[Criminally Insane 01.0] Bad Karma

by Douglas Clegg

  He looked up at her with weary eyes. “Timmy.”

  “You’re a very well behaved young man,” she said.

  The grandfather tried to touch her knee, but she pulled away from him.

  “Jesus is our savior,” the husband said. “Let me tell you a little about him.”

  Agnes Hatcher closed her eyes and wished that they would go away. It would be a few hours until she got downtown, and then another hour to San Pedro. When she would arrive there, she’d finally dye her hair and change her look. She was exhausted. An hour or two of rest wouldn’t hurt. Perhaps she could sleep while these animals in the station wagon droned on about their religion. She had a fantasy about slicing each one of their throats, but there were too many of them together. After all, she needed the ride. She had followed her inner voice, the one that led her hands to slice the nice Southern woman back by the dumpsters at Wal-Mart, the one that told her to use the nice Southern woman’s body as her own decoy. The voice that guided her without words, just the vibrations of the universe. It had all been promised her from the past life, he had told her: ”With these lives, with this blood, we consecrate our own eternity together.”

  The voice had led her to the arroyo, led her to stuff the oily rag into the Buick Skylark (the oily rags in the oven, surrounding her beloved memory threatened). Led her to burn the woman’s body, the seats of the car, the slow smoldering fire that caught.

  Then, using the natural leverage of the slight rise in the arroyo, she pushed the Buick, ever so gently, and it rolled, burning down further into the wasteland.

  The voice within her let it be known that this would make the others leave her alone.

  Let her follow the trail of instinct to her most beloved goal.

  The voice had died down when she’d had to accept the ride. She had stood at the bus stop for fifteen minutes when the car had pulled up to her. It was Fate, she could tell. And with these Jesus sellers all around her, driving her to Los Angeles, she wished the voice and instinct would guide her hands to stop up their mouths permanently.

  But it was silent in her head.

  She had no choice but to play sweet and kind and compassionate.

  Next time, she intended to take the bus.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  At the cottage, Mark was determined to overcome his fear.

  He slipped out of his flip-flops and went out to the patio. His mother was inside, teaching Teresa some guitar chords—Teresa played the piano a little, but was new to guitar. His mother had been taught classical guitar when she’d been a girl, but she was teaching Teresa some basic stuff like “Puff, The Magic Dragon.” Mark considered that “girl’s time” between the two of them. So now, he figured it was “boy’s time” between him and his father. He stood a few feet back from the edge of the pool, and then turned around.

  “Daddy?”

  “Marky? What’s up?” Trey was sitting in one of the lounge chairs nearby, watching the night.

  The last gasp of day, almost an aura of pale lavender light, played about the edges of the undulate hills that rose behind the cottage. The scents of honeysuckle and jasmine wafted on a light breeze. Night was like a cloud, pushed from the east, towards the hills. It was so close to being dark, that it felt like it was past Mark’s bedtime. Only his parents were letting him stay up later than usual because it was a vacation. His father seemed lost in thought. Mark felt his father worried too much about things.

  Mark shifted his balance from one leg to another, nervously. “Will you help me?”

  Trey sat up in his chair. He leaned forward. He was a tall man, so when he leaned like that, he seemed to stretch and almost reach where Mark was standing. “With what?”

  “I want to dive.”

  “Now? It’s getting late. How about tomorrow morning?”

  “Well,” Mark said, slipping his T-shirt over his head. “You always say ‘Better late than never’.”

  Trey chuckled. “That’s true.”

  “I’ve been thinking how I’ve been a fraidy cat. And it’s dumb. It’s dumb because Teresa can dive. I’m just scared when I look in the water and see me staring back. But with the lights out, I don’t see me in the water. It’s just water.”

  “You sound too logical for your age,” Trey said, mussing up his son’s thick, dark hair. “Okay. I’ll get on the edge with you.” Trey unbuttoned his shirt, tossing it on the chair as he rose. He unbuttoned and unzipped his pants, stepping out of them. He wore blue boxer shorts. Mark laughed out loud and pointed at them when he saw them.

  “That’s not your swim suit,” Mark’s eyes went wide. “It’s your wonderwear.”

  “Them’s my swimmin’ trunks now. Okay, what you do is…” Trey went to the edge of the pool, leading Mark by the hand. He leaned forward, his arms all the way forward, too, palms flat. “Pretend you’re like a dolphin. Push with your feet, press with your hands.”

  Mark imitated his father’s position beside him. “I’ll fall.”

  Trey said, “You won’t. You’ll dive. And you know how to swim, so once you’re in, you just swim. Let’s both go at the count of three. Okay?”

  Mark nodded, but felt uncertain. He leaned forward and closed his eyes so he wouldn’t have to see how far the water was from him.

  Trey counted to three, and Mark pushed with his feet and pressed with his hands. He did a belly flop, and sank down into the water. His stomach burned, and it was so black around him, he didn’t know which way to turn.

  He swallowed water, and thrashed around, until finally his father grabbed him around the waist and brought him up.

  “Marky, Marky, it’s okay, it’s me, are you all right?” Trey said, lifting him up to the side of the pool.

  Mark coughed. He was crying, and felt like a baby. “I can’t do it right,” he said. “I get too scared.”

  Trey hefted himself up the side of the pool, and out of it. He went to get a towel. He brought a big striped one back and wrapped it around his son. “You did fine,” he said, sitting down beside him on the concrete. “Let me tell you a little trick I do to get through difficult things.”

  Mark leaned his head into his father’s chest. “What’s that?”

  “I use the ‘As If’ rule. The ‘As If’ rule states that if I don’t know how to do something, I act as if I do, and then it works.”

  “Like pretending?”

  “Kind of. But it works because it’s not quite pretend. It’s something that our minds have within us already. It’s already in your body and brain to dive, Mark. You’re half fish as it is. Look how well you swim.”

  “Yeah. But I can’t dive.”

  “But act as if you can. Nobody can do anything until they work at it. But if you never try it, you’ll never do it. Sometimes I do things I didn’t think I could until I think of the ‘As If’ rule.”

  “So I’m supposed to act ‘As If’ I can dive? But what if I crack my head open?”

  Trey grinned, rubbing his shoulders with the towel. “Then you act ‘As If’ you meant to do that. Want to try again?”

  “Really?” Mark asked. “I’m almost dry. Won’t Mom get mad?”

  “I don’t think so. Not if you’re learning something new. Here,” Trey pulled the towel off, and stood up, holding his hand out. “If we keep trying ‘til you get it, you won’t be afraid tomorrow and you can show off.”

  Mark took his father’s hand. “I might still be afraid.”

  “Oh, yeah. I’m afraid sometimes when I dive, too. But fear is there to help protect you, so you’ll think about how to do it safely. Let’s give it one more try.” He took his son over to the pool’s edge.

  “ ‘As If’,” Mark said, leaning forward towards the dark water.

  “ ‘As If’,” his father repeated.

  “Are you afraid of anything, Daddy?” Mark asked, solemnly.

  “Everyone’s afraid of something, Marky. We have to overcome fear to face whatever it is that we’re running from. We have to live as if we’re bra
ve.”

  This time, Mark did a good dive, and came up, dog-paddling towards the pool ladder.

  “Know what?” He asked his father.

  “What?”

  “I don’t have to be afraid of nothing no more.”

  “That’s right. Not grammatical, but still correct.”

  “Know what else?”

  Trey shook his head.

  Mark climbed up the ladder to the concrete. Then he leapt over the edge, cannonballing, making a huge splash when he landed. When he came up giggling and sputtering, he cried out gleefully, “That’s what!”

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  The woman with the neatly trimmed reddish brown hair, wearing jeans and a light blue cotton sweater, glanced around the oyster bar. This was the sixth dive she’d entered along the waterfront that evening. It stank of fish and even urine, from the open men’s room door.

  It was only eight p.m., but already the place was packed, wall-to-wall with people drinking beer or devouring oysters and shrimp. The place was filthy, although the management had tried to cover this up with sawdust on the floor and dim lighting all around the bar and tables.

  It reminded her so much of her past, of the very reason she was here.

  In an ordinary saloon, or restaurant, no one would look twice at this woman. Her hair was an obvious over-the-counter dye job. Her eyes were pretty, but small. Her face was pale, as if she hadn’t been in the sun in years. Her lips, thickened with glossy lipstick, were curved nicely. She would be considered moderately attractive in another setting.

  But in the particular bar, near the harbor, she might be the most ravishingly beautiful woman in all creation.

  There were seven men sitting at the bar itself, and when she entered the bar area, four of them turned to look at her. The others slowly turned, also, when they noticed their compadres doing so. She tried to read them, but it was difficult with the noise from the jukebox, and all the talking. She had been to three other such bars already, and was exhausted. It took a lot out of her to get a good reading of someone, particularly in this sort of environment.

  One of the men winked at her. He was twenty two or three. Five o’clock shadow. Dark, thick hair. Brown eyes. Well built, but short. His eyes stayed on hers the longest. She counted the seconds until he looked away. Then, he glanced back again.

  Boldly, she walked over to stand by him.

  “Hi,” he said. His breath was spit and beer. He was horny. That was enough.

  “You’ll do,” she said.

  “Huh?”

  “You got a boat?”

  He nodded. “Sure. Me and a hundred guys down here. Why? You into boats?”

  She felt chilly, and was afraid for a moment that someone else was watching her. Someone who was threatening in some way. She felt that way whenever one of her own species was nearby. She could feel whoever was watching her just as if they were touching her face. She didn’t particularly like that feeling. It passed, however, and she returned her attention to the man on the bar stool.

  “Yeah,” she said. “I really get into boats.”

  She turned slightly to the right, but could not tell where the threat was coming from.

  When the dark-haired man ordered her a beer, she knew.

  It was the bartender. One of us.

  A former surfer boy. Blond, six foot, well-muscled, pre-melanoma. His hair was cut short and flat on top, long and stringy on the sides. He was not handsome at all, except for the athleticism of his body. He had pale blue eyes. Crow’s feet about their edges. He was still, the way an animal being hunted was still. The bartender glanced at her, and she knew that he was one of her kind. He was reading her as much as she was reading him.

  They didn’t have to say anything.

  When he went down to the far end of the bar, she followed him.

  “Do you have a boat?” she asked.

  He nodded. He kept his hands in the pockets of his yellow shorts. She assessed from his bad posture that he was weary. He had possibly been doing speed for a couple of days. He would need to wind down. He said, “I can get a sailboat. Do I know you from somewhere?” His voice was raspy, as if he’d spent years raking it with razors.

  “I don’t think so. I need a boat with a motor. It doesn’t have to be very powerful. Can you help me?”

  “Sure. They call me the Cobra.” He thrust his hand out to shake hers.

  She didn’t return the gesture.

  That was all it took. His shift was off by midnight.

  Off-shift, he wore a Hawaiian shirt that was blue with blotchy yellow flowers over the black muscle shirt he’d worn at the bar. He kissed her as soon as she stepped up to him outside. His kiss was dry. He smelled like whiskey and Old Spice after-shave.

  She stepped back, away from his kiss.

  “I thought you liked me,” Cobra said.

  “I do. Not like that.”

  “Okay, whatever.”

  “The boat?”

  Cobra cursed under his breath. He walked ahead of her, then stopped and half turned. A nearby streetlight cast a pale glow around his form, like a halo. “I swear we met before.”

  “Maybe,” she said. “Do you believe in past lives?”

  He answered her with a laugh. “My VW’s around the corner. I can take you to my buddy’s boat. Where you headed?”

  “Catalina,” she said. She stood beside him, and watched the darkness as if she expected something to attack her. Yet she did not seem afraid. Just wary.

  “Tell me another one.” He smiled good-naturedly as she caught up with him.

  “All right,” she said. “If you won’t take me there, I’ll find someone else. There’s always someone else. But I can give you something you’ve never had in life before.”

  “Yeah? What’s that?”

  “Fulfillment.”

  Then she reached up to his face, holding it in the palm of her hand. She knew what the animals wanted. I will train you, dog, and you will understand your place in life. I will lead you to where you need to go.

  She kissed him, and held him there for several moments.

  “I thought you didn’t want that,” he whispered.

  “Now I do,” she said, feeling her eyes glazing over. Feeling her mind glazing over, too. “In this alley. Against this wall.”

  She pulled the sweater over her shoulders and head. She leaned back against the cold bricks. She moved out of her body, to a vantage point above them, as if she was not the woman below at all. She watched the animals bite and kiss and explore each other’s bodies.

  Then, the lightning of time and space struck her, and its flash erased all memory of the present life.

  October was a month of rain that year. A constant beating against the roof far above, and leaking down into the crawlspace where she slept.

  She slept too much, but she was too weary afterwards, after what she and her lover did, to do anything else. She awoke when a rat scurried across her leg.

  She crawled down to the opening, into the coal storage room.

  He was beating at the door again.

  Beating so hard, she thought he would break it down, or call attention to their nest.

  She couldn’t let anyone else know about their nest or it would be all over.

  She was sure that even her neighbors, if they knew what she did there with him, would set them both on fire inside it.

  She glanced at the great oven, with its twin doors. Remembering a childhood fairy tale of a witch being thrust inside it by evil little children. Of being baked alive by evil children.

  All children were evil.

  She didn’t like to think of the times she’d had to sleep in that oven with her lover, doors shut. Just to keep from being discovered, mashed in together, as if they were one person and not two. Hearing the hounds and the whistles as the coal basement was searched. Feeling his hands about her…Thinking of the children lighting the fire in the oven, laughing as the witch burned.

  She hoped that he would take her
away from here, as he’d promised.

  She prayed that they could use the lifetimes they’d collected to fly away.

  He was, after all, a gentleman. And she would be his lady

  She stooped down, pushing open the small door. He was there. He grabbed her, dragging her into the night. His kisses were like poison, for she felt herself die with each one.

  He cupped his hands against her breasts, squeezing gently, then more harshly. The gaslight was dimmed in the fog and drizzle, and she could hear the clatter of horses as the carriages went by on the street. She smelled garbage and sewer run-off. Rats squealed at the doorway to her left. She had never been so cold and so hot at the same time.

  She felt her blood burning within her, and she wrapped her legs around his waist.

  He had the most beautiful face she had ever seen. It was like a pagan god, wild and ravishing and golden.

  “Do it,” she moaned. “Do it.”

  He took the small scalpel and touched it against her breastbone.

  She met the cold metal, and pressed herself against it.

  The blood was warm, and he brought his face down to it, tasting it.

  He kissed her lips, passing her blood back to her.

  Rain began to fall, and she heard the others, in the alleys, among the tenements, their cries of lust, their tender moans.

  Lightning cut across her vision.

  “You a vampire or something?” Cobra asked. He touched the side of his neck, and examined the blood on his fingers. “I dig vampires. I tasted blood sometimes. That was some love bite you gave me.”

  Agnes Hatcher’s eyes came back into focus.

  She was in the wrong skin. It was the wrong place. She wanted to be back there, back with her beloved, back with the only man who truly understood her.

  She wept for all she had lost over her lifetimes. Cobra held her tight.

  His friend’s boat was small, just a sloop with a nine-horsepower engine. It had a single cabin, with two narrow sleeping bunks, and a hot plate and bathroom. They kept the sail tied to the mast, and used the motor.