“Okay,” Roth said. “Then he sunk her in the bog, you said? How’s he doing it?”
“She had something tied to her leg.” Mike looked around, remembered he was fairly deep in the woods. “Come to think of it… no, he doesn’t get her out here alive. He’s big – he carries her. Would’ve been at night. But if he parked his car off the road and somebody saw it… Maybe he stashed the concrete block, the rope, beforehand…”
Mike realized he was getting ahead of himself but couldn’t help it. Divers were just now going in the water, the first ones slipping beneath the surface, leaving air bubbles behind.
“Mike?”
“Yeah… hang on Eddie… I’ll call you back with updates, but let’s get a search going, let’s find something this guy left behind…”
* * *
Mike spoke through the mask covering his mouth. “It doesn’t look like she’s been in there too long.”
“The cold does it,” Crispin said. “The cold water encourages adipocere.” He feathered a gloved hand over the body on the gurney. “It’s this, you see it here, this waxen, soapy-looking substance all over, protecting the body against putrefaction. It coats like milk, slows decomposition. Then the constant wetness, the acidity, the anaerobic conditions, the presence of mosses – these are all antibacterial, aiding preservation.”
“So what are we saying?” Mike asked. He looked up from the ghostly body at Lena, whose face was hidden behind her own mask. She locked eyes with Mike.
Mike said to Crispin, “Can’t figure a time of death?”
“Oh, no, I can,” Crispin said. “I’m just saying appearances are deceiving. No, based on what I’ve done so far, this person was in that bog at least nine months. Probably went in just before it started to get cold. September, October, maybe.”
Mike and Lena exchanged another look. September 22 was when Corina Lavoie had disappeared.
* * *
So they’d found her. It didn’t exactly change things, just urged them forward a bit.
A couple of hikers? Fucking hikers. How had they seen her? The rope must’ve snapped and she’d floated up.
But that was okay – he wasn’t trying to hide them anymore. He wanted people to see.
Clay popped in a cassette. He needed to get into the right frame of mind for what lay ahead. So as he wended his way along the back roads, trees blurring past, he lost part of himself to the song, and to the memory of killing Lavoie…
* * *
A cool autumn night. Good night to go to the movies, where the theater’s heat bakes the moviegoers like loaves of bread. The film is All I See Is You – not exactly his cup of tea, typical saccharine fairy-tale bullshit – but it’s enough to be sitting three rows back from Corina Lavoie where he can watch her, think about how he’s going to slit her throat.
The movie goes on a long, long time, and twice he gets up to go the bathroom, practices his face in the mirror, and then enjoys returning to the theater, sitting back down behind her, envisioning her death all over again, the smell of bathroom soap wafting up from his hands.
When it’s over, he trails behind her a ways – not too far back – and then moves a little closer as the rest of the moviegoers disperse through the parking lot, everyone headed to their vehicles. He’s parked just a few spots away from her.
He’s nervous as he walks, not because he’s scared, but it’s starting to get exciting. Things are in motion; this is it. Don’t be overeager.
She senses him behind her and glances over her shoulder. Not bad-looking for an older black lady, if you go for that sort of thing. She’s skinny, not much to her.
“Did you like it?” he asks.
She slows but does not stop. She’s not quite sure what to make of him; she’s been around the block once or twice, for sure, so she’s going to be skeptical. He’s factored that in.
“I thought it was pretty good,” he said, “like, the end was good. Not something I’d usually see, you know, but – there’s not much for choices today, you know?”
“Yeah,” she says tentatively, “it was good. Have a nice night…”
She turns away and keeps moving, maybe a little bit faster now. She’s almost to her car. He gives the parking lot a quick look-over. Good thing she didn’t park too close to where there’s still a congestion of cars. Back where they are, it’s emptied out quite a bit.
“I guess you don’t recognize me, huh?”
She stops when she gets to her car, and he stops at his. When she looks back at him again, he tries not to smile, but just look friendly, polite. Harmless. He knows he has a face that can be off-putting if he’s not concentrating.
But, if he practices, uses his facial muscles in just the right combination, then he looks rather pleasant, even charming, despite his size, which he knows can intimidate people. So, he slouches.
She scowls now, curiosity overcoming her concern.
“You mean from the movie theater?”
He knows that she knows that’s not what he meant. He can see her hunting for it and then – there – boom – she gets the look: Her eyes acquire that mixture of pity and pride. Pity for him, pride for herself with what she thinks she recognizes.
He’s got her.
He reels her in further, carefully laying out the whole story. It’s a short version and the words are flowing; a recital he worked out over the past few weeks, and by the end of it she’s completely absorbed.
He tells her where he’s been, what he’s been doing – and in the telling he can see that emotion really swimming in her eyes now – another self-aggrandizing bodhisattva thinking she’s saving the world.
But it works so well – God damn, how he plays her like a fiddle. Doesn’t matter how street-smart she is, everyone is a sucker for a baby mouse. You play it timid, you play to their emotions, to their pride, and they’re putty in your hands.
It’s not hard, then, after he’s casually opened the passenger door, to get her to have a look at this thing he wants to show her; not only has her skepticism receded, it’s really gone altogether. She leans in with a bemused smile on her face and he takes one last look around – there’s just a chatty couple getting into their SUV several rows away, not paying any attention – then makes his move.
It’s calming, actually. Like the moment the whistle blows and the wrestling match begins. The nerves and sense of excitement dissipate as he leans in after her, wraps himself around her face and neck.
She screams, but it’s muffled by his big arms. She kicks a little, and she flails – one arm strikes the dashboard of his car, the other reaches around behind her, gets a fistful of his shirt – and then she jerks back and her head clips him in the lip. He tastes blood – like metal; copper. But he’s big and can apply a lot of pressure, and within twenty seconds the struggle is over. She’s asleep. Unconscious.
Not dead yet, not cut across the throat – that’s for later.
He props her up in the seat, puts her legs in, and shuts the door. Moves around to his side of the car and casts another look over the parking lot. The SUV is driving away. A trio of other people have just arrived, are getting out of their car, on their way in for the next showing, maybe. If anybody happens to glance over, it just looks like a man in his car and a woman asleep in the seat beside him.
They’ve got a ways to go now; it’s going to be a long night.
* * *
She’d screamed when she saw the knife, but by then it was too late, no one around to hear her.
It was good to remember – good practice for his mind, because his thoughts sometimes had gaps. Like a record skipping, he got mentally stuck.