Jeff Abbott - A Kiss Gone Bad

The killer might not believe that. She dried off, combed her hair, and sat naked as she leafed through the Coastal Bend yellow pages, researching pawnshops and gun dealers.

The images played across the television, the screen the only light in the cabin, and the Blade sat and watched as Big Pete Majors took Velvet Mojo from behind, both of them grunting like animals, she tilting her head to keep her wraparound sunglasses on during the pounding encounter. They moaned so much it sounded like they had intestinal disorders. Pete did not offer a range of theatrical nuance. He just knelt behind her, ramming with his hips while Velvet pleaded with him to go stronger and faster, more like a testy coach than a lover. Pete’s face was as blank as the boys the Blade remembered from the mental home. He watched the tape twice before he finally fell asleep in his recliner.

He awoke in a sour mood because he had dreamed not of Velvet but of Whit Mosley, laughing at him. You? She’s gonna pick you over me? What reality does that happen in, fat ass? The Blade had watched Whit in public and women smiled at him, whereas women suddenly recalled other appointments and hurried on their way when the Blade tried long conversations. Hating Whit was easy. The Blade imagined Whit dead, hollowed out, and himself stepping into Whit’s skin, pulling the pallid skulllness face over his own like a mask, fitting his fingers into Whit’s fingers like gory gloves.

Why not kill Mosley as well as take Velvet? He considered. Dismemberment held a certain appeal, as did evisceration, although they certainly cut short the fun. He considered decapitation overrated; heads seemed mocking without bodies attached. The Blade had learned that truth the hard way.

He’d never wanted to kill a man particularly before, but it promised an interesting difference – like fries after a solid week of potato chips. He daydreamed about Whit dying from a slow, careful series of cuts, and a slow whisper filtered into his ears. He stared at the ceiling and its whirring fan. The fan, spinning, resembled a dark eye. Mama’s eyes. He stared, barely breathing, only hearing Mama’s voice telling him what he must do.

He awoke and knew he had slipped to that inky world that Mama had shaped. She used to say, with her sure smile, right before she warmed the wrench on the stove or clicked the clothespin shut on his little flick of a penis: We’re together forever, honeybunch, and don’t you ever forget it.

Thank God, he would think, that he had managed to become the hero of his own story. Mama had not won. He had. He would still.

His phone rang; he picked up and chatted through morning niceties, then listened.

‘This young woman who found Pete’s body,’ the familiar voice murmured into his ear. ‘Do me a favor. Give her some money. Get her out of town.’

‘Sure,’ said the Blade. ‘I can do that for you.’

‘Santa Fe is lovely this time of year, and I bet there’s a nice, affordable youth hostel. Or perhaps Florida, if she’s still set on a beach.’ He listened to detailed instructions and hung up the phone.

His thumb began to itch for the keen sharpness of his knife. If Heather Farrell needed to leave town… well, many were the avenues. A hefty bribe paled compared to other options. He’d gotten away with this every time. (Well, except that one time, so very long ago.) Why not again? He was already in the mood.

He considered how best to approach the problem and how to avoid any messy ramifications. A lure, simple, would do. Nothing could interfere, after all, with his plan for Velvet. He ducked under the sagging bed he slept on and reached for his bowie knife. It was lovely, stout, and sharp enough to cut hopes and dreams. He rummaged in a box with MAMA’S STUFF written on the side in thick Magic Marker and found a worn sharpening stone. The Blade dragged the knife back and forth across the stone, a rhythmic caress that whispered: Heath-er, Heath-er, Heath-er.

The Blade flicked on his stereo. The Beach Boys sang in perfect harmony about their 409, and the knife moved to the beat.

Claudia wrote a terse report on the investigation’s status and left it on Delford’s empty desk. She grabbed a cup of thin coffee from the kitchen. When she got back to her desk, the dispatcher was buzzing her. She had a visitor in the lobby, Faith Hubble.

‘I get the feeling,’ the dispatcher whispered, ‘she don’t like waiting.’

The lobby was barely ten feet by ten feet, cramped with a chair, a side table of old magazines, and a rack of flyers on safety and community policing. The woman sat in the chair, pulling a loose string from the tattered upholstery and snapping it with her fingernail.

‘Mrs Hubble? I’m Claudia Salazar.’

Faith stood and offered a hand. They shook hands quickly, and Faith followed Claudia back to her office.

From their phone conversation, Claudia had pictured a different woman. She’d imagined one of those no-nonsense Austin politicos, health-club firm and sorority-girl petite, blond-helmet hair, with a crisp suit and jump-when-I-say demeanor. Faith Hubble was a big-boned woman, approaching six feet tall, generously chested and thighed, with a creamy complexion and thick brown hair arranged in a hurried French braid. Pretty but loosely put together. Her Italian suit was tailored, black with a white silk blouse, but the jacket was already rumpled and a smear of jam soiled the cuff. Claudia imagined Faith more at home on a honky-tonk bar stool than a campaign trail.

‘Have a seat, Mrs Hubble.’

‘Thanks for seeing me on such short notice, hon. I assume we’re both pressed for time, so I won’t dilly-dally with you – what’s the status of the investigation?’ Faith kept her eyes – bright hazel beauties – firmly fixed on Claudia’s face, like a drill sergeant surveying a sweating recruit.

‘Mostly we’re waiting for lab reports.’ Claudia was uneasy with the idea of snapping to and giving this woman a complete rundown, but she suspected Delford would provide the Hubbles all the information. There was little point in being evasive.

‘And when will the lab geeks deliver?’

‘Tomorrow. Or the next day.’

‘Any way to rush them?’ Faith asked. ‘Obviously the family wants to know what happened as soon as possible.’ Her voice was low and throaty, as though corroded by cigarettes or whiskey.

‘Science can’t be rushed. Certain tests take a certain amount of time.’ Claudia paused. ‘I’m sure you and the senator wouldn’t want the tests to be inaccurate.’

‘Honey, I’m dealing with a devastated mother and a heartbroken son. They need some sort of closure.’

No grief of your own? Claudia thought. Faith Hubble carried herself more like a woman inconvenienced than bereaved. How would you feel now if David died, though? A sense of loss would be inescapable. David had not been a bad husband, just not the right one for her. Their life had not been all misery. She hoped her heart would be big enough to mourn his passing.

Faith straightened her sleeve, noticed the jam, and muttered in anger. Her fingernails were painted cranberry red, and she clicked them together impatiently.

‘I’m also dealing with a press corps with a decided lack of scandal or news in this campaign, and they’re gonna be on Pete’s death like dogs on ribs. They got deadlines and imaginations, hon, and they’re gonna write. I’d like to be sure your department doesn’t feed them newsy tidbits that are inappropriate.’

‘We’ve told the press nothing but the bare essentials. That a man was found dead on a boat at the marina and we’re investigating.’

‘Pete’s death was all over the radio this morning, Detective. They knew his name, that he was Lucinda’s son.’