My Soul to Keep (42 page)

Lou Reed’s hearing wasn’t the greatest, but his olfactory senses were sharp as hell. He could smell a Smiley’s pizza from yards away and peg the kind of topping with an accuracy that shocked even him. The one coming now was a plain pepperoni. How could anyone order pepperoni pizza when the fliers in the motel rooms, plain as day, said Smiley’s specialties were barbecued shrimp or crawfish pizza? No imagination, he thought, flipping stations on his thirteen-inch color TV to find a show that might make him laugh for a change.

The kid ducked inside the motel office, waving, a pizza box in his hand. Yep. Pepperoni, all right. Shame.

The kid had probably stopped in to fish for a brew, since Lou kept his minifridge under the counter well-stocked during baseball season. As long as Lou had the Braves and his Amstel Light, he didn’t care if there weren’t any guests all night long.

Which was probably a good thing, he figured ruefully, since business was shot to hell since the Motel 6 opened down the way. Goddamn chains had money to advertise, and people liked a name they recognized. It was an indisputable fact of American consumerism.

“Second time here tonight,” he remarked to the kid, studying his pimply face and wondering why he didn’t use any cream for it. Wasn’t he past the age when he should be thinking about girls?

“Told you it was a good idea to put fliers in the rooms,” the kid said. “Between you and the Motel 6, we’re over here five, six times a night.”

“Tell that cheapskate Smiley to give you a raise then.”

“Yeah, right. Hey, Lou Reed, what happened in Two?”

Lou Reed. The kid always called him by both of his names because he thought it was funny he had the same name as that singer who did “Walk on the Wild Side.” Most times, he came in here singing it and was about to drive him crazy.

“Nothing going on with Two I know about. Black guy checked in with his kid this afternoon. Then they came by an hour ago when he used the pay phone to get a pizza.”

The kid’s eyes bugged. Really, Lou thought, if he got rid of those glasses and found some acne cream, he’d look all right. “You kidding me? Didn’t you hear all that screaming?”

Lou flipped to another channel. He hated that loud
Roseanne.
“What do you mean, screaming? Maybe he was yelling at the kid.”

“Naw, Lou Reed, it was a woman screaming. I give him his food, he pays me, he gives me a dollar tip, and I’m walking to my car when I hear this woman screaming her head off. And I hear this crash, like something breaking.”

Now, the kid had Lou’s attention. Some drunken shithead had broken a window just last week throwing a bottle of whiskey at his wife, and Lou was still trying to pay for that. Lou didn’t even remember seeing a woman when the black guy and his kid checked in, unless she was out in the car. What the hell was wrong with these men beating up on their wives? If he ever tried to lay a hand on Glo, she’d kill him. He almost chuckled at the very idea.

But this wasn’t funny. A guy beating his wife wasn’t right, especially in front of a kid. Maybe he was beating that cute little pigtailed kid too. The guy in Two didn’t look the type: clean-cut, well spoken. But the whole world was going to hell in a handbasket nowadays. Nothing but psychos.

Of course, Lou reminded himself, this pizza kid once told him he watched
Natural Bom Killers
at least once a week, and the goddamn video was two years old. He probably wasn’t the most reliable source, considering he must have a sick imagination.

“I’d check out Two, if I were you,” the kid said, turning on his heel. “Hey, that—”

“Yeah, yeah … that rhymes,” Lou said, waving him off.

“No beer tonight?”

“Later. Not while you’re driving.”

“Damn, Lou Reed, you sound like my stepdad. Walk on the wild side,” the kid said, and vanished with his pizza.

Lou didn’t waste any time. The invoice from A-Anytime Window & Glass was sitting on the desk right in front of his face, and he wasn’t going to put up with any more crap from the guests. He grabbed his master key and made his way around the counter to walk outside into the humid night. Room Two.

Eight o’clock and only five guests in thirty units. Not that early summer was ever a busy time for him, but things were looking dire. Might be time to sell soon, if anyone who’d been offering a couple of years back would still be interested.

The black guy’s car was a gray Plymouth, probably a rental. Nothing special about it. Florida plate, from Orange County. Lou took note of the tag number, KAT 161. Easy enough to remember.

He listened in front of the freshly painted door for a half-minute. He heard music from the TV’s built-in radio, but that was it. Should he barge in on these folks over some kid’s wild imagination or just go on about his business?

Thinking about his broken picture window and the price tag to fix it, Lou knocked.

After a few seconds and some shuffling, the door cracked open. Black guy stood there, a slice of pizza in his hand. Plain cheese, congealing. Must be way cold by now.

Right away, Lou glanced over his shoulder to peek inside. He saw the little girl sitting on the edge of the bed, stroking a woman’s hair like she would a doll’s. The woman was black too, with short hair. Sleeping, or seemed like it. The kid had the sniffles and didn’t look very happy, that was for sure. And the lamp on the nightstand was crooked, knocked out of whack. Maybe something really had happened in here.

“Can I help you?” the black guy asked, not annoyed, but over-polite with a voice that really meant “Get lost.”

“Just checking to make sure everything’s all right,” Lou said.

“Fine. Thanks,” the man said. He smiled as an afterthought. “Good night.”

It wasn’t anything Lou could put his finger on. The black guy hadn’t been very sociable, even when he came down to use the phone, but then again, some people were friendlier than others. There was just something about the little girl’s face, her mussed hair, the way she was stroking the woman like that. Didn’t look right. He wasn’t even sure why. He’d have felt loads better if it had been the woman who answered the door.

And the black guy was something else again. There was something in his eyes.

Now that damn pizza kid had Lou’s imagination going too.

KAT 161.

Well, just for the hell of it, he could call Glo’s brother at the state patrol and see if the license tag meant anything special. Craig loved shit like that. Nothing better to do, sitting behind a desk with a broken ankle. And still blaming Lou for it. Hell, it wasn’t his fault the fat SOB couldn’t dodge a tackle.

Lou walked back to his office toward the phone, singing,
“Doop de-doop, doop, doop-de-doop doop, de-doop, doop …”

Damn that pizza kid, anyway. Never should have told him my goddamn name, Lou Reed thought. Now he’d be hearing that song in his head for the rest of the night.

All difficulty is relative, Dawit realized. His labors as a slave, his breathless combat with other men, his terrible disembowelment at his own hands, the suddenness of his life’s sorrows: All of these things had been difficult. These trials were the timber of his being, whatever he was.

Why, then, had nothing seemed so difficult as this?

Kira was sitting on the bathroom sink’s countertop, her legs swinging back and forth, the tip of her neon-orange sneakers occasionally brushing against his thighs. Her eyes were moony, and she gazed up at him, hardly blinking.

“I don’t want any pills, Daddy,” Kira said.

He had not been prepared for an argument. Nor for the doubts, even distrust, plainly written on his child’s young face. He felt, suddenly, like a masked Nigerian Egungun, the face of death.

“They’ll make you sleepy, that’s all, Kira.”

“I don’t want to go to sleep. I want to watch the Disney Channel. When are we going to the Magic Kingdom? Mommy said.”

“Tomorrow, we’re going to see a man in New Orleans,” Dawit said. “He’s going to give us papers to go on an airplane to Africa. Just like we planned.”

Kira stared up at him, then glanced toward Jessica’s unmoving form on the bed. She made no move to take the pills.

“Is Mommy sick?”

“No, Duchess. She’s only resting.”

“How come … when I shake her, she won’t wake up?”

“Because she’s very tired.”

“Did the pills make her tired?” Kira’s wide eyes were questioning. She blinked, waiting for his answer.

“Yes, I think they did.”

“Daddy …”—Kira reduced her voice to a whisper—”Mommy didn’t want me to take them.”

Dawit felt his extended palm trembling. This was nothing short of torture. How could he proceed? “Kira … it would make Daddy very happy if you would take the pills. S’il te plait? Do it for me.”

Once again, Kira’s eyes ventured toward Jessica, who had been motionless for the past half-hour. He’d brought the bottle of thirty-milligram capsules of Dalmane from their medicine cabinet because he knew the drug acted quickly; Alex had given Jessica a prescription after Peter died, to help her sleep, but she’d only taken one dose. They were too strong, she complained.

He’d emptied two capsules into Jessica’s soda earlier that day, twice the recommended dosage. And the four additional capsules Dawit had given Jessica, while very strong, would not be lethal, he believed. Nor would Kira’s. Sleeping pills were too uncertain a means of death. He did not have the time, nor the equipment, to take the risks he had taken with Teacake, waiting for their bodies’ metabolic reactions to a poisonous compound. For true precision, with both Jessica and Kira, death must be at his own hands.

He only needed them to sleep. He would not be capable of harming his child unless she were thoroughly unconscious.

Kira gazed at the capsules. Tears brimmed in her eyes.

“Oh, Duchess …” Dawit said, sucking in his breath. With his free hand, he touched her smooth, warm face. “Why do you cry?”

“Daddy, did you hurt Mommy?” she choked.

Now, Dawit’s own tears came. He leaned over to speak directly into Kira’s face. “Of course I didn’t hurt Mommy. I would never do that. Never. I gave her the pills so she would sleep, and so she is. You see? I only want you to sleep too. What makes you think I did something to hurt her?”

Blinking rapidly, Kira didn’t answer. She was crestfallen.

You truly are a monster, Dawit thought. Any other man would abandon this plan. Instead, you lie to your own young daughter.

“Kira … Do you trust me?”

Biting her lip, Kira nodded. He heard a sob in her throat.

“Then take the pills, Duchess. Please.” He held one to her mouth, not quite touching her soft lips. “All right?”

Bit by bit, Kira opened her mouth. Dawit deposited the first capsule on her waiting tongue and gave her the cup filled with tap water. “Don’t chew. It’s not like baby aspirin. Swallow it down whole, like your food. That’s very good. Let’s try another.”

He heard another half sob as Kira tried to swallow, but she gamely took all three. Then, she leaned over to wrap her arms around his neck, and he could feel her tiny heart racing against his chest. She was terrified, he realized; and yet, because she was a child, loving him was all she knew.

Dawit’s own throat felt swollen as he lifted her, feeling her weight against him as he stood. This betrayal will remedy itself in the end, he thought. He could save her forever only through temporary suffering. He walked toward the bed where Jessica lay.

“There’s no Disney Channel on this TV, Kira. Do you want Daddy to tell you a story?”

When Kira didn’t answer or stir, Dawit was at first alarmed. Had he miscalculated her dosage? Could the drug have acted so quickly? He’d counted on having time to finish the Ritual on Jessica first, before her breathing became too impaired from the high dose of the sleeping pills. “Kira?”

“Lin,” she said softly.

“What, Duchess?”

“Tell me the story about Lin and the dragon.”

Despite himself, Dawit smiled. “I don’t know that one. You must have heard that one at school. But I can tell you a story about a beautiful princess named Kira who lived forever and ever.”

When Dawit reposed Kira on the bed alongside her mother, her eyes were already closed. He watched Kira’s steady breathing, then laid two fingers across the carotid artery of her throat, where he could feel her pulse, which still raced. Gazing at her, his entire face was damp, smarting from tears.

“Forever?” Kira whispered softly, drowsy.

“And ever,” Dawit said, and leaned over to kiss her forehead.

Dawit knew he did not have much time for thinking, but for one moment, after he had attached the very basic pulse monitor he’d found at the drugstore to Jessica’s arm and readied the syringe filled with his just-drawn blood, he realized that he could choose another, much simpler, path.

He could leave them here in peaceful sleep and go his own way, allowing them to live the rest of their mortal lives without him.

If not for Mahmoud and the Searchers, he realized, he could have considered this option. In fact, he would have: Because, for all of his selfish impulses and deep love for them, he knew there would not be bliss in either route. His relationship with Jessica was fundamentally changed. By now, the only solutions were bad ones.

“The blood … is the vessel for Life …” he began in Hebrew, jogging his brain so he would not do the unthinkable and forget the incantation. Only a handful of words. He could not fail.

Teacake sat on the opposite bed, grooming himself with one dainty paw raised. Yes, Dawit reminded himself as he glanced at the cat, he had done this before. He could do it again.

Jessica’s pulse was low, only sixty, the monitor said.

“… The blood flows without end …”

He did not have time for hesitation. Already, the proprietor had investigated the room once, probably because of Jessica’s screams. He must finish this and check out at the first morning light, when Jessica and Kira would be forever awake.

His hand still unsteady, Dawit grasped the readied syringe. He raised his other palm to Jessica’s cheek and touched it. Already, her skin felt clammy. He rubbed his hand across her face, her jaw, her chin, until it rested on her throat, which he touched with loving gentleness.

“A short sleep, my love. My life,” he said, and leaned over to kiss her lips.

Then, as if electrocuted, he seized the appropriate spots on Jessica’s throat and squeezed with all his might.

His own heartbeat was a roar in his ears. He stared hard at the pulse monitor, waiting for the number to begin to drop.

Even an unconscious body fought, he learned to his horror. Jessica’s entire frame tensed, and her mouth dropped open to gasp for air. He expected to see her eyes open next; if that happened, he would be forced to let her go. Mercifully, her eyes remained closed and she slept still. Her body itself, deprived of oxygen, was acting upon instinct.

And her heart was quickening, not slowing.

Dawit felt a cramp in his hand, but he pressed on, making certain no air could pass through her throat. Perspiration dripped into his eyes, momentarily blinding him. One minute passed. More.

At long last, Dawit saw between blinks, the monitor indicated that her heartbeat was slowing. He lowered the hypodermic to Jessica’s exposed forearm, ready to plunge.

Forty beats per minute, the monitor said. Thirty-five.

She was dying. She was truly dying. Jessica’s face was changing colors, literally beginning to glow a purple shade. Beneath her brown skin, her face was bright red.

Thirty beats. Twenty-six.

Dawit gasped, longing to release her. How much time had passed? Why was death so slow? How had he subjected himself to this utterly inhuman torture?

Twenty beats. Eighteen.

“You are fighting, Jessica … For God’s sake, don’t …”

It was an eternity before the monitor dropped to twelve beats per minute. Then, ten. Then, at last, five.

Dawit could not wait for the monitor to show a zero. Her heart would stop a few seconds before the crude device could record it. Still holding her throat in his death grip, Dawit jabbed the needle into his wife’s arm and pushed the plunger, exactly as he’d done with Teacake. His voice shook.

“The blood is the vessel for Life. The blood flows without end, as a river through the Valley of Death.”

When Dawit released Jessica, the monitor at last read zero.

He stared at it, forgetting to breathe.

Zero.

“What have I done?” he wondered aloud, collapsing against the bed as his legs folded beneath him. He could not bear to look at her face. He had killed her. And now, he must wait. How long? Two hours? Three? Even more? From person to person, it varied. He could not attempt the Ritual on Kira until he knew Jessica’s own passage was safe.

Dawit sobbed. He stared at his own hands as if they were covered in blood. “What have I done?” he asked again, and there was no answer except the squeal of a saxophone from the radio.

Teacake jumped from the bed. He rubbed against Dawit, purring. Dawit clung to the cat and stroked his fur, holding the animal as if for dear life.