INTERLUDE
The Dream
A red snow shovel hits dead in the center of her back. It slams her to the floor. Her chin hits hard tile; her teeth bite through her tongue. She tastes a mouthful of blood. The shovel comes down again, this time against the back of the head. Her nose breaks. Blood squirts.
Everything is ringing, distorted, a high-pitched whine.
She looks up through teary eyes.
Louis sits on a toilet in a stall. His pants are up. The rickety walls can barely accommodate his broad shoulders, big body. Both of his eyes are gone, replaced with Xs formed out of electrical tape. He clucks his tongue.
"You're a real man-eater," he says and whistles. "Del Amico. Me. That old bastard out of Richmond. Harry Osler up in Pennsylvania. Bren Edwards. Tim Streznewski. See a penny, pick it up. Am I right? Oh, and let's not forget that little boy out there on the highway. So many dead boys. The names go on and on, all the way back to… what? Eight years ago. Ben Hodges."
Miriam spits out blood. "Women, too. And I don't kill them. I don't kill anybody."
Louis laughs.
"You keep telling yourself that, little lady. Whatever helps you
sleep at night. Remember, just because you're not pulling the trigger doesn't mean you aren't a killer."
"It's fate," Miriam says, red drool swinging from her lower lip. "It's not me. It's how fate is. What fate wants–"
"Fate gets," Louis says. "I know. You say that a lot."
"My mother used to say–"
"It is what it is. I know that old chestnut, too."
"Fuck you. You're not real."
"Not yet. But just shy of a month, I will be. I'll be another skeleton in your closet, another ghost in your head. Dangling and swinging and moaning and groaning."
"I can't save you."
"Apparently not."
"Go to hell."
He winks. "Meet you there. Watch out for that–"
The shovel comes down between her shoulder blades. She feels something break deep inside of her. Her thighs grow wet. The pain is intense.
"– shovel."