Paul Cleave - The Cleaner

“How did it feel?” she asks.

“You ought to know.”

She turns to me and smiles. “That’s true, Joe. You know, sometimes I feel as though we have something special between us.”

“Blackmail?”

“No.”

“We’re both killers?”

She shakes her head. “No, not that either.”

“What then?”

“I think it’s our love of life.”

“Poetic.”

“If you insist.”

I haven’t insisted on anything. “So how did it feel for you, Melissa?”

“How did what feel?”

“Killing.”

“I’ve done it before.”

“You’re kidding me.”

“Only a couple of times. Nothing as fun as the other night, though.”

I have to agree. “They are kind of fun, aren’t they?”

“See? We’re sharing. We aren’t so unalike, Joe.” She begins rubbing her free hand over the bed, as if she’s trying to feel the death that took place here, trying to soak it up into the pores of her skin.

“I think we’re more similar than you really know.”

Hand still on the bed, she turns to face me. The gun is still pointed in my direction. “And how’s that?”

“Because I also find you lie-worthy.”

She straightens up, glances at the briefcase.

I nod toward it. “Go on, open it.”

Keeping the gun on me, she reaches over and snaps the left clip, then the right. Looking back to me, she opens the lid, then turns to look inside.

“What the hell are you up to, Joe? Where’s my money?”

“You’re not getting any money, Melissa.” She looks genuinely surprised. It seems she never thought I wouldn’t actually pay her. “If that’s the way you want to play it, then I’m going directly to the police.”

“Oh? And how are you going to explain your involvement?”

“I won’t need to.”

“Think again, bitch.” I nod toward the bathroom.

“You got a video camera set up, Joe? Come on, don’t be so childish. I’ll just take the tape with me now. Then I’m going to shoot you in the balls. Oh, what I mean is ball. ”

“What I have is even better than a video camera. Why don’t you check it out?”

She moves toward the bathroom door, keeping the gun pointing ahead of her. When she reaches it, she opens it slowly. She peers inside, then laughs. Maybe she thinks I’ve bought her the ultimate gift.

“A cop? You’re going to kill a cop?” she asks.

“I’m not going to kill him. He’s too valuable for that.”

Behind her, I can see Calhoun’s eyes wide open in surprise at seeing Melissa. He recognizes her from the station. His eyes dart from left to right, deciding which of us is more dangerous. This is the woman who gave him a description of the killer. This is the woman who has me at gunpoint, yet I’m the man who knocked him out and tied him up. What in the hell, he’s wondering, is going on? And when will he be getting his money?

I can also see the thoughts going through Melissa’s mind. She likes collecting police things, and she’s wondering if she can collect this guy. She’s measuring him up to see if she has room for him in her house. Perhaps the corner of the living room, or next to the fridge.

“I don’t understand what you’re playing at, Joe,” she says.

“He’s my witness to what you really are.”

“Oh? And what do you have on him?”

“Enough.”

She looks around the room. It’s obvious that she hates losing. Slowly she begins shaking her head. I can hear her teeth grinding. She looks angry. “You’re forgetting one thing, Joe.”

“And what’s that?”

“I don’t need him.”

Before I can react, she grabs a knife from my briefcase and runs into the bathroom. She stands behind Calhoun and his eyes widen in fear because he knows as well as I do what’s about to happen. The chair jerks beneath him as he tries to pull away, but it’s no good. She holds the knife to his throat and watches my eyes. I look from the eyes of the detective, who has just become as still as stone, to the eyes of the woman behind him. Hers reflect amusement, a sense of enjoyment. Not for what she’s about to do to the cop, but what she’s about to do to my witness. I’ve hardly taken a step, but now I don’t dare move any closer.

“Think about this, Melissa,” I say, my words almost flustered. I put my hands ahead of me, palms outward. “Think about what you’re doing.”

Calhoun is pleading with his eyes, and as Melissa takes the knife away from his throat, his pleading moves to relief-then to horror as he sees the knife plunge back into sight on the way toward his chest. His eyes sparkle with fear, then all the sparkle evaporates in an instant as the knife punches into his body.

A sound, which is both gurgle and grunt, comes from him at the same time, and he struggles harder against the rope, as if the metal blade that has punctured his chest isn’t a knife, but a high-voltage battery from which he’s drawing power. Even so, it’s not enough to give him the strength to break the rope and tape that bind him. The chair dances back and forth as his body weight waltzes it across the floor. Blood squirts up from his chest. It pools around the blade of the knife and quickly blossoms over his shirt. Melissa leaves the knife in him, then steps away to watch. Blood has splashed onto the mirror, and even the ceiling. He begins trying to cough more of it up, but because of the tape across his mouth it becomes impossible. He begins choking, his face turns red, and I’m not sure if he’s choking or bleeding to death. The front of the duct-tape gag turns red. His face turns from red to purple, the same purple the sky was when I viewed it from the park with my testicle turned to pulp. The chair waltzes faster over the linoleum floor, the legs tap-dancing to some dying rhythm. His eyes are as wide as they can be, and in them I can see all sorts of fear and knowledge. Fear of dying. Knowledge that his last few seconds in this world are happening right now.

He looks at me and I think he wants me to help, but I can’t be sure. I stand motionless, unable to do a thing to save him. His throat begins to swell and his mouth is full of blood. It’s a race to see which will kill him-the stab wound or the choking-and when he stops moving, his head slumped forward and his ragged breathing eerily silent, I can only guess.

I stand with my mouth open and my tongue nearly hanging out, sweat dripping down my forehead. “You stupid bitch,” I manage to whisper. “How could you do such a thing?”

She reaches over to him and pulls away the duct tape. Blood gushes from between Calhoun’s lips and spills over his shirt. “I’m surprised that you thought I wouldn’t. I told you no tricks, Joe.”

“No, you didn’t.”

“Well, you should have assumed it. I still want my money.”

“I don’t have it.”

“Get it.”

I look back at the body. “Maybe he’s still alive,” I whisper. I’m about to move forward to check when she interrupts me.

“Maybe,” she agrees, and she grabs hold of the knife and pulls it away.

“Don’t. .” I say, letting my voice trail off.

She leans in close and listens for a pulse. Whether she hears one or not, I can’t know. What she does do is drag the knife across his throat. Then she steps back. Dips a finger into the wound and puts that same finger into her mouth. She sucks on the blood.

“If he wasn’t dead, he sure as hell is now. And unless you want the police busting your ass on Monday, I suggest you give me my money.”

“Give me four hours.”

Melissa looks down at her jacket and sees a few splotches of blood. She takes it off. Her nipples are standing out as if she’s got small coins tucked in the front of her bra. She drags the knife over the dead man’s throat once more, making a squelching sound that reminds me of walking in wet shoes. Then she steps around behind him to cut the ropes and tape. After she drops the knife to the floor, she raises one of Calhoun’s arms and places his hand on her right breast. Softly she moans.