by Bill Hopkins
those things that way. It will help you.”
Babe choked back a sob. “They keep playing over and over in my head. Those things replay like a YouTube video stuck in repeat mode. They play in my mind where I see scenes of him—”
“Stop.”
Babe stopped. Then summoning a trace of tenderness, the killer spoke, gently explaining the necessity of this death. “You know why we have to do this. It’s the only logical and rational thing to do. We went over all the reasons before. No one but us will punish that bastard. He violated both of us and no one cares.” Babe scooted close to the killer. “We came out here because here’s where it’s going to happen.”
“Here?” Babe’s voice cracked. “I didn’t know that was part of the plan. Here?”
“I’ve checked it out. There are no houses for miles, the road isn’t used much, and it’s a nice place. In fact, except for the camping area, no one is allowed here after sundown. We’re trespassing.” The killer smiled and cooed at Babe. “There are trees, rocks, birds, streams, plants, and animals. This is nature at its best. A nice place.”
“A nice place?” The wonder at the label for the place was plain in Babe’s voice. “All that’s here is a bunch of dirt. Dirt and dirty stuff. Woods are junky places full of green crap. Towns are nice places.”
“Now that’s where you’ve gone wrong. This is a nice place, a perfect place for the death. Spring is the time of rebirth, a time for new resolutions.” The killer gestured at the words, although it’s doubtful that Babe could see the hands moving. Gesturing helped the talk flow. “We should begin the new year in the spring, not the dead of winter. It seems more like a new year when new things are budding and new animal babies are being born. This is a good time to bring to life resolutions about death. Don’t you think?”
“What are you talking about?”
The killer reminded her that the question was what she thought about springtime. Hitting her again seemed a possibility.
Babe said, “I think often.”
“You should be more romantic. Thinking too much means not enough action. Thinking is simply thinking. Action is romantic.”
“Thinking is my job,” said Babe. “When will we do it?”
“The execution?” The killer felt Babe move her head, and silence fell for a few moments. “We’ll have to seize the first chance we get. It could be days, weeks. I don’t know.” The killer shook a finger at her, much like a parent scolding a kid who’d raided the cookie jar. “We have to be prepared when opportunity rings the doorbell. We have to be ready at all times.”
“How will we do it?” Babe said.
“Who? What? Where? When? How? What are you? A journalist?”
“If I’m in on this, I need to know how. The plan. How can we have a plan if we don’t have details? You keep springing new details on me and then you won’t tell me other details. I’ve got to know.”
“A gun would be nice.”
“And bring the neighbors running? That’s stupid.”
“I told you,” the killer said, “this place is isolated. Even if one of these ridge runners hears a gunshot, he’ll think it’s one of his kinfolks shooting deer before the poachers kill them off.” Not only did the killer have to grab Babe’s attention, it was work keeping it from wandering.
Babe said, “There’s more than one way to shoot an old dog.”
The killer laughed. Babe said something funny? What a miracle!
“He’s a son of a bitch,” the killer said. “A dog shooting is exactly what we’re going to have. A gun right between the mutt’s ears would turn the deadly trick.” The killer’s target practice had been regular and effective. The shots wouldn’t miss.
Babe said, “I’d like a gun.”
“You would. A gun is just like you.” Babe was a woman who loved guns.
“Or a knife. That would be quiet. Quiet and effective.”
“Do you have a gun?”
“No,” Babe said.
“Also just like you not to have a gun,” the killer said, once again pointing out the obvious. She claimed to love guns yet didn’t have one. “Then how about a knife? You’re right that a knife would be quiet. You have a knife? And I don’t mean a butcher knife. A butcher knife is meant for dead meat. We need a knife meant for live meat.”
“A knife.” Babe snapped her fingers so hard it sounded like the pop of a firecracker. “Yes, a knife would be quiet and quick.”
“Got one?”
“Everybody’s got a knife, and I don’t mean a butcher knife. You can never tell when a knife might come in handier than a thumb on a monkey. There’s a knife in the office.”
The killer had a better idea. “No, I’ve got it. A hangman’s noose. A nice noose for an execution in this nice place.”
“A noose it is.” Babe kicked at a sweet smelling golden currant shrub. “It might take longer. Choking takes longer. But it would be quiet and it would work. I’d enjoy watching that dish of crap choke to death.” She crushed several of the shrub’s yellow flowers in her hands. “But what do we do with the body? Bury it here?”
“That’s the last thing we want to do.”
Babe said, “Then what?”
The killer listened to a bullfrog belching love songs for a few seconds before answering.
“If we dump the body in the middle of everything, where we talked about before, they’ll never suspect us. They’ll never suspect us.”
“Why? That makes no sense. I’m not sure I understand this part. How would it help us to dump a body on the courthouse square?”
“We’re smart, outlandishly smart,” the killer said. “They’ll think whoever did it was stupid to dump the scum there. Distraction is our insurance. We’ll be magicians, pointing one way with the right hand while the left hand does the deed. It’s so simple, it’s subtle.”
To emphasize the feeling of ingenuity for figuring out this part of the plan, the killer kissed her. Deep. She tasted sweet.
Babe said, “The hammer strikes, the anvil remains.”
“What the hell does that mean? You’re just full of witty sayings, aren’t you?”
“But if we dug a grave here, no one would ever find it.”
“Right. No one would find it. No one, that is, until one of these hillbillies goes coon hunting. The dog would lose it when he got near the body. I’m not getting my ass in a squeeze from some tie hacker’s mixed breed coonhound sniffing a corpse.”
“I see,” Babe said. “I think I see.” She tilted her head back to stare at the sky, now full of clouds. “I’m not sure I see. If someone finds the body here, they’d suspect us but if they find it in the middle of every- thing, they won’t suspect us? I don’t get it.”
“Trust me, it’ll work. Isn’t this a nice place? Such a nice place.”
“A nice place for a murder. My Taser will make it even nicer.”
“Stun him first. I like that.” The killer laughed. “But God damn it twice. We’ve talked about that. It’s not murder, it’s an execution.”
“It’s the excitement. I forgot.”
“I’m sorry you have to be outside in the dark. Perhaps I can make it up to you.” Without standing, the killer took off every stitch of clothes, not bothering to knock away the stuff of the forest floor, which now clung to bare skin. Then the killer removed Babe’s clothing. A hand, then the mouth went to Babe’s favorite place. And the killer did other things, glorious things, to Babe. And Babe returned the favors.
They touched each other everywhere. Then the killer made it up to Babe. No maybe there.
On the sunny, appointed day, the killer drove Eddie Joe Deckard into the country.
When they reached the chosen spot, the killer said to Eddie Joe, “Let’s go for a walk.” The killer hiked away from the victim.
“Where are we going?” Eddie Joe said. “I’ve got a lot to take care of. I don’t have much time.”
“That’s for sure,” the killer said in a soft voice. With assurance, the killer said to Eddie Jo
e, “This won’t take long,” then led him around the bend to the spot where death would come to buy another soul. It was the nice place. A stream, trees, wildflowers, and a picnic table under a roof.
A scenic lane, beneath the crest of a forested ridge and far from where anyone could see or hear them, fit the plan. Safe ground.
The killer said to Eddie Joe, “I’ve got something to show you.” Then smiled.
“Show me? I thought you said you wanted to talk.”
“Show you, talk to you, whatever. Don’t be so literal.”
Eddie Joe said, “Don’t be so mysterious.”
The killer pointed. “Sit there.”
“There?” Eddie Joe asked, also pointing. “What’s that Caddy doing in the middle of nowhere?”
“Please take the driver’s seat. I’ll explain.”
Eddie Joe sat, stroked, and praised. “Nice. Super nice. You’ve done good and I always believed you could do it.” He sat. The stroking and praising stopped. “This is yours, isn’t it?”
“It’s not mine. It belongs to a friend.”
“A friend? Then what do I want to see it for? Is this what we drove all the way out here to see? This car’s not even yours and we came all the way out here to see this—”
“No, this isn’t what we came for. We didn’t come for me to talk or to show, we came for me to do.”
On cue, Babe walked from behind a clump of cedar trees.
“Hey,” Babe greeted Eddie Joe. “Good to see you again.”
“Hey,” Eddie Joe said. He frowned, but started to leave the car. “Nice to see you again, too.”
Babe, ignoring Eddie Joe’s outstretched hand, pushed him in the chest, forcing him
