by S. A. Austin
Alma snorted in disdain. Throes of passion? Where does this fool get off thinking he’s even got what it takes?
She led him to the service elevator the hotel employees used. Cameras had been strategically placed on all sixteen floors of the old, majestic, brick and mortar building. The second she got off the elevator on the thirteenth floor she sharply bowed her head making the sides of the long blond wig fall forward to hide most of her face. A practiced move she had perfected.
Inside her room with the door locked, she pulled off the wig and cap liner. Flung them on an empty suitcase rack. Fluffed up her own hair, then pushed it off her shoulders.
“Wow. You look totally better, er, different. I mean, you look more mysterious,” he said.
Her long eyelashes swept the air with a fleeting glance. “You’re still the same.”
“Huh?” He examined himself in a full-length mirror.
The bathroom light was on. She pulled the door toward her, creating a narrow strip of white on the carpet. Turned off all of the other lights, darkening the area around the bed. Unhooked the straps on her high heels. Unbuttoned her blouse.
The man watched with wide-eyed fascination. “Don’t you need music for that?”
“For what?”
“For the little striptease act. I read something about it in the brochure the escort service provided. Many of the women will do a little dance for the customers.”
Dumb stupid idiot. Irritated, she flapped her hand in the general direction of him. “Take off your clothes.”
He moved at his own speed. Creased his trousers before hanging them over an armchair. Sat on the edge of the bed to remove his socks. Combed his hair with his fingers.
Alma tossed back a shot of tequila. Watched the man watch her.
He patted his pillow. “C’mon now, honey bear, time’s a wastin’.”
Everything about him lit a fire under her. She was especially fed up with all the stupid pet names he’d given her. Sweetiepie. Muffin. Baby. Not once did he ever call her by her real name. Could it be because he never bothered to ask what it is? She, too, took her time undressing. Not to create a little mystery and excitement, but rather to give herself time to think straight.
Alma came around to the right side of the bed, the side closest to the bathroom. She slung a floral comforter to the foot of the bed, the top end landing on the carpet. Peeled back the corner of the flat sheet, unhurriedly crawled in on her knees. She glanced at him to gauge his interest when she lay down on her back.
Mentally rehearsing the spell she had looked up earlier, she felt around under the mattress with her fingertips for the little antique metal box adorned with real gemstones that held an extraordinary powder containing fresh remains of poisonous toads, nettles, and a number of other ingredients, along with a potent toxin found in the organs of puffer fish.
She brought the box closer to the edge of the mattress. Glimpsed his way and saw him hanging his shirt and necktie on a wooden coat-hanger in the closet. Shoved the box under her pillow before he became aware of her strange movements.
He got in on the other side of the bed. Quickly concealed the lower half of his body with the sheet as though he, too, had something to hide. Awkwardly inched closer to her.
Moving fast, Alma was on her knees again.
He grinned. “Now we’re cookin’ with gas.”
She slung the sheet aside. Straddled his legs.
He lightly gripped her thighs. Craned his neck, hoping to see her ass in the mirror. “I swear, girl, you’re as purdy as a speckled pup. Mmm, talk about best laid plans. You’re as limber as a dishrag.”
She bent down slow and easy to keep from jolting his mind out of the gutter it had crawled into. Unintentionally grazed the tip of his nose with an erect nipple when she stretched sideways to slide her hand under her pillow. Her heart seemed to stop beating when he pulled her closer, worked his mouth over her nipple and started sucking on it. She lurched back, clutching a pair of handcuffs in her fist. Used the sheet to wipe off his saliva.
“Red on yellow kills a fellow.” In a heartbeat, she had his wrist hooked to the wood spindle headboard.
“Hey, what the hell do you think you’re doing,” he screeched, jerking his arm all about trying to break free. “I’m not into the kinky stuff. I, I, I’m simply not. That’s not what I paid for. I, I’m a married man. My wife, she, we, we don’t do this kind of stuff.” In a softer tone he added “Could be why I’m here instead of there.” His voice shot up a notch. “Let me go before—”
“Before I put a spell on you? I don’t think so.”
As if on cue, the heater turned itself on, the motor whirring softly. Alma glided her tongue once across his stomach. He gasped. She felt his body stiffen. Caressed him. His chest rose and fell rapidly. His breathing grew louder and raspier. He wiped perspiration out of his eyes.
She seized the moment to cuff his free arm.
Captivated by her actions he’d begun to relax. Moaned a little, now and then.
She reached under her pillow a third time. Whipped out the box. He raised his head to get a closer look at what she had. She flipped the lid back with her thumb. Blew a white substance in his face. His head immediately hit the pillow. He stared unblinking at the ceiling. She put the box on the nightstand. Got off the bed. Waited a few seconds for any signs that the powder hadn’t been administered correctly.
Alma lit a white candle. Wrote JOHN on a torn corner of a white sheet of paper. Keeping her voice down she said, “By the power of three, as is in life, I invoke thee to give thy truth, not to me, but to your wife.” Shouted his name. Blew out the candle.
She turned on the CD player. The hypnotic sounds of music and chanting filled the room. Slow dancing her way back to the bed, her body twists and turns similar to a ghost-white boa constrictor descending a bald cypress tree in the swamp.
She took hold of the top sheet. With a quick snap, she pitched it over the comforter and onto the floor. Came around to his side of the bed. Switched on the lamp, tilted the fabric shade. The harsh light turned his eyes to white pits. He was unable to close them.
This time she was the one doing the top to bottom inspection. Snorted at the sight of a body gone to flab. “Too much mashed taters and gravy, sweetiepie?” She took out the scalpel she’d hidden in the nightstand drawer. Held the razor-sharp surgical instrument above his eyes, giving him a moment to view his terrified expression in the flat side of the blade.
Lamplight winked at the shiny chrome as she twirled around the room to the beat of a guitar and drums. She returned to him, her hips leisurely moving side to side, and delighted in his misery. She sat by his legs and gripped his dick, the top half drooping over her forefinger. A feeble worm on a fishing hook.
She looked at him again, his face and body completely paralyzed by the strange powder. Easy enough to imagine his fear. She’d seen the same expression on the faces of three other losers. He knew what she was doing. Or was about to do. But he was unable to scream for help, much less beg for—
The music abruptly ended. A heavy silence followed. She blinked in confusion. Released him, revolted by the clammy feel of his skin. Wiped her hand on the sheet. Backed away from the bed. She was in a bustling hotel, not in a secluded cabin in the swampland.
Before leaving New Orleans, she’d thought up a new technique to sever connections between her and the three men in Louisiana in order to mislead and thwart the police investigation. But this new way of killing wasn’t working for her. Alma thought it might be wiser to use the incantation that would render him deaf, mute, and blind. The same incantation used on Virgil Wentzel.
Bérénice reached out so fast to grab the bottle of tequila she almost knocked it over. Added a little to her glass. Squeezed her eyes shut to stem the flow of tears. Cleared her mind of the image of her mama lying at the bottom of an old stone well.
She looked around the room trying to find something to focus on to help drive away the memories. The blinking cursor o
n her laptop? She slid the glass out of her way. Drank freely from the bottle. Concerns of becoming an alcoholic like Virgil were cast aside. He wasn’t her real papa.
