Hunting Season (8 page)

He'd preserved it the last five years.  If he shot her...

"Testify, point the finger, drop a dime on any of my activities, tell a DA about some other bodies I dropped in the past, I take you with me.  Run, walk or even crawl out of town, this gun with your prints ends up on a cop's front door with directions to the body with your bullet in it."

The hooker screamed around the gag.

"You work for me, son.  You're mine."

"You've got me.  I swear it.  I'll do whatever you want.  Run powder, meth, anything.  Just don't kill her."

"Your word means shit to me.  Knowing you hold murders and drugs over my head, knowing you can run at any moment, is unacceptable.  I need to stamp you with blood, son.  Her blood."

"Why not just kill me?  Huh?  If you're so concerned about me, insure I'll never talk."

"You're worth more to me alive."

"The money, okay.  I'll give you Walter's money."

Dad tilted his head.  "What money?"

"Walter's money.  I have it.  I took it the night before you killed him.  He was too high to remember."

"You set Walter up?"

"Yeah, and I'll give you the money if you let me walk."

"You let me kill Walter to keep the money.  You did your time to pay off the guilt.  And you have the nerve to judge me you little shit?  Let me do your dirty work for you."

"I paid what I owed with time.  I took the rap to get away from you.  And I'll give you the money to square us and her."

"The hundred thousand."  Dad chuckled.  "I make that in a month running meth.  Keeping you under my thumb is worth more than that, especially now that I know what a slimy piece of shit you truly are."

My arms twitched.  My hands shook.  Panic released adrenaline flooded me.  My chest burned.

Dad turned and looked down the barrel of the .357 into the hooker's brown eyes.  Only a few moments until he squeezed that trigger.  The crazy bastard would kill her just to keep me in line, keep me close.

"Sorry, honey."

I glanced around me for a weapon within arm's reach.  Found nothing.  Then I remembered the Swiss Army knife.

I pulled the knife out of my jeans pocket, flipped the blade, and stepped forward.  Dad caught me out of his peripheral, though, and twisted toward me, the switchblade springing to life in his other hand.

Closing the distance before he could bring the blade up into my guts, I shuttled forward fast and thrust the tip of the Swiss Army knife into the side of my father's neck as he caught me in the love handle with the switchblade.

He screamed and tried to wheel around with the gun.  I slapped his hand with my left, knocking the .357 to the floor.  The gun erupted, the round shattering one of the windows.

I kicked him in the back of the knee and took him to the floor.  Dad tried to fight me off but I dropped all my weight on his sternum.  His smoky breath hit me in the face and sent me into a stabbing rage.  His hand let go of the switchblade, leaving it sunk into the soft flesh of my side.

Over and over I thrust the knife into his neck.  His warm blood soaked my hand so much I lost my grip on the knife, leaving three quarters of it in the soft tissue under his jaw.

Dad's breaths grew short then stopped.  His eyes rolled up and looked toward the now shattered window.  The hooker continued to belt her muffled wail.

I looked at my hand.  The bloody sight would have repulsed me if I didn't know whose blood it was.  That bit of knowledge filled me with a sense of warmth and confidence.  It was over.  Finally, it was over.  I should have known I could never run away from him.  It was always going to come down to him or me and he had to die for me to be free.

The howling of the hooker snapped me back to the now.  I pulled the switchblade from my side.  The wound bled like a sonofabitch but I'd live.  I wiped my hand on Dad's chest, and then went to remove the gag from her mouth.

I stopped short.  She'd heard and seen everything.  She could tell her story about how Dad had planned to kill her.  How I'd killed him to save her.  But the damn whore could also say how I'd confessed to setting Walter up.  How I'd stolen money and let the bastard die for it.  How I'd killed Dad to save myself and couldn't give two shits about her.

My hands started to shake again.  I looked at my father's corpse and imagined landing back in prison.  I was thinking like him and hated myself for it.  Dad wins.

I pushed up to my feet and grabbed the .357.  I looked at it in the dull light.  All those years just to go back?  This time for life?  I couldn't do it.  I knew I wouldn't make it.  No way would I go back.

Only one solution.  Only one way out of this trap.

I cocked the hammer.

Only one exit.  Only one way to finally be free.

Then I heard Dad's voice in my head say, "Why leave a living witness?"

I leveled the gun and put two rounds through the hooker's head.  Her blood mixed with dad's in a pool engulfing their bodies.

"God damn you both."

I left them to rot in the cabin and took dad's Chevelle.  Thirty minutes away from the cabin, I dumped the car with the gun and the knives in a lake in the middle of the night.  Should have dumped the bodies, too, but wasn't thinking straight right after it all ended.  No way in hell I'd go back for them either.  It's okay, though.  I wiped down everything I touched.

Now I head west, Walter's money in hand and fresh clothes on my back.  Now I leave this shit behind me, left dead on the floor of an abandoned cabin in the middle of nowhere.

TIES THE ROOM TOGETHER

"You're fired."

The cleaning lady looks at me but doesn't say anything.

Probably because she can't speak English.

But I can tell she understands those two words.  Her face slackens and her bushy brown eyebrows fall.

Normally, I'm not such a straightforward asshole.  In rare cases do I result to such bluntness.  In this case, however, I see no alternative.

"Go." I point to the hallway behind her.  "Vamoose."

She turns and walks away, bucket of cleaning gear in one hand and toilet brush in the other.

This is the third cleaning woman I've had to fire this week.  None have actually cleaned anything before getting the ax.

The first walked through my customized stained-glass front door with muddy feet.  Such rudeness and lack of awareness cannot indicate exceptional future work.  I quickly terminated her employment.

The second attempted to enter my two-bedroom, two-bathroom apartment overlooking San Diego harbor with a bottle of bleach.  In hiring this person, I made it perfectly clear no bleach or bleach-product must cross my threshold.  The scent of the substance makes me sick to my stomach.  Yet there she stood, bleach in hand.  Goodbye.

This one, though, made it through the door and into the kitchen.  Then she started to scrub my new granite countertops with a citrus-based cleaner.  I thought it common knowledge such acidic cleaners ruin granite.  A product with a neutral pH level is required.  Her incompetence proved she knew nothing of the intricacies of washing natural stone products.  Fare thee well.

I walk into the kitchen and commence wiping her orange-scented cleaner off the counter with warm soap and water.  A smile spreads across my mouth and I start to hum while I contemplate what cleaning service to call next.

The rag gets folded neatly and hung on a small rail I installed underneath the kitchen sink.  I look over the countertop one more time to ensure I wiped up all of her mess.

The phonebooks are stacked neatly in a drawer under the kitchen island.  I chose this drawer because it would not interrupt the kitchen work triangle – the Moen Double Bowl Undermount Sink, the Wolf thirty-six inch rangetop and oven, and the Sub-Zero PRO 48 stainless steel refrigerator - I steadfastly maintain.  All drawers and cabinets within the triangle can only contain items related to actual kitchen work.  This minimizes excessive movement while cooking.  This particular drawer sits well outside the triangle and therefore provides an exceptional place to keep the phonebooks.

I flip to the CLEANERS section of the yellow pages and scan down the list.  Skipping the ones I've already fired or eliminated without calling because their ad looked cheap – cheap ads mean cheap quality – my eyes settle on one I never noticed in previous readings.

MORNINGSTAR RESIDENTIAL & COMMERCIAL CLEANING.

Cute name.  And the ad looks terrific.  Nice graphic design.  Straightforward.  Professional.  I don't know how I missed this company before.

I start to pick up the phone but hesitate.  I look around my apartment, at the immaculate state of cleanliness and organization I maintain, and wonder if I should call any cleaner at all.  I mean, I've always loved keeping my dwellings at my high standards.  Why should I outsource such enjoyable work?

Then I remind myself the schedule at the law firm for the next few months will not allow me to honor both my commitment to my client and my apartment.  Not until after the trial and that wouldn't be for another five months or so.

I lift the phone and cradle it to my ear.

Two rings and a gentle female voice answers on the other end.  "Morningstar Cleaners, how can we be of service today?"

*  *  *  *  *

The Spring catalog from Z Gallerie has the dining room table I've been searching for.  Perfectly colored a rich brown with slender legs, a long top, and sharp corners.  The only piece of furniture I'd failed to fit perfectly into my apartment now stared at me from page thirty-three.  I've found my table.  The one which will tie my dining room together at last.

Excitement courses through me and I almost sprint to my computer to place my order online.  But the doorbell rings.  I tilt my head and wonder who it might be.

The doorbell rings again and I remember the schedule I agreed to with Morningstar Cleaners.  It must be my new maid.

I stand from my Corinthian Leather Sofa, straighten my khaki slacks, adjust my powder-blue Polo, and approach the front door.  My fingers wrap around the solid brass knob and twists.

On the other side of the door stands the most magnificent maid I've ever seen.  Clean uniform, nicely pressed.  Soft white skin.  Long blond hair pulled back into a pony tail.  Full lips with a light pink lipstick coloring them.  Sharp blue eyes which focus on me.

"Mr. Clark?" the Goddess of Maids says.

It feels like something has lodged itself in my throat.  I didn't think maids could look this beautiful.  Not the most attractive woman I've ever seen but definitely the Miss America of Maids.

"Mr. Clark?"

I clear my throat and nod.  "You must be from Morningstar Cleaners."

She smiles and her eyes look down, as if embarrassed.  "Yes.  I'm Lilith."

"Lilith."  Her name tastes like a wonderful merlot on my tongue.  "Please, come in."

Lilith, her eyes still down, moves passed me and into the foyer.  Without any prompting from me, she removes her shoes and places them side-by-side on the travertine before walking onto the milk-white carpet of my living room.

This act of awareness and good manners pierces my heart.  Lilith is a Goddess of Maids indeed.

"You have a beautiful home, Mr. Clark."

And she's courteous.  "Thank you."

"Would you like me to start in the kitchen?"

I nod.

Lilith commences her duties.  She works like a skillful surgeon.  I cannot help but be impressed by her knowledge not only of cleaning and organizing, but of my preferences without any prompting by myself.  It's as if she knows my soul.  The way she sweeps, mops, and dusts almost mimic my technique perfectly.  She even cleans the granite countertops with a counterclockwise wiping motion the way I do.

I try to ignore her but can't.  I follow her into the master bathroom.  Then the bedroom.  I'm sure she thinks I'm just observing her, grading her work since it's her first time here, so I try to maintain a neutral look.  I don't want her to know yet how much I truly admire her attention to detail.

It takes Lilith a little over an hour to complete the cleaning.  Quick but perfect.  And not once did I have to stop her and show the way I want it done.

"Is there anything else you need me to do, Mr. Clark?"

I look down into her blue eyes and feel lost.  I've never felt love before but wonder if I do now.  My chest burns.  My stomach churns.  Is it possible to love a maid?

Part of me wants to reach out and touch her unsoiled skin but I restrain myself.  After all, she had just cleaned a toilet not too long ago.

Then a thought occurs to me.  Lilith had cleaned exactly as I prefer without any prompting.  I wonder if she has the same taste in decorating I do.

I walk over to my glass-top coffee table and grab the Z Gallerie catalogue.

"Lilith, what do you think of this table?"

I show her page thirty-three.  She looks at it for a moment.  Then she pivots and studies my barren dining room.  Then she looks back at the catalogue.

"I believe this would be a wonderful table for your dining room, Mr. Clark."  Then Lilith takes the edge of the page between her thumb and forefinger and turns it to page thirty-four.  "But this one is better.  I think it would tie the room together."

I feel faint as I look at page thirty-four.  A better table.  A finer table.  Lilith's tastes aren't the same as mine; they're superior.  This is my soul mate.  I know it.  As soon as she said those words "tie the room together" I knew it.

"Anything else, Mr. Clark?"

"No."  I reach into my pocket and remove a hundred dollar bill.  "This is for you, Lilith.  You do wonderful work."

Lilith takes the bill and puts it quickly away in a pocket.  She nods thankfully.  Her face appears redder than before but she maintains a professional stature.

"Thank you, Mr. Clark."

Her shoes back on, Lilith leaves.

I stare at the door, wondering if this is the perfect day.

A few seconds later, I'm on the web placing an order for my new table.

*  *  *  *  *

The delivery men finish setting up the table.  I thank them, give them their tip, and usher them out.  I want to be alone and take in my new dining room.