they knew her sister was dead… oh my God, if they knew…
Ernesto sighed deeply, and nodded to Domingo.
Kate broke for the door, screaming, tripping over Domingo's immediately extended leg and foot, falling headlong across the room, twisting so she wouldn't land square on her face, her left cheek nonetheless colliding with the floor. Pain rocketed into her skull but she started to get to her feet at once, coming up like a runner, palms flat on the floor, legs behind her and ready to push off, ready to propel her toward that bedroom door and into the living room, and out the front door and down the stairs to the street, screaming all the way. But Domingo jumped on her back and knocked her to the floor again, straddling her like a rider on a fallen animal, his left hand grabbing for her long hair, twisting it in his fist, pulling back on it, head and chin rising, his right hand-the hand with the knife-coming around her body instantly and slashing swiftly across her throat.
Her eyes opened wide.
She saw blood gushing from her throat in a torrent.
A scream bubbled soundlessly in her mouth.
In an instant, she was dead.
Domingo wiped the blade of his knife on her skirt, and then ran his hand up her thigh to her panties. Ernesto watched him and said nothing. He tore the page with Anne Santoro's address and phone number from the address book, and then walked toward the bedroom door.
"Vienes?" he asked.
Domingo nodded.
5
At ten o'clock on Wednesday morning, Matthew remembered that he had to call Susan about the Father's Day weekend. He did not much feel like making this particular call. On his desk were copies of the two files he had Xeroxed at Otto Samalson's office on Monday. Matthew wanted to read those files more thoroughly than he had yesterday, when he'd only briefly glanced through them. He had asked Cynthia Huellen, the firm's factotum, not to put through any calls. But now he was about to make one. To Susan. Who, on Sunday night, had left his bedroom in a huff.
Years ago, when there were still some laughs left in their marriage, he and Susan had defined a "huff" as a "small two-wheeled carriage." A person who went off in a huff was therefore a somewhat lower-class individual who could not afford to hire or own a "high dudgeon." A high dudgeon was one of those big old expensive four-wheelers. A person who went off in "high dudgeon" was usually quite well off. A person who was in a "tizzy," however, was truly rich since a tizzy was a luxurious coach drawn by a great team of horses to a stately mansion called "Sixes and Sevens." All at Sixes and Sevens were in a tizzy save for Tempest, the youngest daughter, who was in a "teapot." A teapot was even smaller than a huff, about the size of a cart, but fitted with a striped parasol that… And so it had gone.
In the days when their marriage was still alive.
These days, their marriage was as dead as old Aunt Hattie, who had left Sixes and Sevens in a "trice," which was a flat-bedded vehicle used to transport coffins. Dead and gone. Like all things mortal. Which is why he had no burning desire to talk to Susan today. But place the call he did. Dialed the number by heart-used to be his number, after all-dialed all seven numerals, and waited. Listened to the ringing on the other end. Waited. Five… six… seven… all at Sixes and Sevens…
"Hello?"
Susan's voice.
"Susan, hi, it's Matthew."
"Matthew! I was just about to call you!"
"I wanted to discuss arrangements for the weekend," he said. Business as usual. Forget the foolish hugging and kissing on Sunday. "You do remember it's…?"
"Father's Day, yes, of course," she said. "But, Matthew, first I want to apologize for Sunday night."
"There's no need."
"I'm so ashamed, I could die."
"Well, really…"
"That's
Ernesto sighed deeply, and nodded to Domingo.
Kate broke for the door, screaming, tripping over Domingo's immediately extended leg and foot, falling headlong across the room, twisting so she wouldn't land square on her face, her left cheek nonetheless colliding with the floor. Pain rocketed into her skull but she started to get to her feet at once, coming up like a runner, palms flat on the floor, legs behind her and ready to push off, ready to propel her toward that bedroom door and into the living room, and out the front door and down the stairs to the street, screaming all the way. But Domingo jumped on her back and knocked her to the floor again, straddling her like a rider on a fallen animal, his left hand grabbing for her long hair, twisting it in his fist, pulling back on it, head and chin rising, his right hand-the hand with the knife-coming around her body instantly and slashing swiftly across her throat.
Her eyes opened wide.
She saw blood gushing from her throat in a torrent.
A scream bubbled soundlessly in her mouth.
In an instant, she was dead.
Domingo wiped the blade of his knife on her skirt, and then ran his hand up her thigh to her panties. Ernesto watched him and said nothing. He tore the page with Anne Santoro's address and phone number from the address book, and then walked toward the bedroom door.
"Vienes?" he asked.
Domingo nodded.
5
At ten o'clock on Wednesday morning, Matthew remembered that he had to call Susan about the Father's Day weekend. He did not much feel like making this particular call. On his desk were copies of the two files he had Xeroxed at Otto Samalson's office on Monday. Matthew wanted to read those files more thoroughly than he had yesterday, when he'd only briefly glanced through them. He had asked Cynthia Huellen, the firm's factotum, not to put through any calls. But now he was about to make one. To Susan. Who, on Sunday night, had left his bedroom in a huff.
Years ago, when there were still some laughs left in their marriage, he and Susan had defined a "huff" as a "small two-wheeled carriage." A person who went off in a huff was therefore a somewhat lower-class individual who could not afford to hire or own a "high dudgeon." A high dudgeon was one of those big old expensive four-wheelers. A person who went off in "high dudgeon" was usually quite well off. A person who was in a "tizzy," however, was truly rich since a tizzy was a luxurious coach drawn by a great team of horses to a stately mansion called "Sixes and Sevens." All at Sixes and Sevens were in a tizzy save for Tempest, the youngest daughter, who was in a "teapot." A teapot was even smaller than a huff, about the size of a cart, but fitted with a striped parasol that… And so it had gone.
In the days when their marriage was still alive.
These days, their marriage was as dead as old Aunt Hattie, who had left Sixes and Sevens in a "trice," which was a flat-bedded vehicle used to transport coffins. Dead and gone. Like all things mortal. Which is why he had no burning desire to talk to Susan today. But place the call he did. Dialed the number by heart-used to be his number, after all-dialed all seven numerals, and waited. Listened to the ringing on the other end. Waited. Five… six… seven… all at Sixes and Sevens…
"Hello?"
Susan's voice.
"Susan, hi, it's Matthew."
"Matthew! I was just about to call you!"
"I wanted to discuss arrangements for the weekend," he said. Business as usual. Forget the foolish hugging and kissing on Sunday. "You do remember it's…?"
"Father's Day, yes, of course," she said. "But, Matthew, first I want to apologize for Sunday night."
"There's no need."
"I'm so ashamed, I could die."
"Well, really…"
"That's
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