And just as quickly, Oren had discovered that they were just as sick and twisted as his mother had been. They were weak, perverted, and they made the perfect façade. He could do as he wished with impunity, and no one would ever know.
No one.
The river. Yes, perfect.
That’s where he’d take her. Let the hungry carp and wide-mouthed catfish feast on her destroyed flesh. In the less savory neighborhoods, he could access the river away from houses, away from humanity.
He’d have to watch out for vagrants and criminals, but he’d take a gun for protection.
Aunt Dory, when threatened, proved an adequate shot.
Thinking of Aunt Dory again spurred his discontent with their excesses. He hoped they both bled. He hoped they hurt ten times more than he was hurting.
It’d be a good lesson for them.
It was no more than they deserved.
Rubbing the back of his neck, trying to ease the tension, Oren went to the basement to supervise. He instructed Uncle Myer to wash and dress properly, just in case they were spotted. He told Aunt Dory to fix her hair and dry her tears. There was no time for self-pity, not for the likes of them.
Within an hour, they were on the road. The headlights of the black Mercedes cut through a dense fog clinging to the roadway. A timorous sliver of moon quailed behind thick gray clouds. Dory and Myer shared pointless chitchat from the front seat, with Myer driving.
In the backseat, closest to the corpse compressed into the cramped trunk space, Oren rode in silence. He pressed his back firmly into the seat, imagining how the body had gotten unnaturally twisted in order to fit, getting closer to it, relishing the nearness.
It gave him some small solace, a taste of dominance, but not enough.
He needed another tramp.
Tomorrow.
Nothing could get in his way. Not even the skinny bitch with the spooky, perspicacious eyes.
After a writing marathon that ended with several completed chapters and filled her small room with the actuating scents of ink, paper, and idealism, Gaby stowed her tools in the special storage box she’d procured for just that purpose. The lockbox, fashioned to withstand fire and attempts at theft, held her treasures in the safest manner possible to one like her.
Though she’d been locked away in her room all day, writing without consideration for breakfast or lunch, no one could guess why. No one could know that she translated heinous reality into a fictionalized account of her pathetic life.
She was Servant, the female lead in her graphic novels. Romanticized surely, softened and more heroic, more human—just as normal people insisted their idols be. The series had proven mega-popular with the underground crowd.
And then it had proven popular with everyone.
No one realized that Gaby wrote and illustrated the stories. That she was the stories.
Far as she knew, no one even suspected her of being more than a homely, lonely, antagonistic bitch.
Except Luther.
Glancing out the window, Gaby saw that the day had melted away. He would be visiting her soon.
Intrusive bastard.
Real-life hero.
Gaby closed her eyes, despondent. Had Luther insisted on seeing her today because, as he’d said, he missed her? Or because he distrusted her?
Perhaps both?
Edgy with conflicting emotion, Gaby tucked the lockbox into a camouflaged niche carved into her box spring, and straightened her covers. As she exited the room that was as circumscribed as her existence, she double locked the reinforced door. With her privacy secured, she headed out into the public hallway.
The motel served as a safe place for assignations all day long, but at this time of early evening, things were just starting to heat up. Gaby heard faked moans, unenthusiastic laughter, and the more distinct sounds of flesh slapping on flesh.
She paused, watching the lewd displays happening in the stairway, down in the foyer, in an open room. When she’d first moved to the motel, curiosity had kept her watching.
Now, there was nothing new for her to see.
Sex, bought and paid for, lost its luster early on.
The more she observed, the more sadness infiltrated her soul.
Tuning out the acquainted sounds of business, she decided to station herself on the middle floor where she could keep an eye on the girls until Luther’s arrival. No need to sit out in the heat. When a cop showed up near a whorehouse, it caused a buzz; she’d know.
Putting in her tiny earphones and turning on the digital audioplayer, Gaby settled back against the peeling wallpaper.
She enjoyed the music Luther had given her as a gift. She never tired of listening to it. So she could hear any cries of distress, need, or intrusion, she kept the volume low.
Usually the music lent her a strange sort of equanimity, lulling her, quieting her turbulent disquiet.
Tonight, her thoughts raged.
Residue from yesterday’s conflict?
Gaby dismissed that thought almost as soon as she had it. Mort would tell her later if the man survived, and even if he didn’t, she couldn’t care. The more she accepted her duties, the less they staggered her.
The man had wanted her dead. He’d likely killed before.
The strength of his muddy, convulsing aura exposed his laziness. The rotted black holes added an indication of severe imbalance, both in morals and mental ability. The man was a bottom-feeder, and if he passed, the world would be a better place.
No, she didn’t care. More likely Carver’s audacity caused her tension.
How dare that bastard hire another to have her snuffed? He was such a chicken-shit moron.
For underestimating her in such a big way, Carver would pay.
Maybe. If the mood struck her. If not . . .
Distracted from her ruminations, Gaby watched a suited, middle-class man climb the stairs with Bliss, one of the younger hookers.
Bliss didn’t belong here, but then, who did?
No one.
Yet here they were: Gaby; the hookers who’d accepted her; the pimps who tolerated her; the men who, thanks to sickness, debauchery, loneliness, or misguided emotion, sought them out.
And Luther.
God knew he belonged here least of all.
He came through a need to right wrongs, to prevent injustice.
To visit her.
Her jaw tightened. Looking like a painted angel and chatting like a magpie, Bliss climbed the stairs with the man’s hand held in hers. He wore an anticipatory smile on his smug face.
When they neared Gaby, she ensured the john felt her gaze; he stiffened in alarm.
Gaby didn’t give a shit.
She wanted the slimeball to feel her warning.
Hurt Bliss, and you’ll pay.
Gaby was . . . partial to Bliss. Maybe because of her young age. Maybe because Gaby knew her better than she knew the others.
Possibly it was because in some small, indefinable way, Gaby recognized something of herself in Bliss. That didn’t make sense, but then, nothing of her life could be rationalized.
Given the heat of Gaby’s stare, Bliss had to take a moment to soothe the man before leading him to a meager room. After she got him in the door, Bliss leaned out, gave Gaby a goofy, teasing look of reprimand, and blew her a kiss.
It was something a younger sister might have done, and it pained Gaby as much as an arrow through her heart.
Not that she’d ever let Bliss know.
When the door closed, Gaby went back to her contemplation of Carver. Hard music filled her ears, pulsing through her veins, finding a cadence with her angered heartbeat.
She decided that if she got bored and needed the exercise, she’d find Carver and . . .
A swift bolt of tension impaled her, burning her soul and then spiraling into her veins with awesome speed until every part of her body burned with acute agony. The sensation was familiar, and grindingly painful.