Angel Colón - No Happy Endings

He probably should have skipped that third drink, the double, but he couldn’t bring himself to think of what he had to do with just two in him. The last one got him feeling sorry for himself, how that bitch Marian was ruining his life and what he had to do tonight would be the first step toward setting things right. Not equating it to killing Carol Cropcho, he kept it an abstract concept, like all those discussions at Tease. As much booze as he had in him, it was more or less an abstract concept, though he felt dead sober now. He adjusted the balaclava, tucked the long sleeve tee into his gloves. The breeze died and took all sound with it except the porch creaking as he walked to the door. Put the key in the lock, rested his hand there and closed his eyes. Leave now and no one would ever know. No going back once the door was open. He thought of what he’d tell Marty, what it would be like to face him, try to explain why Carol was alive. Then he turned the key and pushed.

The beeping of the alarm sounded like an air raid siren. He reached for the panel on the wall to his left. Fat fingered the code twice, got it right the third time. Stared at the wall until his heart worked its way out of his throat. Stepped across the vestibule to the stairs. Looked up and saw Carol Cropcho standing at the top looking down at him.

A powder blue nightshirt hung below her knees. Auburn hair to her shoulders in the twenty-first century version of a shag, rumpled from the bed. Her breasts filled the nightshirt as she breathed, nipples visible though the material in the cool house. Neither moved for three seconds that lasted a week. Gawked at each other like two cartoon characters who’d walked off a cliff, waiting to fall. For a nanosecond Tom’s mind considered stepping back out the door and pretending it never happened.

Carol turned and ran into the bedroom. Three words ran through Tom’s mind: Nine. One. One.

He took the stairs two at a time, saw her in the bedroom to the right crawling across the bed to get at the phone. Dove onto the bed, wrapped his arms around her as his momentum pushed them off the other side. The phone glanced off his head. She screamed and rolled away when they landed unevenly on the floor. Reached for the phone and he swatted it under the bed. Carol screamed again.

Carol got to her feet and backed to the wall nearest the bathroom. Hands hooked near her face, eyes locked on Tom. Screaming, not hysterical. Screaming with a purpose. For someone to hear. To get help. Tom thought of how quiet the neighborhood was. How close the other houses were.

Someone would hear.

He stepped up, put his hands on her throat to stop her. Carol scratched for his face and missed, snagged his collar. Twisted her head away. He got one hand on her neck, felt the cartilage under his thumb as he pulled her back toward the bedroom. Her nails raked across his eyes and he let go to swat them away.

She stepped aside and ran for the bathroom. He grabbed for her, snared an ankle to trip her onto the tile floor. Carol rolled onto her back as he crawled on top of her. Used her heels to kick his shoulders, then his stomach. Not a small woman, in good shape. The kicks hurt. He fell off her and backed away on his knees to catch his breath.

She made too much noise and he moved his head aside in time for her to miss with the scissors. She tried to bounce off the bed and face him, but he lowered a shoulder into her and drove her back. Took the scissors and threw them away without thinking they’d work as a weapon for him, too. Carol slapped his face hard when he shifted position to take her arms. He caught her wrist before the second slap and realized how strong she was. A knee missed his groin, connected higher, knocked some wind out of him. He raised up to catch his breath and she scratched his face hard enough to draw blood. He tried to pin her arms and she drew up her knees to beat him to the leverage, kicked out hard. He lost the grip and she went after his face again. Tears blinded him when a nail caught a corner of his left eye and it occurred to him he could lose this fight he never expected to have. Nervousness passed through fear into terror.

Adrenaline cleared his mind. He forced his hands inside her thighs to spread them. Leaned in to press her onto the bed. Positioned himself between her legs, letting his weight hold her down, and drove her arms into the mattress. Desperation gave him the speed to get one hand around her throat, then the other. Rose up so he could press straight down and use his size to keep her hands off his face. Pressed his thighs into the backs of her knees to stifle her movements. Carol writhed against him, her mound pressing against his groin made him hard. She got her knees loose and kicked at his back with her heels like spurring a horse. He ignored the pain in his kidneys, watched her face start to change color. The kicks and thrusts got weaker. Slower. He pressed down harder. Her eyes rolled up. The kicks stopped. Then the punches. Carol’s arms and legs fell away. Then she was still and he relaxed.

Tom stood and tasted the salt of his tears and blood on his lips. Carol’s nightshirt had ridden up to expose her trimmed pubic hair. He became aware of his arousal and fought back a throat full of bile. He had to get out, he’d been there too long already, but he needed some jewelry and cash first. To make it look good.

He trashed the jewel boxes and knick-knacks on the dressers and nightstands. Pieces of colored, shaped glass that bounced when they hit the floor, too heavy to break. Dumped the contents of the drawers. He knew there was nothing here but paste, the real jewels in the walk-in closet. Marty told him what to take, made him write it down so he’d get the right stuff, look like a knowledgeable thief. Threw around shoes, clothes, hat boxes, anything to make a mess. Stuffed jewelry into a Crown Royal bag, then stood with a handful of cash to catch his breath and be sure he hadn’t forgotten anything.

The television seemed louder than before in the unnatural quiet. Some movie on HBO from the language. He listened to it for a minute, hearing only the voices, not what they said, the sound muffled by the weight of the house’s sudden stillness. Tom felt his heart beating in his chest and ears, wondered if he could hear it if he tried. Stood perfectly still to listen and what he heard was a sound like a person coming up from a long time under water, and movement.

From inside the house.

His watch read 10:23. Marty wasn’t due until midnight and he wouldn’t come back early tonight of all nights. Someone must have heard. Did they come over, or call the police? The police would have knocked, rung the doorbell, something. They wouldn’t just come in. And they wouldn’t come sneaking around. They’d announce themselves. He’d watched ten thousand cop shows. “Police! Is anyone home?” They’d do that, right?

Time to go. He pulled shut the bag full of jewels. Left the cash. Too bulky. All he wanted now was out. He stepped back into the bedroom and heard what sounded like sobs and saw Carol Cropcho wasn’t on the bed.

Oh. Fuck. Me.

He heard her crying on the floor the other side of the mattress. He dropped the bag and fell to his knees to look under the bed. Her hand swept back and forth reaching for the phone. He got to it first. Carol screamed, “ No!” loud and long and broke into sobbing as he threw it against the wall.

Tom rose and came around the foot of the bed. Carol screamed, hysterical now, gibberish coming out, too frantic to form words. She threw whatever she could reach. A baseball-sized glass sculpture he’d dumped onto the floor hit his shoulder like a rock. The next one would have dented his temple if he hadn’t got his hands up. He turned the corner of the bed. Saw the bruises on her throat and the panic in her eyes as she scrabbled around the floor for something else to throw. He picked up an oblong piece of the same type she’d been throwing by the narrow end and drove it into the side of Carol’s head. The first one put her down. The second probably finished the job, but he didn’t stop until bits of blood and brain spattered onto his gloves and cheeks. He stopped and his eyes eased into focus. The left side of Carol’s face and head were completely stove in, hard to tell where hair stopped and gore started.