Chuck Palahniuk - Lullaby

He means Helen.

I'm counting 4, counting 5, counting 6 …

And young people, he says, have little or no power so they're desperate for any.

Oyster and Mona.

I'm counting 7, counting 8 … , and Oyster's voice goes on and on.

This quiet-ophobic. This talk-oholic.

Smiling with just half his mouth, Oyster says, «Every generation wants to be the last.» Into the phone, he says, «Yeah, I'd like to place a retail display ad.» He says, «Yeah, I'll hold.»

Mona puts the pillow back over her face. The red snakes and vines go down the length of each finger.

Cheatgrass, Oyster says. Mustard. Kudzu.

Carp. Starlings. Seeding meat.

Looking out the car window, Oyster says, «You ever wonder if Adam and Eve were just the puppies God dumped because they wouldn't house-train?»

He rolls down the window and the smell blows inside, the stinking warm wind of dead fish, and shouting against the wind, he says, «Maybe humans are just the pet alligators that God flushed down the toilet.»

At the next library, I ask to wait in the car while Helen and Mona go inside and find the book. With them gone, I flip through the pages of Helen's daily planner. Almost every day is a name, some of them names I know. The dictator of some banana republic or a figure from organized crime. Each name crossed out with a single red slash. The last dozen names I write on a scrap of paper. Between the names are Helen's notes for meetings, her handwriting scrolled and perfect as jewelry.

Watching me from the backseat, Oyster's kicked back with his arms folded behind his head. His bare feet are crossed and propped up on the back of the front seat so they hang next to my face. A silver ring around one of his big toes. Calluses on the soles, the gray calluses are cracked, dirty, and Oyster says, «Mom's not going to like that, you going through her personal secret shit.»

Reading the book backward from today's date, I go through three years of names, assassinations, before Helen and Mona are walking back through the parking lot.

Oyster's phone rings, and he answers it, «Donner, Diller and Dunes, Attorneys-at-Law …»

There's still most of the book I don't get a chance to read. Years and years of pages. Toward the end of the book, there are years and years of blank pages for Helen still to fill.

Helen's talking on her phone when she gets to the car. She's saying, «No, I want the step-cut aquamarine that used to belong to the Emperor Zog.»

Mona gets into the backseat, saying, «Did you miss us?» She says, «Another culling song down the toilet.»

And Oyster folds his legs into the backseat, saying, «Does the rash bleed?» into his cell phone.

Helen snaps her fingers for me to hand her the daily planner. Into the phone, she says, «Yes, the two-hundred-carat aquamarine. Call Drescher in Geneva.» She opens the planner and writes a name under today's date.

Mona says, «I was thinking.» She says, «Do you think the original grimoire might have a flying spell? I'd love that. Or an invisibility spell?» She gets her Mirror Book out of her knapsack and starts coloring in it. She says, «I want to be able to talk to animals, too. Oh, and do telekinesis, you know, move stuff with my mind …»

Helen starts the car and says, loud at the rearview mirror, «I'm sewing my fish.»

She puts her cell phone and her pen in her purse. Still in her purse is the small gray stone from Mona's witch party, the stone the coven gave to her. When Oyster was naked. His wrinkled pink stalactite of skin pierced with its little silver ring.

Mona, that same night, Mulberry, and the two muscles of her back, the way they split into the two firm, creamy white halves of her ass, and I'm counting 1, counting 2, counting 3 …

In the next little town, in the next library, I ask Helen and Mona to wait in the car with Oyster while I go inside and hunt for the poems book.

This is some small-town library in the middle of the day. A librarian is behind the checkout desk. The most recent newspapers are mounted in big hardcover bindings you sit at a big table to read. In today's paper is Gustave Brennan. In yesterday's is some wacko religious leader in the Middle East. Two days ago, it was some death row inmate on his latest appeal.

Everyone in Helen's planner book died on the date their name is listed.

In between are newspaper articles about something worse. Denni D'Testro today. Three days ago, it's Samantha Evian. A week ago, it's Dot Leine. All of them young, all of them fashion models, all of them found dead without an apparent cause of death. Before that was Mimi Gonzalez, found dead by her boyfriend, dead in bed with no marks, nothing. No clues until the autopsy announced today shows signs of post-mortem sexual intercourse.

Nash.

Helen comes in, asking, «I'm hungry. What's taking you so long?»

My list of names is on the table beside me. Next to that is a newspaper article with a photo of Gustave Brennan. In front of me is another article showing the funeral of some convicted child molester I found listed in Helen's daily planner.

And Helen looks at everything in one glance and says, «So now you know.»

She sits on the edge of the table, her thighs stretching her skirt tight across her lap, and she says, «You wanted to know how to control your power, well, this is what works for me.»

The secret is to turn pro, she says. Do something only for money, and you're less likely to do it for free. «You don't think prostitutes want a lot of sex outside of their brothel?» she says.

She says, «Why do you think building contractors always live in unfinished houses?»

She says, «Why do you think doctors are in such poor health?»

She waves her hand at the library door and the parking lot outside and says, «The only reason why I haven't killed Mona a hundred times over is because I kill someone else every day. And I get paid a great deal of money for it.»

And I ask, what about Mona's idea? Why can't you control the power by just loving people so much you don't want to kill them?

«This isn't about love and hate,» Helen says. It's about control. People don't sit down and read a poem to kill their child. They just want the child to sleep. They just want to dominate. No matter how much you love someone, you still want to have your own way.

The masochist bullies the sadist into action. The most passive person is actually an aggressor. Every day, just you living means the misery and death of plants and animals—and even some people. «Slaughterhouses, factory farms, sweatshops,» she says, «like it or not, that's what your money buys.»

And I tell her she's been listening to Oyster too much.

«The key is to kill people deliberately,» Helen says, and picks up the picture of Gustave Brennan in the newspaper. Looking at it, up close, she says, «You kill strangers deliberately so you don't accidentally kill the people you love.»

Constructive destruction.

She says, «I'm an independent contractor.»

She's an international hired killer working for huge diamonds.

Helen says, «Governments do it every day.»

But governments do it after years of deliberation and by due process, I tell her. It's only after weighty consideration that a criminal is deemed too dangerous to be released. Or to set an example. Or for revenge. Okay, so the process isn't perfect. At least it's not arbitrary.

And Helen puts a hand over her eyes to hide them for a moment, then moves her hand and looks at me, saying, «Who do you think calls me for these little jobs?»

The U.S. State Department calls her?

«Sometimes,» she says. «Mostly it's other countries, any country in the world, but I don't do anything for free.»

That's why the jewels?