The Killing Song, page 2
“The grease from your hands,” he said. “It’s bad for the strings.”
She took a few steps away, rubbing her wrist. “Well, you touch it when you play. What’s the difference?”
He took a breath and carefully removed the cello from its dark corner. “I touch only the neck.”
She was still frowning, like she was trying to decide something now. But he was the one who had decided. She didn’t know this, of course. She was oblivious, not even smart enough to read this in his face. She just looked at him, like a dumb animal. Finally, she nodded toward the black case across the room, the one he had brought in from the car.
“So, why do you have two of them?”
“That one is for others,” he said. “This one is for me.”
And for her.
She was staring hard at him now. Then she shrugged off her coat and tossed it on the floor. She plopped down on the futon and looked up at him with a smile.
“Play something for me,” she said.
He stared at her, the cello resting against his chest. For the briefest moment, he considered it. He had never tried it that way before and the idea was intriguing. Would it feel different than the others? But why? She wasn’t worth it. It would be like playing for a deaf person.
“No,” he said.
“Why not?” she said.
“I don’t feel like it.” He carefully put the cello back in its corner. When he turned back, she had scooted down on the futon, and now she lay propped up on her elbows.
“So, how do you say it in French?”
“Say what?”
“How do you say, ‘Let’s fuck’?”
He was silent, staring at her breasts, clearly outlined beneath her blouse.
“Tell me,” she said. “I bet it sounds really nice in French.”
He turned away, picking up his wineglass and taking a drink.
“Come on, how do you say it?”
He shut his eyes.
She was laughing. “God, what’s the matter? You’re all red. Am I embarrassing you? Okay, you don’t have to say it. All you have to do is just do it. Just fuck me, okay? And make it—”
He threw the glass toward the futon. It shattered against the wall, spraying her white blouse red. She gave a yelp and her eyes widened as he came toward her. But even as he straddled her hips, her fingers were working on the buttons of his shirt and her mouth was opening eagerly to accept his.
But he didn’t kiss her. He didn’t take off her blouse or touch her breasts. He didn’t even look at her face as he wrenched her skirt up over her hips, pulled the tights down her legs and wedged his knees between her thighs. At first, the roughness aroused her and she was panting as she helped him out of his clothes. She gave a half-laugh, half-cry when he entered her and she wrapped her arms around his back, pulling him deeper inside her. But the more he pushed against her, the harder he tried, the softer he became.
She pushed against his chest. “Hey, hey,” she said hoarsely. “Stop, okay? If you can’t … hey, it’s—”
He slapped her and she let out a sharp cry. He sensed the change in her, felt her body retreating under him. He could almost smell the fear coming off her skin. But that didn’t stop him. He kept pushing against her, ignoring her cries, waiting, waiting for the blessed release. But it did not come. It never did. Not this way.
He felt a sudden searing pain and fell back panting, holding his neck. He was so stunned that it took him several seconds to realize what had happened. She had scratched him. And now she was inching back toward the wall, away from him.
He looked at his bloody fingers, then at the girl. She was staring at him as she pulled her skirt down.
“Look,” she said, “maybe you should just take me back to my hotel, okay?”
“No,” he said.
Her expression hardened. “Great. First you can’t even get off and now you won’t give me a fucking ride.” She stood and pulled up her tights. “So much for the French being great lovers.”
She kept talking, but he didn’t hear her. He turned and went to the cello case. He unlatched it and reached into the small pouch on the inside of the lid. He took his time as he decided which one to use. The Larsen D? No, she wasn’t worth it. The Jargar A was too thin and he had never been able to count on it. The Spirocore C had a nice sharp attack.
Finally, he made his choice and closed the case. When he turned to face her, she was standing with her back to him, buttoning her blouse. He moved quickly, quietly. She didn’t have time to turn, to react. He looped the steel string around her neck and gave a hard tug.
Her hands came up clawing. Her scream died into a gurgle. He pulled harder, bringing her back against his chest. He pulled on the string once, twice, enjoying her fear. He was careful not to pull the string too tight because he wanted this to last. And he knew just how much pressure was needed to hold her, to make her black out. But he also knew how to keep her alive. He closed his eyes, burying his face in her vanilla hair.
Then he gave the string a sharp jerk. The steel cut into her neck and she gave a violent quiver. Blood sprayed the wall above the futon. Finally, she went limp. He caught her beneath the arms before she fell and held her against his chest.
He scooped the body up in his arms and carried it to the bathroom. He put the body in the old bathtub and took a step back to look at it. For a second—just one second—he saw Hélène. But this one wasn’t beautiful like Hélène.
And this one wasn’t worth keeping.
He went back out, shutting the door. The spray of blood on the wall over the futon made him stop.
Damn it!
He had cut the carotid artery, and it had left a mess to clean. No matter. It would have to wait. Her blood was still warm on his hands and the hotness in his groin was building. He had to hurry now. If he didn’t, the moment would be gone.
The room was cold on his naked body, but he was sweating in anticipation. He went to the corner and carefully pulled out the other cello, the beautiful one, the Goffriller Rosette. More than three hundred years old. So many great hands had caressed it. But no one else would ever play it now. No one else would ever hear it now. Except him.
He picked up his bow, took the cello to a chair and sat down. Setting the cello between his bare thighs, he rested it back against his chest. He cradled the cello’s neck on his shoulder, the C-string tuning peg touching his ear. He paused, holding the bow over the strings, watching the blood drip from his neck down onto the burnished maple. He closed his eyes, imagining the molecules of his blood being absorbed into the cello’s body.
The bow came down slowly across the strings. The first notes of Elgar’s cello concerto filled the small dark room.
The ache in his groin was building and as he played, eyes closed, he could feel himself hardening again. His breathing deepened. The sweat poured from his brow. He swayed, pulling the bow, thrusting.
He was lost in the music and the burn of anticipation. Then, suddenly, there it was. What he had been waiting for. One note. A vibration that began in his fingertips and raced down through his body to his groin. As the wolf note sounded, the release came. He cried out as his body convulsed.
The bow dropped from his hand to the floor. He sat there, head down, gasping, holding the cello in his embrace.
2
I couldn’t take my eyes off her.
Maybe it was because I hadn’t seen her in two years, and in that time she had passed through the looking glass that separates girls from women. Whatever it was, Mandy was beautiful, and I couldn’t stop staring.
She was dancing with some dickhead in a Dolphins jersey. Not just a fan jersey, but one of those “authentic” NFL versions that lets the wearer pretend he’s a stud running back. He had even paid to have his name put on the back—DARIUS. That the guy actually looked like a football player pissed me off. That he had ten fewer years than me and twenty more pounds of hard muscle made me stay in my chair.
That, and the knowledge that Mandy would kill me if I butted in.
I sat there, sipping my Dewar’s and crunching the ice, my eyes never leaving her and the faux pro. She had been dancing with him for the last half hour. Finally, she stood on her tiptoes, gave the guy a kiss on the cheek and snaked her way through the crowd and back to the table.
“Was that necessary?” I asked as she slid into the chair.
“What?” Her face was glistening with sweat and her eyes were shining.
“The kiss thing.”
She laughed but even in the dim bar light I could see the blush creep into her cheeks. “He was nice,” she said. She took a sip of her wine spritzer. “He’s a Miami Dolphin.”
“Oh, yeah? What position?”
“Running back.”
“He told you that?”
She nodded, her eyes searching the crowd for him again. She spotted him sitting at a table and waved. He waved back.
“Mandy, he’s not a Dolphin,” I said.
She looked at me. “How do you know?”
“First, I know the whole roster and there’s no running back named Darius. Second, no player would be caught dead in a jersey off the field. They all wear Coogi sweaters.”
She stared at me for a moment. “Why do you always do this?”
“Do what?”
“Ruin things.”
I looked away, on the pretense of trying to signal the waitress. The music was loud and throbbing, some kind of rap thing that I didn’t get and never would. It felt like someone was taking a jackhammer to my head.
Suddenly I felt her hand cover mine and I looked back at her.
“Bear, it’s my last night here. Let’s just have some fun tonight, okay?” she said.
Maybe it was the way she said it. Or the fact that I hadn’t heard her use my nickname in such a long time. Maybe it was the fact that seeing her dancing with that young handsome guy made me feel every one of the twelve years between us. Maybe it was the fact that I had never quite accepted that my little sister wasn’t little anymore.
I managed a smile. “I’m sorry.”
She leaned over and kissed me on the cheek. I caught a whiff of Shalimar. I had sent her the perfume for her birthday last month, just like I had given her a bottle every birthday since she turned sixteen. Shalimar and Juicy Fruit gum. That was my little sister’s scent. Except tonight there was a new under note there—a muskier, more womanly scent that mixed with the wine spritzer.
Her eyes searched the crowd and she bobbed her head to the music. The Dewar’s was gone so I crunched more ice. I studied her face, lit by the pink glow of the bar’s neon. Her long straight blond hair was alive in the breeze, her nose was sunburned, her blue eyes dancing.
The music stopped for a second. “So,” I said. “Tell me at least that you’re having a good time.”
She grinned. “The best. Thanks for talking Daddy into letting me come.”
I gave a half smile and waved to the waitress, holding up my empty glass. The music started up again.
“You won’t tell Daddy, will you?” Mandy yelled over the din.
“Tell him what?”
“That I danced with a black guy.”
I stared at her. “That guy was black?”
It took her a couple seconds to realize I was kidding. But then she laughed so hard she knocked over her wineglass.
“No more for you,” I said.
“Aw, come on, Bear.”
“Nope. You’re cut off. I can’t stand a woman who can’t hold her liquor.”
The waitress brought my fresh Dewar’s and mopped up the spilled wine. Mandy had gone back to watching the dancers again, swaying to the music like it was the soundtrack of her life. Which it was, of course. I suddenly felt so much older than thirty-three. And I was just as suddenly fifteen, thrust back to my room in Raleigh, Nirvana pulsating on the CD player, Dad pounding on my locked door. I looked at Mandy, wondering what her life was like in that house now. I had escaped, fleeing the hothouse of North Carolina for the fresh air of Miami. But she had never been farther from home than Atlanta.
That was why I had finally broken down and called home last month. That was why I had asked my parents if Mandy could come and visit me. A birthday gift, I had called it. But I hoped it would be an emancipation. I wanted her to know there was a wide, wonderful, awful world beyond the small one she knew.
My cell chirped. I pulled it out and looked at the number. I grimaced and set it down on the table.
“Girlfriend?” Mandy asked with a smile.
“My editor,” I said.
“Do you even have a girlfriend?” Her smile was playful.
“Dozens.”
“You’re such a liar, Bear.”
“So, how was graduation?” I asked, to change the subject.
She shrugged. “Depressing.”
“Why?”
“No one can find a job,” she said. “Not one of my friends has a bite.”
Mandy had majored in business. I took a sip of scotch, thinking about how it had been when I had left Duke. I had abandoned my plan to go to med school and spent a year bumming around the Far East. When I finally came home, I landed a sports job at a newspaper in Fort Lauderdale. I had felt like my life was just beginning. Mandy sounded like hers was stillborn.
“I’m thinking of going back and getting a teaching degree,” Mandy said. “Elementary school.”
“The pay is shit,” I said.
Her smile turned rueful. “That’s what Daddy said.”
“What does Mom say?”
“She thinks I should get a job at Saks and wait until things get better. Or stay in school and go for my MBA.”
I shook my head slowly. “And live at home, right?”
She was quiet for a moment, toying with the stem of her wineglass. “I’m not like you, Bear,” she said softly.
“What do you mean?”
“I like being home. And I can’t just go off to some place I don’t know. I’m not brave like you.”
I laughed. I couldn’t help it. But I regretted it when I saw her hurt look. “Brave is not a word anyone would apply to me,” I said.
We fell into a silence. Mandy filled the void by looking around the bar. I filled it by taking two long draws on the Dewar’s. I put the glass down to see Mandy staring at me.
“That’s your third,” she said.
“I know.”
“You know I can’t drive a stick, Bear.”
It was an innocent enough remark, referring as it was to my vintage Corvette. But it was also an admonition that I didn’t need another drink. I would have been irritated—I had heard about my drinking from friends—but there was a touch of sadness in her face. And I knew she was remembering the same thing I was remembering. That hot June night when she was nine and I showed up at her friend Trudy’s house to drive her home. I had been partying hard at the Kappa Alpha house after graduation. She knew I was drunk but trusted me anyway. I drove the Opel into a tree on the way home. I broke my collarbone, arm and three ribs, and spent a year in traction. Mandy was luckier. She hit the windshield and ended up with only a scar over her left eye.
I couldn’t see the scar in the bar light. The plastic surgeon was one of the best, a colleague of Dad’s at Duke Raleigh Hospital. Mandy never brought the accident up, never once reminded me of it. My parents … well, that was something else entirely.
“Come on, let’s get going,” I said, rising.
“But it’s early!” she said.
“Wrong. It’s going on two. And your flight is at ten thirty.”
“Okay, but I need some more pictures first.”
She grabbed her big gold feedbag of a purse off the bar stool and I waited patiently while she rummaged through its dark depths. She finally pulled out her phone, a sleek Day-Glo pink thing that made my cell look like something from the last century.
She jumped off the stool and came over to my side, pressing her cheek against mine and holding out her phone at arm’s length.
“Cheese!” she said.
She snapped several photos, then tossed her phone into her purse. “Give me yours now,” she yelled over the music.
“My what?”
“Your phone. I’ll take some for you.”
“Just send me the ones you took.”
“Do you even know how to download pictures?”
“Sure.”
She shook her head, took my phone and snapped off a couple quick shots of our heads together.
She handed me the cell and kissed my forehead. “Now you have me with you forever,” she said.
I stared at a photo of us on my cell. “You cut off the top of my head,” I said.
“Oh shoot, let me try again.”
“I like this one. I need a haircut anyway.”
Mandy laughed. I downed another quick swig of scotch and rose. Mandy slipped her purse over her shoulder. “I have to hit the john first.”
I watched her disappear into the crowd and leaned back in the chair, glad to have the extra moments to finish my drink. It was a typical October Miami night—hot, sticky, but with a brisk wind thanks to the tropical storm hovering over Nassau. The hurricane-watch party at the big pool bar at the Clevelander was just starting to kick into second gear. This wasn’t my scene, but I had brought Mandy here because she had wanted to dance and I knew she would get a kick out of it.
I smiled, remembering her face as she watched the South Beach crowd. The glossy, brown-skinned, navel-pierced girl in the leopard bra and thong. The emaciated guy with an albino boa constrictor wrapped around his tattooed chest. The white-haired man in the perfect seersucker suit gallantly shepherding his purple-wigged wife into a Bentley. I had watched Mandy watching the circus parade, watched her devouring it all, and my heart ached. I wanted everything in the world for her.
I signaled the waitress and paid the bill in cash so we could make a quick getaway. I glanced at my watch and looked toward the restroom doors by the bar. I spotted Mandy but she was back on the dance floor, gyrating with Darius again. She saw me and waved. I gestured to my watch. She held up a finger and mouthed the words “One more dance, Bear.”
I shook my head, smiled and took another drink of scotch. I looked out toward the ocean and watched lightning zigzag silently over the black sky.
