They Kill, page 6
The trio of knocks came again. This time whoever it was pounded on the door, making it shake. Grace stopped in front of the door. Trembling, she made sure her robe was belted securely and ran her hands through her hair in an attempt to make herself at least somewhat presentable. Then she peered through the peephole. She saw a man in a black suit. He had long blond hair and he was smiling. One hand was held behind his back while the other was raised in a fist, ready to pound the door again.
Grace took a deep breath, then, with a trembling hand, opened the door.
“Hello,” she said. “Sorry it took me a minute to answer. I was…occupied.”
The man’s smile widened. His teeth were almost too white, and they all appeared to taper to small sharp points. But as strange as that was, his suit was stranger. She’d never seen a black so, so deep before. It looked as if it went on and on forever, and if she reached out to touch it, she thought her hand might keep going and going and….
Without realizing she did so, she raised her right hand and reached toward the man.
But then he brought his own hand from behind his back. He was holding something, and he held it up for her to see. When he did, she forgot all about the endless darkness of the man’s suit and focused her entire attention on the object before her. It was an unlabeled glass bottle filled with amber liquid. It was the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen, the color almost unearthly in its perfection. It seemed to glimmer, as if the bottle held light as well as liquid, and she thought she could feel a soft, soothing warmth coming from it. The strange man standing in the hall had ceased to exist for her the moment he’d displayed the bottle, and when he began speaking, it startled her.
“My name is Corliss, and I’ve brought you a present.”
His voice was rich and smooth. He sounded the way bourbon tasted.
She wanted to snatch the bottle from his hand. Her throat was so dry it hurt. She imagined her throat as sun-beaten earth, cracked and desiccated. Within the bottle was the elixir that would take away the pain. All of it, physical and emotional. Her fingers twitched, and her hand started to rise, as if working by itself. But something about this wasn’t right. She struggled to concentrate, but the pounding in her skull made it so hard to think. Strangers didn’t show up on your doorstep at the moment of your greatest need just to give you the one thing in the world you desired above all others.
“Does it really matter how I know what you need, Grace? Isn’t it enough that I have it?”
Part of her feared her booze-soaked brain had conjured up a hallucination of a man – a wonderful, generous man – bearing what looked to be the finest bourbon she’d ever seen. Another part said she shouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth and told the first part to shut the fuck up, which it promptly did.
“Thank you.” The words came out in an almost unintelligible croak, but Corliss didn’t seem to notice, or if he did, he didn’t care.
He handed the bottle to her, and when her flesh came into contact with it, she gasped. It was warm, and the glass seemed to mold itself to her hand, as if the one had been made for the other. She pressed the bottle to her chest gently, as if it were a newborn baby. The heat radiated by its contents warmed her, and even though she had yet to drink a single drop, her headache began to diminish, and her body ceased trembling.
“Drink it in good health,” Corliss said. He bowed his head in a courtly gesture of farewell, turned, and walked away. Grace stuck her head out into the hall to watch him leave, but he was already gone. She hadn’t heard the outer door open and close, though. Maybe she’d been so distracted by the strange man’s gift that she hadn’t been listening closely enough when he’d exited the building. Sure, that’s what had happened. She pulled her head back into her apartment, and if as she did she saw an odd blurry line in the hallway like a scar in the air, she dismissed it as a trick of the light. She would never know, but the next time the mail carrier came, he would pass through the rift scar, and benign tumors would begin growing in his lungs. No surgery would be able to remove them completely, and they would continue to regrow until eventually the man was unable to breathe and suffocated.
Grace quickly closed the door and locked it, as if Corliss might change his mind and return for the bottle.
She walked to the kitchen, her gaze fastened on the bottle the entire way. She set it down on the counter and examined it more closely. It had a simple black plastic cap and no seal. She ran her fingers across the glass. It was smooth, without any indication it had once borne a label that had been removed. The woman she had been not so long ago – a woman whose higher brain functions had been more reliable – would’ve had serious misgivings about this ‘gift’. Just because it looked like there was bourbon in this suspiciously unmarked bottle didn’t make it so. There could be any number of substances in there…poisonous ones. Corliss could be some kind of weird serial killer who poisoned his victims by giving them what appeared to be a bottle of free booze. She should pour this shit down the drain, or better yet, call the cops and have them remove the bottle from her apartment and take it somewhere for testing. Maybe she’d end up being the one who provided the evidence the police needed to catch Corliss.
But she wasn’t that woman anymore. She was an addict, and all that mattered was the mere possibility that the bottle contained what she needed. Every other concern, even the fact that she might well be risking her life by drinking the amber liquid, simply didn’t matter. She removed the cap from the bottle and placed it on the counter. She then lifted the bottle to her nose and inhaled. She had never smelled anything sweeter. The odor was potent enough to give her a little buzz all by itself, and her stomach cramped painfully, as if demanding she sample the liquid now. She placed the bottle to her lips, tilted it, and got her first taste of the contents.
Her mouth exploded with sensations more intense than any she had ever known. It was beyond the finest food, the best sex, and even the most expensive liquor that she’d ever had. She had no idea the human body was capable of experiencing anything even close to this level of stimulation. It was so overwhelming that for a moment she thought she might actually lose consciousness, and she gripped the kitchen counter with her free hand to steady herself.
And then she swallowed.
It burned all the way down, and when it hit her belly it erupted into a blazing mass of flame. It hurt, but it was a good hurt, a fucking fantastic hurt, and she needed more, needed it all. She tilted her head back and drew swallow after swallow from the bottle, taking in great gulps of the amber liquid, one after the other until the bottle was empty.
She pulled the bottle from her mouth and held it out so she could inspect it. She’d sucked it bone dry. There wasn’t a single drop remaining. Disappointed, she put the empty bottle on the counter. She felt amazing, better than she had in decades. She felt so good that she considered going into the bedroom, taking her vibrator from her nightstand drawer, and making herself come. As great as she felt right now, her climax would be incredible!
But before she could move, her mouth became suddenly, horribly dry. It felt like the flesh inside her cheeks had turned to puckered leather, and her tongue had shriveled into a hard nub. Her throat felt choked with sand, and her skin drew taut on her bones, became brittle and cracked in numerous places. No blood seeped from these wounds, though. She no longer had any moisture to spare. Her eyes became hard balls resting in dry sockets, and her breathing became a labored wheeze. She was so thirsty, she thought she could turn on the kitchen faucet, put her mouth to the tap, start drinking and keep on drinking until her stomach burst. And even then she would still be thirsty. She didn’t turn on the water, though. She was thirsty, desperately, maddeningly so, but not for water. Despite this, she felt energized. She felt strong. She needed more booze, needed it now, and she intended to get it.
She snatched the ten-dollar bill she’d hidden in the cookbook with clawlike hands with hard, prominent knuckles. Now all she needed to do was grab her keys. She always left them on the kitchen counter, and that’s where she found them. At least Sierra hadn’t stolen them too.
Keys in hand, she grinned, dry lips splitting and cracking.
Time for a booze run.
* * *
Marc Naranjo slowed as the traffic light turned yellow. There was no one ahead of him, and while his Honda Civic wasn’t exactly a sports car, he knew he could make it through the intersection. But he removed his foot from the gas pedal and pressed the brake. His car slowed and came to stop just as the light turned red.
Marc worked for Strategic Insurance, and he was on his way to meet a client for breakfast. Selling insurance didn’t make him any more cautious than the average person, although he did have a better idea of what the odds were when it came to taking risks, which could be a real downer sometimes. But that wasn’t the reason for his caution now. This was the one-year anniversary of Jeffrey’s death, and while Marc hadn’t been present at the accident scene, he’d gone to the police station afterward to see Jeffrey’s pickup. Why he’d done this, he wasn’t sure. Maybe to convince himself that Jeffrey’s death was real and not some sick joke. Maybe just to feel close to him one last time. They shared their first kiss in the vehicle, when Jeffrey had given him a ride home from a mutual friend’s backyard barbecue. As soon as he saw the twisted hunk of metal that had been his love’s truck, he regretted his decision to view it. All he could think about was the vehicle swerving off the road, flying through the air, hitting the ground and rolling, tossing Jeffrey around so violently that his head had been crushed and his neck broken. One of the EMTs on the scene was a client of Marc’s, and he’d told him that given his injuries, Jeffrey had died immediately.
He was dead before he knew what was happening, she’d said. If that’s any comfort.
It was, but not much.
So on this day, Marc was going to be the world’s safest driver. Not because he was superstitious and thought it would be bad luck to drive recklessly, but because he couldn’t get the image of the mangled truck out of his mind.
Jeffrey’s loss didn’t hurt the same way it had when it was fresh, but the pain hadn’t gone away. It had merely changed, become less raw but much deeper. It was a part of who he was now, and he knew he’d never be rid of it, not entirely. And that was okay. In a way, it meant Jeffrey would always be part of him.
He’d tried dating a couple times over the last few months, had even slept with one of the guys. Just once. But he’d realized he wasn’t ready to date yet. He had no idea when he’d be ready for a relationship again, and that was okay too. So long as he was being true to his feelings, everything would—
His thoughts slammed to a halt when he saw a man walking down the sidewalk, heading in the opposite direction. Marc was in what he thought of as Bishop Hill’s slice of Generica: mazes of strip malls containing small shops and restaurants, all crowded together in an indistinguishable mass of colorful signs and company logos. The majority of Bishop Hill’s residents regarded this area as downtown, although technically it wasn’t. The Historic District was downtown, and it was located several blocks south of here. There weren’t as many pedestrians here as in the Historic District. Traffic moved at a faster clip, and the sidewalks were too close to the street for most people’s comfort. But there were always a few who didn’t mind vehicles zipping past them only a few feet away, and one of these people walking by looked like Jeffrey. So much so that when Marc saw him, his breath caught in his throat, and he felt a stab of anguish that hurt as much as any physical pain. Unbidden, the argument they’d had in the restaurant the night Jeffrey died replayed in his mind.
You’re being ridiculous. I love you and only you. I don’t care what you have between your legs…. Well, that’s not strictly true. I’m quite fond of what’s down there. What I mean is that even if I was bi – which I most definitely am not – I would still choose to be with you because you’re an amazing person, and the only one I want to be with.
That should’ve been enough, more than enough. Marc had known that then, but his emotions often outraced the more rational side of him, especially when he was afraid or insecure.
If you’re really a card-carrying queer, then why do you have mostly naked pictures of some skank from your office on your phone? And don’t tell me it’s not your fault she sends them. You could delete the goddamned things, but you never do. They’re still on your phone! All of them! Unless you deleted ones I don’t know about…ones that are especially NSFW.
Marc had known there was nothing especially upsetting about Jeffrey keeping the photos of Vicki. He never deleted anything on his phone. Texts, voicemail messages, emails, videos, pictures…. Marc still hadn’t been able to keep his mouth shut.
Do you masturbate to Vicki’s photos? Do you imagine squeezing her tits, twisting her nipples, slipping a couple fingers up her snatch and wiggling them around?
Jeffrey’s face had reddened with anger and embarrassment as Marc ranted on. Jeffrey then fixed his gaze on Marc and spoke in a voice tight with restrained fury.
Sometimes I think Sierra is right about you.
It had been the last thing Jeffrey had said before getting up from the table and leaving the restaurant. Marc had never heard his lover’s voice again.
The man on the sidewalk didn’t just look like Jeffrey. He moved like him too. Marc would have recognized Jeffrey’s slight slump, the loose way he swung his arms, and the surprisingly graceful way he moved his feet anywhere.
A car horn blasted behind Marc, causing him to jump. He looked at his rearview mirror and saw a line of cars had pulled up behind him. The vehicle immediately on his rear was a minivan with a very distressed-looking woman behind the wheel. She laid on the horn again, features scrunched in frustration. He looked forward and saw that the light was green, but he was so stunned by the appearance of the man who couldn’t be Jeffrey that for an instant he couldn’t remember what a green light meant.
Go, you dumbass, he thought. Green means go.
He took his foot off the brake and pressed the gas pedal. His Civic might not have had the acceleration of a sports car, but the vehicle surged forward. Marc forgot about the breakfast meeting with the client. He yanked his steering wheel to the left, intending to do a U-turn in the intersection and follow the Not-Jeffrey. Unfortunately, the oncoming traffic had a green light too, and drivers honked and swerved to avoid hitting him as he whipped around, tires squealing, then raced down the street, scanning the sidewalk for the man who moved exactly like Jeffrey. His rational mind shouted that he was acting like a crazy man, but his emotions paid no attention. He had to find the Not-Jeffrey, had to get close enough to prove that the man wasn’t his lover somehow returned to life.
He caught sight of him almost at once. He was walking past a dog-washing place called Shampoodle, and now that Marc was closer, the man looked even more like Jeffrey to him than before. Marc continued on, intending to pull up next to the man, lower the passenger-side window, and call out to get his attention. The man would turn toward him, and once Marc got an up-close look at his features and saw that despite his original impression, the man didn’t look a thing like Jeffrey, he could put this incident behind him, chalk it up to unresolved grief, and get on with his day.
He accelerated, but as he did so, a Citation pulled out of an access road between strip malls right in front of him. He slammed on the brakes and barely avoided rear-ending the Citation. Unfortunately, the driver of the Prius behind him wasn’t able to react as swiftly and smacked into the rear of Marc’s vehicle. Marc’s head snapped back then forward, and a bolt of pain shot through his neck. He looked at his rearview and saw the Prius’s driver still sitting in her car, hands clutching the steering wheel with white-knuckled grips, eyes wide with shock. She looked unhurt, but at that moment, Marc wouldn’t have cared if she was gushing blood from a head wound and screaming in agony. He put his Civic in park, turned off the engine, and got out of the car, wincing as he felt another jolt of pain in his neck.
Probably have whiplash, he thought, but it didn’t matter. He had to catch up to Jeffrey.
The driver of the Prius got out of her vehicle and started walking toward Marc, commencing the ritual of the minor car accident – exchanging insurance information and calling their respective insurance companies. As an insurance professional, Marc knew exactly what needed to be done. But he only gave the woman the barest of glances before running toward the sidewalk.
“Hey!” she shouted. “Where the hell are you going?”
He didn’t bother replying, barely registered her words. His entire focus was on Jeffrey. His love – or at least someone who resembled his love – was a good fifty feet ahead, glancing in the windows of every store he passed. The man’s clothes were dirty, and his complexion had a grayish tint to it. He looked like he needed a shower, a fresh outfit, and a good night’s sleep or two. The street here was lined with young elm trees, trunks and branches thin, leaves a light green. The Not-Jeffrey reached out with his left hand as he passed an elm and brushed his fingers against its trunk. He then made an abrupt turn and entered a parking lot.
Marc ran faster, dodging other pedestrians and ignoring the throbbing in his neck. As he drew close to the tree the Not-Jeffrey had touched, his eyes were drawn to a discolored patch of bark. The patch was gray, roughly rectangular in shape, and located on the spot where the Not-Jeffrey’s fingers had touched. Despite his urgent need to catch up with the man who looked too much like Jeffrey, the strange discolored section of bark caught his attention, and he stopped to examine it. He’d grown up outside town in a small house in the country. His family hadn’t been farmers – his dad was a welder and his mom a checkout clerk at a grocery. But he’d grown up around trees and had spent plenty of time playing in the woods when he’d been a kid, and he’d never seen any kind of tree blight like this. Not only did it look weird, but the longer he stared at it, the more it seemed as if it were spreading in front of his eyes. That couldn’t be possible, could it? There was no kind of mold that could spread that swiftly. None that he knew of, anyway. The gray patch was widening, extending outward in all directions. And it had a distinct odor too, a scent like spoiled, rotting meat.
