He took a long slow breath and adjusted the gauze that had been wrapped around his forehead to keep the blood from dripping down into his eyes.
The woman, whose name he’d learned had been Donna, had done a good job. He was worried that her hands might tremble, that she might accidentally slip and cut his eyelid with the razor. Especially since he was sitting there with her little girl locked in a death grip. But perhaps because of this, and not in spite of it, she was extremely steady. He’d warned her that if she tried anything funny with the razor little Ashley would be the one to pay the price. And apparently she’d believed him.
When the blood drained out, it felt like a great pressure had suddenly been removed from his head. Donna had went to the kitchen to get the beers out of the icebox, saying that he needed something cold on his face to help ease the swelling and pain even more. By this time, the blurriness was clearing and he could see the bathroom he’d been led into. White grouted tiles, a little toothbrush holder held by suction cups to the mirror above the sink, blue fish decals on the tank of the toilet she’d sat him upon.
Once he heard the refrigerator door open, he’d snapped Ashley’s neck. Quickly. Cleanly. Silently. He lifted her body and placed it in the tub, closing the curtain as softly as he could.
The machete, of course, hadn’t been brought into the bathroom with them. So instead, he removed the lid from the back of the toilet tank and draped a towel over where it had been as a disguise. After blowing out the candle and plunging the room into darkness, he positioned himself behind the door, working out the angles that would allow him to see the mirror without being seen himself.
When he first saw her, he almost gasped. She looked so much like Polly. A Polly who had let herself go perhaps. A Polly who drank a little too much beer, whose already round face had taken on an almost puffy look and whose belly was no longer tight and firm. And her hair was cut shorter too but it was the same color, had the same little ringlets.
He’d must have won Donna’s trust over completely with the stories of his life with Jane. She walked into the darkened bathroom without hesitation, her voice registering confusion but not fear or panic.
“Rick? Ashley?”
He breathed in long and slow, relishing the memory of how the tank lid felt as it smashed over her head. That dull thud. The jolt that traveled up his arms as a crack spread across the heavy porcelain.
She’d fallen to the floor and the back of her head was almost instantly drenched in blood. But she was still alive, existing somewhere on the borderlands of consciousness, moaning softly every few seconds as her fingers twitched.
He’d drug her into the bedroom then, stripped her, and had his way, timing the punches to her face perfectly with the thrusts of his hips, calling out Polly’s name over and over as the rhythm gained in speed and ferocity.
When he’d finished, she was motionless. Not even the slightest rise and fall of her chest. He’d dressed then and raided the refrigerator, polishing off leftover meatloaf and downing the four beers that were still in the little side compartment.
It was good to be King.
To take what was rightfully his.
On the street, he saw a woman slinking by. Black shoes, black pants, and shirt. For a moment, he simply stood there with his jaw hanging open. It couldn’t be. The clothes were too tight, the t-shirt too plain. It couldn’t be.
But it was.
Polly.
He dropped the beer he was holding and ran for the front door, his heart hammering so loudly that he half expected it to break a rib.
Donna had been fun, but she was nothing more than a cheap substitute. The off brand.
No, what he craved was the real thing.
And now he knew it was right within his grasp.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
She’d broken a window with a large rock that she’d found out near the playground, making sure that she was well hidden from view of the street. She’d had the feeling that she was being followed, that someone was tracking her as if she were a deer in the forest. But every time she’d try to steal a glance over her shoulder nothing was there. She even tried to catch a glimpse in the side view mirror of a parked car, hoping this little trick would reveal whether or not someone was slipping through the shadows behind her. But that disclosed nothing as well, so she’d continued on and chalked it up to nerves.
The neighborhood surrounding the school was chiefly residential which, in turn, meant it had been mostly spared from the looting. There were a few cars with spider web cracks stretching across their windshields, some broken glass littering the sidewalk, a couple of bodies lying in the street; but it was nothing like the other parts of town where the stores were all clustered together and ripe for the picking.
She’d climbed into the darkness of the school and made her way forward carefully, working her way through the labyrinth of rooms until she was in one of the halls. It was so quiet that her footsteps echoed as loudly as if she were wearing heavy boots. No one came running. No doors flew open to reveal murderous rage. But why would they? Who they hell would be in an elementary school at this time of night anyway?
She lit her cigarette, feeling slightly guilty when she noticed the sign on the wall that announced tobacco was prohibited on school property. But that guilt was quickly assuaged when her eyes had become better adjusted to the gloom: when she realized that the hallway was lined on either side with bright yellow tape.
Son of a bitch….
Polly stood, took the last drag from her cigarette, and crushed it out under her heel.
She would find somewhere else then.
Richard’s initial instinct had been to charge at her like a mad bull. To run her down the same way Meathead had done him. But he fought this urge, savoring instead the little game he was playing. She, the dainty little mouse, who kept looking back over her shoulder: afraid and helpless in this big ’ole maze of a city. He, the stealthy cat in the shadows: quick and slinky, master of the domain, perfectly bred for stealth and attack.
After several blocks, he realized that — in his haste to follow her — he’d forgotten to grab his machete when he’d left Donna’s brownstone. But no worries. He could go back for it later. It wasn’t as if he would actually need it. Not for her.
Around the same time it dawned upon him where she was heading. The elementary school. Wasn’t that just like a woman? To worry about the little kiddies when she should be more concerned with saving her own skin?
Oh man, this was going to be too easy.
The classroom was standard issue. Block walls painted some neutral color she’d never bothered to learn the name of. Row after row of desks perfectly lined up. Bookshelves. Learning based posters on the walls and a big chalkboard with the name Mrs. Haversham scrawled across it.
She’d plopped down into the teacher’s chair and looked at the day planner laid out on top of the desk. PTA meeting, 7:30 PM Wednesday. Field Trip-Zoo, 8:30 AM, two weeks from now. Sorry about your luck, Mrs. Haversham, but it looks like we’ve had to clear your calendar. Permanently.
As she swiveled back and forth in the chair, Polly toyed with the little American flags that had been poised on one corner of the desk. They were the type that had two poles jutting out at opposite angles from a single wooden base. Probably made in Taiwan.
Maybe she should rest here for a while. Wait for daylight and plan her next move. Smoke all she wanted or for as long as the pack held out.