The Devil Stood Up (18 page)

“It’s like this, Carrie,” he began on an outward rush of breath. It made him sound as though he deeply regretted having to say what he was about to say but it was for the best of his listener. “You have to move on with your life. There is no ‘you and I’, no ‘we’, and you’re just going to have to accept it. I don’t want you posting anything on my blog, I don’t want you calling me, I don’t want you emailing me or trying to contact me through the website. Listen, I know you’re grateful. I helped you out of a jam and now you think I’m your knight in shining armor…it’s not uncommon, believe me!” He chuckled, shaking his head. “I know the effect I have on my clients!”

Carrie had yet to speak or touch the salad the waitress had set before her while Thomas lectured. She had glanced at the waitress, noting the woman’s embarrassed expression. Embarrassed for her. That was infuriating. Her hands twisted and gripped on each other under the table.

“You and I are really from different worlds.” He leaned in, his lapels nearly in his salad. “Everyone knows you killed your kid. I’m a lawyer; I can’t have scandal like that associated with me. I’m going to be a politician, a big one, and it’s going to happen sooner rather than later. You think they wouldn’t use something like a relationship with you against me? Especially considering the fact that you’re a nutso–”

The waitress cleared her throat, her face was bright red.

“Can I take your salads? Are you through with them?”

“Yes, take them,” Thomas said, sitting back.

“Miss?” the waitress asked, “Was there something wrong with your salad?”

Carrie tilted her head back and looked up at the waitress. She was very pretty in a girl-next-door kind of way, with soft, sympathetic brown eyes. She smiled at Carrie encouragingly.

Without taking her eyes from the waitress, Carrie pushed her salad plate onto the floor at her feet. It exploded like a salad bomb. Thomas had been checking his phone and was only aware of the aftermath of the plate on the floor, greens scattered about and oily dressing splashed onto the waitress’ shoes. She jumped back, open-mouth with shock. Thomas became annoyed, he assumed she’d dropped the salad as she took it from Carrie’s place.

“Well, don’t stand there staring at it,” he said, “Pick it up! Christ, wake up dummy.” He shook his head in disgust. “And get someone over here to clean that floor–that dressing is deadly. I should know; I’m a lawyer. I’ve sued people over much less.” He laughed, not caring that he’d just insulted the waitress and at the same time, unable to understand why she didn’t laugh at his joke. His jokes were very funny. Well, but, service people didn’t matter much in the scheme of things. Who could be more replaceable?

The waitress looked up at Carrie, gape-mouthed and Carrie smiled at her–a toothy, shark grin ruled by her dead black shark’s eyes. A ripple of anger was chased away by a wave of fear and the waitress bent to collect the bits of ceramic. She was suddenly very glad this was the last table of her shift.

Thomas shook his head, irritated by the interruption when his speech had been going so well. Clumsy waitress. A busboy came to her aid and together they got the mess cleaned up and she disappeared back into the kitchen. Another server brought their meatloaf and silently placed it before them.

Thomas stared at the retreating back of the server, shaking his head, thoroughly preoccupied by the poor service he was receiving here tonight.

“It’s your secretary, isn’t it?” Carrie said. It was the first thing she’d said since the mineral water debacle at his office. Her voice was quiet and even. “That’s why you’re doing this…it’s Kelly, right?”

He glanced at her, distracted. “Huh? Oh, uh, yes, it’s Kelly.” He thought Carrie was just confirming Kelly’s name. He hadn’t heard the beginning of what she’d said. “They’re really having an off night here. Usually the service is very good. I don’t understand it,” he said and dug into his dinner. “Anyway, as I was saying…where was I?”

“Politician,” Carrie said, her voice was neat and even. She looked at him steadily.

“Uh…oh, yes,” he said. “That’s right.” He looked at her and unease flitted over his features. “So anyway, I’m going to be a politician, a big one. Someday maybe the biggest, if you get my drift.” He cocked his head at her and grinned. “You may not know this, but the things I do now will have bearing on my future. I can’t have any skeletons and you, well…” He forked in a chunk of meatloaf and shook his head again, chuckling. “You’ve got a skeleton in your–”

He took a breath and the half chewed chunk of meatloaf lodged in his throat. He tried to get his breath and couldn’t. His eyes popped out in panicked surprise and Carrie felt a worm of interest, watching him struggle. Maybe he would die right here. It happened all the time, people choking to death in restaurants. She gave him another speculative look. Might be kind of cool. She’d be able to intimate that they were in a relationship…he wouldn’t be able to rebut her from the grave. Maybe she could even get something because of it…part of his estate or something. That would be pretty awesome.

He curled his hand into a fist and punched himself in the diaphragm. It wasn’t a very hard hit–you can’t punch yourself in the midsection very hard–but it was enough to dislodge the meatloaf. It popped from his mouth and landed in the middle of the table, shining wetly in the candlelight.

He heaved in a ragged breath.

She leaned forward, her features drawing together in concern. He took another breath, preparing to tell her that he was okay. He’d be okay.

“That was so Presidential!” she said, the sarcasm like acid, eating away at the words. “That how they do it in the White House?”

* * *

He stood outside the pub with her and tried to talk her into his car, but she refused. The night had gotten chilly and the streets were wet with a spring rain that had passed through while they ate.

“I’ll call you a cab, how about that? You can stay somewhere in town tonight and then you can take the train back tomorrow.”

“Really. Which train is it that goes to my trailer park?” she asked him, but her tone was mild. She wasn’t concerned about transportation because she wasn’t going home tonight and probably not tomorrow, either. She had a couple pieces of business to attend to. Her little dog Paris flashed across her mind. She hadn’t left it any food. Had she left it water? She couldn’t remember. Ah shit, well…she could always get another dog. No big deal.

“How about this,” he said. “I’ll put you up somewhere; a nice place right here in town.”

Her mind ticked.

“How much is a nice place?” she asked.

“I’m not sure off-hand. Probably two to three hundred.”

“A week?” she asked. The number was astronomical.

He chuckled.

“A night, Carrie. That price would be for one night.”

She was really getting tired of his condescension. That shit would not fly once they were married. He’d learn to respect her. She held out her hand.

“Just give it and I’ll take care of myself.” She thought. “Give me six–enough for two nights.”

Now it was his turn to think. Six hundred dollars was a lot of money, but was it a lot to be done with her? No. Not at all. He fished the bills from his wallet.

“Are you sure you’ll be all right? I could drive you to–”

“Jesus, Thomas, I’m fine. I can take care of myself, in case you hadn’t noticed yet. Just go.” Now she was anxious to get rid of him. She wasn’t sure what time it was, but she knew she had to get where she was going as quickly as possible. If she was to have a chance.

He gave her a sickly grin and backed away. He keyed his car to life and drove off, waving. She raised her hand briefly. She waited until he turned at the next intersection and then trotted lightly to the alley beside the restaurant. She went to the end and saw a handful of cars lined up across the back of the building. Employee’s cars, she figured. She hunkered down in the blackness next to one of the large garbage cans. She pulled a knife from her boot–it was a knife from the restaurant, an eight-inch steak knife. She’d slipped it in there when no one was looking. It was lucky Thomas had gotten them a secluded table.

She waited, her eyes on a screen door she thought would lead to the restaurant’s kitchen. She would take care of that nervy bitch of a waitress.

The waitress came through the door and paused half in and half out, propping the door open with her hip. She stood directly under the bare bulb that hung over the small back porch. She reached down and swiped at her feet with a cloth. It looked as though she’d done that more than a few times already.

She shook her head and stood and Carrie could hear the low rumble of a male voice from deeper in the kitchen. Now the waitress laughed.

“Oh, hey, I don’t need an excuse to buy shoes, believe me! I just didn’t want to have to spend my tips on another pair of work shoes so soon.”

She looked at her ruined shoes and the male voice rumbled again.

The waitress looked up and smiled back into the kitchen. Her smile was weary but also sweet and full of kindness. It turned Carrie’s stomach.

“No, I’ll be fine. I’m just going to go home and put my feet up. Tonight was…a long one.”

She waved and turned, letting the screen door shut behind her. She crossed to the row of cars near the alley.

Carrie made a small, mewling sound at the back of her throat. It sounded like a hurt puppy. She’d learned the noise from her own dog. That dog cried a LOT.

She mewled again.

The waitress heard the sound coming from near the dumpsters and her first thought was feral cats–they dug in the garbage all the time–but the feral cats made very little noise. Unless they were fighting or doing it, she thought, then they make plenty of noise!

This sounded more like a kitten, maybe even a puppy in distress. She stood next to her Civic, letting her eyes adjust. She checked her watch…Todd would be wondering where she was if she didn’t get going. The mewling came again, a bit louder, as if the animal had sensed her wavering. She sighed. I’ll just make sure it’s okay. I’m not bringing anything home with me! She walked to the dumpsters, crooning in a soothing way, reassuring any animal that she was no threat.

The waitress said:

“It’s okay, I’m not going to hurt you; it’s okay baby…”

From her hiding place, Carrie nearly laughed. She brought the back of her knife hand to her mouth to stifle a giggle. The knife stuck straight up from her palm. Dumb bitch, she thought. Just come a little closer, just a little bit…

The waitress inched forward trying to see into the gloom. She was thinking that the poor kitten or puppy was so scared it wasn’t even crying anymore.

“Kitty kitty?” she said. “Puppy puppy? Are you still back–”

She saw a glint and her first thought was that it was the animal’s eyes, but it would have had to be three feet tall. Then the glint came again and now it was at four feet, now at five, still going higher.

The waitress took one alarmed step back and Carrie stepped forward, the knife held high. She was smiling. She brought the knife down in an arc and plunged it into the base of the waitress’ throat. Then Carrie stepped quickly to the side.

The waitress pinwheeled her arms and stumbled back, but Carrie grabbed one thrashing arm and pulled her forward, into the darkness of the alley. The waitress made a hissing, mewling sound that seemed more to seep from around the knife than to come from her mouth. She reached for the knife. One flailing hand struck it, causing it to sink deeper, slicing as it went. She sank to her knees. Her tears caught hints of light and glinted as they slid down her face. She put her hands on the ground in front of her; it was gritty and slick with the grease the kitchen workers dumped back here. She got her knees under her and started to stand. She understood that she had to get back out into the light. Someone from the kitchen would see her. They would help.

A gentle hand grasped her elbow and helped her up. The waitress turned toward the hand, but there was no one, the hand was gone. Then she felt the hand on her shoulder blade, pushing, turning her gently. She was saved; she was being helped. She acquiesced under the tender touch, relief flowing through her. She stood where the hand positioned her, dazed and in a fog of red pain. She’d already lost enough blood to make her lightheaded.

The waitress sensed a claustrophobic closeness of something in front of her. Right at her face. She reached out one trembling hand. Her fingers skated across roughly pitted metal. The dumpster, she was facing the dumpster, but why–

She was shoved rudely from behind and realized a split second before impact that she’d been set up. She’d been turned by her attacker toward the dumpster for this last blow.

The knife connected with the dumpster first and sliced down, buried to its hilt in her neck. Then the waitress’ body met the unyielding side of the dumpster and the knife tilted sharply to the right, slicing across and into her jugular, releasing the remainder of her life’s blood in a jet.

She rebounded off the dumpster and was dead before she hit the ground.

Carrie knelt next to her and tried to pull the knife from her throat. She pulled and pulled, but it seemed stuck on something, each pull merely shaking the waitress’ body. Finally, she rose up and placed her foot on the waitress’ neck for leverage. With both hands on the knife she yanked and finally it sprang free. She was quick to jump back and away from the last few gushes. So far, she’d gotten none of the waitress’ blood on her and she wanted to keep it that way. She was too fond of her outfit to let the waitress ruin it.

She wiped the knife handle with the tail of the waitress’ blouse. Then, keeping the cloth around the handle, she stuck the knife deep into the waitress’ stomach, because she couldn’t reach her neck again without getting fresh prints on the knife.

It never occurred to Carrie to wonder why she just didn’t leave the knife on the ground or even toss it into the dumpster. Perhaps she just liked the stabbing part.

She stood and started down the alley, never glancing back. She didn’t need to; she’d taken care of that piece of business.