by Jason Beymer
“The plan is flawed,” a woman said from the darkness.
Burklin shrieked and dove into a rose bush.
His ex-wife laughed. “Maybe I should’ve yelled ‘boo?’”
Burklin stood, feeling silly. He picked thorns from his palm. “That might have been less painful. What’s flawed? Garrick’s plan?”
Lorraine leaned against the hot tub. “No. This house’s floor plan. Look at it.” She pointed to a space between the slatted blinds. “A one-story with a living room too close to the kitchen. Flawed. We looked at one of these before we bought the two-story, remember? You banged me in the pantry during the open house.”
He remembered. But he recalled sex in the same vein as an old television show: he knew he’d enjoyed it while the episode aired, but couldn’t remember the details.
“Is the girl here already?” he asked.
Lorraine nodded. “She let herself in about five minutes ago. The front door must have been unlocked. I haven’t heard any screaming, so I don’t think she’s dead yet.”
“How long have you been standing out here?”
“A while. Garrick wanted me to come early in case you did something stupid. He said you might try to fuck up the job.” Lorraine examined him. “You look good, by the way.”
Burklin checked his watch. “Do you think I care?”
“Black sweatshirt tucked into sweatpants. Going for the mall walker look? And when did you stop combing your hair?”
“I combed it,” Burklin said. “Pearl stuck her head in the toilet again. You know how she likes the taste of toilet water.”
“Toilet hair?”
He nodded.
“Blaming the dog? Just because she’s got your soul—”
“Easy for you. You don’t have your soul in anything.” He stopped, then muttered, “You’d have to have a soul to begin with.”
“Don’t you dare!” Lorraine emerged from behind the hot tub. She wore a thick purple sweater and tight blue jeans over cottage cheese thighs. Her salt-and-pepper hair came loose from its ponytail, and she gnarled her pudgy face. “No snide comments. Not on a job.”
Burklin brushed away more thorns.
“So,” Lorraine said. “How’ve you been anyway?”
I’m great, he thought. I’m living in a prison cell with no money, a smart-ass dog, and a case of erectile dysfunction that would jump-start an erectionologist’s career. How are you?
“Wonderful,” he said. “How about you? You doing … wonderful?”
“Oh, yeah,” she replied without hesitation. “Wonderful.”
Burklin remembered watching her through the bedroom window that morning. His gut cramped. “So did you buy season tickets for your little baseball thingy again this year?”
“I can’t break tradition just because we’re divorced. I still have those seats on the third base line, next to the bullpen.”
“I guess you and Garrick go to the games together, huh?”
“Not exactly. You know how Garrick hates to go out in—”
“Sunlight?”
“Public. I mostly go to games alone.” She bit her lip and looked away from him, into the house. “Although he gets giddy when the team loses. The misery of other season ticket holders makes him randy. With no relief pitching this year, Garrick’s a child with a shapeshifting lollipop.”
“They need more Caribbean hitters. Like that guy … Ortega?”
Lorraine laughed. “You don’t know dick about baseball. You hate sports.”
“Not true. I like racecars.”
“That’s not a sport. Cars can’t get inducted into a Hall of Fame like baseball players.”
“Neither can baseball bats,” he said.
“Are you seeing anyone right now? Getting laid regularly?”
“Lorraine …”
“I’m just saying. A visit from the ejaculation fairy might do you some good.”
“I can’t—you know—since the old man yanked out my soul I can’t get any blood flow down there. I’ve tried male-enhancement drugs, but they make my palms sweat.” He sighed. “It’s embarrassing to talk about, all right?”
“You don’t have to stay celibate for me.”
“Do you think I have a choice? It gets erect enough to affect my aim when I pee. Beyond that, it’s useless.”
A woman screamed inside the house.
Lorraine tapped her cellphone. “Eleven fifty-four. He’s early.”
“I’ve got eleven fifty-nine,” Burklin said.
“That’s because you can’t tell time. It’s eleven fifty-four. Buy a new watch. Better yet, get a cellphone like everyone else.”
“I can’t afford the monthly charges.”
“Then get a job. I hear Starchunks is hiring.”
“Me, around caffeine? Not a good idea.”
Another scream came from inside the house, followed by a loud thump on soft carpet. Then, “That’ll teach you.”
Lorraine shrugged. “Early.”
“The old man said ‘around midnight.’ He couldn’t have been more vague.”
“It is almost twelve, isn’t it? You need to start listening to him. You know what he’s capable of.”
The blinds shook. Angry, forceful words seeped through the patio door. “Get up, bitch. Get up.”
Lorraine cupped her hand over her mouth, giggling. “Get up, bitch,” she mimicked. “Get up.”
“Stop it,” Burklin whispered.
“When did you grow a conscience?”
“I don’t see the need to ridicule the victims. That’s all.”
“You used to. We used to have all kinds of fun with them. Remember when we played pin-the-tail with that Puerto Rican’s—”
“I’d rather not.”
Burklin tried to look through a crack in the blinds. He could just see the demon, the sandy blond hair falling over the clueless face. Max seemed to weigh his options.
“He’s coming out here,” Burklin whispered. “I know it.”
“Garrick promised we weren’t in any danger,” Lorraine said.
Protectors needed to stay away from their demons, avoid contact, never talk to them. Exposure meant the protector’s death. At least, that’s what Garrick always told them. According to the old man, the masterminds in the Nether put this safeguard into place long ago. Before this, demons would take full advantage of their protectors. They knew their victims would always disappear, giving them the freedom to murder carte blanche. In the old days, the Nether tolerated this, but with the advent of television came a heightened risk of exposure. Demon lords consisted of some of the most notorious young killers profiled on TV; their protectors couldn’t keep up with the flow of dead bodies. The masterminds in the Nether thought ignorance of their guardian angels might lower murder rates.
The masterminds thought wrong. These safeguards only resulted in dead protectors.
Burklin crouched behind the birch trees. Lorraine hunkered down beside him, her gaze locked on the blinds. Maybe she wasn’t as confident as she seemed.
“I’m too big to squat here,” she said.
Warmth emanated from Lorraine’s body. He wanted to put his arm around her, wanted to breathe in her scent. He hadn’t been this close to Lorraine or any other woman in over two years.
“Eyes front,” Lorraine said. “Don’t even think about it.”
“I wasn’t.”
They shrank lower as the demon paced toward the patio door and rattled the blinds. Burklin whispered, “Down.”
Max seemed to reconsider. He turned and ran through the house. The front door opened, then slammed shut behind him.
The demon was gone. Garrick’s assumption had proven correct; the kid always ran away from the scene of a murder, even when it happened in his own home.
Tiptoeing toward the dog run, Burklin peeked through the open gate and out at the street. Max pedaled away from the house on a bicycle.
“Where do you think he’s going?” Burklin asked.
“Who the fuck
cares?” Lorraine replied.
Burklin approached the patio door. He slid it an inch. “It’s unlocked.”
Lorraine slapped his hand away. “Step aside.” She grabbed the patio door by the handle and let it fly. It slammed against the stopper and shook the glass.
“Quiet,” Burklin said.
“Grow a set.” She muscled past him. “Max is gone.”
“What if he forgot something? What if he comes back into the house and finds us playing with his leavings?”
“Then we run. Don’t worry. Garrick said we’d be safe.”
The living room contained a couch, a love seat, and a table. Farther into the house, one long step ascended to the kitchen, where pots and pans dangled from hooks above a detached stove range. A big screen TV hung from the wall to his right, surrounded by racks of video games and DVDs. Predator played in glorious HD; Carl Weathers watched in horror as his arm fell off.
“Nice stuff,” Lorraine said.
“I bet he gets every channel.” Burklin licked his lips. “Even the Spanish ones. His mother probably bought all this to keep him occupied while she’s away.”
“Given the mess, Mommy should consider a different approach.”
The beige carpet had nary a stain upon it, except for the merlot pool near the media rack. It looked as if someone had broken ground with a shovel and struck a geyser of oil. The body lay on the floor, a broken mannequin.
Lorraine clapped her hands. “Let’s get to work.” She rolled up the sleeves of her sweater.
“What if Max called somebody? What if one of the neighbors heard?”
“Christ, you’re a six-foot talking vagina. I can shapeshift into a giant douche if it’ll make you feel more comfortable.”
Burklin bent to examine the dead woman. The victim’s brown eyes peered straight through him, wet and still. He remembered the Burger Clog manager, the stab wounds littering his back. This scene looked too familiar.
Except …
“What?” Lorraine said. “Why are you staring at it?”
Burklin leaned in closer.
The woman wore only a floral skirt, bunched up at her thighs. The mucky red mess blossomed over each stab wound on her back, growing larger every second.
And the blood seemed to thicken.
“He slit her throat, too.” Burklin sniffed the air. “Do you smell that?”
Lorraine shrugged. “Just the usual shit-scented potpourri.”
Burklin sniffed at the blood. “It smells like vinegar.”
“Who cares? Maybe he was cleaning a coffee pot or tossing a salad when she came in.”
“Check out these gashes.” He pointed to four puncture holes beneath the woman’s bare shoulders, and one long rip down the center of her back. “This seems unusual even for him.”
“Demon lords do crazy things.”
“No. There’s something different about this murder. He carved into her throat deep enough to hit bone. Stabbing, tearing off her clothes, and slicing? Look at all the blood on her face. He beat the crap out of her, too. Have you ever seen him mix his motifs?”
“He drowned some cheerleader in a toilet bowl last year. And sometimes he removes organs and fingers, but—” She shrugged. “I’ve never seen this combination. She must have given him trouble.”
“Where are the rest of her clothes?”
Lorraine pointed to the couch, where a white blouse and bra lay shredded.
“He tore into this lady,” Burklin said. “Go check the front window. Make sure he isn’t coming back.”
“Don’t worry. Garrick would have warned us.”
“I’ll do it, then.” Burklin edged past her and hurried to the front door. He peered through the narrow window next to it. The porch light illuminated the lawn. “You drove Black Beauty here?” He stared at the car a few houses down. “I guess I missed that when I parked.”
“What did you expect me to do? Jog here? Don’t worry about it. I need to follow you to the Dumpster.”
“I know, but—”
“Get away from the window.”
“When Max killed her, why did he say ‘That’ll teach you’?”
“You are so boring. Let’s finish the job.”
Burklin returned to the body. The victim had tried to run away, as evidenced by a wet trail. Max must have pounced on her in the kitchen and finished the job in the living room.
“Tick tock,” Lorraine said. “Help me bag it.”
Burklin dropped to one knee in front of the body. He tilted his head to get a good look at the woman’s face. “Korean?” he said. “Hard to tell with the beating she took, but she looks Korean.”
“Does it matter? Oh, I’m sorry. Did you want to fuck it?” Lorraine grabbed the edge of the couch, bit her lip, and dry humped the upholstery. Her pasty white complexion darkened. A defined crease appeared in both eyelids. She flicked her tongue at him.
“Knock it off. Change back before I throw up.”
“Why not fuck her?” Lorraine smiled. “I’ll give you twenty minutes with the dead chick. Maybe it’s the whole my-partner-has-a-pulse thing keeping your cock so soft.”
“Focus on the job.” Burklin looked up and winced. “And stop shapeshifting. It’s creepy.”
Lorraine changed back into Lorraine. “It’s not like I enjoy your company. You stink. Do I need to remind you how to work a deodorant stick? Turn the dial and more will come out. I promise.”
“What about the blood? Shouldn’t we clean up the mess?”
“Bag her,” Lorraine said. “We’ll take the stiff to your car.”
Burklin wrapped the torso in thick plastic sacks. Lorraine worked on the lower half. The bags met in the middle near the exposed navel. After mummifying the corpse, they wrapped tape around it.
“Good enough?” he asked.
Lorraine nodded. She lifted the corpse by the legs, Burklin the arms.
Together they carried the dead woman toward the patio door, body sagging between them. Burklin shoved the couch aside with his butt as they went, then swiveled around. He tried to get a better grip on the bony wrists, but the blood gushed inside the sacks.
His ex-wife banged the head against his crotch. “Move it,” she said. “Stop freaking out. You’re making me nervous.”
They emerged into the backyard and turned the corner. Halfway through the dog run Burklin dropped the corpse. The head thudded against the gravel. Lorraine maintained her grip on the slender legs like an accomplished gynecologist. “You’re kidding me, right?” she said. “This chick can’t weigh more than a hundred pounds, and most of that’s in her ass. You’re only lugging thirty pounds up there.”
“I need to rest.”
“Pick it up. Let’s get this over with.”
“I thought you trusted Garrick. I thought you weren’t worried.”
“The sooner we finish the job, the sooner I can get away from you. Now pick up your half.”
They doubled their pace. Lorraine angled her portion of the load toward the Eiffel. Burklin’s arms quivered, but he persevered all the way to the car.
“Open it,” Lorraine said.
Burklin set the body down and fumbled with his keys. He unlocked the trunk and raised the lid.
“On three,” Lorraine said. She lifted the legs high. “One, two—” She stopped when she saw the contents of the Eiffel’s trunk.
Pornographic magazine pages lined the interior, featuring well-endowed blondes entwined in lewd sexual acts. Normally Burklin outfitted his trunk with plastic sheeting, not glossy panoramics.
“Jesus Christ,” Lorraine said.
“None of that’s mine,” he said quickly. “Garrick loaned me this car today. That’s his stuff, I guess. You know his sense of humor.”
Lorraine stared at him.
“Can we toss her in now?” he said, sighing.
At the count of three, they swung the body into the trunk. The back of the car bounced as the body landed.
Lorraine pulled a cellphone from her poc
ket. “It’s twelve twenty. I told Garrick I’d be home by one. Get in the car and start driving. I’ll follow you in Black … whatever nickname you’ve given that stupid car.”
“Black Beauty.”
“You are such a douche.” She slammed the trunk lid shut.
“We’re not leaving yet.” Burklin opened the passenger side door and reached into his workbag. He emerged from the car with a spray bottle.
Lorraine pointed to it. “That’s carpet cleaner. Don’t you use it to clean up Pearl’s accidents?”
“They’re not accidents. But yes. It also works on bloodstains. I’ll look for some cleaning supplies and a mop inside the house. Even demons mop, right? Stand guard out here. I’ve got this covered.”
“Get in the car.”
“I can’t leave the mess. And our fingerprints are everywhere.”
“Don’t go back into the house,” Lorraine said. “You can’t go off-vision.”
“What vision?”
“Keep your voice down.”
“Why? Because you’re starting to doubt the old man, too? Did you finally figure out he’s not God?”
“Don’t make Garrick angry.”
Something in her voice intrigued him, and he pounced on it without thinking. “You’re afraid of him,” he said.
“Of course I am! But we have to trust him now. Especially after what he did to you.”
“I’ll never understand you, Lorraine. If you’re so afraid of him, why do you keep doing everything he says? How can you live with him?”
Her cheeks flushed. “Fear and trust are the same things, idiot.”
“No, they’re not. You trust me, right? I mean, you did when we were married. And you weren’t afraid of me then.”
“Yes, I was.”
“Why?”
Lorraine snapped, “For fuck’s sake, Burklin! You killed any man who ever looked at me.”
“Why aren’t you questioning this job?” Burklin asked. “Everything about this cleanup is weird. All of it.”
“I’m trying to keep the old man happy. Do you think I want him to murder Pearl with your soul still inside her?”
“I think you couldn’t care less about what happens to me or my soul.”
