She presses the cold muzzle to my temple, letting me know I’m in a tight spot.
“Okay. Okay.” Be firm but not pushy. “This is what’s going down. I’ll drive to the East Side and look for an abandoned building. Then I’ll—”
“No. You’ll keep driving south,” she says, matter-of-fact. “Go to the Lakeside neighborhood. And please don’t talk unless I ask you a question.”
“Please? Who points a pistol at someone’s head and says please?”
“I do. Now shut up and drive … Please.”
I nod. Lakeside is four miles from here, about a ten-minute drive in this weather, a neighborhood I know well. It borders a polluted community lake with a crumbling dock and a secluded park, a seedy spot that Ed once suggested as a dumping ground, a place he picks up hookers for play.
“The lake’s frozen this time of the year, and I didn’t bring a shovel to bury him,” I say. “The ground’s too hard to dig anyway.”
“Stop whining.” She leans forward and wipes the fog off the front window with her coat sleeve, leans back and puts on the defroster. “Keep your hands on the wheel and don’t talk. I’ve told you once to be quiet. If you don’t stop, I’ll shoot. Then I’ll have a bloody mess to clean up.” She looks into my eyes. “And that’s exhausting to think about, considering I’m wearing my favorite coat and it will take forever to get the blood out of it.”
I laugh. I can’t help it. She has to be toying with me, totally toying with me. The calmness in her voice doesn’t match her threatening words. And she smells like my favorite childhood drink—strawberry Kool-Aid—a mixture of fruit candies and spring air. She can’t talk to me like this and smell of such sweetness. It’s just not right.
“Take off your shirt,” she says.
“What?”
“Take. Off. Your. Shirt.”
“While I’m driving on icy streets?”
“Yes. Yes, please. Then put both hands back on the wheel where I can see them.”
I hold the wheel with one hand and unbutton my flannel shirt, freeing one arm at a time. It falls down and bunches behind my back. She slides it out and sniffs the sleeves, the armpits, and the collar.
“There’s no sweat. No man stench. Take off your undershirt, too.”
Her soft voice sounds like Heather’s.
I hand her my undershirt and she sniffs it. I imagine it smells like the cologne I dab on my neck each morning, a cinnamon and leather concoction that’s easy on the nose.
She hangs the flannel shirt over my forearm and circles a spot of blood on the fabric, either from the fistfight, or where the guy fell into me after he was stabbed.
“I was at the far end of the alley next to the bar, close to the street that’s behind the building,” she says. “My coat blended in with the brick. It was too dark for him to see me.” She looks over her shoulder at the body. “I held still and watched him light a cigarette. Then he took off when he saw you under the light by the door. He didn’t notice me.” She snaps the shirt off my arm and flings it into the back. “I heard that woman in the alley say your name, Dylan Marzley.” She shimmies closer. “I know who you are, and I saw you kill him. His blood is on your clothing, not mine. It was your knife.”
“You setting me up?”
“Don’t. Speak.” The gun slithers down my abs, stopping above my groin. “You have any tats?” she asks.
“Two, they’re on my back.”
“Keep your hands on the wheel and lean forward for me.”
Her fingers tiptoe over my back. Identical tats are on opposite sides of my shoulder blades: the top view of a black rose with a petal dropping off. The name Jake is under the rose on the right, and Heather is under the one on the left, directly behind my heart.
She circles Heather’s tat. Then Jake’s. “Just these two?” she asks.
“Yeah.”
“No gang tats?”
“I’m not in a gang.”
“Are you a cop?”
I chuckle. “God, no.”
“But you’re friends with some cops?”
“Not really.”
“Good.” She grips my shoulder and pushes me against the seat. “Do you always kill men for no reason?”
“I didn’t kill anyone. And you should talk. Do you always point a gun at people and threaten to blow off their heads?”
I catch a cunning smile. “Only men who’ve caught my attention.” She peeks at the snow accumulating on the windshield and turns on the wipers, patting my hand before her next request. “Take off your jeans.”
“You kidding me?”
“No. Take them off.”
“The defroster’s on the window, not me, and I’m not warming up on this frozen seat. It’s too damn cold. No.” I shake my head.
“Why are you speaking?” She keeps a steady smile as her hair falls over one eye. “I’m aware things shrink in the cold. I won’t hold it against you.” The muzzle is back against my temple. “Pants off, Dylan Marzley.”
“Fine,” I huff. Sean and Riley aren’t going to believe this. Held at gunpoint and forced to strip while driving into Lakeside without my knife.
I pull down my jeans, unable to remove the legs because of my boots.
“All the way off.” Her smile disappears.
I reach down and untie my laces, slip off my boots, and free myself from my jeans. I pick the bundled ball of denim off the floor and drop it in her lap.
“Thank you.” She lowers the Walther to her waist. It’s still pointed at my head, but not as threatening from a distance as when it’s pressed to my temple. “Drive to Sweetbriar Park.”
“That little park in the middle of Lakeside? It’s surrounded by houses.”
“Sweetbriar Park,” she repeats.
“Bad choice. People will see my truck in that open area. Let’s go to the other park by—”
“Sweetbriar.”
“Can we talk about—”
“Sweetbriar. Make a right here and then a left at the end of the street.”
“Are you making me take the body to his house so his friends can beat me to a pulp? Is that it? Is this where he’s from?”
“Do what I tell you and don’t misbehave. This is your last warning.”
I groan. If I leave him in the park, he’ll be found in the morning. And if she’s leading me into a trap, I’ll be the one found in the morning. Sweetbriar Park isn’t a good plan. Amateurish. I should take my chances and grab the gun instead of taking my chances with leaving the body out in the open, covered with evidence.
“Left here,” she says.
The wheels slip when I make the turn. The truck slides. The body in the back bumps my seat and drops to the floor, sending forth the pungent odors of urine and blood. I should’ve spread a blanket on the seat and bungeed him down.
I turn the wheel with the slide and my truck quickly straightens out.
“Make the next left,” she says.
“Sweetbriar Park is on the right.”
“I know. Make a left.”
I’m doomed. We must be heading to his home. I can only hope his roommates or wife hated him so they go easy on me.
“Down here.” She points. “Straight ahead.”
The street isn’t plowed, which works in my favor, giving my truck more traction. Like most of Northland, it’s a dead street full of vacant houses. Windows are dark, streetlights are burned out, and not a soul is outside.
“Pull over in front of that one-story white house. The one that’s boarded up on the right.”
“Every other one is white and boarded up.”
“That one.” She points.
I parallel park in a spot that’s been dug out. It’s a tight fit between two snow-covered cars, hinting that they’ve been entombed for some time, abandoned like the houses. Once the truck is in park, she turns off the lights and kills the engine, then lowers the gun while staring at the dilapidated home.
She let her guard down. I can grab the gun and—
“Don’t even think about it. You’d be dead before you got it out of my hand, and anyone close enough to hear the shot wouldn’t care.”
Okay, I can’t grab the gun.
I look at the house. The boarded up windows are framed with soot, and the porch roof has buckled.
“Take him around back. It’ll be open.”
“What will be open?” I ask. “A door? A window?”
“The back wall of the house. It collapsed and will be open. Take him through the kitchen and into the bathroom, then leave him in the tub. Careful where you step.”
Her delicate voice directing me to leave a body in the tub of a bombed-out house stirs my heart, in a slightly sick way. It’s why she has control over the situation.
I hold the door handle, looking down at the gun, noticing her pink fingernails match the handle. She has a simple gold ring on her pinky finger, embellished with the letter “A,” and a small black heart tattoo at the base of her ring finger.
“What are you waiting for?” she asks.
“Can I put on my coat?”
“No.”
“Can I—”
“Take him. He’s too close to me.”
She has no problem sending me out to haul a body through the snow without my clothes. I’m down to my flannel boxers and wool socks.
She stares at my crotch, my pale legs, and my crotch again. Okay, I see what’s going on here. “Is this sexual?” I look down at my boxers. “Does it turn you on to watch me dump a body while I’m in the buff?”
“No. And you’re not naked.” Her straight teeth disappear behind a tight-lipped smile. She slips the pistol under the edge of my boxers, moving it up my inner thigh.
“You sure about that?” I ask.
“Making you undress isn’t sexual in any way.”
“So she says,” I mutter. “Trust me, I’m not turned on anyway.”
She pushes my coat to the floor and slinks alongside me, skimming her fingers over my jaw. I close my eyes, distracted by her warm breath seeping into my ear, her sugary-sweet scent drifting into my nose, and her soft lips tracing my earlobe, spinning my head after one touch.
I wait quietly and listen.
“Think about how you feel exposed to me.” Her words pass between her lips in a seductive whisper. “This could be about control and learning to submit, or it could be about punishment.” The gun travels across the front of my boxers. “Tell me, is this sexual to you? Does it turn you on to be crippled by a woman?” My eyes stay shut. The muzzle of the gun moves up to my heart, making me tremble. “Answer me, please.”
“I don’t know.” I clear my throat. “It feels … unreal.”
“Am I?”
I open my eyes. “No, not you.” I shake my head. “Definitely not.” I swallow hard, looking down at her hand stroking my thigh.
“Dylan, take the body away and finish the job. Then I want you to come back to me.”
6
I open the driver’s-side door and check to see if anyone’s around before pulling the body from the back seat. He hits the ground, tossing snow flurries upward that land on my feet. I check again if anyone’s in sight. Dog tracks line the sidewalk, but I don’t see any human footprints. The street’s dead quiet.
I move as fast as I can, dragging him up the driveway and around back. She’s right. The backside of the house is open, the inside looted and stripped down to the studs. Everything’s been stolen, including the drywall.
I lean the body against the concrete foundation and climb inside, the step up from the ground to the kitchen a good three feet. I kneel in the snow to lift the guy by his armpits up and over the footing of the house. I’m not weak, I work out, but this guy’s massive, and it’s a struggle.
On the third try, I get him up and lug him through the house. His jeans snag on a nail, launching me forward. I tug him free, feeling my way through the house until I find an open doorway and a sink.
She said she wants him in the bathtub, but I’m not exploring a dark bathroom in an abandoned house with my bare hands. Forget the tub.
I drop him on the floor then backtrack out of the house. Snow sifts into my wool socks and melts between my toes, turning my feet into a solid block of ice. They’re numb as I kick fresh snow over the trail of blood to cover my tracks.
Miserable, I finally make it down the driveway to my truck, ticked off that this woman made me strip and subjected me to the cold.
I open the door and hop inside, slamming it shut. “Son of a bitch, it’s cold!” I smack the wheel. “This is bad. Someone’s gonna find him here, trust me, this is the wrong spot!”
“Good job.” She sets the gun between us. “Take the gun as a prize if you want.”
I grab it quickly in disbelief. My teeth chatter as I look into her eyes. Should I kill her, or kiss her? This might make sense if I were drunk, but being sober, it makes no sense at all.
“What is this? What are you doing? Is this some kind of game?” I sit back and start the truck. Hungry for heat, I turn the heater on full blast and rub my hands in front of the vents. “Are you insane?”
She shrugs.
“What is that?”
She shrugs again.
“Crying out loud, you are crazy, aren’t you?”
“Lighten up.”
I turn my entire body toward her. “What’s your deal? Who is this guy? Why’d you lead me here at gunpoint? And why’d you give me the gun!”
“Lower your voice, please.” She glares. “Men have no right to yell at me.”
“Oh, yeah? Well, women have no right to kidnap me!”
I pull the truck away from the curb and head back to the bar, fingers and toes tingling as they start to thaw. She gets a steady side-eye for the first mile, the city lights igniting her young face. I should apologize. I really should. It’s best to stay on the good side of an underhanded woman.
“I didn’t mean to lose my cool.” I break the silence. “I’m … you know, I’m all worked up. I got adrenaline shooting out of my head, my heart’s hammering, half my body is a block of ice, and the other half is on fire. Plus I think I have to piss, only I can’t feel my dick.” My voice climbs as I make excuses. “I’ve got a cop on my back, blood on my hands, dead men in my dreams, my past eating me alive, and now some girl is screwing with my head. So, I’m sorry to sound like such a maniac all of a sudden. All right?”
She reaches into the back to get my undershirt and flannel and asks me to lean forward, helping me into them. She buttons the shirt with no cares about being this close to me without her gun.
“I know what you’re thinking, and I’m not afraid of you.” She looks into my eyes then down at the buttons, the air thick with her strawberry scent. “Saying that may sound crazy, seeing that you killed a man.” She puts her finger to my lips before I can object. “I’m not brushing that off, but you shouldn’t feel bad. That animal didn’t deserve to live.” She leans back in her seat. “For a few months I’ve thought of all the ways I could kill him myself, like a hit and run, a crack with a baseball bat, shooting him, and of course, poisoning—”
“Poisoning?”
“But I couldn’t find the right time or place. You beat me to it, so I owe you one.”
“Hold on. What type of poison—”
“You stepped in,” she cuts me off, “tried to stop him in the bar. I saw you hit him for what he said to your friend. Then you lost control when he threatened to assault your other friend. You defended three people tonight.” She repositions the heater vents, one on my chest, the other on my thighs. “When he forced me outside, I thought it was finally going to happen. Tonight was my best shot at taking him out. A high-crime neighborhood, dark alley, plenty of drunks and homeless in the area. And by the marks on his face, he’d been a fight with someone. Perfect.”
I gaze straight ahead at the wintery road. Snow atop my hair melts, trickling d
own the side of my face. She wipes it away and whisks the rest off my head before it drips.
“He stole a woman’s car, and I got it back. That’s why he came after me. Now please, don’t ask any more questions.”
“Nuh-uh, there has to be more to it than that. You don’t think about poisoning a guy for stealing a car.”
“No more questions.” She takes her cell out of her coat pocket and snaps my photo.
“Erase that.”
She starts to type. A text? Twitter? Facebook? I don’t know what.
“I still think this is a setup. Are you sending that to the cops? Don’t do it. I swear it won’t end well for you if you rat me out.”
“It’s masturbation material,” she says in her pretty voice, still typing away.
“Masturba—What? Be serious, don’t send that photo to anyone.”
“How tall are you?”
“Six one … wait. Stop it.”
“Dylan Marzley: black hair, ‘to die for’ gray eyes, and pulpy-pudding lips.”
“What kind of lips?”
“Foghorn voice.”
“Foghorn? I smoke a lot, but … oh, screw you.” I pull my coat off the floor and dig for my cigarettes, lighting one up to relax. “This is crap.” I point the cigarette at her. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“Two identical tats on his back.”
I knock the cell out of her hand. It bounces off the glove compartment and lands back in her lap. She picks it up and continues. “Anger issues, possibly suffering from depression.”
“You’re wrong. Erase that.” I wave my hand. “Erase all of it.”
“Full dark eyebrows. Scar above the one on the left. Nice clothes. Brawny. Enormous brain.”
“That”—I tap her phone—“that you can keep. I know I’m smart.”
“Doesn’t understand brain means penis.” She tips her head to the side as she types. “Oversized feet. Broad shoulders. Naïve about women.”
“Funny. Real funny.” I can’t hide the scorn in my voice, but deep down I’m also enjoying this.
She runs her fingers up my leg and rolls the bottom edge of my boxers between her thumb and forefinger, netting a rare smile from me. Wicked thoughts of turning the tables and making her strip at gunpoint race through my head. Bad timing? Is it sick to discard a body and desire a girl on the same night? I don’t know. I’m a guy. It doesn’t take long for my brain to switch from angst at the bar, to fear over a gun pointed at my head, to wanting to get laid.
The Lost Night Page 4
