Richard Hawke - Cold Day in Hell

She yanked at the handle and stepped out onto the patio. The air felt arctic. The overhang allowed for an area up against the building where no snow could gather. Rosemary felt her legs turn to ice. Her bare feet were either burning hot or biting cold, it was the same thing. She stepped to the edge of the snow line, taking a long drag on her cigarette, letting the smoke spill out of her mouth of its own accord.

Marshall would piss in his pants if he had even a clue what Rosemary had been up to since the very first day of their estrangement. Poor boy. Such an old-fashioned view of the world. Boys will stray but girls will remain faithful. Marshall knew this wasn’t technically the case, but it was how he operated. It had infuriated Rosemary, how arrogant Marshall had been about his adventures, as if he really were the great gifted god that the hype machine had conjured up and sold so well to the willing public. Hubris. The brilliant god hadn’t even known the damn word when Rosemary had accused him of it. And who were some of these women, anyway? That was where Marshall really put it in Rosemary’s face. Easy-lay actresses were one thing. But these working girls. Women with their one-room apartments and their garish friends and no sense of how to really fucking live . Especially that little one with the fake breasts and the tiny doll body. How low can you go?

Rosemary tossed her cigarette aside and stepped forward onto the dusting of snow on the edge of the patio. It crunched beneath her feet like pulverized glass. No one could see her. The snow was a dense white curtain. Unknotting her sash, she pulled her robe open, holding it out to her sides like a pair of green satin wings. The snow fell on her bare skin, melting on contact. It felt good, like a soft shower of whispers, or thousands of tiny attendants kissing, kissing, kissing…

MEGAN LOADED HER CLIP and slapped it into place. She adjusted her goggles and her protective ear covers. She felt as if she were still very much in her morning dream, operating in a haze. The muffled sounds from the half dozen other shooters were oddly pacifying.

It was a private shooting range, located in the basement of a midsize building on West Twentieth Street. A place to blow off steam and lead in equal measure. Megan assumed the shooting stance, clamped her left arm onto her right forearm, and sighted along the barrel. Like a lot of cops, she was fond of the old-fashioned target, the black-and-white drawing of the beefy antagonist hunched over his snubby. Gus. At least that’s the name she’d picked up for the target along the way. Sweat was pouring down Megan’s face. Her goggles had fogged somewhat, but she didn’t care. She didn’t need to see the target clearly. In fact, all the better if Gus remained cloudy. She could apply any face to the target she chose. Even her own.

Megan logged a half hour at the range. She slaughtered Gus over and over and over. He kept coming back for more. Fresh and crouched and ready. Megan’s entire body was drenched in sweat by the time she left. She caught the subway back down to the Village and showered and dressed for work. Before she left, she threw a plate at the kitchen wall. By the time she headed uptown, she was sweating all over again.

THE SNOW EDGED around Rosemary’s pink toes. Her eyes were still closed. She was making some decisions.

She thought again of Vail. She thought of Santorini. She thought of Tuscany, where the Turk had told her he had a place on a small hill surrounded by olive groves. She imagined a patio, not frosty like this one, but baked warm by the Tuscan sun. The sea of soft green rows. The burnt-sienna horizon.

What the hell was she still doing here ?

Rosemary reknotted the sash on her robe. She felt remarkably new. Cleansed. Fresh. Most amazing, really. Now she just had to get rid of her ape. Wrap up that business. Pray he wouldn’t make a scene. The story of Rosemary’s life, it seemed. They always made a scene. Big, strapping men, and in the end they acted just like babies. She wondered if she should even bother with the Turk. She was just so damn tired of scenes.

Rosemary went back into the apartment. More than anything, she wanted to be alone. Right now. She wanted to plan out her next moves, and she didn’t want a large hairy presence moving about the apartment as she did so. He’d been getting more possessive these past few weeks, she’d noticed. Insisting more often on remaining the entire night. Hanging around as if he owned the joint. As if he owned her , which was a great big ha!

Do it quickly, she told herself as she entered the bedroom. He doesn’t know from nuance anyway, so just spell it out and be done with it. It’s been a good run, it’s been a crazy run, it’s been a dangerous run. The smart thing is to end it. Stick it in the memory books, lover, and be glad we got away with as much as we did.

He was awake, frowning as she approached, almost as if he knew what she was about to do. Good, she thought. That will make it all the easier.

She didn’t even sit down on the edge of the bed but remained standing, her arms crossed tightly, signaling him that the goods were off-limits now.

“I want you out of here. This has gone on too long, and we both know it. Let’s not make a big deal out of it, okay?”

He argued. Rosemary had figured he would. He didn’t have much to argue about, and she tried to tell him so. The next thing she knew, she was on the floor. She’d barely seen him lurch up from the bed. Rosemary slashed at him with her fingernails, but she knew full well the extent of his strength. Ants against elephants. She tried to wriggle backward away from him, but he got her by the hair and jerked her head back with all his strength. She couldn’t find the breath to cry out. His fingers tore at her robe, and she realized what he was intent on. She found her breath.

“No!”

Rosemary wasn’t accustomed to hearing fear coming from her own mouth. Her cry was followed by a fist to her mouth. She thought her lip had exploded. She felt the blood spilling onto her chin. She attempted to get at his eyes, but he reared back and she thrashed at empty space. Her legs were being shoved apart. No way ! She knew where she had to hit him, but before she could manage, the ape rattled her head so hard against the floor she thought her skull was going to crack. She felt all her strength waver, and then it was too late. He had the nerve to try to kiss her as he did it, but she was able to twist her head sideways. Small victory.

It ended. He rolled off her, getting up first onto all fours, looking more than ever like the brute creature he was, then rising up slowly to his feet. She remained on the ground. The taste of her own blood was disgusting. Rich and gooey, where just minutes before, light sparkles of snow had melted there so effortlessly. Her body was beginning to shake, which for Rosemary was the largest embarrassment of all. She didn’t want him to see her quiver.

He ran an arm across his mouth, as if he required the enormity of the entire limb in order to wipe clear whatever was there. From where Rosemary lay on the floor, he looked a thousand feet tall. He wiped a second time, then looked down at her with sullen eyes. “Has anyone ever told you how ugly you are?”

MEGAN LAMB POKED her head in to Joe Gallo’s office. The homicide lieutenant was seated at his desk, scissoring the blinds to look out at the snow.

“Rosemary Fox,” Megan said. “She’s at the Cornell Medical Center with a sprained neck, facial abrasions and signs of possible rape.”

Gallo released the blinds. “Then what are you doing here?”

“I’LL GET YOU a platter,” the doctor said to Megan. “You’ll want something to put your head on when she hands it to you.”