by Anne Baines
“Shh, boy, it’s okay,” she said as much to herself as to the dog. “Not a long drive now.”
She merged up onto the I-95, checking her speed. She was covered in blood, wearing a thirty-thousand dollar pair of diamond earrings, had no ID, while driving a stolen car with a bullet hole in it. She wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry. Instead Delilah focused on the road, on the habit of driving.
She played games with herself, pass this Toyota Hybrid, stay two seconds behind that Ford Escort. Stay at two miles an hour over the speed limit, drop to the speed limit.
A horn blared and Delilah came to again, focusing back on the road. She swerved hard, just keeping control, to avoid the white SUV in the fast lane beside her. Her heart sped up and her vision cleared, the pain fading as a fresh jolt of adrenaline burst through her.
Then she was somehow almost there, off the exit ramp and into Daytona proper, turning right toward her hotel. She parked in front of her room, something she wouldn’t have done if she hadn’t been covered in blood in the middle of the afternoon.
Another moment of panic before she found her hotel key in her pant’s pocket. She more stumbled than walked into the room, the bliss of the cool AC washing over her like fresh air. Delilah closed the door behind Max and half-crawled her way to the bathroom.
The towel was stuck to the wound with dried blood and Delilah lay on the linoleum as hot tears ran down her face. She didn’t have the strength to deal with it. She needed help, real help.
Cardiff. He still owed her a favor from when she’d helped spring his nephew out of a situation with a loan shark in Detroit.
Crawling back to the phone, she tugged it down to the floor and dialed. When it stopped ringing she read the number off the hotel phone into the silence on the other end of the line.
Minutes crawled by. Max jumped up on the bed and settled down, his head only a foot from where Delilah leaned against the frame. She wished she’d gotten some water in the bathroom, her mouth tasted foul, blood and bile.
The phone rang, harsh and unreal in the quiet hotel room.
“It’s Delilah,” she said as she lifted the mouthpiece to her face.
“This a land line? Why aren’t you using a payphone, Dee? And why not reverse the numbers?” Cardiff sounded upset.
“I forgot,” she said. Her voice was weak and thick in her ears.
“Jesus, Dee. Are you all right? Alan called; he says some of the guys were pissed about you bailing on that job.”
“It was amateur hour, Card.” She swallowed. She needed help, but it was still tough to form the words. “I’m hurt. Real bad. I need a doctor, somebody who takes care of people like us.”
“Jesus H Christ. You shot? Cops?”
“No, stabbed. Not cops. Look, I’m still in Daytona. There’s got to be someone. You owe me, Card.” She gasped out the last part as another unhealthy throb of pain went through her.
“All right. Where are you? I know a guy, I’ll see if I can get someone out there.” Cardiff didn’t sound happy, but she didn’t care. Happy didn’t matter.
She wanted to live.
“Sunrise Lodge, room 159, on the end.”
“I’ll have the guy knock twice, and then twice again.” She heard him sigh, then he added, “Hang in there, Dee.”
“Thanks, Card.” She let the phone drop from her shoulder and shoved it into the cradle.
He might not sound thrilled about it, but Cardiff wouldn’t let her down. Even if he hadn’t owed her, he’d still seen her raised up from a tiny girl. He knew her father, despite the disaster that had turned out to be. Card wouldn’t let her down. She could count on him as much as she could count on anybody.
She hoped anyway. But the pain cut into her and Delilah felt crazy, beyond careful and caring.
She touched the phone again. Jake. She bit her lip and put her hands back at her middle, shifting slowly to try for a position that didn’t hurt like hell. Jake was thousands of miles away, and even if he’d been willing to hear more than two words from her, he couldn’t help. He’d probably tell her this was exactly what she deserved.
Delilah turned her face into the scratchy pastel comforter coverlet and let the tears squeeze out of her eyes. She just had to survive, wait for Cardiff’s man.
“Think about living, Dee,” she whispered, though hardly any sound escaped, “do only that.”
Seven
Ted walked back into his quiet house and set the gun on the kitchen table. He stood for a moment, taking in the bloody floor and Cora’s body. Regret stormed through him, sulfurous and annoying. None of this should have happened.
Emily was on a spa holiday he’d purchased for her, gone until tomorrow evening. Free of the wife for a few days, Ted had taken advantage to pursue his hobbies. His day was supposed to contain a leisurely lunch fuck with Cora, followed by the disposal of his latest toys, and rounded off with quality time in his garden.
Now he had three dead women to dispose of, one of which could be tied to him in a straight line.
It was that bitch’s fault. All of it.
Hardly aware of what he was doing, Ted stormed into the kitchen. The smell of feces, death, and blood mingling with Cora’s expensive Jean Patou perfume lit a fuse inside him. He slammed open cupboards, dragging the lightly patterned Pfaltzgraff dinnerware out and sending it crashing to the floor. The glasses went next, some flying off to the far walls.
He tore pictures off the fridge, an original Chagall off the wall, and flung each as far as he could throw them.
Ted’s energy ran out after a few minutes and he stood gasping in the wreck of the kitchen, feeling mildly better. The rage was quenched for a moment and he needed a plan.
This life was over. Ted knew it; he’d always known that someday the careful façade he’d built here would have to end. But that had been abstract. The reality pissed him off.
He’d already taken the rest of the day off work, not that his boss would say anything if he hadn’t. There were advantages to working for a company owned by his father. Emily was dealt with, though he was tempted to stay and finish her off when she returned. He put that thought away for later.
A tinny song interrupted his thoughts, Lady Gaga blaring through the house, singing about poker faces. Ted picked his way out of the kitchen and through the dining room into the great room. Cora’s purse lay on a teak side-table, her cell phone vibrating its way half out of the top.
The screen identified the caller as her fiancée, a moderately successful young golf pro. A generally absent one as well. Ted cursed again as it went silent and then chimed that there was voicemail. Cora hadn’t mentioned he was in town. More complications.
It was best to get things taken care of here and get out, then.
Ted grabbed Cora’s body by the hair and dragged her down the hallway to the master bedroom. He pulled on cleaning gloves and removed her clothing before lifting her up to the bed. From the kitchen he grabbed the cleaver, the knife he wished he’d used on Donna the thief.
Rigor had started to set in, preventing Ted from crossing Cora’s arms over her expensive saline implants. He wanted to create a nice image, something singular and memorable for his wife to find. A statement, final and true.
With a snarl, Ted stabbed first one breast, then the other, driving the knife in hard. He punctured each implant, pleased with himself. Then, almost as an afterthought, picturing the crime photos, picturing his pathetic little wife’s face, he jammed the cleaver up between Cora’s legs and left it there.
He collected the head he’d temporarily stashed in the freezer and went out to his garden cottage in the back yard. Ted’s mind was full of regrets. He shouldn’t have killed two women so close together. He’d always been so careful, waiting weeks or months between beauties. But with Emily gone it had been so easy. And the young women had both just fallen into his lap, one of them literally when she broke a heel coming out of the club he’d been hunting in.
It was that girl’s head that had been in
his freezer, her stupid dead eyes staring back at the intruder, accusing. If her head hadn’t been in there, perhaps…. Ted shook that thought away in disgust.
But it wasn’t his fault. It all came down to that stupid thief. She’d violated his space, ruining his perfect afternoon.
He dropped the head onto the floor of the cottage and took a deep breath. It hardly seemed worth processing the bodies into bone meal and mulch for his garden now. He’d have to leave it behind. All the neighborhood gardening awards lined up on the high mahogany shelf, the framed picture of him with the article from Better Homes and Gardens, these things taunted him. Ted’s life was over. Ted had to disappear, become someone else.
He grabbed a shovel and walked back outside into the afternoon sun. A breeze danced through the silver-blue fronds of his Bismark palm tree. Bright purple Wishbone pansies spilled over Grecian urns placed around the stone patio. Birds darted in the foliage and the air droned with the healthy sounds of bees. He’d created something truly beautiful, with the help of all the stupid women who’d always thought they were better than he, and he was its master. Their master.
A glint caught Ted’s eye. A dog collar with tags lay on the patio, still attached to a leash.
Donna’s golden retriever. He bent and picked up the collar. The tags had an address, south of here, near Daytona Beach. Was this really her dog? Ted shrugged. It was a lead, a start.
And he realized what his new life would be, the act that would begin it. Donna Utley had given him a new purpose, a new game. She should have died, her body going to nourish his domain. He grinned, then laughed. He’d never felt so alive, so much emotion. He hated her, truly hated, and not in an abstract way, for thinking she was superior. This thief was different from those perky bitches. Escaping him meant she’d won, for now. No one had ever escaped him before. She was worthy of hunting, her rejection of his power was tangible, a thing he could almost touch, could taste.
He pictured her face, thin and shocked, the blonde hair at odds with her dark cinnamon skin and wide brown eyes. She’d smelled of very little, not covered in perfume. Shampoo maybe? Something cheap and generic, like you’d find in a hotel. Her clothes had been basic, tasteful. The earrings, he was sure she’d worn earrings. Diamonds or maybe just cut glass. Big though, he remembered them pressing into his chest as he carried her.
And her mouth, tasting of blood and panic and berry lip gloss. He’d swallowed her whimper and it had been so weak, so beautiful. He wanted to taste her again, press his mouth to hers as she screamed and screamed. As she died.
Ted walked into his house, renewed energy bringing a fresh spring to his step. He went to the library and booted up his computer. While it was starting, he opened the floor safe and removed an envelope. It contained a safe-deposit key. Emily didn’t know about this. He’d gotten a good set of fake IDs made up and stashed it, along with fifty thousand in cash, in a local bank. Enough to hunt down Donna on. Then he could use the passport and take off for Belize or somewhere nice. The money hidden in overseas accounts under his other name would keep him until he found something else to do.
But first, he had a thief to hunt.
Ted carefully put on gloves again and made a shallow cut with a knife on the back of his left arm. He wandered through the house, dripping blood around the kitchen and then through the great-room to the front door. He bandaged his arm in the bathroom.
As an afterthought, he wrapped the bloody glove that Donna had left behind into the towel he’d used to wipe her blood off his hands and shoved the bundle into a plastic garbage bag from under the sink. Ted wanted the whole scene to be as baffling for the police as possible. He was a lawyer, though a corporate one, and knew that law enforcement could waste days if not weeks trying to sort through this kind of mess.
That thought also made him happy, those busy stupid men and women in their little blue suits, digging through the mess he’d created for them. They’d never figure it all out. They just weren’t good enough.
He used the computer to get directions to the address on the dog tags and left. He took the jewelry, the bag with the bloody towel and glove, Donna’s ID, and his gun with him. Ted felt good. Today had not gone as planned, but it would work out. He deserved to win.
He tucked his Bluetooth device into his ear and called up information. Time to start seeing if Donna Utley had checked into any Daytona Beach hotels. With a grin, Ted merged onto the I-95, going to see a person about a dog, and a tiny blonde thief.
Eight
A firm knock woke Delilah out of a half-conscious state she was starting to get accustomed to falling into. Max started barking and she shushed him, trying to stand upright.
Pain doubled her back over and she half-crawled, half-staggered to the door. She forced herself to straighten long enough to stare out the peephole. A man stood there with a bag and a large hard suitcase.
Had he knocked twice?
He knocked again, tap tap. Then waited, and again, tap tap.
The doctor. Delilah wanted to shout with relief but instead pulled the chain off the door and threw back the bolt.
Max tried to overwhelm the man in greeting.
“I’m sorry,” Delilah said through clenched teeth, shuffling out of the way, her hands supporting her against the wall.
“No problem. Though I can’t work with him jumping around.” The man’s voice was soft, with a slight Cuban accent.
“Put him out the back, there’s a construction site there, and he probably needs to go out.” Delilah leaned against the wall, one hand pressing the towel in place at her belly. She studied the doctor as he closed the door behind him and crossed to the back sliding door, calling the dog to come with him.
He looked late thirties and a lot more like a biker than a doctor. The man had broad shoulders, his dark brown hair pulled up into a pony-tail, and tattoos visible winding down his arms where his sleeves had been rolled back. He wore a leather vest and leather pants. But he moved with confidence, and his dark eyes were gentle as he returned and looked Delilah over.
“I’m Morales,” he said. “I guess you’re the one hurt.”
She wanted to laugh but choked the hysterical sound back. She was half-covered in blood, with a bloody hand-towel crusted to her abdomen. This guy had a gift for the obvious.
“Stab wound, in my belly. You really a doctor?”
He tsked and put his bags up on the table underneath the main window. Delilah leaned into the wall, wondering what she should do. Standing hurt like hell and she wasn’t sure she’d remain conscious long. She took a tentative step toward the bed.
“Come on then,” he said and reached for her.
She jerked away, slamming back into the wall, then looked at him, chagrined.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “It’s been a bad day.”
She let him half-carry her to the bed. He didn’t smell very sterile; his vest was warm leather, with an undertone of pipe tobacco and peppermint.
“Okay, Delilah,” he said in his soothing voice. “I’m going to move the towel, see what I’m dealing with.”
She lay back on the bed and nodded. Vague annoyance with Cardiff for giving this guy her name swirled up but was quickly shoved away. If this man could stop the pain, she’d do anything. Tears burned her eyes as he pulled on gloves and then gently tugged at the towel. Delilah turned her face to the side and bit her fist. She felt like a child, helpless, stupid.
Morales shook his head, muttered something under his breath in Spanish. She turned her face back and looked up at him.
“No chance I can get you to go to a hospital?” he said. She couldn’t read his eyes, or even focus well on his features, but guessed that question meant it was bad.
“No chance,” she said. “No hospitals.”
“You need exploratory surgery. I don’t know exactly how deep this wound is, but it doesn’t look great. Without surgery there’s no way to know if the peritoneum is punctured. If it isn’t, great. If it is, you’ll probably die
in a few days.” He was definitely glaring at her. “Do you understand?”
“It was a paring knife,” she said wearily. “And no hospitals. Just fix me like you’re supposed to.”
He stared down at her for a moment, a long moment. Delilah started to worry he’d call an ambulance anyway, wondered if she had the strength to stop him. Doubted it.
Morales sighed. “Sure. I guess we go with the ‘stitch and pray’ option.”
He moved away, setting out things from his bags. He put a double hook over the headboard and hung an IV bag. Then he disappeared for a little while and she heard running water in the bathroom.
She faded in and out, barely registering the pinch of the IV needle as the doctor stuck her hand. Morales let the drip go for a couple minutes as he busied himself setting up.
“I’m going to give you morphine,” he said. “Then local for the actual stitches. You’ve lost a lot of blood.”
“Tell me,” she started to say, then licked her lips, “something I don’t know.”
“The Riverside Cathedral in Manhattan is the tallest cathedral in North America.”
Delilah half-choked on a surprise bubble of laughter, her diaphragm tensing and sending a new wave of pain over her.
“Sorry,” Morales said. “I shouldn’t make you laugh.” He depressed the plunger on the syringe.
“No,” she said. “Thanks.”
The pain faded abruptly away, pulling Delilah with it into blissful unconsciousness.
It was fully dark outside when she came to, but the pain stayed at bay. Morales sat in a chair pulled up near the bed, reading a tattered paperback romance novel.
“Hi,” Delilah said. Her mouth tasted terrible, sleep and blood mingling into sticky paste on her tongue. “Can I have water?”
“Sure, how are you feeling?” The doctor rose and filled a plastic cup from the sink.
She reached for it, sitting up gingerly, and felt the tug of the IV line. Switching hands, Delilah took the cup and sipped. Tiny swallows didn’t seem to hurt too much and she leaned against the headboard, relieved when the pain stayed only a dull ache.
