FOUR
The next day at the studio was a nightmare of boredom and insults. A seemingly endless stream of flaccid, horse-faced children and an entire family of twelve identical morons who wanted portraits assaulted Christian.
It seemed that "Cousin Earl and Aunt Ida were just in from Texas, and Beau here, he's headin' to the Army soon, so we figgered we'd better get the whole bunch down on film while they was here." Christ.
Somehow he managed to meet each and every challenge, even finding a way to sell the family an extra set of 8 X 10's for "the folks back home in Texas." He was going to need all the money he could come across in the days to come, and he was willing to sacrifice a small modicum of pride in order to meet his goals. Whatever was necessary.
The day dragged on and on, but finally ended, and he rushed through the mechanics of processing the day’s film, something he never did, waiting only long enough to get the prints hanging and drying before rushing out the door and into the streets. Even the usual day’s images were absent. Those of the previous day, and evening lingered, and they superimposed themselves too readily over the weaker images this day had to offer. Unfortunately, Dorinda and Chastity were not available in the darkroom, and the others existed only in his mind.
Christian had stops to make before going home. He needed supplies, and, he thought, a bottle of scotch.
* * *
The streetlights flickered on up and down the block, and Christian sat at his kitchen table in silence, watching and waiting. In front of him sat a half-finished glass of scotch, a puddle of condensate (condensation?) forming around its base. He'd had two glasses, and his thoughts were slow and lazy, comfortable. The bottle, still almost full, sat beside his glass, but he wasn't pouring any more. Not tonight – at least not for himself.
This was to be a night of destiny, a special night, and he had no intention of marring the experience in any way, least of all by becoming uncharacteristically drunk. Besides, now there was more in the glass than scotch.
He fought the images that formed as he stared at the bottle, fought the pounding rhythm that forced itself into his thoughts, reaching up from his past to grab at him and pull him inward. He fought, and he lost.
His mother's face swam before his eyes, and he heard her humming, singing to herself as she danced about their small home, stopping here to put on another dab of makeup, there for a sip of her drink, gin and whatever was available, whirling away again to turn up the stereo as a particular song came on, then down as one less favored took its place.
Her face had been his first model. He'd seen it a thousand ways, seen the lights glimmering from the hard lines around her eyes. He had a box of photographs he'd taken, images he'd stolen from her between the humiliations – lessons he'd squirreled away, studied, and then reopened.
His father had left when Christian was three, too young to understand anything except the abandonment. It had taken years and oceans of tears, to understand why the man had gone.
Christian’s mother had been irrepressible. She'd been saturated with the pleasures of her body, of other bodies, of alcohol and drugs, of whatever might come her way. She'd seen Christian as a challenge, another thing to be taken in excess, another toy to possess.
He remembered sitting in front of her dresser as she drank her gin, painting her face and telling him about this man, or that, about what she would be doing that evening. As he'd grown older, these descriptions had become more explicit, more demanding on his emotions.
The descriptions had faded all at once, and the lessons had begun. She'd told him it was for his own good, to teach him about his body, to show him what it could do. He hadn't wanted to, not at first. He'd tried to pull away, to make her see that it was wrong, that she was wrong. In the end, her fingers, her tongue had been too much. He'd been a boy, she a woman. He'd had no chance.
So he stole. When she humiliated him in front of her dates, dressed him up, painted his face and paraded him through the apartment while she drank and danced and played, he'd stolen the images. He'd learned the paints that made her what she most wanted to be – beautiful. He'd learned to capture the visions and make them his own.
He'd learned one other lesson. There had been times when money was tight. His mother had her ways of making a living, and usually they were more than adequate, but there had been lean times when she'd resorted to other means, darker means.
"This is the key," she'd told him one night as he sat and she painted herself, he wanting to disappear into the woodwork, to not know where she was going, or with whom, and she bent on revealing it. She'd held out a small bottle with a cork stopper.
"Two drops of this in a man's drink, Chrissy, and he's mine. One more sip, and he's out. Then I'm out, you see, and his money is out with me. I never use this too close to home, so I'll be late. Don't wait up."
He'd never waited up, but when she'd finally disappeared and not returned, following the shadow of his long departed father, Christian had kept the bottle. He'd kept the makeup too, all of the bits and pieces of his mother's life were in boxes, lining a shelf in his closet.
Only the makeup was open, because he still used it on his creations, at times. Other times he used it on his own face, modeling for himself, watching the play of light and color on his features and across the glimmering surfaces of his eyes, learning about the vision.
Earlier that morning, Christian had gone to the attic and unpacked the small brown bottle. Its stopper was intact. He'd calculated carefully the number of glasses in a bottle of scotch, thrown in a few extra drops for good measure. He didn’t know if the chemicals would have broken down over time, but he thought that it would do. It would have to; there would be no second chance.
He shook his head, fought his way free of the memories and forced his focus back to the present, to the street outside the window, to the moment at hand. The neon lights of the corner market flashed once, blinked out, flashed again and stayed on. He watched, and he waited, sipping his scotch.
His heart pounded harder than he could ever remember feeling it, but the beats were slow, regular, and powerful. He felt as if he could do anything, as if he were in control of things he'd only been vaguely aware of before this night. His destiny was coming together, the future and the past.
When he saw two shadows melt from the greater whole of the darkness, he moved, checking to make sure everything was in place.
When he was certain that he was as ready as he could possibly be, he slipped out the door and hurried down the street. He felt the subtle weight of eyes on his back, but ignored it. His gaze was fixed on the market ahead, and on completing the first half of his journey in peace. It was imperative that things not get out of hand. Not yet.
He heard a sharp whistle, but this time he didn’t turn. Instead he hurried his steps, shuffled forward as though frightened and bolted into the small store. He went directly to the beer cooler and pulled out a six-pack. Budweiser. He'd seen enough advertisements around town to know it was a popular brand. Christian preferred imported beer for himself, but tonight was special.
He grabbed a loaf of bread and some cheese to make his trip seem more natural and took his purchases to the counter. He hurried as much as he could without being obvious; he didn't want the two to get bored and give up on him.
"Those kids are back on the street," the old man said gruffly. "You might want to wait a few minutes before going out. They can be kind of rough..."
"Thanks, but I'm in a hurry," Christian answered, actually flashing a quick smile at the man. "I've got some extra work to do, homework."
The man looked at him peculiarly, but did not respond. That was fine with Christian. He didn't want to draw attention to himself, and he was afraid that his quick burst of conversation had done just that. In the three years he'd been coming here, it was the longest sentence he'd uttered.
He paid for the beer and food and slipped back out the door with a quick nod. The light was draining fast from the evening sky and the glow from the streetlights was more pronounced, glittering brilliantly against an ebony backdrop.
The two youngsters stood, wrapped in a tight embrace, beneath the lamp directly across from Christian's apartment. He walked slowly down the street, his bag held conspicuously in his left hand, closest to the curb.
The boy's eyes shot up from his companion's face almost immediately, and Christian felt the boy’s gaze crawling over his skin, scouting, picking away at his defenses. Despite his earlier calm, his nerves made his muscles twitch under the youth’s intense scrutiny. Too much still depended on chance, and it would be too easy for something to go very, very wrong.
"Hey, Buzzard," the caustic voice cut through the air like a knife, "what you got in the bag, old man?"
Christian walked more quickly and ignored the boy. He didn't want to hurry too much, but he had to appear nervous. He hesitated and shuffled his feet, as though undecided whether to continue, or to turn and try for the safety of the store.
"You hear me, Scarecrow?" the boy boomed. He released the girl and started across the street, walking in a line that would cut directly across Christian's path.
His heart thudding wildly, Christian bolted forward, but the youth was too quick and cut him off easily, blocking his way. Leaning casually on the fence, the boy reached out a hand to point.
"I asked what you had in the bag, man."
Christian looked up, his eyes filling with sudden tears that he blinked away quickly. "I, I just have some things for my supper," he explained, trying to skirt the boy on the left and move on down the sidewalk.
Back stepping easily and waving for the girl to follow, the boy stepped in front of Christian again. "What kind of ‘things,’ old man. You got anything worth drinking in that bag?"
This was the moment of truth. If the boy just grabbed the beer and ran, it was over. "I have some beer." Christian answered, slowly, slipping around the boy again and making it to his door.
"You wouldn't want to share that beer, would you, Scarecrow?" The boy was moving up behind him quickly. Christian heard the footsteps grow louder as he pretended to fumble with his lock. For the first time in many years, he'd left the door open. Pushing it inward, he stumbled inside and headed for the kitchen.
Behind him, he heard the steps hesitate. "Tony," a feminine voice drifted up from farther back, "you'd better stop, man. We don't need that old fucker, come on."
Christian held his breath. One second, two, the sweat was building on his back, trickling down his neck, dripping from the bottom of his hair to stain his collar. Just as he was afraid the girl's logic would win out, that they would back off and leave him alone, he heard a short curse, and the footsteps followed him inside.
"Come on Lindy," the boy's voice grated. "I'm gettin' me a beer from my pal Scarecrow here. Now close that door like a good girl."
Christian dropped the beer on the table next to the scotch and the half-full tumbler beside it, and turned, eyeing the two intruders fearfully.
"What do you want?" he quavered, backing away from the table and over by the sink, dropping halfway to his knees and trembling. The fear was real enough, the two were in far too much control, had actually entered his inner sanctuary. Wild scenarios of violence and brutality warred in his mind with the need to see his plan through, to succeed.
The boy, Tony, moved with the lithe grace of a cat. He spotted the scotch immediately and reached for it with a crooked grin.
"We ain't gonna hurt ya, Buzzard old pal," he almost crooned. "We just want you to be sociable, that's all. You don't mind if I have a little drink with my girl here, do you?"
Shaking like a leaf in a strong wind, Christian shook his head miserably from side to side. "Please," he said, his voice breaking and embarrassing him further, "please don't hurt me. You can have the scotch, the whole bottle, and the beer. Just don't . . ."
He let his words trail off, watching with wide eyes as the boy tilted the bottle back, took a long pull, and handed it to the girl. She was a bit more timid about it, but only a bit. She had the bottle to her lips seconds later and was taking a long swig herself when Tony's eyes widened, and he put out a hand to steady himself on the table.
Despite the smaller gulp, and the fact Tony had tasted from the bottle before her, the girl was the first to drop. She staggered forward, just managing to place the Scotch on the edge of the table, before her knees went to rubber. The drugs took longer to affect Tony. He had time to growl, to twist his young, arrogant face into an impossibly ugly snarl, and to lurch toward Christian before he fell. He tripped over one of the wobbly kitchen chairs and crashed to the floor like a small mountain.
Christian scuttled sideways along the counter as far from the outstretched hands that groped for him as possible. It took a small eternity for the boy's eyes to glaze over and for his hands to quit twitching.
The girl, Lindy, had fallen like a rag doll, slumping against the wall beneath the kitchen window without a sound. Christian had to watch them for a long moment before he could force his limbs to move. Even lying senseless on the floor, the boy's presence was intimidating. Vaguely Christian wondered if his mother had felt this same fear when she'd used the drops. Probably not. She had never had enough sense to be afraid of anything.
Summoning his courage, he took Tony beneath the arms, dragged him over to one of the cabinets and lifted him to a sitting position. Moving to the cupboard, Christian took down the roll of nylon rope he'd purchased earlier that day and cut off several lengths. He bound the boy’s wrists tightly behind his back and tied the loose ends of the rope to the cabinet doors. With a strip of red duct tape, (the cashier had assured him it was the strongest available), he covered Tony's mouth. After tying the boy’s ankles together, he stepped back to admire his handiwork.
There, he thought smugly, that should do it. Trussed up as he was, some of the menace was gone from the Tony's features, and he had resumed the appearance of what he was; a boy, just a young boy. At the moment, he was a very helpless young boy. That was an image Christian could relate to, one that he was familiar with.
Turning from Tony, he dragged Lindy’s limp form into his bedroom and lifted her gently to his bed. He bound her as well, but more carefully, and more gently. His bed was squat with four, solid wood posts at the corners, one for each of her arms and legs. He put a piece of the tape across her mouth. No sense letting her screams attract attention from the neighbors.
Now that he was in control he could take his time. Lindy’s skin was very soft to the touch, and Christian trembled slightly as he finished, letting his fingers linger, studying her curves and the silky length of her hair.
There was a muffled cry from the kitchen, and a banging sound. Christian’s heart lurched.
Damn, he thought, hurrying back to the other room, he wasn't supposed to come around so quickly!
Tony was almost fully awake. He thrashed about on the floor wildly, yanking against the bonds that held him to the cabinet and shaking the entire unit. There were creaking and groaning noises coming from the wooden doors, and Christian knew he had to work fast. This was the test, the true test of his control.
He stepped to the cupboard and took out a plastic syringe. He'd told the clerk at the pharmacy it was to administer medicine to an ailing pet. Along with this he pulled down a bottle of developing fluid. He kept his extra supply there in order not to clutter his darkroom.
Appropriate, he thought. The boy's intellect seemed a bit underdeveloped; maybe it would do him some good in his final seconds. Christian wasn't exactly sure what the chemical would do, but he knew enough about drugs to know that it would be fatal. In the proper dosage, even the good drugs were.
Opening the vial, he quickly dipped the needle into the fluid and drew out a healthy dose. There were air bubbles in it, but Christian ignored them. Tony wouldn't mind, not after the chemicals hit. The boy followed Christian with his eyes, hurling psychic hatred at him through a sudden wash of completely unexpected tears.
Christian grinned as he approached his prisoner, relishing this new experience and drinking in the terror he say in the previously arrogant gaze. He never would have guessed at the photogenic quality of such a face, at the animation that was possible. Another stolen vision. He almost went for his camera.
"Now, now, Tony," he said, shaking his head slowly from side to side. "We're just sharing, you and I. I'll be sharing Lindy, and you'll be sharing this. Perfectly fair."
He held out the syringe so Tony could see the single drop of fluid dripping from the needle, so he could fully comprehend what was about to happen to him.
"It's developing fluid." Christian went on, reaching down and grabbing the boy's biceps firmly, though Tony was thrashing back and forth insanely, his eyes rolling back in fear. "I work with it every day. My chemist tells me it will work very quickly in this instance. You should feel hardly any pain at all. Of course, you'll try to vomit it out, perfectly natural, but it won't work. That tape will help you keep it down.”
As he jabbed the needle through the boy's skin, holding the stricken young gaze with his own, which he now imagined to be cold and calculating, he leaned forward and whispered directly into Tony's ear as he pushed the plunger home. "Sweet dreams, Tony dear. It's been so nice sharing with you."
There was a momentary flash of something in the boy's eyes, pain, or surprise, possibly shock. His body grew rigid; as if he were trying by force of will to press the chemicals back out through his skin, to flush them from his body. Then he started to shake, and white drool that soon worked itself into a froth dripped from beneath the edges of the red tape.
Christian had a morbid desire to yank the tape free and hear the final sounds of the boy's life. He ignored the urge. The noise would be too much. He had his hands full already trying to figure out a way to dispose of the body.
Christian let Tony's head fall back. It cracked wetly on the wooden door of the cabinet. Then Christian brushed his hands on his pants to free them of the boy's sweat. Taking the syringe carefully to the sink, he washed it out and returned it to the small pouch it had come in. He would need it later.
This done, he took his materials into the other room, stopping off in the hall closet for his mother's makeup kit and for his camera bag, which he'd brought home from work. He was focused on the moments to come, his breathing becoming shallow and more precise.
Lindy was rolling feebly back and forth on the bed when he reached her side, shaking her head and trying to clear her fogged mind. Hers had been a relatively small dose. Now he knew to use a bit more. Probably the age of the drug had something to do with it. He hadn't been prepared to move so quickly with Tony, and he didn't want to hurry this moment. It was too important.
He set the two cases beside the nightstand and placed the syringe and the vial within easy reach, but out of the girl's sight. He didn't want her getting crazy on him.
"Do you know where you are, Lindy?" he asked. She shook her head slightly, eyes glued to his and brimming with barely concealed hysteria. "This is a special place. My place. Do you recognize me?"
She nodded. The soft, longer tresses on the side of her head bobbed forward and fell across her eyes. Christian reached out and gently stroked them away from her face. She flinched and pressed back into the pillow beneath her head.
Christian smiled at her, and then rose to fetch the one tumbler of un-tainted scotch.
"I'm sorry we had to meet like this," he told her as he sat down on the bed beside her. She squirmed away from him, trying vainly to escape the point where his hip met her thigh. Christian ignored this, speaking to her as if she were an old friend.
"I noticed you a long time ago," he told her. "You are a very beautiful young woman, do you know that?"
Her eyes filled with tears. He would have to dab them dry before he began.
"I want you to do something for me, now.” He told her. “If you do, nothing bad will happen. Do you understand, Lindy?"
She nodded, but slowly, as though not wanting to commit too soon to anything. He let his smile widen a bit, turning up one side of his lip in a half-sneer, and added, "Tony didn't understand."
She struggled wildly as comprehension dawned, and he leaned back to watch, catching his breath as he followed the tight play of muscles across her stomach, the smooth rippling of her thighs as they strained against the nylon. She was exquisite.
She was dressed in her habitual dark skirt – a sort of spandex wrap that clung to her like spider's silk. Her blouse was white and gauzy, almost see-through. She wore no bra. Her hair, this night, had yellow and silver highlights, rainbow stripes of color that were a perfect match for the light brown, almost amber hue of her eyes and the long silver and turquoise necklace she wore. Her taste, as always, was instinctive and impeccable.
Her hose were dark, like the skirt, and had tears that he saw had been made purposefully, though he couldn't imagine why. Her legs tapered down to lace-up boots with thin, three inch heels. Her feet were tiny, her ankles perfectly curved, melting smoothly into tight calves.
"I'm an artist,” he said, leaning closer and brushing his fingers lightly across her face. He felt the sticky smudges where her makeup had blurred and smeared. "I create art through photography."
She was beyond listening, beyond thought, but he ignored this, wanting to share the magic of the moment. "You will be my masterpiece. There are highlights in your hair and lines in your face that must be saved, cherished and enjoyed again and again. It would be selfish of you not to share this with me, don't you think?"
Her eyes shifted, searching for a means of escape. Christian watched, fascinated, both by her motions, and by the sensations that washed through him. She was his.
She was going to be his first masterpiece, his life's work, and he found himself responding in ways he hadn't anticipated. He wanted to feel what he would create. He wanted to be intimate with every inch of her, to mold her with his hands, pliant and obedient. He wanted to savor her before he recorded her beauty for the world to see, wanted a part of her that no other would share.
He found the urge to reach out and cup one small, firm breast overpowering, and her nipple stiffened at his touch. Her body grew tight as strung piano wire, but then she slowly relaxed. Her heart hammered and he felt its rhythm. Her mind was at war with her body.
Lindy sensed his excitement, and she believed that she could influence him with her body. She pressed up into his hand, tears flowing from the corners of her eyes, but backed by a glint of determination. He'd seen that look in the mirror, read the taste of it in his mother's eyes as she overcame his resistance and molded him to her desire.
Christian grabbed her blouse on each side of the silver necklace and ripped downward. Something dark and powerful was growing inside him. He tossed the blouse aside and turned back to grab her skirt. It fastened in back, and it was just as it had looked, a wrap-around thing that swirled off when he released the hasp. It unraveled from her with the pressure released and slid back onto the bed.
She lay before him then, naked except for the boots, the stockings, and the silver medallion. She wore no panties. He saw that the necklace held an equal armed cross of some archaic Indian design. It rested between her breasts, rising and falling with each heavy, labored breath.
Her muscles rippled in invitation. He saw her humiliation blend with her desire to survive and felt the restraints of her morals sloughing off of her in waves of hot, sticky fear.
The moment would have made an unbelievable photograph, but for the first time in years, Christian brushed the notion aside. He watched her and nearly lost control. He started to unbuckle his belt, and then stopped, his hands trembling with tension and his erection throbbing. His mind was awash with memories, his mother’s voice, and her body, blended with a thousand fantasies. He heard Lindy’s harsh breath, his gaze lingering on every sweaty curve of her young body.
With a growl of frustration he turned away, gasping out loud with the effort. He caught sight of the glass of scotch and his thoughts began to clear. Then he dropped his gaze to the camera bag. He closed his eyes and bit down hard on his lip and the pain gave him focus.
Christian staggered out of the room to the kitchen, found a second empty tumbler, and poured a bit of the drugged scotch into it.
Returning to the bedroom, he sat on the edge of the bed. He reached out, gripped the duct tape, and tore it away with a quick jerk of his wrist. She cried out, and he saw a trickle of blood dripping from her bottom lip.
He saw the scream in her eyes and slapped his hand across her mouth, cutting it off in a muffled yelp. He shook his head, and she fell silent. She trembled, and he smiled. She watched him, her eyes wider than he would have believed possible, and he spoke, quickly and softly.
"I am going to take away my hand," he told her, "and I am going to give you this scotch. You are going to drink it, and you are going to lie back like a good girl. You try anything else, you scream, or you fight, and I will kill you. Tony is dead; don't be as stupid as he was."
Her eyes remained wide, but when he pulled his hand away, she didn't scream.
"Please, Mr.," she whispered, her words slurred and bubbled from her throat in a gasp, "I'll do anything you say, anything . . . please don't hurt me?"
Christian remembered those words escaping his own lips earlier in the evening, remembered the laughter in her eyes each time the boy Tony had taunted him, presenting her like a prize at the county fair, and then snatching her back, but he remained silent. He also remembered the fear, and it was a heady feeling to be its object, not its recipient.
He held her head up, his hand gripping her firmly by the hair, and he poured the scotch. At first it dribbled over her lip and slid down across her chin, but he shook her gently. When he tilted the glass again, she gazed into his eyes, and whatever she saw told her to drink. It took only a few seconds for the drug to take hold again, a larger dose this time, and he let her head fall back, moving to release her bonds.
He worked quickly and efficiently, wasting no time or motion. He still didn't know exactly how long the drug would hold her, didn't know the proper dosages. This second dose should last longer, on top of the scotch, and the first dose, but how could he be certain? His mother had taught by example, and that was never an exact science. There was no room in his plan for any more surprises.
The touch of her flesh was electric, and Christian tried his best to avoid contact. His self-control was too tenuous. Reaching into the makeup kit, he pulled out a pair of latex gloves, very thin and pliant. He didn’t want makeup on his fingers when he held the camera, and the rubber insulated him from her. It helped him calm his nerves.
He sat her up, washed the smeared makeup from her face with a cleansing pad from the kit and straightened her hair.
Christian had a little trouble getting her to hold her head up straight, but remedied this by modifying her initial pose. He let her head loll to one side and brushed her hair across so that it obscured the top half of her face.
When he finished, he smiled. It was better than he'd imagined. He'd brought a black velvet drop cloth from the studio and draped it behind her. The shot he was after first was of her face and torso only, highlighting the beauty of her eyes and the odd, rainbow coloration of her hair.
He decided to leave the silver necklace in place – it added a focal point that faded the features around it slightly, but drew attention to them at the same time.
He had the lights positioned in moments and set to work. There were other poses; other shots to capture, and the night would not last forever. He worked until he saw her blink sleepily and heard a soft gasp.
He tied her arms quickly behind her and replaced the tape across her lips. With the fresh makeup in place and her breasts catching the chilly air and standing up pertly, Christian nearly lost control again and reached out for her as she groaned into awareness.
At the last second he caught himself. Draping his blanket across her shoulders, he helped her to her feet before she was really aware of what was happening and led her out the back door and through the security gate. He sheltered her with the blanket and moved as solicitously as possible, as though helping a sick or drunken friend. He got her to his car, opened the back door, and tossed her inside. He leaned in and quickly wrapped more of the duct tape around her ankles and calves so she couldn’t rise and stumble from the car.
Tied as she was, locked in the car and parked in his private cubbyhole, nobody would see her.
He returned to the house, passed through the kitchen and into his bedroom again. Opening the room's one large closet, he pulled free a huge, rolling suitcase. It was the one thing he’d inherited from his father, the one thing the man had left behind when he ran away. An odd thing to leave behind, but oddly his mother had left it too. It didn't' fit her "style". It was leather, very tough, and very big. Momma dear had liked leather, but not in her suitcases.
Christian rolled it into the kitchen and began the long, laborious task of lifting Tony's limp and stiffening body inside. The legs did not want to bend, and if Tony had not been in a sitting position, Christian might never have bent him in half, but somehow he managed it, stuffing in arms, and then legs, pulling the zipper tightly closed around the ponderous form and leaning heavily on the table when he was done to catch his breath.
Once again, he was struck by how young the boy seemed, and how much smaller. On the streets it had been like facing a villain from a movie. Now, compressed into the suitcase, it occurred to Christian that Tony was only a child.
It was already early morning, and there was no time to waste.
Christian rolled the suitcase outside and around in back of the Dart, locking the house behind him. It was then that the flaw in his plan slapped him directly in his face. He opened the trunk and tried to tip the huge bag over the edge, into the cavernous depths of the luggage compartment, but he couldn't budge it. He could get one end, or the other, off the ground, but he couldn't get the thing to overbalance and fall inside.
"Need some help?" said a cheerful voice from behind him. Christian started so violently that he banged his head on the trunk lid, cursing and spinning quickly.
"Sorry, sir," the man facing said, smiling.
The man wore orange coveralls and a concerned smile, and it took a few seconds for Christian's mind to register.
It was the garbage man.
"You looked like you could use some help there, didn't mean to scare you." The man said.
"Uh, yes, I suppose, if you could help me lift this?"
Christian prayed then, for the first time in years. He prayed the man wouldn't ask a bunch of questions. He prayed that the lumpy, ridiculously heavy cargo in the suitcase would not slip and fall, bursting somehow from its confinement, and he prayed that Lindy would not manage to struggle up and bang on the window, or the door, attracting the man's attention. Maybe he should have killed her already, too.
None of the things he feared happened, and seconds later the bag was in the trunk and the door was slammed safely closed. Christian managed to smile feebly as the man headed back to his truck with a wave. Christian returned the gesture, and then hurried around the car and into the driver's seat. He closed the door and leaned back into his seat with a gasp of relief.
He was certain that his heart would stop, that it was about to explode and leave him there, flopping and choking for breath. It took what seemed a very long time to regain his composure and to get the keys into the ignition.
Christian backed out into the street, turned, drove to Broadway and turned again, hitting the on-ramp for the freeway. The first green sign said "Lavender, ten miles," but Christian had a closer goal in mind. There were two things between Lavender and San Valencez, a dump and the old cemetery, Shady Grove. He sped down the road until the first turn-off and nosed the Dart between the open gates of the City Dump.
A greasy looking man in blue jeans and a grimy t-shirt that had no doubt once been white waved him through without a second glance. The man shielded his eyes from Christian's headlights as if they hurt him, and when he turned to walk away, his steps were uneven and clumsy. The man was probably drunk, and definitely unconcerned with Christian, or his business. They didn't charge for small, non-commercial dumping anyway. Christian had checked.
He drove in through the rotting hulks of appliances, old cars, and refuse and continued until he was as far from the main gate as he could possibly be before pulling over to the side.
There was an old freezer half-buried in cardboard cartons, and its top lay beside it on the ground.
Christian opened the back door and dragged Lindy from the car. He tore the tape at her ankles, freeing her legs, but held her tightly by her hair. He yanked once to let her know she couldn’t escape, and then he motioned to the freezer. She tried to pull away, and then kicked at him feebly, but she was weak from the drugs. Christian was pumped full of adrenalin, and he was scared to death. These two factors gave him the added strength he needed.
He forced her over the side of the freezer and slammed her down into it, hitting her head so hard on the side that she was dazed. As she sat there, trying to lift herself by pushing against the smooth sides of the freezer with her feet and her back, he returned to his car. He had the syringe and the bottle of developing fluid in the glove box, and he filled the hypodermic quickly. There was no time for being careful. He leaned in over the lid of the freezer, tilted her head to the side and plunged the needle into the side of her neck, depressing the plunger with a quick jab. He didn’t wait for her to react. He returned the syringe and fluid to his glove box, and moments later he dropped the old freezer’s lid carefully in place, weighting it with a bucket of old shingles and a box of rusted nails he’d found nearby.
Next he dragged the suitcase out of the trunk, which proved much easier than lifting it in. He grimaced at the soft, wet sound it made as it hit the ground, but he didn’t hesitate. Soaked in sweat and panting from the effort, he dragged it to the far side of the freezer and laid it on its side. He covered it with loose debris until only the handle showed.
When he felt as if he could do no more, he returned to his car and drove slowly away. Sweat poured down his face and arms, and he was afraid the custodian would notice, but the man was nowhere to be seen.
His mind buzzed with lack of sleep and rampant emotion, but he managed to hold himself together for the drive home. He slipped into his apartment unnoticed and locked the door behind himself. Then he went to the sink, poured out the scotch, and tossed the bottle in the garbage. He knew he’d have to dispose of it more carefully, but this was not the time.
He grabbed one of the warm beers from the bag on the table and headed for the darkroom. It was time to capture a dream.
~END PART ONE~