Ink (27 page)

He needed water with a current, and too many people, homeless and otherwise, lingered at the harbor to make it a viable option. Too many police on patrol as well. The Severn River, however, might work. Located about forty-five minutes away from his house, it had a decent current. Anything dumped would travel out to the bay (eventually), but this time of year, the Severn would be filled with boats, even at night, and the thought filled him with dread.

Hey Joe, there’s a bag in the water. Give me a hand with this, will you?

That left the bay itself. Jason knew where he could go. Sandy Point beach was closed to the public at sundown, but he knew a secluded area where he could park his car and from that spot, it was a fairly short walk to the beach. Before they were married, he and Shelley once snuck in and walked the beach on a dark, moonless night. He could park, walk, throw in the hand and leave. Ten, fifteen minutes, tops. It would take longer to get there.

His biggest worry? Would it float? He thought it would, and a search on the Internet would give him the answer.

“Idiot,” he said.

Once they found her, they’d come to see him. The husband was always the first suspect. And an
estranged
husband? Guilty before proven innocent. When they showed up, took his laptop away, and found the search in his history? It would scream guilty. Even if he wiped the hard drive clean, the evidence would still be there. He’d have to take out the drive and physically destroy it, and a missing hard drive would speak volumes in and of itself, none of them with a happy ending.

But if he froze the hand first, it would sink. A killer on a criminal investigation show had frozen a body, chopped it up, and tossed it into a river. Sure, he’d been caught, but not before he’d gotten away with it five or six times. Jason wasn’t going to make it a habit.

He had a small cooler in the basement, the perfect size for a twelve-pack of beer or a small picnic lunch for two. Definitely large enough to hold a hand and one unfortunate fly. His father’s voice piped up, too loud to ignore.

“What are you thinking, son? You’ve already tampered with evidence, but you didn’t do anything wrong. Call the police.”

See, Dad, I can’t. Because I think my tattoo did it. Frank is not so good after all.

“Son, you should have read the fine print.”

Yes, I know, Dad. You keep telling me that. I don’t understand what you mean. Care to elaborate?

The voice fell silent.

Jason brought the cooler up to the kitchen and filled it halfway with ice, humming a tuneless song as he carried it out back. The fly still buzzed, tapping against his hand when he picked up the bag. He closed the lid of the cooler and frowned. Now what? It wouldn’t take long for the ice to melt. Jason left the bagged doormat outside and brought the cooler in, leaving it next to the kitchen door. If the cops did show up, he’d honestly tell them where he found it and that he put it on ice to preserve the evidence.

And if they asked him why he didn’t call? Shock. He’d blame it on shock. He thought they’d understand. In his opinion, a hand left on a doormat justified shock. He would deal with the hand, then he could tackle the other issue, the bigger one. Sailing ships and needle tips. He’d find a way; every problem had a solution.

Jason ignored his shaking hands as he sat down in the living room. He flipped open his laptop, opened the browser, and paused with his hands above the keyboard. A search for Shelley would be just as damning as a search for flotation properties of body parts. Maybe it wouldn’t scream guilty, but it would whisper hard enough.

He closed his laptop, turned on the television and waited for the news.

4

The full moon sat low and heavy in the sky, dark gold with a pale halo. Jason drove into the Harbor Tunnel with his windows open, and air, heavy with exhaust, rushed in, blowing his hair into a porcupine mess. The woman in the tollbooth didn’t even look at him when she took his money.

Good, she won’t remember me because now I’m not just tampering with evidence.

His cell phone rang, shattering the silence in the car, and his fingers clenched on the steering wheel. He glanced at the display, his stomach twisting. Mitch. He wanted to talk to her, but he wasn’t sure he could keep his voice steady. And what would he say? He was headed to the river with a part of his ex-wife? She was going out with the girls after work, and he’d told her to call when she got home, but he couldn’t pick up the phone. Was he supposed to ask her to come over and meet Frank?

At least talk to her. You owe her that much.

He couldn’t. It wasn’t safe.

Coward. She believes in ghosts. You could tell her.

Ghosts were one thing. Tattoos another.

Maybe he should go over to her house. Maybe Frank wouldn’t come out there. Jason pictured waking up in her bed, waking up to bloodstained sheets, a severed hand, and a well-fed griffin in the corner, gnawing on a bo—

“Stop,” he said.

He would not take that risk. Even if it meant avoiding her call, even if it meant avoiding
her,
and even if it meant making her angry, at least she’d be
alive
.

The voices stayed quiet as he drove the rest of the way. He parked the car, and the moonglow guided his steps as he walked along the path to the beach. The cooler tapped against his thigh, but he didn’t want to touch the bag until he had to. Soon enough, the slithery sound of melting ice blended into the gentle push of the waves against the shore. He stopped near the end of the path, concealed by trees and listened for voices or splashes of water, but the night air held only the song of the water and a few birds.

But no griffins. Frank wouldn’t come out until after he went to sleep, and Jason wasn’t planning to sleep anytime soon. He’d taken a nap after the news, the Shelleyless news, at noon but woke long before sunset. If he drove home quick enough after his

evidence disposal

errand, he’d make the eleven o’clock news. If no handless bodies were reported, he’d pay a midnight visit to 1303 Shakespeare Street. After slipping off his shoes and socks, he paused to listen again. The sudden cry of a seagull close by made his fingers twitch. A soft wind caressed the back of his neck as he waited for the cry to drift farther out into the night.

His hands didn’t shake when he pulled the bag out of the cooler. Melted ice dripped off the plastic onto the ground, a tiny whisper of sound in the night, but the fly didn’t make a noise. Holding the bag out, away from his body, he walked onto the beach.

The water of the bay shimmered silver in the moonlight. His feet made a small,
whisk-whisk
noise and sand slipped between his toes, cool and dry at first, then cold and wet. It stuck to his feet and ankles, and a sour taste flooded his mouth. He’d never thought about the sand. The night he and Shelley went in the water, they woke up with sand everywhere, even though their clothes were almost dry and they’d brushed them off with towels before they got back in the car.

But you’re not going in the water. The hand is, but you’re not.

Jason sighed, and the wind swallowed it up and carried it away. When he reached the water’s edge, he untied the knot in the bag with steady hands, grateful for the ice in his veins. He pulled on a thin leather glove, reached into the bag, and

just a block of ice, nothing else

took out the hand. It was rock hard, frigid even through the leather, the dead meat smell muted by the ice and the salt tang in the air. He pulled back his arm and threw it forward. The hand arced up and up, then a dark cloud passed in front of the moon, plunging the beach into darkness. The ice inside turned and pushed jagged points against his heart.

It’s too long. It should have hit the water by now. Did I miss?

Then a soft splash broke the stillness. The clouds slipped away from the moon, something pale and small bobbed up twice in the water, then vanished beneath the dark. He gave a small nod and left the beach. He’d find a Dumpster on the way home for the plastic bags and the doormat.

5

Mitch’s car sat in his driveway when he arrived home. His headlights flashed bright on the back of her car, and he fought the urge to throw his car into reverse and take off. If he’d been paying attention, he would have seen her car before he pulled in but he wasn’t. He was thinking. Thinking maybe the hand wasn’t real. Maybe it was a prank.

Sure and your dad is still alive. In fact, maybe he’s inside, chatting with Mitch.

Jason left the cooler in his car.

Stay calm. Pretend nothing is wrong. Pretend you didn’t just dispose of your ex-wife’s hand and your tattoo is just a little bit of ink.

He walked into the kitchen, and she greeted him with a long hug. For several minutes, he pressed his body against hers. She smelled like the air after a summer storm, like daydreams and sanity and normal, good things. Jason bit the inside of his cheek. The back of his eyes burned, and the back of his heart twisted.

I love her so much. I have to keep her safe. I can’t let Frank anywhere near her.

“I’m sorry I let myself in, but I tried to call you a couple times today, and I got worried. Are you okay?”

“No, it’s okay. We had a problem at work. I’ve been dealing with it all day.” He hated the easy way the lie rolled off his tongue, but he had no choice. He couldn’t tell her the truth, and he couldn’t let her stay at his house, not until it was done. He slipped out of her arms, crossed the kitchen, and grabbed the coffee pot.

“You’re making coffee? This late?”

“I have to go back in at midnight. I’m probably going to be working all night.”

He took his time measuring out the coffee, so he didn’t have to see the concern in her eyes. He could tell her. He could tell her everything and watch her walk out the door. She’d probably think he was crazy, but then she would be safe. He opened his mouth, then clamped it shut. Maybe he was crazy. Maybe none of it was real. Maybe it was all just one big illusion, but if he said the words out loud, it might
make
them real.

Of course it was real. The bone, the blood, the flesh turned rock by way of rigor mortis, the thick, dead smell.

Stop it. Voices in your head, a griffin in your arm, and a severed hand. Do you know what this smells like, boy?

“I’m sorry,” she said.

The feel of the skin, cold and hard. The heat of the griffin’s skin. And its eyes…

It smells like psychosis. The big old “you are approaching certifiable”. Lock you up for now and forever.

“Me too. I’d rather stay here with you,” he said. “Unfortunately, if I do that, I’ll probably lose my job.”

The coffee pot started to hiss, and his hands shook. The noise was far too similar to the sound Frank had made before he went flat and out the window. Jason bit the knuckle of one finger.

Mitch came up behind him and rubbed his upper arms. “Are you sure that’s all it is? Just work?”

Oh no. It’s so much more. The last time I saw you I thought I was just sick. Sick and seeing things. Now I know.

“Yes.” He forced it out. Behind the word, his voice shook.

She leaned her head on his back. “You seem different.”

You have no idea. No idea at all.

“I’m fine. Just a little ragged because of work. I’m sorry.”

What are you apologizing for? Maybe apologizing for going nuts?

“Shut up.” The words came out in a tangled mumble.

“What?” she asked against his shirt.

He turned around, avoiding her eyes, and pulled her into his arms. “Nothing, just thinking about work. I’m not looking forward to pulling an all-nighter.”

I’m not crazy. I’m not.

The news would be on soon. He needed to get her out of the house so he could watch for a special report, a breaking story about a missing hand or a strange bird flying in the night sky, then he needed to pay Sailor a visit.

Good old Sailor. Good old Frank.

“Maybe I should just stay here and wait for you to get home.”

“No.” It came out harsh, and he stepped back and raked his fingers through his hair. “I’m sorry, but I might end up working through tomorrow, too. I’d hate to think of you just waiting around. I’ll probably just come home and crash when I’m done.”

The coffee hissed and sputtered as it finished brewing. Mitch rubbed her palms on her thighs.

She knows I’m lying. She doesn’t know why, but she knows something isn’t quite right. I can only hope she won’t hate me when this is all over. Because it will be over, somehow.

She brushed her hair off her forehead and looked down at the floor. Jason reached out and tipped her chin up. “I love you.”

“I love you, too. Will you call me tomorrow, when you get home?”

“Yes, of course I will.”

“Are you sure everything is okay? Did the kid do anything?”

No, it wasn’t okay. Not really. Not okay at all. He’d had to get rid of his ex-wife’s hand. Her
hand
. The ink on his arm came to life at night, and as an added bonus, it was responsible for his father’s death. How was that for not okay?