by Jeff Strand
“Like what? He’s dead! I killed him and you probably shattered half of his bones. How much more closure can you possibly need? He’s out of your life. Go home.”
She doesn’t move. I should kill her.
I should have killed her as soon as I raised the door. Only a complete idiot would let her live. The second I discovered she was not a heavily armed police officer, I should have bashed in her skull.
Should have done it before I knew she was pregnant.
That shouldn’t factor into my decision. I don’t care about things like that. I would never do any of the sick stuff some killers do when a woman has a fetus inside of her, but if it dies with her, that’s the way it goes.
Why isn’t she leaving?
“I want to help you get rid of the body.”
“Most people try to distance themselves from crimes. Why would you want to incriminate yourself? You could go to prison! Pretend you never saw me, for God’s sake.”
“I’m not good at pretending.”
Okay. She has to die. There’s really no other option here. I tried to not have to kill her, but she had to be a pain in the ass, so now I’ve got to do it, right? The only question is, do I pop a bullet in her brain and get it over with, or should I do something more fulfilling?
I got screwed out of my proper revenge against Terrence, so I’m leaning toward the latter, but it’s also risky to keep stretching this out. I should be long gone from here by now.
She’s staring at me. She thinks I’m trying to decide if I should let her help, and not if I should kill her quickly or slowly.
“Why won’t you let me help?”
“Because.”
“Unless you’re five, that’s not a reason.”
“I don’t need your help.”
“Maybe you don’t need my help, but couldn’t you use it? Isn’t it easier to get a body into the trunk if two people are carrying it? Wouldn’t it be faster for both of us to dig a grave instead of just you?”
“You’re pregnant.”
“So what?”
“Pregnant women shouldn’t be lifting dead bodies.”
“It’s not like I’m eight months along. I’m not even showing. That’s a stupid reason.”
I’m pretty sure I’ve offended her. I feel kind of bad about suggesting that she’s too delicate for this kind of work.
“I’m sorry.”
I cannot believe I just apologized. Jesus.
Why won’t she leave me alone?
“It’s okay. Let me help.”
If this continues much longer, I’m going to bash myself with the axe, so I either have to kill her or let her be my cleanup assistant.
Fine. She can come. But if she thinks we’re going on some kind of cross-country killing spree together, she’s sorely mistaken.
“Okay, you can help me get him into the trunk,” I tell her. I’m prepared for her to let out a “Woo!” and high-five me, but she simply nods. “We need to wrap him up more tightly in the drop cloth, but I’ll do that, unless you want to roll around in there with him or something.”
She frowns. “Why would you say that?”
“What?”
“What do you mean, what? Why would you make a comment like that?”
“It was a joke.”
“It didn’t sound like a joke. Are you saying I’m some kind of deviant? That I’d like rolling around with my dead boyfriend’s corpse?”
I consider whether to point out that “dead boyfriend’s corpse” is redundant. I decide I might as well. “You don’t need to say ‘dead boyfriend’s corpse.’ You could say ‘dead boyfriend’ or ‘boyfriend’s corpse’ and get across the same meaning.”
I’m not anal-retentive about grammar issues. I just don’t like that she thinks she’s allowed to be offended by my joke. She doesn’t have to laugh, but we’re not equal partners here, and she can keep her moral outrage to herself.
“Let it go,” I say.
“I just want to know what you meant.”
“I meant to add a bit of humor to an ugly situation. I’m sorry it upset your delicate sensibilities.” It doesn’t count as a real apology, since I’m clearly being sarcastic. “If you don’t like the way I make conversation, then you can leave.”
“All right,” she says. “I apologize. No, I do not wish to roll around in a drop cloth with my late boyfriend, but I will be glad to assist you in wrapping the cloth more tightly so that his bodily fluids do not leak out.”
Her sarcasm is somewhat more bitter than mine, but that’s okay.
“Then let’s do it.”
I don’t want to carry around a heavy body when I’ve got a gun wedged in my pants. Mindy looks scared but not surprised when I take it out. I walk to the far end of the storage unit and set it down in the corner. If she’s stupid enough to make a run for it, I’m confident I can take her down in plenty of time.
It’s a high-quality, absorbent drop cloth, but I know we are going to get some blood on ourselves, even if she hadn’t kicked the shit out of Terrence. Fortunately, we are able to get him tightly wrapped without too much of a mess—a few drops on my shirt, and a trickle on Mindy’s pants. And though I hate to admit it, it is much easier to get the body into the trunk with somebody else helping.
She spits into the trunk. “Asshole,” she says.
“You realize you just spat DNA in there, right?”
She freezes. Puts her hand over her mouth. Then uses the bottom of her shirt to wipe the saliva off the drop cloth. “We’re going to burn this, aren’t we?”
“Well, we are now.” I don’t really care about my DNA being all over the scene, since I have no criminal record and I’ll be back in Costa Rica before the cops find anything. If Mindy ends up in prison, hey, she should have listened when I told her to leave.
I pick up a shovel, purchased two weeks ago but not used yet, and a flashlight. I toss them into the trunk with the corpse, and then I close the lid. Mindy walks around Terrence’s car and gets in the passenger seat. I get into the driver’s seat and stare at the steering wheel for a moment, trying to decide if I want to get into yet another argument, or whether I should just drive out of here.
“Do you really want to leave your car here?”
“I’d rather not, but I also don’t want you to leave me.”
“You can follow.”
“How do I know you won’t try to lose me?”
“I didn’t lose you on the way here.”
“You didn’t know I was there.”
I put on my seat belt. “You know what? I don’t really care if you ride along or not. If you’re not worried about your safety, I’m sure as hell not going to be.”
She fastens her own seat belt. “Good. Thanks.”
I turn on the engine, then check the rearview mirror. “Except your car is blocking me.”
“Oh. Sorry. I’ll move it.”
Mindy quickly gets out of the car and into her own vehicle. It’s hard to believe things went so smoothly back when I was a thrill-killer. Now I feel like the kind of buffoon who deserves to get caught.
She moves her car, just enough to let me out.
I back up, and she hurriedly shuts off her engine and gets out, clearly believing I’m going to drive off and leave her. I almost think she’ll jump in front of my car—well, Terrence’s car, technically—before she lets that happen.
But I wasn’t going to leave her. I apply the brakes, and she gets in.
We drive off.
And…I realize I left the gun behind. I don’t need it right now or even want it, but that’s another blunder to add to tonight’s tally. This woman is really messing with my mind.
* * *
She gives me exactly thirty seconds of peace—I actually count them—before the next question. “What are you going to do to your girlfriend?”
“You already asked that.”
“You didn’t answer.”
“Yes, I did.”
“You didn’t answer truthfull
y.”
“I’m not going to do anything to her.”
“Bullshit. You expect me to believe you found out she was having an affair with Terrence, and you’re so angry that you murdered him, but you’re not going to say a peep to her?”
“That’s exactly what I’m saying.”
“What are you going to say when she asks about him?”
“There would be absolutely no reason for her to ask me about him. I didn’t know him. She’s not going to say ‘Hey, this guy I was fucking has gone missing. Got any details?’ And I didn’t kill him out of anger. Or revenge. I killed him because I didn’t want to lose her. So, yes, I’m going to pretend everything is fine, and hope it was a one-time thing.”
Mindy nods. “Okay. I can respect that.”
“Thank you.”
“But let’s say you did want to teach her a lesson.”
“I don’t.”
“I know you don’t, but hypothetically. What if you came home from burying Terrence and caught her in bed with another guy. No, let’s say two guys. What if you came home and she was in bed with two guys?”
“Are these your own fantasies we’re talking about?”
“Maybe that’s taking it too far. We’ll say one guy. You come home and you see a strange car parked in the driveway. You think that’s kind of weird since it’s so late, but you’re not too concerned. Then as you put your hand on the doorknob you get this weird feeling, like something is going on in there you’re not supposed to know about, and you can’t explain why, but you turn the doorknob very slowly, trying not to make a sound, trying to sneak into your own house.”
“I don’t live with her,” I say.
Mindy ignores me. “As soon as you step inside, you can hear noises coming from upstairs. Bedsprings creaking. Moans. You know exactly what you’re hearing, but you don’t want to believe it, so you very quietly make your way up the stairs. You walk down the hallway, and the noises are getting louder, and you see she’s left the bedroom door open.”
“Even if I did live with her, you’ve got the floor plan completely wrong.”
“You look in the bedroom, and there they are. She’s on top, riding him almost as if she’s trying to give you the best possible view of what’s happening. You just stand there in shock. You can’t believe what you’re seeing. And then she notices you. Your eyes lock…and she doesn’t even stop.”
“Keeping it credible, huh?”
“What would you do?”
“So we’re dealing with some sort of alternate reality in which I could walk in on her cheating on me, and she wouldn’t even be polite enough to pause for a moment?”
“Sure.”
“Then I suppose I’d ask her to stop.”
“Okay, let’s dial it back a bit.”
“Yes, let’s.”
“You come home and catch them in the act. You wait for him to leave—”
“I wouldn’t wait for him to leave.”
“In this scenario you do.”
“There’s no scenario in which I would.”
“Will you stop taking this so literally? I’m not asking you to sign off on a plan of action, for God’s sake. I’m just curious. So let’s say you’re so shocked you can’t react, and then when the guy leaves, you’re alone with your girlfriend. What do you do?”
“Nothing. I love her. Anything I did would be to him. Despite what you might think of me, I don’t hurt women. That’s not how I was raised.”
“Okay.” She’s silent for a very brief, merciful moment. “Do you want to know what I would do?”
“If you had a lesbian girlfriend who cheated on you?”
“Sure.”
“What would you do? Shove a broken bottle into her face?”
“Nope. No physical violence at all. All I would do is let her know that I knew.”
“That’s it?”
“Yes.”
“And you felt the need to share that pathetic plan with me?”
“Oh, I wouldn’t come out and say anything. I’d be subtle. I’d say one of the neighbors complained that a strange car in our driveway was blocking the sidewalk, and I’d pretend I believed whatever excuse she came up with. And maybe every couple of days or so, just as the guilt starts to fade, I’d figure out some other subtle way to remind her, just enough that she suspected I knew, but couldn’t be sure.”
She’s really terrible at this. I don’t want to debate her, because that would encourage her to continue speaking, but what she’s saying is ridiculous. “Really? Having murdered her lover, you’re going to throw around hints that you were involved?”
“We didn’t murder her lover. You’re not paying attention.”
“So he’s still around? She’s still sleeping with him?”
“Yes. Or she was, until the guilt began to eat her alive, and she got so paranoid that she had to break it off.”
“Then let me explain the big difference between us. You, apparently, would enjoy a relationship where you torment somebody, getting your thrills from a long-term revenge. That’s fine. If you want a sour, unpleasant romance, I’m not going to judge you. Me, I prefer to remove the element causing the problems, so the relationship can be fixed.”
“Do you really think Terrence was the problem in your relationship?”
“His penis was, at least.”
“That’s pretty naïve of you. Don’t you think there’s anything you could do differently, besides axe-murder her boy-toy? When was the last time you brought her flowers?”
For a split second I’m offended she would suggest I’m the one responsible for the problems in the relationship with my completely fabricated girlfriend.
I need to stop talking to her about this. If this conversation goes on, at some point there will be some sort of continuity error on my part. Not that it matters, I guess. At this point I can’t even remember why I lied to her. What difference does it make if she knows I’m the Flatside Killer?
Hell, maybe I’ve already given it away. It’s not like this was a planned-out story. She might know I’m not who I say I am. She might be toying with me.
Mindy needs to die. I’m not petty enough to murder somebody for being annoying, but if she’s one step ahead of me in this little game, then I need to get rid of her.
I don’t care if she’s pregnant.
She might not even be pregnant.
No, she’s probably really pregnant. I’d know if she was lying.
Killing a pregnant woman is basically the same as killing two people, and I have no moral issue with killing two people. Killing two people at once is kind of impressive, actually, if you take it out of context and don’t tell anybody the second person was an unborn child.
If she keeps being annoying, I’ll kill her.
No, if she stays at the same level of annoyance, I’ll spare her, but if she grows more annoying, she dies.
That’s petty.
I don’t know why I’m even worrying about this. What difference does it make why I kill somebody?
I will let her do half of the body-disposal work, and then I will bash her over the head with the shovel. If she’s proud of being a cruel person, why not give her a cruel death?
* * *
She actually lapses into silence as we continue driving. It lasts until we pull off onto a dirt road.
When fantasizing about my revenge, I’d thought about leaving Terrence in the storage unit, just like I did with my other victims. I’d almost convinced myself it was a good idea; after all, what did it matter where his corpse was found, since I would be back in hiding?
But…no. I couldn’t justify it. I would become suicidal if my crimes were discovered in the same way as before. So Terrence has to go into the ground.
Mindy looks nervous. Good. I hope she’s scared. I hope she’s terrified. I hope she’s envisioning horrible things I might do to her.
“Are we really just going to bury him?” she asks.
“Yes.”
“Is that s
afe?”
“For him?”
“You know what I mean. Won’t he be found?”
I shrug. “Eventually, I guess.”
“And that’s a bad thing, right?”
“If I were planning to hang out here and try to resume a normal life, I guess it would be a bad thing if somebody dug up his body.”
“What about me?”
“You wanted to come along. If you were worried about being connected to his murder, perhaps you should have stayed behind. I didn’t force you into the car.”
“Take me out of the equation. Won’t animals dig up a body pretty quickly? Even if you’re planning to skip town, you don’t want something digging up the grave before you’re even on a plane, do you? Why not dismember the body and get rid of the pieces separately?”
“Do you want to dismember his body?”
“No.”
“If we bury him, he’s gone and done with. I don’t want to spend the next three months getting rid of a finger at a time.”
Mindy looks unconvinced that my plan of action is the right one. I force a grin.
“I’m kidding,” I tell her. “We’re going to bury him deep. No animals are going to dig down six feet for him. Nobody will find him. As long as you don’t phone in a confession to the police, you’ll be fine.”
She seems to trust me, and smiles with relief. “Thanks.”
* * *
Though carrying a body through the woods is awkward and difficult, especially with a shovel balanced on its chest, it’s easier than dragging one, which is what I was originally going to do.
There’s no conversation as we do this. Mindy is much better company when she doesn’t talk.
I’m getting devoured by these goddamn insects and I know she is, too. To her credit, she doesn’t complain. I want to bitch about it a little, but I don’t want to encourage her, so I suffer in silence. You’re not supposed to scratch them. I’ll be scratching my legs bloody tonight.
We don’t go too far into the woods. Maybe a quarter mile.
If I’d known I was going to have a partner in crime, I’d have brought a second shovel. Instead, I let her hold the flashlight as I dig.
