Theresa Monsour

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

LEARNING CURVE

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

TEN

ELEVEN

TWELVE

THIRTEEN

FOURTEEN

FIFTEEN

SIXTEEN

SEVENTEEN

EIGHTEEN

NINETEEN

TWENTY

TWENTY-ONE

TWENTY-TWO

TWENTY-THREE

TWENTY-FOUR

TWENTY-FIVE

TWENTY-SIX

TWENTY-SEVEN

TWENTY-EIGHT

TWENTY-NINE

THIRTY

THIRTY-ONE

THIRTY-TWO

THIRTY-THREE

THIRTY-FOUR

THIRTY-FIVE

THIRTY-SIX

THIRTY-SEVEN

THIRTY-EIGHT

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

 

Cold Blood

 

A
Putnam
Book / published by arrangement with the author

 

All rights reserved.

Copyright ©
2005
by
Dark House, Inc.

This book may not be reproduced in whole or part, by mimeograph or any other means, without permission. Making or distributing electronic copies of this book constitutes copyright infringement and could subject the infringer to criminal and civil liability.

For information address:

The Berkley Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Putnam Inc.,

375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

 

The Penguin Putnam Inc. World Wide Web site address is
http://www.penguinputnam.com

 

ISBN:
978-1-1012-1480-0

 

A
PUTNAM
BOOK®

Putnam
Books first published by The Putnam Publishing Group, a member of Penguin Putnam Inc.,

375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

PUTNAM
and the “
P
” design are trademarks belonging to Penguin Putnam Inc.

 

Electronic edition: June, 2005

This book is dedicated to my sons, Patrick and Ryan, with all my love.

I'd like to thank David for his continued support; Ryan for his expertise on knives; Patrick for rescuing me from computer problems; Marilee Votel-Kvaal, Ann Norrlander and Rita Monsour for their medical knowledge; Tom Dooher and Joseph Monsour for their auto tips; Kristina Schweinler of city licensing for background on St. Paul bars; and Esther Newberg and Leona Nevler for their hard work.

TWO OF THEM pinned the tall boy's arms against the wall of the school building. Two others did the punching; one would step back and take a breath and the other would take over. They started with the head and worked their way down. Steam boiled out of their mouths as they whispered curses in the fall air. He wouldn't have hollered for help. Wouldn't have given them the satisfaction. They gagged him anyway. Stuffed his mouth with a jockstrap. It tasted salty with someone else's sweat and urine and made him feel filthy. A dirty animal. Down the hill behind them, the bonfire crackled and sputtered, and teenagers talked and sang. A radio blared the Talking Heads. “Burning Down the House.” The tall boy tried to concentrate on the music and on the sparks darting into the air, send his pain floating into the night sky.

They punched him in the crotch, and he felt as if a flaming log had shot up the hill and buried itself in his gut. He gulped. Almost swallowed the jockstrap. The one holding his right arm laughed. “Not the balls. That's lower than low.” They let go of him. He folded in half and fell to the
ground. He coughed up the gag and a tooth chip and a mouthful of blood. Don't cry, he told himself, but he did. Big, heaving sobs.

One of them kicked him in the side. “Woman. Should have earrings in both ears. Fucking baby.”

“No,” said another. “He's a f . . . f . . . f . . . fucking b . . . b . . . b . . . baby.” The four of them laughed.

He curled up on the ground, covered his head with his arms. The grass felt cool on the side of his face. He wished he could bury his whole body in the coolness. Disappear into it. Melt away.

“I think he peed in his pants,” said the fat one. He bent over and took the tall boy's baseball cap off his head and put it backward on his own.

“He always smells.”

“No. He did. He fucking pissed all over himself.”

“Let's call his old man to mop it up.”

That hurt him more than the punches and kicks. He propped himself up on his elbow. He lifted his head; it felt heavy. A block of concrete on his neck. He tried to open his eyes; they were already swelling shut and all he could see through the slits were shadows. He wanted to tell them something. Get one insult in. What came out was a growl. “You b . . . b . . . bastards.”

The fat one pushed the tall boy's head down with his shoe and kept it there, as if he were propping his foot up on a rock. “Did you s . . . s . . . s . . . say something, d . . . d . . . d . . . dickhead?” They all laughed again.

Someone down the hill saw them. A teacher's voice: “Hey, what's going on up there?”

“We're outta here,” said the fat one. He took his foot off the tall boy's head. “Come on!” He threw the tall boy's baseball cap on the ground.

Three of them ran to the car. The fourth, the one with the most arm patches on his letter jacket, leaned over and whispered in the tall boy's ear: “Listen good, Motorhead. Talk to her again and I'll kill ya, you creepy son of a bitch.” He grabbed the ear. “One more thing. You're
fuckin' out of uniform.” He ripped off the earring, tossed the gold loop in the grass and went after the others.

On Monday, the tall boy went to school. His hand repeatedly went up to his left ear to finger the bandage. That tiny part of him, the torn earlobe, throbbed more than his entire body. He kept to himself all day; he always did anyway. Nothing had changed, really, except now he had a burning hate where once there was emptiness. He preferred the hate to the emptiness; it filled him up and gave him purpose. He had to find a way to get back at them. Sweet Justice would be patient and clever; he was a smart motorhead. Whatever happened would be their fault.

What goes around comes around.

He knew she was sitting there during lunch, at her usual table with her girlfriends. He longed to look at her. Longed to let her know that he blamed her. She must have said something to them. Maybe she told them to do it. Yes. She was also guilty. At first he thought she was different from the others. Thought she was good. Another Snow White. He was wrong; her beauty had fooled him. Bitch. She was as mean and shallow as the rest of them. Sweet Justice would nail her someday, too.

What goes around comes around, beautiful.

“Jesus. What happened to him?” asked one of the girls in between bites of a sandwich. “He get hit by a truck, or what? At least he lost the jewelry. Band-Aid's an improvement.”

The other girls at the table laughed. All but one. The tallest, and the only one with black hair. “Leave him alone,” she said.

The girl with the sandwich: “Got the hots for him? He make ya cream your jeans? Thought you had better taste than that.”

“The creep asked her to homecoming,” said one eating yogurt with a carrot stick. “I heard him. During choir. You should've seen his face when she turned him down. I thought he was gonna bawl right there on the risers. Right during ‘Ave Maria.' ”

“Shut the hell up,” said the dark-haired one. She grabbed her lunch bag and left the table.

The other girls watched her go. The one with the yogurt ran the carrot around the inside of the carton. “She broke up with Denny. Big fight. This morning. Saw them in the parking lot.” She paused for drama, and to take a lick off the carrot. “She ain't going to homecoming.”

The bell rang and the students got up, some leaving their trash on the table. A janitor pushed a broom into the lunchroom. He picked up apple cores and napkins and tossed them into the garbage cans as he went along. The tall kid stared at the custodian until their eyes met. The man nodded. The boy got up, threw his lunch sack into the garbage. He walked past the janitor and said in a low voice, “Later, P . . . p . . . pa.”

BUNNY PEDERSON WOULD be alive today if her best friend hadn't picked peach for the bridesmaids' dresses.

“I'm a fucking pumpkin,” said Bunny, standing in the ladies' room at the bar and scrutinizing her hips in the mirror. She swayed drunkenly, grabbed the countertop for support and burped. Something fruity came up; too much Asti. She swallowed it back. Raised her arms and sniffed under her pits. Damn deodorant was quitting on her. She turned around and looked over her shoulder to scan her butt.

“Peach is good on you,” said Katie Stodel, the other bridesmaid and a twig of a woman. She brushed a few strokes of blush into the hollows of her cheeks and dusted between her breasts.

Bunny grabbed the dress at the hips and tugged down. It crawled up again and bunched under her bodice. “Black would have been better. Slenderizing.”

“Black? For a wedding?”

“A fall wedding. Everyone does it.”

“Not in Moose Lake.”

“This town should join the twenty-first century.” Bunny hiccuped.

Katie dropped the blush compact in her handbag and tightened the drawstring. She and Bunny had matching purses made from the same material as the dresses. “She went cheap on the flowers, but the music was nice. I love J.D.” She started humming “Sunshine on My Shoulders.”

“John Denver's a wuss. She should've gone with my pick.”

“The vocalist didn't know it.”

Bunny loosened the string on her bag and reached inside. She pulled out a folded piece of paper and waved it in Katie's face. “I got the words right here.” She opened the paper and started singing “Can't Help Falling in Love,” but stopped after “fools rush in” to burp.

“Was Elvis as drunk as you when he sung that?”

“Shut up.” Bunny hiccuped again, dropped the paper on the wet counter. She picked it up, shook it off, folded it. Tucked it back in her purse. “Chad and me, we had that song at our wedding dance. Made the DJ play it four times.”

“Yeah, and look what it done for you. How long you been divorced?”

Bunny flipped her the bird and pulled a tube of gloss out of her bag. She leaned closer to the mirror and applied another layer to her lips. She stepped back and saw the wet counter had left a waterline across her abdomen. “Great. Now I'm a soggy pumpkin. Screw this. I'm sliding into some jeans. Drive me home?”

“Stick your stomach under the hand dryer. Come on. Do it and let's go.”

Bunny ignored her, kept looking at her reflection. Someone had slapped a
NO FAT CHICKS
bumper sticker to the top of the mirror. Bunny's eyes kept wandering to the sign, as if it was meant for her. “This hairdo she picked out. Jesus Christ. What porn magazine did this come from?”

Katie was offended; she'd helped pick out the do. “It's from
Modern Bride
.”

“Try
Modern Slut
.” Bunny reached up, pulled out a few
bobby pins. The brown pile atop her head came cascading down. She bent over and shook her hair and stood up again. She looked in the mirror and groaned. Medusa. “Gimme your brush.”

“Didn't bring one. Use your comb.”

“It'll never get through this mess. Take me home. Please?”

“They're cutting the cake. German chocolate. Can't you wait?”

“Forget it. I'll walk.”

“The dress is fine. Stay.”

“I'd stay if it wasn't peach. Peach in October. Might as well be orange.”

“What should I tell Melissa?”

“That she has shit taste.”

 

BUNNY shivered and held her sweater close as she clicked through the parking lot. Should have worn a coat, she thought. Shouldn't have had that fourth glass of Asti Spumante. She felt sick. She ducked between two pickup trucks, bent over and vomited. She straightened up, leaned her back against one of the trucks and reached into her purse for some Kleenex. She wiped her mouth, blew her nose, tossed the tissue to the ground. The night air was hazy. Neighbors were burning leaves in their yards. Something else was smoking. What was it? She sniffed. Bratwurst. Burning leaves and brats. She loved the smells. They smelled like Friday night in a small town. Bunny inhaled deeply and immediately felt better. She brushed some hair off her face. Hoped she didn't get puke on it. She considered turning around and going back into the bar, but she couldn't stand the dress a minute longer. She wrapped her sweater tight around her body, shoved her evening bag under her armpit and kept going. A short walk, she told herself. Less than a mile.

Halfway there the heels started to hurt. She kicked them off and picked them up. Peach pumps. When would she
wear those again? Waste of money, and she didn't have money to waste. Two kids to support on a crappy waitress job. Chad was late with his child support. Again. He should have shown up Thursday morning with the money and to take the boys duck hunting. Here it was Friday night. No Chad, no check. Come morning she'd have to drive down to St. Paul and bang on his door. She knew he was struggling. Still, he had money for a new snowmobile. Why couldn't he pay on time for his sons? She was always short of money and the boys always needed things. They were growing out of their sneakers faster than she could buy them. Winter was around the corner. They'd need new boots and coats and snow pants, thought Bunny. Hockey skates. What about hockey skates? Last year's wouldn't fit either one of them. Little Chad was going to need new goalie pads for sure. Both boys' helmets were still good. The sticks, too. Where did she put those sticks? They weren't in the garage. The basement?

Home was a couple of blocks away. She could see the porch light. That dim bulb teenager she'd hired to baby-sit was probably out there smoking. Better not be her pack he was puffing. A cigarette would be good right now, thought Bunny. She couldn't fit her Marlboros and matches into the stupid little bag Melissa made her carry down the aisle. Another waste of money. Won't they all be pissed when the matron of honor returns in jeans and a sweatshirt? Tough shit. Tacky bar reception anyway with tacky bar food. Who serves onion rings and buffalo wings at their wedding? Besides, thought Bunny, it's all Modern Bride Melissa's fault for picking peach. Peach dresses. Peach shoes. Peach purses. Even peach nail polish.

Some women turn thirty and panic because their lives aren't headed in the direction they'd hoped. When Bunny hit thirty earlier that fall, she hardly noticed. Her life was exactly what she'd expected. She saw it unfold ahead of her years ago, in high school. She could pinpoint the exact time and place and circumstances of the epiphany: between second and third period, in the girls' bathroom,
while she was sitting on the pot reading the instructions from a drugstore pregnancy kit. As long as it took for her to pee on the stick and wait for it to change is about how long it took for her to let go of any grand plans for the future. She married a month before she gave birth and was pregnant again before she turned twenty. She lost the third; that didn't surprise or upset her. Got her tubes tied at twenty-five—smartest thing she ever did, she told friends. She didn't tell herself that working at the restaurant was temporary, until something better came along. Bunny knew nothing better ever comes along, especially in small towns.

Her low expectations were always on the money. She expected Chad to take off and he did. Anticipated the heartache and was relieved when it finally came. He was too much for her. Too handsome. Too decent. Too well built. Too desired by other women. Bunny never got what everyone else wanted, only what no one else wanted. Leftovers. Some nights she'd be in bed next to him, listening to him snore, watching his chest rise and fall with each breath. She imagined she actually loved him and he loved her. Then she'd snap out of it, wonder if she should kick him out and get it over with.

She let him dump her instead because kicking him out would have taken planning and Bunny wasn't good at planning. She was better at watching things head her way and letting them happen.

 

OPEN.
Chink
. Close.
Chink
. Open.
Chink
. Close.
Chink
. He couldn't keep both hands on the wheel. Too nervous. Too jumpy. Not too high, though. He steered with his left hand and with his right pushed the switch on his stiletto. The blade shot out of the handle. A snake's tongue. Pointed and straight and narrow. He closed it and the snake's tongue darted back inside. He loved the
chink
sound it made. Metallic and mechanical at the same time. Open.
Chink
. Close.
Chink
. Open.
Chink
. Close.
Chink
. His forehead itched under his baseball cap. He reached up and
scratched it with the knife handle. Scratched and scratched until it burned.

“Dammit,” he muttered. He dropped the knife in his lap and turned the cap around so it was backward. In back of the cap in embroidered script:
Elvis Has Left the Building
. He picked up the knife. Open.
Chink
. Close.
Chink
.

When he spotted her walking on the side of the road, he had that thought he always had after a bad day. After too many pills. After too many nights on the road. Alone and driving, driving, driving. A white-hot thought that burned his brain and warmed his body. The thought went this way: a small movement of the wrists and hands. No greater than the effort it takes to wave good-bye. Shoo away a wasp. Twist the gas cap off a car. Flip open a jackknife. A small, controlled movement. That's all it would take to flatten someone. A quick jerk of his steering wheel to the right and they would be finished. Gone. All they ever were. All they ever hoped to be. All their high-and-mighty dreams. Crushed. Erased with the slightest movement of his hands. So breakable, the human body. Doesn't take much to do a lot of damage. Cripple. Kill someone.

Open.
Chink
. Close.
Chink
. She could be that someone. Open.
Chink
. He saw her weave a bit. She was drunk. He liked drunks. They made it easier. She dropped something. Shoes? She picked them up and kept walking. The dress was a perfect target. When his lights hit it, it glowed. A walking neon sign.
HIT ME
! He passed her slowly, took a right down a side street. He wanted to circle the block and drive by her again. Do a little calculating. Close.
Chink
. Open.
Chink
. Give it more consideration. Pop another pill. They always made him smarter. Braver, too. He closed the knife for good, shoved it in his pants pocket. He flipped on the interior light and looked over at the passenger's side. Shit. The top had come off the bottle. Pills all over the seat. He eyed the mess, hunting for the yellowish Adderall tablets. He picked out one and popped it in his mouth. Chewed. It tasted nasty, but chewing worked the amphetamines faster than swallowing whole. He grabbed his Coke
cup and sucked on the straw. Watery dregs. How many was that tonight? Two? Three? Doesn't matter, he thought. As long as he felt wired for action. Gotta fly high this weekend to make up for the week. The week had been a black hole. Most of his work weeks were black holes; his life disappeared into them. Vanished without a trace. He flicked off the dome light.

He wouldn't think about flattening someone in a car. Cars were weak. Couldn't be trusted to handle even the smallest smack. His Ford truck could take it. It had taken it before. Trucks were his safe world. Didn't matter if he was driving them or working on them. Trucks recognized his talent. Bent to his will and skill. His red F150 had an extended cab and eight-foot box covered by a sturdy topper. Brush guard across the front that protected the lights and grill. There'd be limited damage to the vehicle. Nothing he couldn't fix himself. If she went up on the hood, she might take the windshield with her. Again, no big deal. He'd get the hell out of town quick. Fix it when he got home. The surface conditions were right. Hard, dry road. There'd be no tracks. He'd drive away. Check the papers in the morning for her name. She probably deserved it. He figured most people deserved to get run over for one thing or another. Maybe it was for something they did that morning. Maybe it was for something mean they did years ago. Could be they forgot what they did wrong; that didn't make it right again. He wondered what she did. Decided he didn't care.

It would be a good night for Sweet Justice, coming as it did on the heels of a black hole week filled with mean people.

“The shop's limited on floor space.”

“We're vendor downsizing.”

“Does anyone wear dress shirts anymore?”

“Got flannel? Don't bother me if it ain't flannel.”

“Read the sign. No solicitors. Take your shitty shirts outta here.”

They were shitty shirts, and he knew it. That's what the
side of his truck should read, he thought.
GET YOUR SHITTY SHIRTS HERE
. He pulled at the collar of his oxford. Stiff and new and scratchy. He hated wearing his own merchandise; all the salesmen had to pay for their own samples and it was a drain even at cost. He was too tall for most of the stuff and it never fit right, but he'd run out of clean clothes and didn't want to waste quarters at a Laundromat. He undid another button at the neck and the button came off in his hand. He tossed it onto the seat with the pills and muttered, “Shitty shirts.”

He circled the block and saw her in his lights again. Fat ass taking up more than its share of the road. That dress. What was she, some old prom queen? Probably thinks she's hot shit. She deserved it, all right. He was coming up on her fast. His only hesitation was checking the rearview mirror to make sure there was no one behind him, and there wasn't. He clenched his teeth, tightened his grip on the steering wheel. Then something amazing happened. She stumbled and fell flat on her face. He couldn't believe how much she was helping him. “Now!” he said out loud. He gunned it and yanked the wheel to the right. He smiled at the satisfying
thump-thump
as the front right wheel rolled over her. Then the back right one. Another
thump-thump
. Solid sounds. He could feel them through his steering wheel. He said, “Perfect!”