Goody One Shoe (19 page)

She brushed his hands away and sat up. “I’m fine.” She
looked past him to the knife block, now with two empty slots. She stood and
hopped to the kitchen. “Where is it?”

“Where is what?” Bruce was behind her.

She pointed to the knife block. “The knife.” She pulled each
knife from its allotted space and dropped each to the counter. “The long skinny
one. It has a curved blade.” She yanked the dishwasher open, but it stood
empty. She scanned the sink, shoved plates and mugs aside.

“A boning knife?” Bruce put the other knives back into the
block.

“I think so.” Billie pulled drawer after drawer open and
rummaged through them. Only steak knives and dull dinner knives to be found.

She gripped the counter’s edge. “It was my knife.” She
turned to Bruce, searched his face for answers.

“You mean the one today? The one you dropped in the
culvert?”

She nodded with vigour, her dizzy spell creeping back in.

“Come on, sit.” He guided her back to the sofa. “You’ve cut
your foot on the cup.”

She sat in a haze while he tended to her injury, cleaned the
broken glass, and wiped splotches of her blood from the floor. When everything
was returned to normal, he sat beside her. “It makes sense, doesn’t it?”

She blinked. “What makes sense?”

“That it was your own knife. If it wasn’t, where would you
have gotten it?” He brushed hair from her forehead.

She swallowed. Yes, that made sense. If anything that
happened this crazy day could possibly make sense. She touched his cheek.
“Thank you.”

His face scrunched up. “For what?”

“Are you kidding me? For reassuring me. Cleaning up after
me.” She leaned forward and kissed him. “For rescuing me. Again.”

“My beautiful Billie, I didn’t rescue you. I just drove out
to get you.” He settled in beside her and picked up the phone. “I’m ordering
Chinese. You okay with that?”

“If that means you stay beside me and we don’t use any
knives, then I’m thrilled with that.”

“How about I come to church with you tomorrow?”

She pulled back and eyed his face, searching for signs of
sarcasm. “You hate church.”

“Yeah. But maybe it would do you good. I can be there for
moral support, so to speak.”

She snuggled into his side and pulled his arm over her head
and around her shoulders. “I don’t want to go.” The instant she stepped inside
the door, she’d probably burst into flames.

BILLIE SAT UP IN BED
and
gasped. She wiped sweat from her brow and out of her eyes, but couldn’t wipe
the dream from her mind. Spewing blood and a flailing knife, the open mouth of
a screaming woman, all of it drenched in a lake of sewage and ooze.

Bruce moaned and snorted sleep through his nose.

Billie dried her hand on the comforter and reached for him.
She hesitated, didn’t want to wake him, but needed to know he was real. She
touched her hand to his chest and let the rise and fall of his breathing ground
her back to reality. She breathed in time with his heartbeat, tried to satisfy
herself that the images in her head were just that. Images.

Maybe satisfied was a stretch. She scanned the floor for a
mound of her father’s clothes. The coast was clear. Besides, Bruce had washed
them, boxed them up and put them in a closet in his apartment.

She glanced at the bedside clock. Four forty-five. Bruce
would be out for a couple more hours, but she knew the thrum in her own veins
all too well. She may as well get out of bed and do something useful. Sleep
would not be coming back.

She slid from beneath the covers and hopped to the chair
where her cane rested its horse’s head against the upholstered armrest. One
touch of her warm flesh to the cool brass and a new wave of pseudo-memories
rushed at her. The dirty smell of rain on pavement and the shush of rubber
tires racing past.

Billie dropped to the chair, her head swimming and spinning,
her stomach hard and ready to jump out of her throat. She put her head between
her knees and struggled to breathe.

“Billie, what’s wrong?” Bruce’s bare feet thumped onto the
carpet and scurried to her side. He lay on the floor at her foot, his head
under hers. “You all right?”

She giggled at the sight of this grown man, burly in all the
right places, lying on her floor just to get a good vantage point. “I just had
a dizzy spell.”

He bounded to his feet and rubbed her shoulders. She sat up
slowly and leaned against the backrest, one hand on her forehead, her other
still gripping the head of the cane.

“Why don’t you come back to bed.” He eyeballed the clock.
“Shit, love, it’s not even five.”

She shook her head. “No, I’m too awake. You go back. I’ll
get some work done. I promised that manuscript to Annabelle before the
fifteenth.” She patted his arm.

He leaned in for a kiss. “Okay. I could use a couple more
hours. When I get up, I’ll make pancakes and bacon.”

Her mouth filled with saliva. “Sounds perfect.” Billie eyed
the cane. “Will you hand me my leg?” She rested the cane against the wall.
Releasing it let go of the sensation of being thigh-deep in freezing water that
smelled like asparagus farts. She fitted her apartment prosthesis over her
stump and kissed Bruce on his morning-breath lips. At the threshold, she
admired the view of him climbing back beneath her comforter and stuffing her
pillow under his curly hair. Peg Leg meandered across the room and weaved his
way between her legs, rubbed his inky fur against her bare flesh, and the fake
flesh too. Billie pulled the door shut with a quiet click.

On her way past the breakfast counter, she poked the power
button on her open laptop. Peg Leg crawled onto the couch, stepped over the end
table, and made the short hop to his morning perch on the window ledge. His
tail flicked about, side-to-side, up, down. He mewed at the line of orange and
lilac on the horizon and demanded the sun hurry up and rise already.

Sunday was coffee day. But she was going to edit, so that
demanded tea. What a conundrum. Which ritual would she uphold? She hedged her
bets, put a pot of her favourite dark roast on to brew, filled the kettle with
water, lit a burner, and put it on to heat. Once they were ready, she’d make
her choice. Or maybe just have a cup of both. The extra caffeine might clear
her brain.

She turned the television on with the volume down. A
years-old habit she learned from her grandmother. The voices kept her company
and provided white noise as if she were in the office. It helped focus her
thoughts on the task at hand. Silence drove her bonkers.

Billie checked her email while water burbled through the
coffee filter and into the pot. By the time the teakettle whistled, she’d
cleared her inbox and opened Annabelle’s manuscript to the last page of
completed edits.

Coffee smelled of Sunday, rich and heady, with just a hint
of cinnamon. The thought of tea bored her silly. Coffee it was, with too much
half-and-half and a generous spoonful of brown sugar. Her other Sunday ritual
had taken a backseat to more exciting pastimes of late. But sweet, creamy
coffee won out every time.

She set the mug and adjusted the angle of the handle,
interlaced her fingers and popped her knuckles, twisted her neck until a crack
crunched in her ears. She re-read the last few paragraphs to get her bearings,
then carried on. It wasn’t a bad little story. The construction was good, the
plot decent. Grammar and spelling were passable. Some punctuation issues, but
heck, nobody was perfect. Least of all authors. They focused on the story and
left the grunt work to the professionals. Maybe that was best.

The newscast in the background kept spouting words that
interrupted her focus.

Murder. Stabbed. Ivy Valley
.

Billie froze, her fingers hovering above the keyboard. She
trained her ears on the low volume of the television but couldn’t bring herself
to turn around.

“Janis Jones, recently found not guilty of charges that she
murdered her son by drowning him in a bathtub, was pronounced dead en route to
Grantham General. Police are canvassing the area, but without an eyewitness
account, have little to go on.”

Billie shifted in her chair and turned to the television.

“Mrs. Jones’ husband, Harold, showed little emotion when the
police delivered the news,” the female anchor read from the teleprompter. “He
was questioned in connection with her death and released due to a solid alibi.
He was in his office in downtown Grantham on Saturday afternoon at the time of
the attack.”

“Mrs. Jones,” the male anchor to the woman’s left tapped the
desk with his fingertips, “is predeceased by all three of her children.” He
turned to the woman.

“With any luck, this incident will spur the construction of
the new hospital,” she said. “Perhaps if there were a rural location, she could
have been saved.”

Billie pointed the remote at the set and pressed the mute
button. She stared at the silent screen, at a commercial for a cooking show, a
close up of chef’s knife slicing a rack of lamb into chops, followed by a scene
with young children eating hamburgers. “I’m loving it,” scrolled across the
screen.

Her fingers numb, her eyes unblinking, Billie turned to her
computer. Ivy Valley. Wasn’t that where Bruce had said she was? She Googled it,
Googled the diner. There it was, on the outskirts of that tiny town in the
rural ‘burbs outside Grantham.

She left her computer and flopped onto the couch; grabbed a
pillow to her belly and rocked. The image of a woman’s face, her mouth twisted,
her eyes contorted in pain, popped into Billie’s head. She felt the wooden
handle of a knife in her hand. Her body reeled at the sensation of plunging it
into the soft folds of the woman’s flesh, and the flow of her hot, crimson
blood.

Nausea rolled up Billie’s body, but before she spewed coffee
into the air, it quelled. She was overcome by a new sensation.

Power.

“You make any progress?” Bruce padded out of the bedroom,
his hair askew, pillow lines etched into his face.

Billie tossed the pillow aside and jumped to her feet. She
threw her arms around him and inhaled the musky odour she so loved, reveled in
the warmth of his ruddy skin, sticky with sleep sweat. She laid her head on his
chest and listened to his heartbeat in her ear, closed her eyes as his arms
closed around her body. “Yes.” Her blood coursed through her veins and
delivered its energy to every extremity. Even the missing one. “Yes, I think I
did.”

“I WANT TO GO BACK
on meds.”
Billie took a long gulp of her caramel macchiato.

Doc Kroft nodded, her lips puckered. “I see. That’s quite
the one-eighty.” She tapped her pen against her cheek. “What happened, Billie?
Why the emergency appointment?”

Billie set the coffee on the table and lay back on the
chaise. She dropped her hands to her belly, her gaze focused on the tin ceiling
maze. “I had another fugue episode.”

Doc’s pen scratched on the lilac pad. “When?”

Billie explained the events of Saturday.

“I see. How long were you in the fugue state?”

One thing Billie appreciated about the doc. When it came to
talk of disorders and other serious shit, she was all business. “Well, I
remember Friday night. But not waking up Saturday morning.”

“So sometime after, what, midnight? Until late in the
afternoon. At least seven hours, maybe up to fourteen or fifteen.”

Billie nodded. “Sounds about right.”

“So that’s the farthest you’ve travelled and your longest
state yet. And, to be frank, the weirdest.” Paper rustled and the pen
scratched.

Billie couldn’t bring herself to sit up and face the doc.

“Have you checked the news? Found out if anything happened
out that way?”

“Happened?” Billie wasn’t sure if she was ready to share the
potential realities.

“Billie, you had a knife. You cut yourself. I doubt anything
happened, but have there been reports of any ….” Doc’s linen pants shushed
against her leather chair. “Have you checked to see if anyone has been
stabbed?”

Billie sat up and swung her feet to the floor. “Yes. I did.
And yes, someone was stabbed. And she died. In the exact area where I woke up,
or whatever you call it. Well, a couple of miles away.” Damn her motor mouth of
guilt. And damn her ping-ponging psyche. Overcome by the likelihood that she’ll
rot in hell for bringing her justice fantasies to life one minute. Ready to punch
strangers in the face for cutting in line at the coffee shop the next.

Doc nodded. “I see.” She set her notepad aside and tented
her fingers. Her cheeks pinked. She stared at Billie for what seemed like an
hour. “I’m going to suggest …” she clamped her lips together. “No, I’m going to
insist that you avoid the newspaper. No more editing the endings. No more red
pen of appropriate justice.”

Billie stared at her psychologist, a woman trained to find
answers, to get to the bottom of the truth of Billie’s own special brand of
psychosis. “Really? You think I should just avoid the whole thing?”

Doc sighed. “For now. Is there any chance you could stay
with this boyfriend of yours? Have someone with you at night in case you
wander? Does he know about this?”

Billie nodded. A little white lie. He didn’t know about the
dead woman in Ivy Valley.

“As you know, we have confidentiality between us.” She bit
her lip. “But do you trust this subway man to keep his mouth shut?”

“I do.”

“Good.” Doc reached behind her and picked up a prescription
pad. “Get this filled and start taking them today. That’s step one. Step two is
support. As in regular counselling. Maybe we can nip this thing now and prevent
any further … incidents.”

“Have you seen the paper?” Bruce slid the Grantham Herald
across the island between his beer bottle and her wine glass and tapped the
open page.

Billie shoved it back to him. “Nope. Can’t. Doctor’s orders.
Just like staying with you, I’m to avoid the news. And I’m not to edit.” Her
fingers itched to pull a pen out of her purse. But what ending would she give
this crime? What fate did she deserve?

“Billie, a woman died just miles from where I picked you up.
Stabbed.” He put his hand over hers. “Just tell me, do you think it was you?”

She yanked her hand away. “I don’t know.” Her voice
screeched from her throat. She dropped her chin and shut her eyes. “I’m sorry.
I really don’t know. But — maybe.”

She couldn’t bear to look at him. Didn’t want him to see the
truth. That she was drowning in a cesspool of disgust and fear and sin and
hell. But at the surface of that pool was the divine light of power and
strength and righteous indignation. That woman deserved her fate. And if Billie
was the hand of God, wasn’t that her own fate? Her destiny? Her super-power?
And didn’t she owe it to God to carry out his bidding?

“Look, I know you were in that foog state of mind thing.”

“F-you-g.”

He cocked his head. “Billie. Whatever.” He circled the
island and slid behind her stool, draped his arms over her shoulders, and rested
his evening whiskers on her cheek. “It’s a real disorder. It wouldn’t be your
fault.” He kissed her cheek and perched on the seat next to her. He smoothed
her hair and ran a thumb across her forehead like half a baptism. “I mean,
damn, it’s scary as hell, the possibility. But shit. Pretty sexy. In a sick,
twisted, warped, Batchick kind of way.”

She held her breath for a few heartbeats. “Do you think so?”

“Hell yeah, I think so.” He tugged her off her stool and
pulled her toward him. “Except that I can’t see you harming a soul.”

“No souls. But what about the living? The soulless and the
callous and the murderers.” She smacked the newspaper. “The rapists.”

“No one. It’s just not in you.” He grabbed her waist with
both hands and shimmied her hips back and forth. “But if it
was
you,
well, hell. I knew it the first minute I met you, Billie. You are badass.”

“If not a little crazy.” Her cheeks flushed with heat.

“Crazy good.” He kissed her.

She gripped his shirt in both hands. “What if it is me? What
if I get caught? I mean, it’s justice, right? But it’s illegal too. That whole
eye-for-an-eye thing I grew up with. They killed someone, I took their life.
They raped someone, I took their ability to rape away.” She swallowed.
“Theoretically.” She rested her head on his chest. “If I’ve taken lives, should
I not die as punishment? And what about whoever puts me to death? Is it their
turn next? I mean, where does it end?”

“And that little realization is just one of many reasons I
skip church and God and just live my life my way. Because no matter what you
do, you just can’t win.” He hugged her hard. “I think you’d be less murderer,
more vigilante superhero.”

She pulled away. “I’m no superhero.”

“Aren’t you? Fighting for truth, justice. The Canadian way?”

She laughed. “The Canadian way? So after I fix their wagons
I should apologize and offer them a double-double?”

He roared. “Yeah, that’s about right.” He scratched at the
stubble on his chin.

Her body flushed with warmth at the memory of his whiskers
against her cheeks when he kissed her. Against her breasts and her belly.
Against her inner thighs.

He took a gulp of beer. “You need a name. For the press. You
know, just in case. If you have a name, you’ll gain a following. No one will
want to convict you.”

“You’re having a little too much fun with the possibility
that I slice people up in my off hours.”

He shrugged. “Maybe. Maybe I’d be okay with it. Maybe I’d
even join in your crusade.”

“I doubt that. But I’ll play along. What is my superhero
name?”

“Billie the Badass? Or Billie with the sweet ass.” He
flashed his eyebrows up and down grabbed her behind with both hands.

She grinned and slapped his arm.

He pulled her body to his and stared into her eyes. “And I
can be your sidekick. Robin to your Batchick.” He kissed her forehead. “Your
Kato.” He licked her cheek. “Your Bucky Barnes.” He nibbled her lips. “Your,
your … Your Jimmy Olsen.” He buried his nose behind her ear and kissed her
neck.

Adrenaline flooded her body and pooled between her legs.
“More like my Dum Dum Dugan.”

He snickered into the tender skin at her collarbone, swept
her into his arms, and headed for the bedroom. His long arm reached around her
body and he caressed her breast with one hand.

She closed her eyes and leaned against his shoulder. “Maybe
my Jughead Jones.”