Bill Pronzini: Vixen

We stood looking down at what was left of Cory Beckett. One fold of the yellow robe, I noticed then, had been draped over the other, the belt untied. I could not quite bring myself to reach down and open the robe. It was Runyon, after a few seconds, who did that.

It takes a lot to shock men who have been in law enforcement as long as we have. Beckett’s incest revelation had rocked us some, but what we saw revealed now, the reason why Cory had always worn clothing that covered her to the neck, was like a body blow. Runyon was not given to emotional outbursts; his whispered “Christ!” was a measure of how affected he was. All I could do was stand there gaping in silence.

Cory Beckett, femme fatale. The incestuous relationship with her brother was one of the new and terrible twists she’d brought to the role. This was the other, and in a way it was worse, much worse.

She was tattooed.

One single massive tattoo, the entire front of her torso used as a canvas to portray a scene out of Dante’s Inferno.

In intricate detail the upthrust breasts had been turned into a pair of erupting volcanoes, the nipples so violently colored they resembled volcanic cores. And spilling down over both globes, down over her belly to meet at her shaved pubis and disappear into the hollow between her legs, was a trail of molten fire.

It was the kind of voluntary sexual mutilation that could drive some men wild with lust, make them easier to manipulate and control.

And easier to destroy.