Sadie the Sadist: X-tremely Black Humor/Horror (20 page)

I shake my head, my brain going haywire.

Condition red, condition red, red, red.

Gorski says, “Tell us about your meeting.”

My system is shutting down. New data is available, but I can’t download the information. My stomach feels queasy. I might have picked up a virus.

“Too much spam.”

“What?”

My head snaps toward Gorski.

“What’s this about Spam?” he asks.

“She ate too much,” I say.

Nice save!

“I gave her Spam and crackers, and she drank several glasses of wine. I didn’t realize she intended to drive to Denver.”

Gorski glances at Redbear. “The autopsy mention Spam?”

“Don’t think so.” Redbear cocks his head. “How’d you know she was headed to Denver?”

My mind is blank, my hard drive wiped.

“I, ah—” I’m scrambling for backup. “I assumed. I mean, she mentioned she came from Denver, and when you said her car went off a cliff, I figured she must have been heading north.”

Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!

I lick my lips.

Wonder if I should call a lawyer—at least upgrade my Norton. I need a better firewall.

“You stated she drank wine,” Gorski says. “That’s been confirmed by the autopsy. Did she take any pills in your presence?”

“I—maybe. Why?”

“It seems strange that a person would take sleeping pills before a long drive.”

“Sleeping pills?” They know about the Unisom. I wonder if they noticed it last time they came here—I remember Redbear sneaking around. “Now that you mention it, she took some kind of pills out of her briefcase. I thought she was taking vitamins or something.”

“Her briefcase survived the fire,” Redbear says, his face a placid mask. “No bottle.”

“Huh.”

His eyes glare at me, attempting to locate information, but he needs a better search engine.

“May I use your bathroom, Mrs. Bardo?”

“Uh—yeah.”

He hits the bathroom down the hall. I’m worried, not because he’ll find evidence—I’ve scrubbed and bleached the tub, floor tiles, walls, ceiling, and despite a few sanguineous episodes, the bathroom is spotless—but he may bug the place for CORN. No doubt Corporate Operatives Reordering Neuropathy would like nothing better than to thwart me. On the other hand, if he’s really just a cop, and he’s looking for Unisom, he’ll find a brand new, unopened box of SleepGels in the bathroom off my bedroom. Tory polished off the last bottle.

From the corner of my eye, I see Redbear slip down the hall, enter my bedroom. Good thing I got rid of the old chainsaw. He’ll find the new one in the closet—no law against that—and if he checks out the bathroom cabinet, he’ll find Motrin, Xanax, store brand Pepto Bismol (sometimes I get indigestion); no open Unisom.

While Redbear snoops around my bathrooms, Gorski checks out my kitchen.

“Smells good,” he says, eyeing the pot on the stove.

“Ragoût.”

“Ragoo? What’s that?”

“A kind of stew. I like to cook.”

He removes the lid and steam rises from the pot. Between a Shitake and a Morel, I notice an eyeball. I slam the lid down.

“It’s not good to let the heat escape. Makes the meat tough.”

“I’m lucky if my wife makes Hamburger Helper.”

“Sometime I’ll invite you for dinner.”

Redbear returns with the box of Unisom.

“Same stuff?” Gorski asks.

“Yeah, but this is unopened.”

“I have trouble sleeping. The pharmacist at the supermarket recommended I try that stuff, but I’m not big on pills. Is that what Ms. Hartmann took?”

“Not big on pills, but you take Xanax?” Redbear produces a prescription vial.

“The shrink I saw after the rape prescribed it.” My tone is sharp. “You guys have a search warrant?”

“She’s right,” Gorski says to Redbear. “Put those pills back where you found them.”

“But forensics says—”

“Put them back. Why use Unisom to drug someone if you have Xanax? One little pill mixed with alcohol is enough to knock out a grown man, let alone a smallish woman.”

Good point.

And one that I’ll remember.

Redbear hands me the vial of Xanax and the doorbell rings.

“My company.”

“We’ll be on our way,” Gorski says.

“Next time, bring a warrant.”

“I doubt there’ll be a next time, Mrs. Bardo. Sorry to trouble you.”

“What did they want?” Marcus asks me.

“Nothing.”

“The cops stopped by for no reason?”

“Forget them.” I plant myself in front of Marcus and unzip the jumpsuit, exposing cleavage. “Like my outfit?”

His gaze travels down.

“Bit early for Halloween.”

That’s not the response I want.

“Do you think I’m sexy?”

I jerk my chin, attempting to toss strands of Tory’s red tresses provocatively, but the hairpins come undone and the scalp slips.

“What the hell is that?” Marcus asks. “A dead squirrel?”

This is
not
going according to plan.

“Want some wine?”

“Sure.”

Still upset about the dead squirrel comment, I stomp to the kitchen and he follows me.

He picks up the wine bottle, examines the label. “Australian, nice.”

“Sit down.” I wave him toward the couch.

While Marcus digs into the snacks I’ve set on the side table—my updated version of pork rinds: couch potato skins—I prepare his wine. Acting on Gorski’s suggestion, I’m dousing the Shiraz with Xanax. It’s a tougher process than squeezing out a gelcap. I have to crush the pills into powder. I turn my back to Marcus, so he can’t see what I’m doing.

Glancing over my shoulder, I see he’s happily munching on the skins.

I stir a spoon around the glass, encouraging the white powder to dissolve.

“Have you spoken to your daughter lately?”

“Carmela’s doing great, excited about school. I spoke to her this morning.”

“What grade’s she in?”

“Second. How’s your dad?”

“Better. He bought a pair of sandals.”

“Sandals?”

“On sale at Zappos. His first attempt at online shopping.”

I approach Marcus with his glass of wine, a fake smile glued onto my face.

“Cheers.”

I clink his glass with mine.

“Thanks, Sadie.”

Perching on the arm of the couch, I take a sip and Marcus takes a gulp. In the background, Frank serenades us.

“How’s the wine?”

“A little bitter.”

“Grease takes the edge off.” I offer him the plate of skin.

“What’s this song?”

“Just in Time.”

“I wouldn’t guess you to be a fan of Tony Bennett.”

“Sinatra. I can be sentimental.”

“Really?”

“Corny as Kansas in August—or Olathe, as the case may be.” I smile at him, but I don’t think he gets my reference. Nodding at his glass, I say, “Drink up.”

He does as he’s told.

“Hungry?”

“Starved.”

“Me too.”

I take his empty glass, head to the kitchen to refill it.

“Just a few finishing touches on dinner. You like ragoût?”

“Don’t know if I’ve ever had it, but it smells delicious.”

I hand him another glass of wine, rev the music’s volume, “If Ever I Would Leave You,” and go back to the kitchen to bang around some pots and pans.

I call out to Marcus, “Do you believe in soul mates?”

“Soul makes?” He chuckles, then repeats himself, enunciating, “SOUL MATES.”

“You laughing at me?”

“Laughing at myself.” His voice sounds sort of heavy. “This wine is getting to me. I need to eat.”

“Dinner’s almost ready. Answer my question.”

“What question?”

“Do you believe in soul mates? Two people who complete each other.”

“That’s called codependence, Sadie.”

“You’re not very romantic, are you?”

“I’m a realist.”

“Me too.”

I ladle ragoût into a bowl, grate cheese over it and find a spoon. Xanax acts faster than Unisom. When I return to the couch and try to hand the bowl to Marcus, his head droops toward his chest. I set the bowl on the side table, remove the empty wineglass from his hand.

“Hard day at the office?”

“Yeah.” He yawns.

“Screw any of your patients lately?”

“What?”

“Like you screwed me.”

“What are you talking about, Sadie? There a problem with your bill?”

He stares at me with drug glazed-eyes.

“Don’t pretend you don’t remember.”

“Remember what?”

“Our session.”

“You mean, do I remember how you attempted to seduce me? How I had to fight you off?”

“You raped me. Fucked me on the floor.”

“Are you delirious?”

“No worries. I don’t plan to report you.”

“Sadie, you’re delusional.”

“Am I? You almost bit my nipple off.” To prove it, I unzip my jumpsuit to my navel, revealing my bruised boob.

“What is that? Purple eye shadow? I knew I shouldn’t come here.”

Marcus wobbles when he stands, and I rush to support him. His aftershave creeps into my nostrils and I feel my body juicing up. He leans on me, thinks we’re headed to the front door, but I lead him to the freezer masquerading as a table. I need a flat surface, preferably elevated.

I blow out the candles, push the candlesticks aside, and shove Marcus onto the tablecloth.

“Lie down.”

He’s too out of it to resist as I pull off his pants. When he speaks his words are slurred.

“What’re you doing?”

“Giving you a BJ you’ll never forget.”

“You’re insane.”

“Borderline.”

“Revising my dio-dio-nosis,” he says, groggily. “Anti-Social Personality Disorder. Whadya puddin that wine?”

“Xanax. Only the best for my soul mate.”

“How much?”

“Four tablets altogether.”

“Exa-exa-exasss-cerbated by alcohol,” Marcus mutters, his head lolling from side-to-side. “You trying to kill me?”

“The opposite,” I say, although I doubt he hears me. “I want to keep you alive.”

He’s out. Lying faceup on the freezer. It’s almost the perfect length for his body—a bit short for a coffin though (in case I change my mind).

I pour myself another glass of wine. Turn up the music. Take in the scene.

That’s when I realize my mistake.

Marcus, supine on what appears to be a table in the middle of my dining area, is visible to anyone who walks into the apartment. The super. The police. My father (not that he’d show up). What was I thinking? I should have bought a freezer with wheels, so I could roll him into the spare room down the hall. Not only that, how can I store anything inside the freezer while he’s lying on top of it?

I stare at him, my annoyance growing.

He’s off center. The lack of symmetry vexes me. Wedging my hands under his shoulder blades and buttocks, I attempt to roll him onto his stomach, but deadweight is difficult to move. To gain more leverage, I climb onto the freezer. Channeling Natalia Romanova, I maneuver him into a prone position, his face smushed into the wrinkled tablecloth.

Now he’s centered, but his feet are not aligned with the edge of the freezer.

Maybe if I remove his shoes.

I untie his Asics Gel-Excels (for once, he’s dressed casually) and slip them from his feet. His toes still overreach the freezer, and there’s a teeny hole in the bottom of his left sock.

Irritating.

I pull off one sock, then the other, maintaining symmetry.

Stare at his naked toes.

They’re dangling off the freezer. Usually, at this point, I’m feeling something: excitement, elation, ecstasy … at least titillation. But, staring at Marcus and his mismatched toes, I feel exasperated.

I fetch my trusty scissors from the kitchen drawer.

Snip.

The little toe is gone, no problem.

Marcus moans, but he’s so out of it, he hardly moves. Not enough to stimulate my libido. I thought it would be different for us, thought by now he’d have a hard-on—at the very least I’d have a clit-on. Doctor Phil says a good sexual relationship is one that’s gratifying to both partners. I’m disappointed to learn, when it comes to Marcus, no matter how much I lust after his brain, our sex drives may be disparate.

Snip, snip, snip.

Four toes down, and still no movement.

His member peeks between his thighs, limp as shelled escargot, but his foot spouts more blood than I expected. That’s a turn-on. It’s spurting all over my jumpsuit, soaking through the tablecloth, dripping off the freezer, and ruining the carpet.

Darn.

I run to the hall closet and find my duck tape. (I looked it up online, and
duck
is acceptable—especially with orange sauce.) I tear off a strip and wrap it around his foot to stop the bleeding. Then I pull off a longer strip and tape Marcus to the freezer. For good measure, I slap a slab over his mouth; if he wakes up, I don’t want him to upset my neighbors.

Snip, snip, snip.

A few more toes, and I feel concupiscent. In other words, I’m horny. Familiar heat courses through my body, hitting all my pleasure centers. Using his big toe as a dildo, I stimulate my clit. Meanwhile, I pop a smaller toe into my mouth, roll it over my tongue savoring the flavor. It’s about the size of grape. The texture would be tenderer without a bone. And yet, the bone lends substance, gives me something to suck on.