A Good and Useful Hurt (23 page)

When Mike woke, his head was lying in Deb’s lap.
They were in the middle of the first floor of the old museum, the one they’d never made it to, just one of so many regrets. The lights were on, and everything was as it had been—not as it would have been if they’d broken in, but
before
.

She said, “That was brave. Stupid, but brave.”

“You don’t have to tell me. Christ, he got off a couple good ones. My head’s gonna be ringing.”

She smiled at him, and it was sweet—he knew she was happy.

“What now?”

“We’ll see to him,” she said. “First tonight, and more often if we have to.”

“Where are the rest of them?”

“They’re gone right now; this is just me and you.”

“That’s just fine with me. Ugh, if my face is sore here, it’s going to feel awful there.”

“You’re probably right. Do you want to walk with me?”

“I do.”

“Then show me your museum.”

He stood, and she did as well. She was wearing a white shirt and matching skirt. Her lobes hung naked without jewelry, and the only piercing he could see adorned her lip. She took his hand. “Show me the animals.”

He led her as much as she led him, and together they crossed the clean wood floor onto the marble of the animal dioramas. There was no need for flashlights today; the museum was open for business, even if only for them.

Mike could see that all of the exhibits had been dusted and cleaned; the animals were all in their places, and pristine.

“Did it feel good to punch him?”

“You have no idea.”

“I’ll know soon enough. What was better, the ink or hitting him?”

“They were both pretty good. I’m not sure—probably the ink. It really caught him off guard.”

“The foxes are beautiful.”

“Yup. Isn’t it so great here?”

“I like it, too. I might not see you after today.”

“What? Why? You said it was up to me to end it, not you!”

“If I’d told you the truth, you wouldn’t have done what needed doing.”

“You can’t be serious. Deb, why can’t you see me again?”

“It might not be possible. There are limits, and we’ve pushed them near to breaking already. I’m going to push them more tonight—we all are. I’ll come back if I can, but even if I do, this won’t be forever. You’ll find someone eventually, Mike, you need to accept that. When it happens, you’ll set me in the rearview. It’s the right thing to do.”

“That’s not what I want. I’m happy seeing you at night, happy doing what we are right now.”

“Do you think you can live without sleep, Mike? I know you’re not sleeping.”

“It doesn’t matter. I don’t need to sleep, I need to see you.”

“When you wake up, Doc, Becky, and Lamar are going to be with you. Just know that I still might need you. If I can’t do what I need to—”

“Then I’ll have to go see to the man.”

“Nice way of putting it, but yes, it will be on you to do right by him. It’s such a shame these animals aren’t alive. Why didn’t you like the zoo more?”

“Ask my dad, he’s the one who brought me here.”

“You know better than that.”

“Sorry, afterlife joke.”

“In any case, you’ll know tomorrow, one way or the other. If you don’t see anything on the news, you’re going to need to handle him yourself. And I don’t mean a fistfight. It was a valiant effort, and being a lady I do appreciate you fighting for my honor, but I really don’t like your chances. You’ll need to get the gun back from Doc.”

“A lady, huh?”

“Hey, I look nice in a skirt!”

“I never said you didn’t, but I never heard the bit about the lady before either. I’m not sure ladies work in your profession, or hope the child molester wins in
Happiness
.”

She laughed, and it made him so sad he wanted to scream.

“I’m not sure ladies see
Happiness
at all, Mike.”

“Yeah, I suppose. I can’t believe I might never see you again.”

“But you did get to see me again—think of it that way. At least we got to be together. It’s not quite the same, but it’s still better than what most people get. We get to say goodbye and hope it’s not for the last time. Do you want to look at the bones now?”

“As long as you’re coming with me. Do you think there’s a chance you’ll get to come back?”

“Anything’s possible. None of this should have been, but you made it all work out.”

“You never should have died.”

“It was my time. You’ll find yours someday too.”

He held her hand as they crossed the wooden dais of the museum. It occurred to him then that she’d never lied to him when she’d been with him in the waking world. What other secrets was this Deb holding onto?

They walked together into the bones, and just like with the animal dioramas, everything was as it always should have been.

“I’m going to be the one to come to him,” Deb said. “They’ll be there with me, but I’m going to do the nasty bits.”

“Tonight?”

“When he sleeps, and when I’m done here.”

“Is that it, then? Are you done here?”

“I will always be with you.”

Mike saw the walls radiating light and knew in his heart that this would be the last time, that he would never see her again, that the memories of all of this might soon fade, and he’d be left with the memory of her dead and half naked to fill his mind on cold nights. He pulled her close and kissed her hard on the lips. She closed her eyes, and so did he.

Snow was months away, and they were indoors, but this world was his too, and they were underneath a streetlight together in real magic, the magic they’d made together in the wind and swirling snow. The light was a lie and so was the snow, but her lips were as full and real as they’d ever been. They parted.

“I love you,” he said. “I’d have done anything for you.”

“I know. I love you too. And you’ve already done everything. I’ll see you soon.”

Mike smiled at her and let her have the lie.

That stupid motherfucker.
How the fuck was some little faggot covered in shitty-ass tattoos going to come and fuck with him while he was working? Kicked that fucker’s ass. That’s what ya get. The other guy, though, with the gun, that had been weird. Like why in the fuck did that guy give a shit about some piece of white trash that had fucked up? He’d been serving that idiot until the pussy with the gun had come along. He’d take them both on at once without that gun; see how bad that old man and his drunk, tattooed buddy were without the gun.

The truck bounced under him as he drove, and Phil wasn’t sure what pissed him off worse, that the goddamn struts were going or that the little bastard had actually put one on him. His nose was tender from where he’d gotten popped, but Phil was pretty sure it wasn’t broken. The thing already had the consistency of oatmeal, and he wasn’t even sure it could break again. Christ, his knee hurt too. Tomorrow he’d feel better, and that would push all of this bullshit away, because tomorrow was power. Tomorrow was tearing off labia with his teeth if he wanted. Tomorrow that slut would die because he wanted her to. That was his world, and he was god.

The tattooed bitch had been a start—a good start—toward some of what had been lost in the two before her. Some of the action had been gone with them. They hadn’t fought him right, they’d tried to placate him, and he’d hurried to just be done with them. That’s not how it was supposed to be. They were supposed to fight him, and they were supposed to die. The one bitch that begged for it was good, but the tattooed girl had fought tooth and nail and still paid the price.

Waiting for Shawna and Tasha was getting rougher, even though he still had the tattooed bitch to play with. It wouldn’t matter—he could wait until tomorrow. She was going to be back with her sweet little babe, but Shawna was going to wish she was still in Florida when she saw Phil.

It took about eight to ten cans to put him down lately, and he could already feel the paunch growing around his waist. Not a big deal, but something to wonder about. How many cans would it be in a month, and why was he having trouble sleeping in the first place? Once he fell asleep, that was where the fun began. They came to him the right way at night, suffering as they should have in real life, fighting back better than they had and finally acquiescing to pleasure before being killed. It was a nice place to be, and tonight would be the last time with true clarity for the tattooed bitch. Tomorrow she got replaced, so tonight had to special.

He drank the beer at the table, in the dining room of the little house. The box sat on the table, he sat on a chair, and soon enough there were more cans on the table than in the box. This was what he thought of as private drinking. You couldn’t pound beers like this in front of other people, just like you couldn’t talk in front of other people about not being able to get it up unless she didn’t want it, but it was pretty nice to think about what was going to happen tomorrow, while drinking slowly warming beer.

The one bad thought was a constant bad thought: What would happen when he got caught? It was stuck in his head like a chicken bone in a dog’s neck, and it never came loose easy. Being caught was bad, and he wasn’t altogether sure it was even good to think about. Prison would probably be OK for a big guy like him, he wasn’t worried about that part of it, but prison would mean no more games. No watching, no catching, and no finishing. It would also mean he’d never again figure out when was going to be next. Right now next meant tomorrow, and that was sweet.

Watching used to be enough; just knowing that he
could
was enough after that. Now things had to be finished, and someday, he could feel it, even finishing might not be enough. Maybe he’d keep one and try and train her in his basement for a while. That would take a lot of work, though.

And besides, it was pretty easy to kill them, but people looked harder when somebody just disappeared—the news had taught him that much. His work usually got featured for a day or two, and then somebody else did something and chased him off of the TV. That was fine—the celebrity buzz was nice, but every time he was on TV there was focus on him, and every time he killed there was that much more focus than there’d ever been before.

Phil finished his beer and moved it with the rest of the empty ones. Time to piss.

It took about an hour to finish the rest of the twelve-pack, and by the time it was gone, Phil was tottering on the brink of being very drunk. It was going to be a bitch to wake up in the morning, but that was OK. There was a lot to look forward to, and even sleep would be nice. He thought with some regret that he was probably too drunk to dream, but if he wasn’t, it was time to show that tattooed slut one last time who was boss. The baby was an interesting bit, too: leaving a witness who would never be able to tell anyone what had happened, or who had done it. He’d let Shawna see him. It was nice when they recognized that the man who’d given them a hand with the flat or carrying groceries or whatever else was also the man who was going to kill them. The recognition was a nice payoff.

He lay in bed with the TV on and let the talking heads put him down. It took just a few minutes after all the beer, and then he was gone.

Phil woke the same way he had every night since he’d killed the tattooed bitch: tied to his bed.
She’d looked like she’d be into some shit like that; hell, she might have liked what he’d done to her, for all he knew.

So he wasn’t too drunk to dream!

He tested the tension of the restraints at his wrists but didn’t break free yet; it was much too early for that. She walked in a few minutes later—long enough, he knew, to let him sweat a bit, maybe about being tied up. Joke would be on her in a minute. He smiled, both in the dream and across his sleeping, drooling face.

She wore electrical tape across her nipples to cover them, and she had a red corset on beneath her breasts that sucked her waist in. She was bare beneath that, save for a pair of high-heeled patent leather boots that matched the corset. On her hands were gloves that went to the elbow, gloves the same color as the boots and corset. It was a nice outfit and one that suited her well. Most of the other girls would have looked ridiculous in it, but he never had power fantasies like this with them, either. They just weren’t like that. In her right hand was a riding crop that she was paddling herself lightly on the leg with, each little cracking swat reminiscent of the .22 he’d killed squirrels and that one puppy with when he was a boy. It was a nice sound, familiar.

She used the crop first on his stomach. It was as bare as she was below the corset, and each strike felt like a numbed sting from a wasp, leaving little red marks where the crop had been. She tapped lightly on his genitals, and he could feel himself growing. It would be time to break free soon.

She dropped the crop and crawled onto the bed next to him. This was new—normally she just whipped him a bit and then he got free. She ran a gloved finger down his belly and tapped his prick with it before rolling onto her stomach beside him and tucking both hands underneath her chin. They locked eyes and she spoke:

“I’m going to do things to you up here.”

She pointed to her head.

“But you’re going to feel them everywhere, feel them like they’re really happening to you. You won’t be able to make me stop, and I’m not going to ever stop. I’m going to do to you what people have paid me a lot of money to do, only I don’t think anyone would pay for exactly what I’m going to do to you. When I’m done I’m going to start over again. And again, and again, and again.

“When you confess what you’ve been doing—I mean to the cops, when you’re awake—I might stop. I might never stop, though, and you need to remember that. This could happen forever, and nothing you do or say can make me stop. I will consider it, though, maybe even give you a night or two off, if you confess. Hell, maybe it’ll stop altogether. I wouldn’t count on that, though. This is going to be fun.”

Phil was struggling at the restraints harder than he’d ever had to before by the time she’d really started talking, and now his face was red with the effort. He flung his body away from the bed while she watched, but he landed still restrained. Which was impossible. It couldn’t be happening, because this was his world, this was fucking
his
.

“Cut me loose, bitch. Untie these fucking things.”

She laughed, still next to him on the bed, and he didn’t like the sound. It was fingernails on glass, worse, to hear her laugh like that, like she was the one with the power, like she was god.

“I said cut me loose, bitch. I won’t hurt you.”

She laughed again, longer this time, and now he really did pull at the restraints. He threw himself as hard as he could, hard enough that the bedposts themselves should have shattered. For the first time he noticed that his legs were tied, too—how had he not noticed that?—and his legs had never been tied. He flailed one last time, bringing his legs and arms together with all the power he could muster. Nothing happened.

Still laughing, she slipped off of the bed. She said, “You know, I have to admit I like the outfit. Red’s not really my favorite color, kinda whorish, and I definitely would’ve included underwear, but it’s still pretty good.”

The light in the room no longer seemed to come from the lamp; it was behind her, spreading tendrils of illumination throughout the room. What he’d thought was his bedroom was much larger now, and the spaces that should have been walls and closets were not there at all. Phil could hear a squeaking and dragging coming closer.

Looking down between his feet he saw one of them. But not as she’d been; she was how he’d left her. He couldn’t remember her name at first, but then it struck him even harder than the riding crop had. Angela.

She was pushing a steel cart that was covered in a sheet or towel—he couldn’t lift his head enough to tell. Her face was battered and ruined, and her clothing was shredded and rotten. Her left leg dragged behind her obscenely, and he remembered the thrill of crushing it under his boot, only now that thrill was replaced with a deep revulsion. She was damaged goods at best, the kind of thing he’d never have considered for one of his projects. She also held the towel now, and he could just barely see the tray, but whatever was on it shined.

The tattooed bitch laughed, used something he couldn’t see to cut his boxers off of him, and then laughed again.

While he’d been watching her, Phil had missed something: the bed was surrounded with them now, surrounded by them as he’d left them. They were ruined, all of them except for the tattooed bitch, and now she held a small blade aloft. It looked like something attached to a pen. She leaned over his left leg, her breasts hanging pendulously, and said, “I’m going to hurt you just a little bit, and then you can think for a second about what I said.”

“Fuck you, cunt.”

“No, not today.”

She took something off of the tray, he couldn’t see what, and then knelt over his leg. First nothing and then—fire.

A burning like he’d never known, and he near to swooned as she worked at his ankle. Hours or minutes later—or fuck, was it just a few seconds?—she rose. In her hand was a pair of scissors that looked like the roach clips he had in the drawer, and in the teeth of them was a ribbon, a dripping ribbon.

“This is the skin that covered the outside of your ankle. I want you to remember this piece in the morning and think about what I said. We’re going to do this whole leg—I know how—and you shouldn’t lose consciousness or fade like you’ll want to. And if you
do
pass out…”

She held a small red cylinder aloft.

“…then
this
is going in your pisshole. Just the tiniest little firecracker, a little Black Cat. But it will feel much, much bigger if it goes off.”

Behind and around her the other women were swaying—their bodies were destroyed, but their split lips spread to bare smiling teeth.

“Don’t worry,” she said, “you’ll be here with us. Remember what I said, and remember that little Black Cat.”

She moved away from him, went back to the tray, and returned to his leg. It was slow work, and he could tell she was enjoying it.

“Some jobs, even the worst jobs, have to get done just right, and this is one of them. To hurry through it wouldn’t be right, Phil. I think we’ll get a little break once I get all the skin off of your thigh.”

He was sweating profusely, and he could see that she was starting to as well. The pain from the leg was unbearable—twice flashes of light had threatened to take him, but the memory of the firecracker had kept him awake. The kneecap was still attached, but it hung loosely and the usually pained knee was numb—and gone. That was a problem.

Deb pushed the first needle, an eight gauge, through Phil’s left cheek. It was tough to work it through—cheeks are thick, she thought, even here—but it made its way eventually. The second cheek was harder; the first had dulled the needle. She worked all over his face in the same way, as he dipped in and out of consciousness. He suffered, and that was OK. He still had some screams left when she removed his balls, first one and then the other. It was hard to pick, but she’d started with the left leg, and so the left gonad went first. They separated easier than she’d expected.

When he went, it was screaming, but with relief. He was happy to be given the privilege of death, she could tell. It was so much better than he deserved, and Deb made his last breath a whistle by opening his trachea. He hissed his existence in a crimson spray.