continue to give him trouble and the lighter didn’t work
.
The day had been very bad in one way. And very good in another.
It had been a long time, he thought. A real long time indeed.
Not since Jimmy whatsisname. Over on Livingston Avenue
.
They’d been playing in the apple orchard, a bunch of them he recognized from school. What was it, third grade? Right. They’d been playing soldier, using the little green apples fallen from the trees for grenades, tossing them and falling flat into the tall grass, hiding, crawling toward one another like troops in combat. Nobody had heard him approach and nobody had seen him. And at first nobody knew that the rocks he was throwing were not just the same little green apples they all were using. Not until one of them hit Jimmy in the head and he went down bleeding.
And died in a coma. They never knew that he was the one throwing the rocks and he never told them.He was good at secrets. And there was no point in them knowing anyway because Jimmy was dead.
And now there was no good reason for them knowing about Marion either because Marion was dead too, the victim of a prowler who in the early-morning hours had strangled her with the cord of her hair dryer and had then stolen her stereo and CD player, her television and jewelry—all of it smashed and scattered in a dump outside of Hartford, Connecticut.
Again, nobody had seen him.
Her cleaning lady had been there the day before and she was very thorough so he had no particular worry about fingerprints. He knew the routine. He’d wiped off everything he touched. He had a very good memory for incidentals.
And they’d kept their affair quite secret.
Marion had insisted on it. A matter of office decorum.
He had done it very calmly. Not so much out of anger as because she had deserved to die for feeling free to so easily betray him. And because he
wanted
to.
She was fat and her breasts were long and ugly and he wanted to.
That was the good part of the day and it was very good indeed.
There had been no slipups, he was sure of that. No police would be knocking at his door. He had gone to work in the usual way with the television and jewelry and all the rest of it in the trunk of his car and accomplished much, and only became agitated when Claire’s lawyer served him the papers, right there in full view of most of the staff
.
It was completely normal, unremarkable behavior. You were being divorced, you got agitated.
No one would suspect him of a thing.
He wondered if they’d found her yet.
He’d been careful to rape the body afterward, just for authenticity’s sake. He’d been surprised, actually, at the size of his hardon. Better than she’d managed to do for him in life as far as he could remember. But it was really the one-two-three punch he was after.
Assault, theft, rape
. You saw it every day. The police would be looking for a thief with priors of sexual offense and they wouldn’t tend to look much further.
“So what do you think?” he said.
“About what?”
“About driving with me.”
The girl’s voice had gotten smaller, even breathier. He liked that. It meant she respected him.
Claire’s voice was deep, almost masculine.
He was going to see Claire. He was going to have to talk to her
.
“I’m visiting my wife and son, if that’s your problem. I’m a married man. Look.”
He showed her the ring.
“I . . . I’ve got to get to Portland. I’m expected, you know?”
“When?”
“In . . . in about an hour.”
The girl was lying. She was hitching. The time would depend on the rides. They wouldn’t know when to expect her.
He drank from the bottle.
“So you don’t want to go with me? You won’t do me a favor?”
“I can’t.”
“Sure you can. You just don’t
want
to. Might as well say it. Go ahead. Tell me you just don’t want to.”
“I . . .”
“Say, ‘I just don’t want to.’ “
“I . . .”
She was scared now. Really scared. The girl was shitting her pants over
.
The day had been very bad in one way. And very good in another.
It had been a long time, he thought. A real long time indeed.
Not since Jimmy whatsisname. Over on Livingston Avenue
.
They’d been playing in the apple orchard, a bunch of them he recognized from school. What was it, third grade? Right. They’d been playing soldier, using the little green apples fallen from the trees for grenades, tossing them and falling flat into the tall grass, hiding, crawling toward one another like troops in combat. Nobody had heard him approach and nobody had seen him. And at first nobody knew that the rocks he was throwing were not just the same little green apples they all were using. Not until one of them hit Jimmy in the head and he went down bleeding.
And died in a coma. They never knew that he was the one throwing the rocks and he never told them.He was good at secrets. And there was no point in them knowing anyway because Jimmy was dead.
And now there was no good reason for them knowing about Marion either because Marion was dead too, the victim of a prowler who in the early-morning hours had strangled her with the cord of her hair dryer and had then stolen her stereo and CD player, her television and jewelry—all of it smashed and scattered in a dump outside of Hartford, Connecticut.
Again, nobody had seen him.
Her cleaning lady had been there the day before and she was very thorough so he had no particular worry about fingerprints. He knew the routine. He’d wiped off everything he touched. He had a very good memory for incidentals.
And they’d kept their affair quite secret.
Marion had insisted on it. A matter of office decorum.
He had done it very calmly. Not so much out of anger as because she had deserved to die for feeling free to so easily betray him. And because he
wanted
to.
She was fat and her breasts were long and ugly and he wanted to.
That was the good part of the day and it was very good indeed.
There had been no slipups, he was sure of that. No police would be knocking at his door. He had gone to work in the usual way with the television and jewelry and all the rest of it in the trunk of his car and accomplished much, and only became agitated when Claire’s lawyer served him the papers, right there in full view of most of the staff
.
It was completely normal, unremarkable behavior. You were being divorced, you got agitated.
No one would suspect him of a thing.
He wondered if they’d found her yet.
He’d been careful to rape the body afterward, just for authenticity’s sake. He’d been surprised, actually, at the size of his hardon. Better than she’d managed to do for him in life as far as he could remember. But it was really the one-two-three punch he was after.
Assault, theft, rape
. You saw it every day. The police would be looking for a thief with priors of sexual offense and they wouldn’t tend to look much further.
“So what do you think?” he said.
“About what?”
“About driving with me.”
The girl’s voice had gotten smaller, even breathier. He liked that. It meant she respected him.
Claire’s voice was deep, almost masculine.
He was going to see Claire. He was going to have to talk to her
.
“I’m visiting my wife and son, if that’s your problem. I’m a married man. Look.”
He showed her the ring.
“I . . . I’ve got to get to Portland. I’m expected, you know?”
“When?”
“In . . . in about an hour.”
The girl was lying. She was hitching. The time would depend on the rides. They wouldn’t know when to expect her.
He drank from the bottle.
“So you don’t want to go with me? You won’t do me a favor?”
“I can’t.”
“Sure you can. You just don’t
want
to. Might as well say it. Go ahead. Tell me you just don’t want to.”
“I . . .”
“Say, ‘I just don’t want to.’ “
“I . . .”
She was scared now. Really scared. The girl was shitting her pants over
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