Lawrence Sanders - The third Deadly Sin

"I have nothing to offer," she said faintly. "Less than nothing."

"Don't say that," he cried.

He sat down again at her side. He put his glass on the cocktail table. He held her bony shoulders.

"Don't say that, darling," he said tenderly. "You have all I want. You are all I want. I just don't want to live without you. Say Yes."

She stared at him, and through his clear, hopeful features saw again that sere, damned landscape, the gray smoke curling.

"All right," she said in a low voice. "Yes."

"Oh, Zoe!" he said, clasped her to him, kissed her closed eyes, her dry lips. She put her arms softly about him, felt his warmth, his aliveness.

He moved her away.

"When?" he demanded. "When?"

She smiled. "Whenever you say, dear."

"As soon as possible. The sooner the better. Listen, I've been thinking about it, planning it, and I'll tell you what I think would be best. If you don't agree, you tell me-all right? I mean, this is just my idea, and you might have some totally different idea on how we should do it, and if you do, I want you to tell me. Zoe? All right?"

"Of course, Ernie."

"Well, I thought a small, quiet wedding. Just a few close friends. Unless you want your parents here?"

"Oh no."

"And I don't want my family. Mostly because they can't afford to make the trip. Unless you want to go to Minnesota for the wedding?"

"No, let's have it here. A few close friends."

"Right," he said enthusiastically. "And the money we save, we can spend on the, uh, you know, honeymoon. Just a small ceremony. If you like, we could have a reception afterward at my place or here at your place. Or we could rent a room at a hotel or restaurant. What do you think?"

"Let's keep it small and quiet," she said. "Not make a big, expensive fuss. We could have it right here."

"Maybe we could have it catered," he said brightly. "It wouldn't cost so much. You know, just a light buffet, sandwiches maybe, and champagne. Like that."

"I think that would be plenty," she said firmly. "Keep it short and simple."

"Exactly," he said, laughing gleefully. "Short and simple. See? We're agreeing already! Oh Zoe, we're going to be so happy."

He embraced her again. She gently disengaged herself to fill their wineglasses. They tinked rims in a solemn toast.

"We've got so much to do," he said nervously. "We've got to sit down together and make out lists. You know-schedules and who to invite and the church and all. And when we should-"

"Ernie," she said, putting a palm to his hot cheek, "do you really love me?"

"I do!" he groaned, turning his face to kiss her palm. "I really do. More than anything or anyone in my life."

"And I love you," Zoe Kohler said. "You're the kindest man I've ever known. The sweetest and nicest. I want to be with you always."

"Always," he vowed. "Always together."

She brought her face close, looked deep into his eyes.

"Darling," she said softly, "do you remember when we talked about-uh-you know-going to bed together? Sex?"

"Yes. I remember."

"We agreed there had to be love and tenderness and understanding."

"Oh yes."

"Or it was just nothing. Like animals. We said that, Ernie- remember?"

"Of course. That's the way I feel."

"I know you do, dear. And I do, too. Well, if we love each other and we're going to get married, couldn't we…?"

"Oh Zoe," he said. "Oh my darling. You mean now? Tonight?"

"Why not?" she said. "Couldn't we? It's all right, isn't it?"

"Of course it's all right. It's wonderful, marvelous, just great. Because we do love each other and we're going to spend the rest of our lives together."

"You're sure?" she said. "You won't be, uh, offended?"

"How can you think that? It'll be sweet. So sweet. It'll be right."

"Oh yes," she breathed. "It will be right. I feel it. Don't you feel it, darling?"

He nodded dumbly.

"Let's go into the bedroom," she whispered. "Bring the wine. You get undressed and get into bed. I have to go into the bathroom for a few minutes, but I'll be right out."

"Is the front door locked?" he said, his voice choked.

"Darling," she said, kissing his lips. "My sweetheart. My lover."

She took her purse into the bathroom. She closed and locked the door. She undressed slowly. When she was naked, she inspected herself. She had not yet begun to bleed.

She waited a few moments, seated on the closed toilet seat. Finally she rose, opened the knife, held it in her right hand. She draped a towel across her forearm. She did not look at herself in the medicine cabinet mirror.

She unlocked the door. She peeked out. The bedside lamp was on. Ernest Mittle was lying on his back, hands clasped behind his head. The sheet was drawn up to his waist. His torso was white, hairless, shiny.

He turned his head to look toward her.

"Darling," she called with a trilly laugh, "look away. I'm embarrassed."

He smiled and rolled onto his side, away from her. She crossed the carpeted floor quickly, suddenly strong, suddenly resolute. She bent over him. The towel dropped away.

"Oh lover," she breathed.

The blade went into soft cheese. His body leaped frantically, but with her left hand and knee she pressed him down. The knife caught on something in his neck, but she sawed determinedly until it sliced through.

Out it went, the blood, in a spray, a fountain, a gush. She held him down until his threshings weakened and ceased. Then he just flowed, and she tipped the torn head over the edge of the bed to let him drain onto the rug.

She rolled him back. She pulled the sodden sheet down. She raised the knife high to complete her ritual. But her hand faltered, halted, came slowly down. She could not do it. Still, she murmured, "There, there, there," as she headed for the bathroom.

She tossed the bloodied knife aside. She inspected herself curiously. Only her hands, right arm, and left knee were stained and glittering.

She showered in hot water, lathering thickly with her imported soap. She rinsed, lathered again, rinsed again. She stepped from the tub and made no effort to wash away the pink tinge on the porcelain.

She dried thoroughly, then used her floral-scented cologne and a deodorant spray. She combed her hair quickly. She powdered neck, shoulders, armpits, the insides of her shrunken thighs.

It took her a few moments to find the Mexican wedding dress she had bought long ago and had never worn. She pulled it over her head. The crinkled cotton slid down over her naked flesh with a whisper.

The gown came to her blotched ankles, hung as loosely as a tent. But it was a creamy white, unblemished, as pure and virginal as the pinafores she had worn when she was Daddy's little girl and all her parents' friends had said she was "a real little lady."

Ernest Mittle's engagement ring twisted on her skinny finger. Working carefully, so as not to cut herself, she snipped a thin strip of Band-Aid. This she wound around and around the back part of the ring.

Then, when she worked it on, the fattened ring hung and stuck to her finger. It would never come loose.

She went into the kitchen, opened the cabinet door. In her pharmacopeia she found a full container of sleeping pills and a few left in another. She took both jars and a bottle of vodka into the bedroom. She set them carefully on the floor alongside the bed.

She checked the front door to make certain it was locked, bolted, and chained. Then she turned out all the lights in the apartment. Moving cautiously, she found her way back to the bedroom.

She sat on the edge of the bed. She took four of the pills, washed them down with a swallow of vodka. She didn't want to drink too much, remembering what had happened to Maddie Kurnitz.

Then she stripped the soaked sheet from the bed and let it fall at the foot. She got into bed alongside Ernest Mittle, wearing her oversized wedding gown and taped ring. She moved pills and vodka onto the bedside table. She took four more pills, a larger swallow of vodka.