children on their way to school, or old ladies who bake cookies for all their neighbors, or upstanding medical professionals and charity workers.
Because those people are missed, that’s why.
They’re missed promptly, and they’re missed badly, and they’re avenged by the media or the cops. And I really don’t need that kind of attention.
From Trevor’s wallet a couple slips of paper floated leaf-like onto the floor. The first one was a business card for a group professing that “anyone can learn
parcours
, and reap the benefits of high-energy, high-interest exercise that doubles as a defensive art.”
Sounded like bullshit to me.
The other piece of paper had a phone number on it, next to a scrawl that read “Major” something-or-another, and the note, “about the website.” I hung on to the note and the business card, took the money out of his wallet—because hey, why not?—and crammed it back into his pocket.
It was cold down there in the basement, and Trevor’s spilled blood was already turning black.
I listened to the kids upstairs, and this time the talk was all about how they ought to go down and see if I was all right, no because I could take care of myself (she was right, obviously) andmaybe I’d gotten hurt and that’s why it was so quiet, or maybe I’d just left and hadn’t told them, and so forth, and so on.
Over by the wall the building’s foundation is starting to drop away from the supports, which makes my building in no way unique in the city of Seattle. Many of the older structures are suffering similar fates, due to the fact that they’re built on tons upon tons of sawdust. It’s a long, stupid story. The highlights version is this: The old parts of the city are sinking, and no one knows how low they’ll go because no one knows how much sawdust is underneath it. It’s a thrilling place to live, I tell you.
One of these days, my poor factory is either going to need serious remodeling or it’s going to get torn down—and my money’s on demolition.
But back to Trevor.
Over by the wall where the foundation is peeling away, the earth under the city is exposed and there’s a great wealth of mold, mud, moss, and general dampness. If it were warm, it’d be an absolutely God-given place to dispose of bodies
au naturel;
but since it’s cold under there, it’s not quite perfect. The process of decay takes a little longer when it’s chilly, but since it rarely freezes and there are fugitive wharf rats under the place by the score, I could safely bet that Trevor would be reduced to bones within a few weeks at most, a few days at best.
I took a box lid and broke it in two, then used one side to dig the wall away a little more. Was I unbalancing the precarious stability of the factory’s structural integrity? I doubted it. It’d remained upright this long; it could remain upright with a little less footing just a little longer.
I folded Trevor like a clean shirt and inserted him into the muddy slot like a pizza going into an oven. Then I scraped down enough dirt to cover him up good and keep the stink down.
Small feet scampered up to the edge of the stairs out in thehall. Pepper asked, “Raylene? You okay down there?” She’s such a smart kid. She said it in a normal speaking voice, not in a grade-school holler that could shatter the ears of coal miners in West Virginia.
I heard her, even through the door I’d closed between us. I didn’t holler back. I dusted my hands off on my pants and opened the door. I told her, “Yes, baby, I’m fine. Everything’s fine, and you can quit worrying. I’m just cleaning up down here, all right?”
“Okay,” she said, and it was as simple as that. She said in a whisper to Domino, “I told you she was fine. Leave her alone. She’s cleaning up.”
Her big brother kept his mouth shut for once. Both of them retreated from the edge of the stairs. I’d forgotten how they both hated the basement, but I was glad to remember it, even if
Because those people are missed, that’s why.
They’re missed promptly, and they’re missed badly, and they’re avenged by the media or the cops. And I really don’t need that kind of attention.
From Trevor’s wallet a couple slips of paper floated leaf-like onto the floor. The first one was a business card for a group professing that “anyone can learn
parcours
, and reap the benefits of high-energy, high-interest exercise that doubles as a defensive art.”
Sounded like bullshit to me.
The other piece of paper had a phone number on it, next to a scrawl that read “Major” something-or-another, and the note, “about the website.” I hung on to the note and the business card, took the money out of his wallet—because hey, why not?—and crammed it back into his pocket.
It was cold down there in the basement, and Trevor’s spilled blood was already turning black.
I listened to the kids upstairs, and this time the talk was all about how they ought to go down and see if I was all right, no because I could take care of myself (she was right, obviously) andmaybe I’d gotten hurt and that’s why it was so quiet, or maybe I’d just left and hadn’t told them, and so forth, and so on.
Over by the wall the building’s foundation is starting to drop away from the supports, which makes my building in no way unique in the city of Seattle. Many of the older structures are suffering similar fates, due to the fact that they’re built on tons upon tons of sawdust. It’s a long, stupid story. The highlights version is this: The old parts of the city are sinking, and no one knows how low they’ll go because no one knows how much sawdust is underneath it. It’s a thrilling place to live, I tell you.
One of these days, my poor factory is either going to need serious remodeling or it’s going to get torn down—and my money’s on demolition.
But back to Trevor.
Over by the wall where the foundation is peeling away, the earth under the city is exposed and there’s a great wealth of mold, mud, moss, and general dampness. If it were warm, it’d be an absolutely God-given place to dispose of bodies
au naturel;
but since it’s cold under there, it’s not quite perfect. The process of decay takes a little longer when it’s chilly, but since it rarely freezes and there are fugitive wharf rats under the place by the score, I could safely bet that Trevor would be reduced to bones within a few weeks at most, a few days at best.
I took a box lid and broke it in two, then used one side to dig the wall away a little more. Was I unbalancing the precarious stability of the factory’s structural integrity? I doubted it. It’d remained upright this long; it could remain upright with a little less footing just a little longer.
I folded Trevor like a clean shirt and inserted him into the muddy slot like a pizza going into an oven. Then I scraped down enough dirt to cover him up good and keep the stink down.
Small feet scampered up to the edge of the stairs out in thehall. Pepper asked, “Raylene? You okay down there?” She’s such a smart kid. She said it in a normal speaking voice, not in a grade-school holler that could shatter the ears of coal miners in West Virginia.
I heard her, even through the door I’d closed between us. I didn’t holler back. I dusted my hands off on my pants and opened the door. I told her, “Yes, baby, I’m fine. Everything’s fine, and you can quit worrying. I’m just cleaning up down here, all right?”
“Okay,” she said, and it was as simple as that. She said in a whisper to Domino, “I told you she was fine. Leave her alone. She’s cleaning up.”
Her big brother kept his mouth shut for once. Both of them retreated from the edge of the stairs. I’d forgotten how they both hated the basement, but I was glad to remember it, even if
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