Dean nodded. That was about enough. He stomped into the bathroom, threw back the curtain, and grabbed Daphne not by the hair but by the face, and hauled her out of the stall. Water flew off her perfect-white skin, and her equally perfect breasts bobbed in terror. Her first shriek pierced his ears, but Dean put an end to that noise fast, with two solid right-crosses to the mouth. Whap-whap! Her pretty eyes went cockeyed, and now she was murmuring manically with blood smeared at her lips.
"So the house needs to be cleaned?" Dean asked, throwing his naked wife to the floor. "Well, how about the toilet? Let's see if it's dirty."
He got on his knees, then shoved her head into the commode. Gurgling noises spat upward.
"How's it look, honey? Clean or dirty?"
Her arms and legs flailed as she blew bubbles of terror in the toilet water. Dean's hand vised in her hair, holding her down.
"Think maybe you should lick it? That'd get it nice and clean, wouldn't it, sweetheart?"
He shoved her head in harder, with both hands now. The bubbles were literary bursting now; it looked like a full-tilt hot tub down there.
But then the bubbles stopped, and her naked body fell slack.
"Oopsie!" Dean remarked. "Goodness gracious what have I done?"
Daphne lay dead, her head hanging in the commode. Dean considered giving her a last poke but then said to hell with it. He'd been sick of that pussy a week after the honeymoon.
So instead of fucking her he simply pissed on her head, flushed the toilet, and went back downstairs for another brewsky—
"—it's a FUCKIN' SHIT-HOLE!" Daphne bellowed so hard little veins bulged at her temples. Dean was staring at her from the couch. He looked around and noticed the house was clean.
Just not clean enough, evidently.
By the time Dean's mind surfaced from this next—and worst—Jig-Jag, Daphne had already stormed upstairs. But Dean remained frozen on the couch: in the Jig-Jag, he'd—
I killed her, he recalled. I killed my loving wife!
He couldn't imagine what could spur such thoughts, but then he remembered all the things Ajax had told him. More and more, it seemed to all be true.
I guess I really need to get some help...
He made to get up, go and talk to Daphne, when the phone rang—
"Hello?"
"Dean, this is Ajax. You need to—"
"Ajax! I gotta tell you something," Dean rushed in. "I think maybe you're right about a lot of this. I just had the worst—"
"Forget about all that," Ajax insisted. "Turn on CNN, right now!"
Dean kept the phone to his ear and he punched up the remote control.
A blond newscaster reeled off the short news-clip, "—say authorities in the ranch town of DeSmet, South Dakota. Thus far, thirteen children have been found mutilated, along with a police officer and security guard—"
"What the hell!" Dean declared.
"That's the place you grew up, isn't it?" Ajax said over the line. "DeSmet?"
"Yeah... "
Next, a video clip showed—
"That's the old Stoddard Mill!" Dean exclaimed.
"—in the vicinity of the old Stoddard Mill," the newscaster went on, "which officially closed in the early eighties. All of the bodies of the children have been found here as well as the body of the police officer. The first shocking murder, however, occurred when a security guard was found similarly mutilated on the property of DeSmet's largest cattle ranch—" The next clip showed a place much familiar to Dean: the great sign in high sunlight which read WELCOME TO THE LOHAN RANCH
"That's my dad's ranch!" Dean exclaimed.
"All of the deceased seemed to be victims of some kind of bizarre animal attack. State authorities will be stepping in to aid in this brutal crisis, which far surpasses the resources and capabilities of the modest, six-man DeSmet department headed by veteran sergeant A.T. Lass." On the screen, Lass' plump face appeared, his mouth like two twisting worms as he attempted to assert authority. "It's a horrible, horrible tragedy we got goin' here in our good town, but my department will do everything in its power to assist the state investigation squad which should be arriving shortly." Lass, then, inadvertently picked his nose before the TV news camera. "But one thing I need to impress upon folks is that this is a police matter, and the last thing any of us needs is citizens runnin' off and tryin' to kill the varmint on their own. It's an accident waitin' to happen, and we can't have a bunch of good ol' boys shooting at each other's shadows in the woods. This needs to be left to the proper authorities." The screen switched back to the blond newscaster. "After last night's grim discovery, rumors have abounded that male residents are in the process of arming themselves and venturing out into the woods to hunt down the vicious animal—"
Dean sat locked in rigor as the shocking newscast ended.
"Ain't that some weird shit?" Ajax asked over the phone.
"I'll talk to you later," Dean stammered and hung up. Gotta call dad, his thoughts rushed. Gotta find out what's going on out there... He quickly dialed his father's number in South Dakota, but it wasn't Dean's father who picked up; it was Shirley, the Lohan housekeeper for the last thirty years.
Dean spoke, identified himself and asked about his father, but Shirley was hysterical, could not be understood through the gibberish of sobs.
"Shirley, please!" Dean insisted. "Get a grip on yourself! What's wrong?"
Eventually the woman became comprehensible. Choking back tears, she revealed, "Oh dear Dean—it only happened a little while ago! Your wonderful father... he's in the hospital!"
Dean was gripped in dread. "The hospital? What for?"
"He's in a coma, Dean! They say he's going to die! Come home at once!"
No! Not Dad! Dean felt frantic, confused, shattered. "I'm grabbing the first flight out!" he told Shirley and hung up. Next he raced up the stairs, taking three steps at a time, barged into the bedroom and began throwing clothes into a suitcase. Steam poured out of the bathroom; the shower hissed. Dean stuck his head in.
"Sweetheart? I'm-I'm sorry but—" His lower lip trembled—"I'm not going to be able to clean the house—"
"Why not!" she shouted from behind the shower curtain.
"My dad's in a coma."
Her voice turned regretful. "Oh, Dean, honey. I'm so sorry."
"So I have to go back to DeSmet. I'm not sure when I'll be back."
"Okay, honey. Have a good trip," she said and continued with her shower.
What a woman! Dean beamed. I knew she'd understand!
««—»»
Still rattled by the sight of his dead deputy Dodell (and the loss of a pre-eminent source of fellation), Sergeant A.T. Lass cruised down night-shrouded Main Street, frowning at its new-found desolation. Any other time, Main Street would be abuzz with hookers and dealers at this hour. But not tonight, he complained to himself. Everyone's off the street, sitting at home with their doors bolted. All afraid of the big bad wolf.
Diligent law-enforcement officers would approve of this sudden lack of skell, whores, and scumbags prowling the streets but less-than-diligent officers, such as Lass, saw it from a different angle. He wanted those dealers on their street selling their wares; he wanted those hookers turning twenty tricks a night because the first thing they did with their trick money was buy more crystal-meth. Lass had his fingers in those profits, and it was a big pie.