Killing Katie (An Affair With Murder) (Volume 1) (11 page)

I felt winded, but managed to scurry for the knife and pick it up. The homeless man slumped over in a tidy squat: face down and motionless. I swiped away the cool, slippery wet that came from the cut on my neck.

Not too bad,
I thought and ignored it.

“Sit up,” I demanded. I knelt across from him, bringing the knife forward, pointing it like a sword. The knife’s handle was a mix of tape and old clothing, wound together in a messy grip. I clutched the handle, turning the blade so that the street lamp’s light glinted off the blade. It was mottled with pitted rust, but the edge was clean and sharp. Curious, I teased the blade with my thumb, running the edge over my skin to see how sharp it was. At once my skin parted, dropping blood like an errant tear.

“Bitch,” he groaned. I shuffled forward, pushing the blade beneath the man’s chin. I flicked it once to cut his chin. “Fucking bitch.”

“Is that what you said to the young girl the other night?” I asked. “My husband’s a cop, you know, and I think he’d be interested in talking to you about what you’ve been doing.”

“Fuck you,” he answered, spitting as he spoke to me. “You bitches deserve it. You all deserve it.” He shoved his hand behind his head, and I jumped back, cautious. But I wasn’t afraid.

Instead, I was anxious and excited. I was ready to begin my journey. Thoughts of calling my husband vanished.

“Did the young girl deserve it?”

He peered up at me, grinned an ugly smile. “Yeah, she deserved it. Gave it to her good too.”

My bones became electric. My arms and hands twitched. My fingers tingled and sweat beaded on my head. I felt hot too—sexy hot, like the young librarian. My legs throbbed, and I felt wet as though I was about to have sex. I pivoted the blade over his neck, pressing harder. My heart thumped frantically and hard enough to hurt. This was my fantasy and it was coming true. His eyes were fixed on me, still cloudy and dazed from the hit, but I could see the curiosity in them as he wondered why I hadn’t called the police yet.

I didn’t hesitate. My body pulsed, encouraging me, and I lurched forward, plummeting my knee into the man’s chest. The air in his lungs rocketed out of him until there was nothing left but a dry wheeze.

“Plea—,” he tried to say. I eased up and let him take a sip of air. “I think I’m having a heart attack.” I lurched again, and his mouth fell open in a silent scream.

“The world won’t miss you,” I told him. His eyes became huge, like a full moon on the blackest of long autumn nights. I slipped the blade into his neck. Just the tip at first—in and out—like virgins making love for the first time. The man’s eyes thinned into a nightmarish squint as his open mouth stretched wide in a soundless scream. He squirmed, arching his back, fighting to stay alive. I put all of my weight into my knee, nailing him against the wall with such force that I felt something break inside his chest. He stopped resisting then, and I pushed the knife deeper inside him.

Not so fast
, I told myself.

I
tried to slow down, tried to make it last. But I was ready. I’d waited long enough. I plunged the knife in until it sunk to the handle. I slowed when I saw bright red spilling over the blade, easing into a smooth rhythm—like a butcher.

“Fuck you,” he tried to say, gargling his words as his mouth filled and spat a pink mist. When I brought the knife back out, blood sprayed with enough power to make a whooshing sound. It splashed against the bricks, nearly hitting me.

“Fuck you too,” I said, leaning away to avoid the bright flow. The spraying pulsed and then became shallow. I slipped the knife in and out again, sawing until I thought everything vital to his miserable life must have been severed. His eyes stayed fixed on me—wide and filled with the shock of how our little tête-a-tête had drastically changed course. The sour, wet smell was stronger than I’d expected. Hot and thick. It caused me to gasp as the power of it curled up the back of my throat. I could taste it on my tongue.

I was weak and sweaty, but I felt more alive than I’d ever felt in my life. By the time I looked up, the silent screaming and the terrified eyes were gone. His head had slumped to the right and I saw the extent of how much I’d cut. The blood had stopped spraying, had stopped boiling.

The dead don’t bleed,
I thought as I wiped some of the sticky wet from my hands against his clothes. I stared at my first murder victim for a long time, admiring the deed. Proud. I stayed until I felt I didn’t have to stay any longer.

My hands stayed sticky, his blood drying on them. I tried wiping them against the gravelly pavement, but it didn’t help.

“Bottle of water or wipes would be better,” I mumbled, fixing a mental reminder for when I’d do this again. As my heart eased into a normal rhythm and the damp heat between my legs disappeared, I finally felt what I should have felt when the man first attacked me: afraid.

A whole new sensation took over my body. From the top of my head to the tips of my toes, a frightening and overwhelming sense of being caught filled me, capturing me. My hands grew clammy and my lips trembled at the thought of being convicted and sent to prison. It wasn’t just the thought of living behind bars that scared me—it was losing Snacks and Michael and the love of my life, Steve.

I gripped a handful of small stones, spitting onto them with every last drop I had in my dry mouth. I squeezed my hands around the tiny pebbles until my knuckles hurt and cringed at the pain. I used the stones like a rough sponge, to wipe away the drying blood. I threw the handful of stones down the alley. The small rocks skittered and bounced over the pavement like pattering feet—thrown far and wide, spreading and eliminating any possible collection of evidence.

When I stood up, my head felt as heavy as if I’d been drinking heavily. A glint of light from below drew my eyes toward it. The knife lay waiting, ready to be taken from the scene and not left behind. Surely my fingerprints couldn’t be dusted for—not here, and certainly not on that handful of pebbles or against the wall. I grabbed a piece of crumpled newspaper from the garbage bin behind me, wiping my hands on it some more, and wrapped the knife before stuffing it into my purse.

I gave the homeless man one last look before leaving the alley. From the sidewalk, it looked like he was sitting in the same frozen position as when he’d first called out to me, supposedly seeking help. I guess he didn’t know that it was
me
he’d be helping.

M
Y CAR FELT
damp and cold, as if I’d left a window open during the night. And no matter how far into the red I threw the thermostat’s needle, I couldn’t seem to warm up. I sighed. Tears of exhaustion pricked my eyes. I was crashing. Only this wasn’t like the crashes I’d experienced drawing up the Killing Katie designs. I’d hit a new high. I’d committed murder.

I drove away from the library and the alley, keeping my purse tucked beneath my arm. My hand slipped inside, touched the blade I had used to open the man’s neck. A fluttery lift came into me, giving me enough of a titillation to continue. Neshaminy Creek lay between my home and our small town. But it was a creek by name only—it was easily wide enough to be considered a river. My headlights closed in on the approach to the bridge. I slowed when reaching the apex of the span, knowing that I’d have to get rid of the knife. With no other traffic around me, I stopped my car and rolled the window down. Moist air came inside, along with the sound of rushing water. I held my prize, the evidence, another minute. The knife was my first trophy and I didn’t want to let it go.

My rearview mirror stayed empty, and the road ahead showed only a possum or raccoon crossing the blacktop. Beady eyes flashed in my car’s headlights before scurrying off the road. The newspaper was soaked through with blood and had already begun to dry. I quickly unpacked the knife, then held it in front of me for longer than I should have. I turned it over, finding it to be as miserable-looking as the one who’d brandished it. But it was my first weapon, so I brought it up to my lips, feathering it with a kiss before throwing it over the bridge. I held my breath and waited until I heard a splash—just a subtle sound, like my toes dipping into a warm bath. I was ready to go home. The newspaper followed the knife’s trajectory until I saw the wind catch it, taking it beneath the bridge, where I’m sure it disappeared forever.

Steve welcomed me home, excitement in his tone, asking how I’d made out in town. He wanted to know if I’d found what it was that I wanted to do. But when I entered the kitchen, his face emptied and his color paled.

“What happened to you?” he asked, rushing around the counter. “Amy?”

“What? Just fell is all,” I said, shaking my head. “Why are you making such a fuss?”

“Babe, your neck. And your clothes,” he answered, lowering his voice, trying not to scare the kids. “What happened?”

“I fell,” I repeated, my words solemn as I quickly glanced down at my blouse. I had avoided the blood’s main spray, but had I avoided all of it?

“Mom, take the kids downstairs,” Steve instructed. There was a quaver in his voice as he spoke. And from the corner of my eye, I saw Steve’s mother pick up Snacks and lead Michael out of the kitchen.

I shook my head, raising my hands. “I’m fine. I tripped leaving the library and fell down the steps.”

“Looks like you caught something on the way,” he said, leaning in to look at my neck. “Have you seen this?” I stepped around the counter to face the oven door and lifted my chin in order to see my reflection in the glass. The blade had run around the front of my throat.

Had the homeless man really held me long enough to do that?

In my mind, the attack seemed to begin and end in a moment. A blink, a struggle, and then he was dead.

Maybe I’d let him hold me, cut me, leading him to think that he’d had control over me. Had I set a trap?

I glanced above my head, looking for the imaginary Wile E. Coyote sign that read Free Bird Seed, and then began to laugh uncontrollably. Only my laughing sounded like hysteria. The fatigue was beginning to surface like lava from a volcano.

“What’s wrong with mommy?” Snacks cried. “Is mommy okay?”

“Mom,” Steve said again. “Please!”

I must’ve appeared frightful to my baby girl—an out-of-control crazy she-monster. But I couldn’t help myself. I laughed harder. “I’m so sorry,” I said, but I knew it didn’t sound sincere. “It was such a nasty spill. I feel so foolish about it.” Steve’s arms were suddenly upon me, carefully easing me around to face him. He kept his hands just above my clothes, the tips of his fingers barely brushing over me. He gently touched my clothes and inspected my skinned knees. I realized that he must have suspected that I’d been raped. I searched for the kids and his mother, but she’d already led them away.

“I think you might need a doctor,” he said, sounding grave. “Babe, I think you might need a hospital.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” I told him. I wasn’t laughing anymore. I knew I had to be careful. He continued to look me over, recreating in his mind a scene of what he believed had happened. “Let me save you the time,” I said. “I was alone, coming out of the library, and I fell.”

“You’re sure?” he asked. I nodded as he put his hand inside my jacket and began to feel my ribs. His fingers tickled and I jumped at the touch of them.

“Hey there, mister,” I said, pulling his hands in front of me. “Not without a few drinks first.” I winked, but he didn’t smile. Instead he dove into my jacket with his other hand, checking my side.

“Show me your eyes,” he told me. “Let me check and see if you hit your head.”

“Seriously?” I demanded, growing annoyed. “I’m fine, okay?” He stood without any expression, waiting. I obliged and looked up into his face, opening my eyes until he was satisfied.

“What’s this?” I heard him say. He took some of my hair into his fingers. I let out a short cry when he tugged it: my scalp hurt terribly from where my hair had been yanked. “Sorry about that, babe.”

“What is it?” I asked. A sense of dread washed over me when I saw the brown smear on his fingertips. Dried blood, flaking and smudgy. It wasn’t mine, but I’d have to make it sound like it was mine. I had to convince Steve that it
was
mine. Where could it have come from, though?

“Gross. Must have gotten some blood in my hair,” I answered, taking his hand in mine and quickly wiping them until the brown flecks were gone. “Scratch on my neck must have bled a little. Not a lot, but enough.”

“And your blouse?” he asked, pointing down.

“What about my blouse?” I followed his eyes, knowing that I’d checked it over when I had first gotten in my car.

Or had I?

Again, I felt the pressure in my lungs. I expected to see more blood—a large stain of crimson brown, clotting and drying stiff, smelling rank. But I didn’t find anything alarming. What I found was my blouse, creamy white and without a single spot of red. It wasn’t the homeless man’s profuse bleeding that I’d carried into my home, it was the evidence of his hand pawing at my breast. Two buttons were missing from the middle of the blouse, and a small tear along the hem left the satiny material hanging like a short necktie.

How did I miss that?

“Oh, that,” I answered, sounding as though it was nothing. “This is an easy fix. I’ll take it to the tailor this week.” Steve remained concerned, but then gave me a hug and said he was sorry that I’d been hurt. The gesture was sweet and unexpected and warming.

While I told him thank you, my mind was already upstairs, imagining my legs dipping into the bubbly wet of a hot bath. I wanted a glass of wine. I wanted to rest. I
needed
to rest. As I broke away from the hug and made my way to the stairs, Steve added, “You’ll still be able to go in a half hour?” I stopped at the bottom of the staircase and leaned over the rail, disappointment souring my plans. Steve turned to finish making dinner for the kids, but stopped when I didn’t answer him.

“I can be ready,” I answered, but had no recollection of our having made any plans.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m being selfish. If you’re not up for it, that’s fine. It’s just Romeo’s for a few drinks and dinner. My boss will understand.”