The Atheist's Daughter (16 page)

Chapter Twenty-Four

Miss Sweet had found them the car a week ago. It was a used two-door sedan, bleached white, and with a deep scratch carved into its rear bumper. It started easily and ran well, it was dependable, and not even the most avid car aficionado would give the vehicle a second glance.

Piece a shit
, Mr. Brass thought, as he had when he first saw the car.
I’m ashamed to be seen in it.

Mrs. Norton took the passenger seat, cranking her window down a quarter turn. She didn’t like automobiles, had never driven one as far as he knew. Cars were for going places and she found this one satisfactory for that purpose.

Mr. Brass parked the car two blocks from their destination. He locked the doors manually and the pair of them started down the sidewalk.

He didn’t mind walking. Better to walk, anyway, than to be seen in that sorry bucket of bolts.

“It appears we’ve arrived, Mr. Brass,” Mrs. Norton said, touching her finger to the last of the black boxes on a mail stand. At the top was the label,
24B
. Beneath the number, there was a name:
S Guitierrez.

Indistinguishable from its neighbors,
24B
was a two-story row house. Each of the red brick units had its own cement walkway leading into a small courtyard. Every courtyard featured an eight-foot circle of grass and most of them boasted a single tree in the center of the grass enclosure. Hiding behind each courtyard was an entryway with a secluded front door.

They followed the cement pathway to the end unit.

Pressing his eye to the peephole at the front door, Mr. Brass saw only blackness. He jiggled the doorknob but it remained firm and unmoving in his grip.

“What happened to small town values?” he said softly. “Neighbors trusting neighbors?”

He removed a folded leather wallet from his jacket’s inner pocket. The wallet unfolded to display a series of lock picks, each nestled in its own sleeve. For the door handle, he selected the next to the smallest pick. For the pair of upper deadlocks, he’d need something bigger.

“Careful,” Mrs. Norton said. “We don’t want any scratches, even on the strike plate. No damage to the jamb.”

She said it as if he was still green. As if he was as raw as Mr. Locke. It bothered him, like the car bothered him, but he knew better than to let his feelings show.

He focused on his task. “Do you remember when we had the locksmith shop? Was there ever a better business for us?” He twisted the bent wire up, up again, and then down. The spring-driven latch released and the handle clicked open.

“It improved your skills.”

Thirty seconds later, the door was unlocked. Inside, a semi-circle of polished tile marked the home’s entrance. White carpeting flowed into a modest living room on their right and onto the steps of the stairway on their left. From one of the unseen rooms in front of them, a pot gurgled. The smell of fresh coffee was in the air.

On the second floor, a sliver of light shone from beneath a closed door. Inside the room was the muffled sound of running water.

The meat is awake.

Mr. Brass was so hungry he almost didn’t care. From experience, he knew he could be up the stairs in seconds. Even if the bathroom door was locked, it wouldn’t slow him. Made from plywood or press board, it would shatter beneath the strength of his need.

In less than a minute, he could have his hands on his victim’s throat. There was a time, long since passed, when he’d have acted on his desire. Now, he didn’t move. Knowing the blood lust was on his face, he waited for Mrs. Norton to speak.

“Quietly,” she said. 

Disappointment washed over him. Softly, he went up the stairs. At the mouth of the hallway, he paused to listen to the noises around him.

To his left, nothing. To his right, faucets squeaked as the roar of running water diminished and disappeared. He crept to the bathroom door, hearing the sound of flesh rubbing over porcelain. It was followed by a splash and then the sound of water lapping inside the tub.

She
was in there, exposed and helpless. He wondered if her eyes were closed. Had she left her bathrobe in a pile on the floor, never to be needed again? Was she in a bubble bath, soap suds floating above the skin of her naked body?

The contemplation of her demise was so delicious he wished he could linger in the hallway, savoring it. But his hunger drove him forward.

The knob turned easily in his grip. Her arms supported on the edges of the bathtub, Susannah Guitierrez gave a startled cry when he entered the room.

I wish I could let you scream, meat, we’d both enjoy it so
. But Mr. Brass knew better. Covering Susannah’s mouth, he shoved her under the water.

Her eyes had been open when he entered the room. A pink bathrobe hung on the hook inside the door. The water was clear and steaming; there were no soap suds.

Life’s mysteries, so easily answered.

Water splashed around him as she squirmed beneath his hold. Susannah’s hand shot forward, finding purchase on the side of the bathtub. Her other hand followed, her fingernails scratching uselessly over the arm of her assailant. A nail broke as it struck his vacant forearm, snapping as if it had struck stone.

He sensed another presence in the room. Her eyes bright with interest, Mrs. Norton watched their victim fight for survival.

Susannah’s fingers curled over the rim of the bathtub. Bracing her legs in the tub, she propelled herself from the water. Rage in her eyes, she glared at him. Wet and slippery, she twisted from his grasp. Mr. Brass heard a sharp whistle of sound as she sucked in air.

Fiercely, she bit down on his smallest finger. Shock filled her face as her teeth cracked against the unyielding digit. A piece of tooth shattered, falling from her mouth.

“Good effort,” Mr. Brass said. Grabbing her hair, he used his other arm to press against the soft folds of her stomach. He forced her body down to the bottom of the bathtub.

“Gently,” Mrs. Norton said. “There’s to be no bruising, no broken skin.”

Easy for her to say. This one’s a fighter.

She proved it when, flailing, she again found a hold on the slick edges of the tub. He let her face rise from the water. Spreading his fingers, he gave her a single gasp of air before he pushed her down. Her head hit the tub with a dull
thunnnng.

Five years for one
, he thought.

Weaker now, Susannah struggled upward. He let her lift from the bottom of the tub but not quite high enough to break the water. He could feel the bones of her skull as he brought her head down.

Thunnnng.

You’ve had so many years
, he told her silently.
Years of taste and smell and touch. I want my time.

Give it to me.

Bucking, fighting, she brought her torso out of the water but he kept his palm over her airway. This time, there would be no respite. Enjoying his power, he forced her head down.

Thunnnng.

Her arms trembled as Susannah tried to surface once more. Her hands slipped from their perch, falling into the water. Under his hold, she softened, grew limp.

No paradise for you, meat
.
Not when you die like this.

No chance for redemption. No hope for salvation. Nothing left for you at all.

Nothing but the Void.

She sank to the bottom of the tub, her eyes open but blind. The lost fragment of tooth lay beside her, trapped between flesh and porcelain. He retrieved it, tucking it inside his shirt’s top pocket. A trail of water dribbled after it.

It was nearly time to feed.

Mrs. Norton crept closer. Jealously, he hunched over the body in the tub.

She’s hungry, too
, he thought with sharp awareness.
What will I do if she chooses to take the meal?

He knew he dared do nothing. If she wanted to feed, she would.

He darted a sideways glance at her. Delicately taking the broken piece of Susannah’s fingernail from the bathroom’s linoleum flooring, she put it in her mouth. Swallowing it, Mrs. Norton left the bathroom.

Bending over the tub, Mr. Brass unhinged his jaw. He stretched his mouth wide, and then wider. Inside his throat, he could feel the vortex, whirling.

The greedy beast senses she’s close. It’s as ready as I am.

The woman’s essence rose from her body, no more solid than the morning’s mist. As it lifted toward salvation, toward some unseen circle of Heaven’s light, he inhaled.

Her presence came into him,
filled
him. He absorbed the five years that should have been: the joy, the happiness, the good health.

He devoured it all.

Color washed into him. Increased sensation arrived and, with it, the sweet arrival of life itself. He could feel his heart pump. He could taste the air he breathed. The clothing covering him suddenly felt wet and cold. His shoes felt too tight around his feet.

He lifted up, filled. For a few short months, his body would be rich with the needs, possibilities and vulnerabilities of the flesh. He rubbed his hands together, one over the other, feeling the friction of his skin. He pressed his fingertips to his face, feeling his nose, his eyelids, his ears. Pursing his lips, he blew across his wrist. Wonderfully, the air coming from his mouth felt warm.

The meat was hollowed, the interior of the bath tub clearly visible through her frame. Inside the shell of her stomach, he saw what was left of her essence. The size and shape of a flower’s petal, it shriveled inside of her, curling into itself as it turned from gold to brown.

Then it winked away, leaving nothing behind.

“Sorry,” Mr. Brass said, meaning,
I’m sorry I can’t do this to you again
.

Not for the first time, he wished his victims could return to life. If the Dark Ones granted him one wish, this is what he would want: the opportunity to kill a mortal, someone such as Susannah Guitierrez, over and over again, year after year, for all of eternity. 

Drown her, stab her, shoot her, strangle her.
Endless feeding with the same victim, a new manner of murder every time. It was his only fantasy.

From downstairs, there was the sound of the front door opening.

“Ms. Guitierrez?” a female voice called. “Susannah? Are you home?”

“I smell coffee,” a second voice said. Female, again. “Let’s check the kitchen.”

He was searching for a weapon when Mrs. Norton’s hand dropped upon his shoulder. Following her, he slipped down the stairway as a light came on in the back of the house. When the two of them went through the open front door, he could hear the intruders talking to one another in the kitchen. Alarm was growing in their voices but it hadn’t yet taken hold.

Soon there will be screams
.

Following the outcry, there would be sirens, then ambulances, and police cars. People would be panicked, running everywhere.

It would be a wonderful sight.

Mrs. Norton proceeded down the cement walkway. She fussed at her clothing, smoothing the sleeves of her jacket. When she was done, she eyed him critically. “You’re wet.”

“I can feel it,” he said, with pride. 

A cry of alarm came from Susannah’s house. The sound throbbed with pain. Then – sharp and cutting, piercing the air – a woman screamed.

“I’m going to the main boulevard,” Mrs. Norton said. “I’ll find a ride. When you’re presentable, you’ll collect the auto and return to the café.”

“Let me get the car now.”

“The police are coming. What will you say if a patrol car pulls us over? How are you going to explain your wet clothes?”

“I don’t know.” Well, what did she expect him to say? He had muscle, he had strength. He wasn’t the smart one. “I’ll wait, then. Find a place to hide.”

“Not here.”

Mr. Brass said, “There’s one of those storage unit places behind the baseball field. Eastside Storage, maybe a mile from here. Lots of trees, plenty of cover. It would be easy to spend an hour there.”

“Very well.” Her soft-soled, tan shoes made little noise as she followed the sidewalk.

He touched at his shirt. The fabric was rough and garish. The buttons felt too big between his fingers. His pants weren’t any better. They were coarse and cheaply stitched; he should have bought better.

An hour ago, his clothing hadn’t mattered. Now that he was alive again, he cared.

He’d find better soon enough. The shirt and pants would be dry by the time he reached the storage yard. If he saw a store in the area, maybe he could go shopping. If not, he’d return and collect the
piece a shit
car.

But was this any way to start this grand, new year, wasting so many minutes on such an unnecessary task?

Still, what choice did he have? He didn’t dare return to the café because Mrs. Norton would be waiting there.

Which means
, he reflected,
she won’t know if I go to the storage unit or not. She doesn’t check me for lies, not anymore. She only checks Mr. Locke.