by S. A. Austin
The blond licked her fingers then uncaringly turned the pages, pausing ever so often to read random excerpts to him. Speaking in a loud whisper, she mocked the writing. Mocked the words. Mocked their meaning. Mocked the author’s talent.
Frank laughed. Kissed her quick before taking off in the direction of the men’s room.
The woman told a nearby shopper it’s the worst book she’d ever read. Didn’t notice that the shopper was also the author. “Suite Sue? Really? Such a stupid title. If people try to look it up, they won’t know whether to type s-u-i-t-e or s-w-e-e-t.” When blondie had her fill of the mockery, she crammed the book between two others with so much force she ripped the dust jacket on the upper spine with a long fingernail. “Oopsie doo.” She snickered. Stuck out her tongue, babyishly.
BJ found it hard to believe this woman whom Frank seemed to adore was so immature.
Blondie saw Frank. Went to him, looped her arm around his. They moseyed over to the nonfiction section. The woman chatted on and on about their upcoming trip to a Vegas casino.
Las Vegas? They’re on their way to Nevada? Anger consumed BJ when her mind replayed Frank’s last phone message. He was supposedly on his way home. She didn’t wonder which excuse he’d have this time for she had proof it’d be a lie.
They had hurt her in more ways than one. Buying a large coffee in the café, she changed her mind about confronting them there. Rushed out to her car.
Wearing sunglasses, they meandered across the lot holding hands. BJ expected blondie to start skipping. Ask daddy for an ice cream cone. Frank clutched a little white bag by its handle. BJ seriously doubted he had purchased her book. He never cared about her writing. Wasn’t even impressed when she got “the damn thing” published.
She worked her fingers into a pair of thin white gloves.
They traveled west, taking the scenic route.
Several miles from civilization on a stretch of highway with little to no traffic, BJ got in the left lane and accelerated until her car was beside Frank’s rental car.
He glanced at her now and then. Didn’t seem to recognize her with the ginger red wig and sunglasses. Or, he was too busy trying to stop her from running his car off the side of the road. She blared the car horn. Fully distracted, he lost control of his vehicle and plowed down a short embankment.
In the time it took for them to grasp the situation, BJ was already out of her car and running. She unfastened the lid on a little antique metal box adorned with precious gemstones. Threw open the driver’s door, and administered the special powder to the person she viewed as the biggest threat to her own well-being. Ran around to the other side.
Screaming hysterically, the woman locked her door, reached over Frank to lock his.
BJ pulled the handle on the door behind blondie’s seat, the door the stupid woman should’ve locked second. She made quick use of the powder.
No other vehicles in sight, BJ shoved Frank against the woman on the bucket seats with no console. She slid the column shift to Drive, steered the vehicle to the other side of a thick grove of mesquite trees. She was fairly certain no one would be interested in prowling around back there. The thorns on mesquite trees are poisonous. They have also been known to cause flat tires.
She unlocked the trunk of her car. Got out the bright orange yardstick she’d purchased at a discount store after visiting Doktè Jon. Stood it against the rear tire.
BJ pulled Frank and blondie out of his car. Lay them next to each other on the ground a foot or two downhill of the passenger side, out of sight of any passing motorists. Stripping them naked, she paused to imagine them sleeping together in bed.
She gathered up their clothing, wallets, and paperwork for the rental. Absolutely everything that might help the authorities quickly learn their identities. Piled it all in her trunk. Picked up the white bag again, and looked inside. Just another ‘how to get rich quick’ book. About to throw the bag in with the other stuff she halted until an eighteen-wheeler rumbled by.
It pleased her to no end that Frank and blondie also heard the truck.
Bringing the yardstick with her, BJ walked in a straight line, looking back once in a while, making sure she hadn’t veered off course or lost track of the rental car. When she reached her destination she stabbed the ground with one end of the yardstick. Sprinkled another type of mysterious powder over the area. The ground swelled, turned red. The slightest vibrations coupled with the powder had whipped them into an aggressive attack mode.
She dragged Frank, fully conscious but paralyzed, to where she’d planted the yardstick. Centered him over the sandy mound, let go and jumped out of the way. If he’d been able to blink he would’ve known that’s exactly how long it took for hundreds of fire ants to cover his body.
She deposited the woman beside Frank, who had already become unrecognizable with his face and eyes dotted with pus-filled blisters. While the ants did their thing on blondie, BJ wandered around the massive rock formations a few feet north of her adoring husband who continued to stare at the blazing sun.
Hiking to the top, keeping a wary eye on the many crevices, she inched her way forward. Came upon a wide gap. A slim amount of sunlight reached the bottom, enough for her to see the writhing horror show below. A snake pit. Copperheads? Rattlers? She couldn’t have found a better hiding place, unless she had more time to look, which she did not.
She descended the rocky knoll with caution.
Sitting comfortably in the passenger seat of her car with the windows down, BJ sipped cold coffee. The sandwiches she’d packed in an ice chest had retained their freshness. She munched as leisurely as a cow chewing its cud, and watched the sun dip below the grove of mesquites.
“I put a spell on you.” Singing just above a whisper, she collected two small flashlights, and dropped them in a pocket of her lightweight jacket. “Because you are mine.”
Focused on the yardstick, she quickly marched across the desert.
“I put a spell on you.”
Humming the rest of the lyrics, she stared at the pair. Unsure if they were dead. Quite sure they didn’t look so pretty anymore. Shock? An allergic reaction? They’d better hope they’re dead. They’d never live long enough to get out of the hole.
She hadn’t seen any airplanes. But if one or both survived long enough to make it to the surface of the pit where they might be seen…. Let’s not go there.
With a line of darkness underscoring the horizon and the warmth of the day evaporating, the ants disappeared underground for the night, which was what she’d been waiting for. The second effect of the powder assured that most, if not all of the swarm, would be motionless by now.
BJ put on a flashlight headband. Grabbed hold of Frank’s wrists, lugged him up the side of the rock formation. The going was slow and tedious, strong arms stretched to their limit.
Noticing the beam of light growing brighter as the sky darkened she picked up the pace.
Now her life was in danger. She was no longer afraid of snakes, but she was forever afraid of their bite. One misstep and she’d be a goner. Hang around too long, and they’d come out of hiding and search for food in the night. They would search for her.
That isn’t right. Snakes sleep at night.
“It’s the early morning hours when I don’t want to be here.”
To her surprise and delight, she tracked down the wide opening above the pit sooner than she believed possible. She rolled Frank in without an ounce of hesitation or remorse. Thought she heard a grunt when he hit the bottom.
Rather than go back the way she’d come, she went down the face of the hill below the hole so she could walk faster. She spent a few extra minutes with blondie. Towing her by her hair, she had her down the rabbit hole, er, snake hole in the time it took to say “See ya, Alice.”
Nighttime descended, totally and completely. BJ sat in her car with the windows up and the doors locked. She turned the flashers on. Immediately turned them off realizing a psycho might stop and ask if she needs
help like in the movie Hitcher.
She pushed the button on a tape recorder, her hands shaking too much to write down the pertinent information. She said everything that had happened, beginning with her lying to her employees about where she was going. At the end of the recording, she added a personal note saying if anyone questioned her about the televised interview she’d claim it had been cancelled. And, if anyone ever asks about Frank, she’d say he dumped her for another woman. Send them, and a photo of Frank, to the Duges Hotel in Lake Charles for proof.
All the bases covered, she made a U-turn. Drove onto the highway, bound for Louisiana.
“Dammit.”
BJ slowed down, rolled onto the shoulder. No other cars around, she made another U-turn and went back. Still wearing the gloves, she removed Frank’s and blondie’s things from her car. Pitched them onto the back seat of the rental. Stuffed the paperwork in the glove compartment.
CHAPTER 60
BJ dropped her car keys on the foyer table. Grabbed hold of a bottle by the neck, and gulped down a mouthful of tequila. Inspected the house for any changes that may have taken place in her absence. Got the computer up and running in the study.
Although exhausted, she had to get the chapter written before the afterglow completely waned. She’d already lost valuable time on making the long drive home. She jotted down the personal notes she had made earlier. Rewound the tape recorder, placed it on Frank’s desk. Hit the record button. Turned on the stereo, raised the volume to its highest setting. She could’ve easily destroyed the tape with a pair of scissors or a lighter, but where’s the fun in that?
She returned to her computer and her work-in-progress.
Wearing a disguise, Alma lingered at the hotel bar. Watched her husband swapping slobber with another woman. She followed them to Las Vegas. Ran them off the road near
“A fire ant mound? No. I can’t say that. Not ever. Not so long as there’s a chance Frank’s body will turn up.”
She’d put their belongings back in his car for that very reason. She wanted it to appear like those two had run naked over the desert, laid on the ground to have sex, became aware they were on an anthill, jumped up on the rock formation to escape, slipped and fell in a snake pit.
There was a slim chance Frank might stay alive, but blondie wasn’t going anywhere. Before pushing her into the crevice BJ cut out blondie’s mocking tongue, and used the yardstick to cram it down her throat.
BJ doubted anybody would believe those two had run naked any damn where, but there was no discounting the theory, either, not so long as the possibility existed.
It didn’t matter if his location become known. It mattered when it became known. Too early, she’d be a suspect. Much later, she’d flat-out lie about her own whereabouts the day Frank went missing. Who’d know? Nobody was keeping track of her comings and goings. If they were, they were doing a piss poor job.
Deleting the paragraph, another scenario cropped up.
Alma followed Rex and his girlfriend to a marina in Cameron, Louisiana. They playfully wrestled one another on the deck of a small yacht, jazz music blaring and mingling with blondie’s shrieks of delight. Alma pulled on a pair of thin white gloves. Sneaked on board. Found a storage space in the galley to hide in.
Minutes later, she heard the rumble of twin engines. Her body shifted when Rex idled the boat away from the dock. Waves lapped softly at the hull. She was thrown backward after he passed the No Wake zone.
The woman entered the galley. Alma heard the tinkle of glassware. A light splash of liquid. With one eye against a crack in the bifold doors, she watched blondie tilt a dark green bottle to her lips while holding a full wine glass in her other hand. She went topside.
The longer Alma waited the more claustrophobic she became. She patted the tiny box in her jacket pocket for reassurance. Reminded herself she had one shot, and one shot only. If she screwed up, no telling what Rex would do to her, other than happily handing her over to the cops and letting her rot in jail without bail.
Alma’s body fell forward slightly when the boat slowed. She listened to the metallic whirr of the anchor motor. Got ready.
Laughing over a silly joke, Rex and blondie raced each other down the stairs to the galley. Alma burst open the doors, ran out screaming like a banshee. Catching them by surprise, the couple waited two seconds too long to react.
She attacked Rex with the extraordinary dust a bokor had given her. Blocking the blond’s path when she was about to escape, she blew the fine particles in her eyes, temporarily blinding her. When she fell to the floor like Rex, Alma spent time mucking up the bitch’s pretty face with a filet knife.
Panting from the adrenaline rush she grabbed the bottle of wine, stepped over the powerless couple, and mounted the stairs. She turned in a circle on the lighted bow. They were far enough out in the Gulf of Mexico she couldn’t see land. Hell, she couldn’t see any damn thing beyond the railing.
Alma drank thirstily. A vision of blondie with her plump lips on that same bottle made her gag. About to throw the bottle overboard she had a thought. She hunted around. To her surprise, there was a spare anchor chain in a compartment on the deck.
She stripped them naked. Lugged Rex up the stairs, laid him beside the lump of chain. Holding onto blondie by a handful of hair, she slid her over to him. Bound their hands with long black zip ties she found in the closet where she’d hidden. Turned them so they weren’t able to look lovingly at each other.
She wrapped the chain around their conscious but paralyzed bodies. The thing was heavy, the process was slow. Bringing the ends together, she secured them with several zip ties.
Sweating profusely, she sat with her back to the railing. Wiped her face dry. Took off the red wig for a light breeze to cool her scalp. Smoked half of a cigarette. Refreshing her memory about DNA analysis she flicked the other half in the water.
Alma looked at the boat for the first time. Pretty nice. Another breeze swept a brochure onto the deck. Forked Island. How come he never asked me if I wanted to do something like this?
Had they ever discussed getting rid of her, as in permanently?
“If you can’t be with the one you love, kill the one you’re with?”
No more time to waste. She pressed her feet against Rex’s bare chest and shoved them off the port side. A perfect free fall. They hit the water with a tremendous splash. She stared into his unblinking eyes as a rush of water enveloped them. Her face, twisted with hate and anger, was the last thing he’d ever see.
She rounded up all the wine and liquor bottles, mystified by how many there were. Poured red, brown, and clear liquids over everything on the deck knowing rain or waves would wash away most of it if too much time passed before anyone found the boat. She dumped out the rest in the sleeping quarters. Placed a few bottles where they’d be seen before anyone came on board.
On the floor beside the bed she tossed the clothes and shoes Rex and blondie had on. Hung a pair of blondie’s red lacy boy shorts over a lamp shade just for the hell of it.
Adding another element to the mystery, she unfastened a drawer and scattered a few more things, making it appear the couple had company. Ménage à trois? Considered leaving the bloody knife on the floor with blondie’s DNA on it.
Holding up a LED lantern she safely stepped into the dinghy. There was no way to avoid seeing the large black letters spelling out the name of the yacht. Knot Workin’. The words along with their meaning angered her. She threw the knife in the water. Debated about bringing up the anchor, setting the vessel adrift and ablaze.
Alma steered for land. In the right direction, she hoped. Let the authorities draw their own conclusions about the missing dinghy.
BJ shut off her desktop computer, unplugged it. Carefully packed it in a padded cardboard box next to the retired 13-inch laptop with the broken hinge. She put her new laptop, recently purchased at an electronics store, in its black canvas carrying case. Hauled everything downstairs to the foyer.
CHA
PTER 61
“Why’s he so interested in her?” Detective Cantin wanted to know.
A couple of blocks beyond the entrance to Donovan’s subdivision, Officer Wentzel waited in his car, the brake lights glowing bright red. Cantin passed by him, glancing left in time to see Donovan carry a heavy box out of her house, and put it in the trunk of her car. Her front door was wide open, revealing cardboard boxes and a black bag.
She’s moving?
In his rearview mirror, he watched Wentzel back up into a private driveway, turn his wheels hard, then head toward the entrance.
Shit. Which one do I stay with? Wentzel’s going on duty soon. And he probably recognized my car, so I doubt he’ll be back. Donovan’s actions were more intriguing. He made a U-turn. Maneuvered his vehicle curbside of a house where the grass had grown ankle-high. Folks must be on vacation. If I think that, so might a burglar.
Donovan finished stuffing the trunk. Started loading the back seat with her belongings.
Halfway across her sidewalk, she swung her head in his direction. Lucas instantly brought a hand up to shield his face. She kept staring his way as she continued on into the house. He bet she was watching him through the blinds.
Before he made a move to leave, she came out and locked her door.
Staying two car lengths away, he followed her to the French Quarter. She entered the lot of a nice apartment building on St. Philip Street. He continued driving, doing his best not to look back at her. He’d rather not know if she’d seen him following her.
Another block further up the street he glimpsed in his rearview mirror in time to see Wentzel turning down a side street.
