your fees,” he said.

  “Depends what you want. It’s forty a blow. Sixty a lay. Or one-twenty an hour.”

  The clock in the dash read 4:16. An hour should be more than enough time. He thumbed through some bills and handed the woman six twenties.

  “I’ll have an hour,” he said.

  He felt the bills being slipped from his fingers.

  “Generous,” the hooker remarked, counting.

  She stuffed the money into her purse. Then she told him to drive.

  Down the street a few late-night stragglers wandered the sidewalks. A small coterie of teenagers hung around a pimped-out car parked at the curb. Some of them glanced his way. Eyes averted, he continued to roll down Barrington. He saw a bearded man in an overcoat leaning against the side of a building with his arms folded and his head down as if asleep. Further along, a young man in a hooded sweatshirt and faded jeans rummaged through a garbage can. By his side sat a cart half full of his night’s yields

  He passed the Old Burying Ground and then the stone facade of Government House.

  “Take a right up here on Salter,” the hooker told him, pointing.

  The street itself was deserted, no one in sight. They coasted downhill toward the waterfront. At the corner of Salter and Lower Water Street, the hooker told him to take another right. Slowly, they passed the Brewery Market.

  “See that parking lot across the street,” the hooker said.

  He looked. “Yes.”

  “Turn in there.”

  As he did, he saw the lot was empty. He drove to the far end and parked before shutting off the engine. He flipped the key to auxiliary so the radio would still play.

  Beyond the windshield lay the glittering water of the Halifax Harbor. He peered out at a buoy rocking with the waves. Off to his left was a tugboat wharf. Two tugs were neatly moored at the dock.

  A perfect location.

  Beside him, the woman removed her jacket and spread it out on the dash. Then she raised the tank top over her head. She wore no bra. Her breasts were full with big round areolas. A gold ring hung from one nipple.

  Watching, his mouth felt dry. Something stirred in his pants. Instinctively, he drew down the zipper of his fly.

  The hooker leaned back against the door and pulled her mini-skirt up around her hips. Underneath, she wore a black thong. That she did not remove it herself suggested a silent offering. He imagined her waiting for him. Desire now coursed through his brain. He reached out for the elastic band of the thong and worked it slowly off one leg and then the other.

  The hooker opened her knees for him. Her genitalia were shaved bare. Another gold ring pierced the folds of her labia.

  He stared, transfixed. Sweat trickled down his sides.

  “Like what you see?” the hooker asked with a smile.

  Herb didn’t seem to hear. He caressed her there and she let out a sigh through her white even teeth. One, then two seeking fingers found her warm wetness. The hooker closed her eyes. Her hips convulsed upwards in powerful thrusts.

  He wondered if she was enjoying the foreplay. To him, her movements seemed to lack passion, unlike the women he had been with in the past, a rehearsed act used only to encourage him, to make him feel at ease. He cupped her breasts and could feel her nipples rise under his palms. She wrapped her arms around him, pulling him close, kissing him on the forehead, on the cheek, on the side of his mouth.

  “Are you ready?” she whispered, her breath hot on his ear.

  Tentative, he swallowed. “Yes.”

  The hooker reached for her purse. From inside it, she produced a foil packet. She handed it to him. He fumbled as he tore open the packet and touched the oily condom inside. Staring at her, he hesitated. His thoughts became a chaotic mixture of lust and restraint. One last remnant of self-control reminded him of the job he had to do.

  “I don’t know if I can go through with this,” he said.

  “Why not?” The hooker glanced down at the bulbous head of his penis jutting out of his pants. “Looks to me like you’re willing and able.”

  He lowered his eyes. “I feel guilty.”

  “A man who feels guilt?” The woman snorted. “Jesus, now that’s original.”

  “You don’t understand.”

  When she rested a hand on his, he privately cringed.

  “I think I do,” she said in a soothing tone.

  His eyes rose to her face. The hooker’s expression was sympathetic, guileless, but he couldn’t tell whether or not it was genuine. Perhaps she was only an actress playing a role for her money. Life had taught him one hard lesson—trust no one.

  You could never understand, he thought sadly, what you just stumbled into.

  The cab of the pickup had grown warm. His skin tingled from the sweat.

  “I never made love to a woman I never knew first,” he lied.

  For a moment, the hooker was still, thoughtful. She smiled.

  “Honey, relax,” she said. “We’ll make love when we get to know each other. Right now, let’s fuck.”

  He saw the rest move forward in pieces—the hooker taking the condom from him, skillfully sliding it over the stiff thickness of his penis, her fingers turning up the radio, her moist lips on his, her arms pulling him down on top of her, her hands guiding him into her, working her muscles with each push he made, the warmth of her body beneath his, the hard tips of her nipples pressing into his chest, and the reeking cigarettes on her breath.

  Ever so slowly, he reached under the passenger seat and grabbed hold of the tire iron he had put there earlier.

  Honey, looks like you’re already fucked.

  Abruptly, he rose off the woman, holding her down with his free hand. Beneath him, he felt her tense, saw her eyes balloon as she caught a glimpse of the object in his other hand, but by then, it was too late. There was a sickening crack of metal against bone and he could feel the vibration work through his forearm. A small whimper came from the hooker’s lips.

  Trembling, he watched her slump against the door, head tilted at an irregular angle, eyes closed. A red gash near her temple began to bleed.

  The tire iron clunked on the floor as he dropped it. He stepped outside and cautiously checked the street, the boardwalk nearby. Nothing moved. The streets and sidewalks were bare with only the blinking traffic lights, throbbing like a heartbeat. Holding his breath, he listened for sounds—nothing but the soft murmur of the harbor water and the creak of the tugs as they scraped against the sides of their slips.

  He retrieved his duffel bag from the storage box and then walked around the pickup with a brisk pace. As he opened the passenger door, the hooker’s head fell out toward him, face up. Her neck hung over the seat, hair dangling.

  Inhaling a deep breath, he paused a moment to stare at her. He set the duffel bag on the pavement. He lifted out the hooker an
d awkwardly threw her dead weight over one shoulder. Her body was lighter than he had imagined. Under the stockings, her legs were cool.

  He picked up the bag. As he carried it and the hooker toward the tugboat wharf, his gaze combed the area for other people. There were none.

  He reached the end of the wharf and set the bag down first and then the hooker. The air was crisp and smelled of salt. The water around him was as black as ink. He could hear it lapping at the pile supports beneath the wharf. To his right shone the bright beacon from the lighthouse on George’s Island. Straight across the harbor was the city of Dartmouth. Its lights refracted along the edge of the water.

  He knelt beside her and pulled out the Mason jar from the bag. After unscrewing the lid, he removed the teaspoon then he got to work.

  With his fingers, he held the hooker’s eyelids open and carefully slid the scoop of the teaspoon under and behind the right eye. He could feel, rather than hear, the slight tearing of muscle and ligament as he worked the eyeball free. A plop was followed by the eyeball rolling to the woman’s ear, suspended by the optic nerve. Blood welled up inside the empty socket.

  He swallowed.

  From the duffel bag, he took out the cuticle scissors and snipped the optic nerve, releasing the eyeball. This he dropped into the Mason jar. Sweating heavily now, he repeated the same procedure with the other eye.

  When he finished, he wiped off the spoon and scissors with a rag. He screwed the lid back on the jar and then held it up to the moonlight. The two eyeballs bobbed on top of the watery preservative, the unseeing pupils staring back at him.

  A groaning.

  He snapped around to look at the hooker. Her body twitched with the first sign of consciousness. Shaken, he took a step back, then another. The hooker’s hands moved instinctively to her eye sockets. Her head turned slowly from side to side. Drool oozed from one corner of her mouth.

  Mind reeling, he tried to weigh his options. He knew once the hooker regained her wits, she would begin screaming. In a panicky state, he stuffed the jar into the duffel bag and then paused at the sight of his hunting knife. He had brought it with plans of using it. Yet couldn’t bring himself to do so. Instead, he put his hands under the woman’s arms and lifted her up. His own arms shook as he held her over the edge of the wharf.