Read Online Kiss The Girls and Make Them Die by Charles Runyon - Free Book Online
Authors: Charles Runyon
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sorry the interview was over. “You just want cases where I stepped out and left it to George?”
She gave him a long, upward-slanting look. “George?”
“I was thinking of Heirens. He used to slide out and let George do it. Whatever evil business had to be done.”
“Evil? Had
to be done?”
He felt an odd, light flutter in his stomach. “I mean in Heiren’s case it was slicing up little girls. I never felt that particular compulsion but I’ve had some beauties. You want those?”
“Just the ones which compelled you to act. Okay?” She slipped the folder under her arm and smiled. “See you tomorrow.”
Four
In the daytime the closed wards are quiet. At night the silence deepens to a congealed stillness. Spotlights shine through the honeysuckle hedge which hides the chain-link fence. Silver trapezoids hang still, unmoving. Day connects to night, and night connects to day, like dying elephants marching in a circle, pulverizing time into dust. And Daniel Bollinger, patient, white, male, age 27, stands at the window and tries to grasp some part of this endless circle, to fix his mind-body in time and space …
Evil, evil, how do we define Evil? I built an altar on the old tree stump down behind the barn, devoted to the worship of truth and beauty. Debra cut the throat of her white rabbit and stained the altar with blood. If Abraham was good when he prepared his son for sacrifice, then where is Evil?
….What do we do with it now?
he asked.
Eat it
, she said. She touched her finger to the blood which matted the fur of its neck, touched it to her tongue. Her arched lips wrinkled.
Pfagh
, she said, spitting.
Danny looked at her, then at the rabbit.
Wasted
, he said, then picked it up and threw it in the ditch, watched it bounce, flop, tumble loosely down the bank, come to rest at the bottom. He envied the way it flopped, notcaring. He slid down the bank and poked it with a stick. It didn’t care. Dead was not caring.
A breeze came through the barred window and struck his face, warm and fragrant.
Something is happening, somewhere
. Somebody is screaming, somebody is dying, their agony is carried on the night wind, the invisible wind that blows through the hospital, the dark wind that tells you the soul-snatchers are working late. Killer rays whip unseen across the ground, secret fears bubble to the surface, swell into pistules which burst and spray and infect the Un-diseased. And I, which am I, standing here in thoughts of death?
Death was part of life on the farm.
His nose led him to the spot. The sheep lay on its back, throat torn open, flies carpeting the nose and mouth. It was beginning to bloat, and Ole Brindle had already torn open its belly and dragged out the intestines. Danny picked up a stick and started beating the dog, while his throat burned and tears stung his eyes. God damn you! You fucking bastard!
Bury it
, said Debra,
so Dad won’t know
.
Squawking sound down at the chicken house, flutter of white wings sailing up into the top of the box-elder tree. Then a loud squaawk! squaawk! as Ole Brindle trotted out with a pullet in his jaws.
Dad stood on the porch, wiping chicken fat off his chin, his Sunday dinner shattered by the commotion. He turned, his eyes cold: “Get the rifle, Danny.” Eyes misted, Danny walked across the cracked linoleum. The housekeeper’s eyes were full of tears, Debra’s merely watchful. He climbed on a chair and took the rifle down from the top of the china cupboard, remembered shells, took the shells out of the drawer.
Dad opened the bolt, snick-snick, crammed in the littlebrass cartridges, closed the bolt, flicked it on safety, handed the gun to Danny. “He’s your dog.”
He walked down the path, the gravel hard under his bare feet, rifle heavy in his hand. Out behind the chicken house, Ole Brindle snuffled, snorted, stretched out flat with the chicken under his front paws. He looked up and yawned, teeth stained red, downy fluff of feathers around his
She gave him a long, upward-slanting look. “George?”
“I was thinking of Heirens. He used to slide out and let George do it. Whatever evil business had to be done.”
“Evil? Had
to be done?”
He felt an odd, light flutter in his stomach. “I mean in Heiren’s case it was slicing up little girls. I never felt that particular compulsion but I’ve had some beauties. You want those?”
“Just the ones which compelled you to act. Okay?” She slipped the folder under her arm and smiled. “See you tomorrow.”
Four
In the daytime the closed wards are quiet. At night the silence deepens to a congealed stillness. Spotlights shine through the honeysuckle hedge which hides the chain-link fence. Silver trapezoids hang still, unmoving. Day connects to night, and night connects to day, like dying elephants marching in a circle, pulverizing time into dust. And Daniel Bollinger, patient, white, male, age 27, stands at the window and tries to grasp some part of this endless circle, to fix his mind-body in time and space …
Evil, evil, how do we define Evil? I built an altar on the old tree stump down behind the barn, devoted to the worship of truth and beauty. Debra cut the throat of her white rabbit and stained the altar with blood. If Abraham was good when he prepared his son for sacrifice, then where is Evil?
….What do we do with it now?
he asked.
Eat it
, she said. She touched her finger to the blood which matted the fur of its neck, touched it to her tongue. Her arched lips wrinkled.
Pfagh
, she said, spitting.
Danny looked at her, then at the rabbit.
Wasted
, he said, then picked it up and threw it in the ditch, watched it bounce, flop, tumble loosely down the bank, come to rest at the bottom. He envied the way it flopped, notcaring. He slid down the bank and poked it with a stick. It didn’t care. Dead was not caring.
A breeze came through the barred window and struck his face, warm and fragrant.
Something is happening, somewhere
. Somebody is screaming, somebody is dying, their agony is carried on the night wind, the invisible wind that blows through the hospital, the dark wind that tells you the soul-snatchers are working late. Killer rays whip unseen across the ground, secret fears bubble to the surface, swell into pistules which burst and spray and infect the Un-diseased. And I, which am I, standing here in thoughts of death?
Death was part of life on the farm.
His nose led him to the spot. The sheep lay on its back, throat torn open, flies carpeting the nose and mouth. It was beginning to bloat, and Ole Brindle had already torn open its belly and dragged out the intestines. Danny picked up a stick and started beating the dog, while his throat burned and tears stung his eyes. God damn you! You fucking bastard!
Bury it
, said Debra,
so Dad won’t know
.
Squawking sound down at the chicken house, flutter of white wings sailing up into the top of the box-elder tree. Then a loud squaawk! squaawk! as Ole Brindle trotted out with a pullet in his jaws.
Dad stood on the porch, wiping chicken fat off his chin, his Sunday dinner shattered by the commotion. He turned, his eyes cold: “Get the rifle, Danny.” Eyes misted, Danny walked across the cracked linoleum. The housekeeper’s eyes were full of tears, Debra’s merely watchful. He climbed on a chair and took the rifle down from the top of the china cupboard, remembered shells, took the shells out of the drawer.
Dad opened the bolt, snick-snick, crammed in the littlebrass cartridges, closed the bolt, flicked it on safety, handed the gun to Danny. “He’s your dog.”
He walked down the path, the gravel hard under his bare feet, rifle heavy in his hand. Out behind the chicken house, Ole Brindle snuffled, snorted, stretched out flat with the chicken under his front paws. He looked up and yawned, teeth stained red, downy fluff of feathers around his
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