Wicked Little Words Part 8

"Keep your voice down, you jacka.s.s." I roll my eyes as I pa.s.s through the doorway, the door itself hanging by one hinge. "It's been way too long of a day for that s.h.i.t."

"Just speaking the truth, man. You'll see. She's like a human jigsaw puzzle." He laughs and slaps the back of his hand against my arm. "Like human Tetris." He laughs.

"f.u.c.k off, man," I say, pulling away from him just as we come up on the body.

He wasn't lying. Not one f.u.c.king bit. There are two loaded up trash bags, each with shredded holes torn in the side. A trail of blood is smeared from the bags and tracked out into the hallway. Congealed fat, yellow and pungent, protrudes from the openings, along with bits of mangled, b.l.o.o.d.y flesh. I make out a hand too, purplish-blue fingers poking out from beneath the sludgy mess.

I step back, taking a much needed breath of fresh air from the other room, then go back in. Tommy stands in the corner of the room with two medical examiners, a stupid toothy smile on his face. I approach one of the bags and crouch, making sure to breathe only through my mouth, though I worry about what particles I'm picking up that way too. The thought turns my stomach. I pull a pen from my pocket and use the end of it to tug the bag open wider.

I wish I hadn't. The mostly untarnished face of a young brunette stares back at me. Her dead eyes bulge a bit from her head, skin and veins mushrooming from her severed neck, but otherwise, she looks like she probably had before all this happened to her... with a little rigor mortis added in the mix.

And she looks like my sister.

From the dark curls matted to her head with blood, to the blue-gray tint of her eyes, she's a spitting image of Joanna. And it reminds me of that day two years ago, when I found my sister in three pieces in a house not far from here. She had the same knifed-out Xs on her b.r.e.a.s.t.s that I'm sure to find on this young lady, just as I've found on many of the other victims along the way.

I close my eyes, my pulse quickening. My stomach lurches. My thoughts are owned by my sister, back when she was still that smiling, carefree girl, back before the drugs dried up all the life in her. When this monster got to her, she was just a sh.e.l.l of who she once was, but it hurt all the same.

If my parents were still alive, I would've surely gotten the blame somehow. You should've been there! Aren't you a cop?

It doesn't matter. I put the blame on myself anyway. I heap it onto my shoulders right along with the PTSD and alcoholism, along with the failed relationships and the thousands of little lies I've told myself over the years-and the ones I still do.

I stand abruptly, so quick a rush of blood leaves my brain and makes me stumble.

"Partner, you okay?" Tommy asks, putting a hand on my elbow to stabilize me.

"Y-yeah, I-I'm good." I look at him through clouded vision, blinking in an attempt to clear it. "You mind wrapping this up, Tommy? I've seen enough for today."

He gives me two good pats on the back as he leads me out of the room. "I got you, buddy. You definitely ain't looking so good."

"I'm all right. Just haven't eaten today yet." We reach the door, and I turn to face him. "I'm gonna go grab a bite and take some time to myself. You sure you're all right wrapping this up?"

"Too easy, partner. Too easy. Take your time. I'll start the paperwork on this s.h.i.t." He jabs a thumb back toward the garbage bags now being carefully emptied by the examiners, their contents sorted out on a tarp.

"Thanks." I turn and head out the door, pulling a pack of cigarettes from my pocket, a pack I've held on to for when I catch my sister's killer, but right about now, I just don't f.u.c.king care. I need it.

I take off the cellophane wrapping, shake out a cigarette, and light it, taking the smoke deep into my lungs as a fall breeze whips past me. I let the smoke dance out of my lungs with a pleasing sigh. Six months I've held on to this pack. Six months since I had my last cigarette. The cigarette's staleness does nothing to override the complete satisfaction I feel as a buzz carries through my body.

It's funny how the first day I smoke a cigarette in six months is the same day I attend church for the first time in ten years. G.o.d and I, we have a unique relationship. A little bit of love and a whole lot of hate... on my side only, of course. It's not that I blame him for my woes, because I don't. I just wonder sometimes why I couldn't have had it just a little bit different. Just a little bit better.

I couldn't help but to walk in as I was pa.s.sing by, the preacher's voice carrying from the church. Calling to me. Before I knew what I was doing, my a.s.s was in this pew, my cold heart despising every second of it.

I've always been a good man. I've always put others first. Yet since the day I was f.u.c.king born, I've been s.h.i.t on. There comes a time when you stop blaming yourself, and guess what? The blame's gotta go somewhere. I'm a G.o.d-fearing man, I always will be, so any blasphemous outbursts could be counted on one hand. But in my head, I'm cursing him all day long. Not so much for myself, but mostly for my sister, who truly was a happy girl.

She loved life, and there were a lot of times I was envious of her complete lack of self-pity.

Then the drugs found her, then prost.i.tution, and then she was gone. I was left to sweep up the sc.r.a.ps of my life, to view the vast wasteland around me where my family should've been.

My hands rest on top of the pew in front of me, and I settle my head onto my arms. I feel as if an invisible hand is gripping my heart and pulling it slowly up through my throat. I can feel the force of my faith tearing a hole through me, along with all my doubts, insecurities, and fear.

"If you'll read along with me in Corinthians 1:27 and 28," the preacher says in his best infomercial delivery. "'G.o.d has chosen the world's insignificant and despised things-the things viewed as nothing-so He might bring to nothing the things that are viewed as something.'" He sets his Bible on the podium and scans the pews before him. "G.o.d does not choose the wise. He chooses the wicked and weary. He chooses those who are looked down upon, turned away, disregarded."

I slide down the pew and quietly stand. Having had more than enough, I shuffle down the aisle as the preacher continues.

"And He chooses them to do His work. To spread His message and His love. Through him, all things are possible."

I give one last pa.s.sing glance to the crucified Jesus hanging above the door before I exit the church, heading first to A-1 liquor, then I go back to the department, back to the bloodshed, back to the looked down upon, the turned away... the disregarded who make up my homicide reports.

"Possum Kingdom"-The Toadies Ever since dinner the other night, Edwin has been-well, not very Edwin.

This morning, he's been overly nice: pulling out my chair every time I sit to write, making me coffee, and he hasn't mentioned the word "fate" a hundred times. To be honest, had I not spent time with him prior to today, I would probably think he's a charmer, but this is such a drastic change it's nothing less than unnerving.

Constantly staring at me, he's always trying to make eye contact, and I can't stomach it because those eyes of his, they're-I wouldn't call them demonic. No, they're dead. Empty. Absolute voids of nothingness. And the way he watches me with that slight smirk... it's as though he's sizing me up, trying to determine how he can go about using me only to destroy me. Maybe I'm paranoid or losing touch with reality. I am wired to jump to the most morbid of conclusions. I mean, James in the bookstore-I was convinced he wanted to kill me at one point.

I pace the length of my bedroom, trying to sort this out because I can't concentrate enough to write a single sentence with this pile of s.h.i.t buzzing around in my head. Just because the man is being nice-and comes across creepy as h.e.l.l while doing so-it doesn't mean anything. It doesn't.

I've spent the better half of the afternoon avoiding him, trying to convince myself that I've just let my overactive imagination run wild with me. Telling myself I only feel so uneasy being alone in this cabin with him because I don't allow myself to ever trust anyone-that I'm the one with a problem, not him. But this knot in my stomach, the way my hair stands on end when he subtly brushes his hand along the small of my back in pa.s.sing, I don't know how much longer I can ignore that. Gut instinct is there for a reason-a deep, ingrained survival instinct that is probably not wise to ignore for as long as I have. I just need to get out of this d.a.m.n cabin. Clear my head. Escape... stop it, Miranda!

Taking a deep breath, I open the door to my room and head down the hallway toward the kitchen. The stereo's blaring in the living room. Edwin's in the kitchen singing along to The Toadie's "Possum Kingdom," and-I swear-he gets louder every time the word "die" comes around in the chorus.

I turn the corner, only one foot across the threshold of the kitchen, and I find Edwin leaning over the counter. His white ap.r.o.n is splattered with blood, a huge, wet stain to the right of the smiling cartoon lobster printed over the middle. A carving knife is clutched in his right hand. Shocked, I grab the wall to steady myself, a small gasp leaving my lips.

He's still bent over the counter when he slowly turns his head to look at me. A sly grin inches across his mouth as he straightens up a touch, takes the knife, and places it over a chunk of blood-soaked meat. "You sure do startle easily." He glances back at the mess on the counter. "It's just a fresh kill." There's a long pause. The grin on his face deepens-I think, or maybe I imagine it. "Venison has the highest level of iron out of all meats, you know?"

My heart sits in my throat. With each hard pound, my vision pulses. My mouth has gone dry, and I swallow before I clear my throat. "Is that so?"

He arches his brow and nods as he works at cutting a filet, which he drops on the counter. The wet, slapping sound makes my stomach lurch.

"Did you need something?" he asks.

"Uh..." Another quick swallow. "No, I just, um..." My gaze darts to the phone on the wall beside him. "I was just gonna call Janine."

He stops cutting the meat and glances back at me, his empty eyes boring into me.

"Just, uh..." I stall. My breathing grows ragged. Uneven. Think, Miranda. f.u.c.king think. "I just need some stuff from the market. I'm out of, um... out of toiletries and stuff like that. Want me to pick you up anything?"

One side of his mouth kicks up. "No, dear." His eyes slowly drag down my body, and chill b.u.mps sweep across my skin. "Don't need anything from the market." And he goes back to hacking away at the meat, singing along to the song.

Nodding, I scoot behind him, my nerves on edge. I take the receiver from the wall and quickly jab Janine's number into the keypad. Adrenaline is pumping through my body, and my senses are heightened. I guess that's why I can literally hear the shredding sound of that knife tearing through the meat. For a fleeting moment, while the phone is ringing, my mind gets away from me. All I can see is Edwin in his d.a.m.n ap.r.o.n, going at me with that knife as his dead eyes stare into mine. I imagine he'd be shouting for me to look at him. Angry. Filled with rage- "h.e.l.lo?" Janine's voice is a welcome distraction from my thoughts.

"Hey, Janine. Would you be able to take me into town for a few? I, uh, I need some stuff from the market and maybe some Starbucks or dinner or something." That feeling that someone is staring at you washes over me, and I cut my eyes to the side to find Edwin watching me, twirling that d.a.m.n carving knife.

"Absolutely, honey. Give me half an hour to get washed up, and I'll head that way."

"Okay. Thanks."

I hang up the phone and turn around just as Edwin tosses his head back and holds up a piece of raw meat, dangling it between his thick fingers. He opens his mouth. The chunk of meat falls inside, and a satisfied groan rumbles from his throat. Dropping his chin, his eyes lock with mine as he chews then makes an exaggerated swallow. One brow arches as he sticks his fingers in his mouth-one by one-to lick the blood from them.

"Jesus... Jesus..." he sings along with the song, and the blood drains from my head down to my toes, that weightless feeling nearly knocking me to the floor.

"So I'll be back later. We may have dinner in town, and I'll just, uh..." I skirt around him, and he turns, following my every move like a f.u.c.king predator stalking prey. "I just need to decompress. Can we pick up on writing tomorrow? I mean, if that's okay with you?"

I'm to the doorway by the time he answers. "Anything you want, my dear Miranda, is more than fine with me."

"Thanks," I blurt as I make my way through the living room and down the hall.

I gently close the door to my room, locking it before I take a deep breath. Anything can seem creepy as f.u.c.k if you make it. Anything can seem like a scene out of a book if you want it to. But that-that little encounter-was too much like the stories I've fallen in love with.

I grab my purse from the dresser, stopping to stare at my reflection. All the color has washed from my face. My eyes are wide with fear, my chest rising in uneven swells. It's only fiction. Just words. Only words...

I stare at the bottles of shampoo in a daze, replaying the sight of Edwin and that piece of raw meat in my head. A woman in an oversized T-shirt reaches in front of me for some shampoo, and that snaps me back to reality for the moment.

"Honey, it's not that hard of a decision." Janine grabs a pink bottle, pops the top, and inhales, her eyes fluttering back in her head. "I go by smell and smell alone. With my shampoo and my men." She laughs and places the shampoo back on the shelf then grabs another bottle. "Oh, or you can go by the name. 'Big s.e.xy Hair.'" She smiles. "Anything with s.e.x in the name sells me." She tosses the bottle into the shopping cart. "There you go. All done. We can leave now."

Using her hip, Janine nudges her way between the cart and me and starts down the aisle toward the checkout. I grab the buggy, pushing it beside her, watching men eye us as we pa.s.s by. Janine pulls off the professional workingwoman thing when she wants to, but she does so with a touch of s.e.xuality. Her blouse is always undone one b.u.t.ton too low. Her pencil skirts are tight, clinging to curves most women would die for. And she has that f.u.c.k-me glance down.

We stop at checkout line nine. Janine snaps her fingers. The bag boy runs around the counter, immediately unloading the items from the buggy onto the conveyor belt, a huge smile plastered over his face as he stares at me. Why me instead of Janine, I have no idea...

"So you just wanted out of that cabin, didn't you, honey?" A knowing smile crosses her face, and she shrugs. "Has he been an a.s.shole again?"

"Uh, no. Actually, he's been nice, like overly nice."

Her brows knit together. "Nice? EA... nice?"

I nod, my gaze drifting off to the rack of tabloids. There's a moment of silence, with the exception of the constant beep from the cashier scanning the groceries.

"Huh," Janine says, placing her hand on her hip and turning around to face me. I glance at her, and she's giving me a once-over, a slight grin creeping over her red lips. "Well, EA, maybe you aren't as.e.xual after all." She chuckles before spinning back around.

I push the cart to the end of the line. "What?" I take my wallet from my purse and hand the cashier my debit card.

"I thought he was one of those guys who just didn't have s.e.x or, you know, maybe just was happy using his hand, a bottle of Vaseline Intensive Care, and a sock."

"Oh, G.o.d, Janine..."

The cashier's eyes widen. She glances between Janine and me as she hands me the receipt.

"Wonder what kind of p.o.r.n that one's into."

"I don't want to know. I don't need to know." I shake my head.

The bag boy takes charge of the shopping cart. Janine and I follow him out of the automatic doors to the parking lot. The sun is just beginning to lower in the gray autumn sky, and the chill in the air makes my skin p.r.i.c.kle.

"Look at you." Janine elbows me in the side just before we stop behind the trunk of her car. "Catching the eye of Mr. Happy himself." She giggles so hard she snorts. "I mean, he may be an a.s.shole, but he is a good-looking man. Can't deny that. And the quiet ones are always the ones that'll pull your hair and give you a good choking."

"There's no way in h.e.l.l-"

"Oh, come on."

"s.h.i.t, Janine. Have you slept him or something?"

"I mean, I won't say it didn't cross my mind a time or two after a bottle of vodka." A snarl slowly forms over her lips. "Debated it heavily one time. I blame tequila for that one, but I don't s.h.i.t where I eat, you know? That causes way too much of a mess." She shrugs. "You? You write this book with him, and you don't have to ever see him again. You could f.u.c.k him the last night you're there. Tell me if it's any good then go on your merry way knowing you got piped down by a New York Times best seller. I mean, it's just s.e.x, you know? And if it's good s.e.x..."

"Yeah, I'll pa.s.s," I mumble, staring at her. I'm amazed at how blunt she is, but I'm more confused by the fact that she's trying to talk me into sleeping with the creeper.

The bag boy finishes unloading the groceries then slams the trunk. "You okay, ma'am? Need any more help?"

I shake my head, hand him a ten, and he leaves with a smile.

"I don't feel like driving. I've got a headache from h.e.l.l that only alcohol can cure." Janine moans and tosses me her keys. "Do you mind?"

Shaking my head, I climb into the car and crank the engine.

Janine slams the pa.s.senger side door and gently squeezes my thigh, a deadpan look on her face. "Tell me, are you as.e.xual, honey?"

"What?"

"I mean, you've been up here for a few weeks. EA's got a hard-on for you, and you aren't interested. Then that s.e.x-on-legs in the bar-Pax, Jax, whatever the h.e.l.l his name was-was it Jax?"

I nod.

"Well," she says with a snort, "you couldn't have seemed more disinterested."

I shake my head. "What? I don't know how I could've been more obvious." I think back to the blatant way I was staring at him, and my cheeks grow warm with embarra.s.sment.

"Really? Oh, honey." She pats my face. "Going all googly-eyed at a man? Is that the best you got?" She sighs as I put the car in reverse. "You authors are such a weird breed. You'd think with overactive imaginations like you people have to have that you'd be able to woo the robe off a Tibetan monk." She sighs. "Jesus, I could only imagine how awkward an actual relationship between two socially challenged authors like you and EA would be." She shudders a little.

"You know, I feel like I should be offended by that."

"Probably," she laughs. "You said EA had been nice. Why don't you tell me what EA has done that qualifies as 'nice,' because I am really intrigued to see what his wooing abilities are like."

"He's not trying to woo me." I swallow.

"Uh-huh, because men aren't always thinking about s.e.x? Let's see... EA... I'd imagine maybe he'd give you a little wax figurine of a woman in a coffin or a book made out of his own skin or perhaps just something simple like a notebook full of criticisms."

I force a laugh. "No, he's just... I don't know. He took me to dinner, and he's been pulling out chairs and giving me these little touches-like brushing his hand over my arm when he likes a line I write. He's just touchy and stares at me with this really weird look..." The traffic light turns red, and I brake, staring out at the strip mall busy with people spending their money.

"Aw, EA's in love." She tosses her head back, laughing as she slams her palm on the dashboard. "Bless him."

Obviously this seems funny to her, but the more I replay the way his dead eyes will lock on me from across the room, the more my stomach knots. I panic a little. "Janine, I'm serious. There's something weird about him."

"Oh, there surely is."

"It makes me uncomfortable."

She glances at me, her smile fading. "He can do that. When I first started working with him, every once in a while, he'd give me the heebie-jeebies. He's just... difficult-complicated. Antisocial and awkward. But it's not like he'd ever force himself on you or anything. He's a good guy deep down inside. Just a bit of a weirdo, you know?"

"He ate raw deer meat today while staring at me."

A scowl forms on her face. "Yeah, well, that's just gross."