In Autumn's Wake Page 4

  Riley’s neighborhood is an option. Cops are less likely to question a homicide in the worst part of the city. She must know of an abandoned house with a basement we can leave him in, a place where he won’t be found for months, giving the body time to decompose. Though, it’s insulting to unload a body in her neighborhood.

  “Dylan, look out!” Riley palms the dash.

  Sean’s legs extend for a brake pedal that isn’t there. I’m not going fast, but even in four-wheel drive, my Silverado takes a long slide. We stop a foot from a figure standing in the middle of the icy street: tall and thin with a heart-shaped face, freckles on her cheeks, and different-colored eyes. Her burgundy coat and the highlights in her hair emit subtle light that’s not coming from my headlights.

  She lifts a gloved hand with purpose, higher and higher until a handgun is aimed at my head.

  “Dylan,” Sean whispers, forcing Riley down. The girl lifts her chin, spying over my front seat. “Dylan,” Sean repeats.

  “What’s she doing?” Riley peeps over the dash. “Does she know the dead dude’s in here?”

  I lower my window, waving the car behind me to drive on by, surprised when the girl keeps the gun up, not deterred in any way by the passing car.

  “She’s just gonna stand there?” Riley asks.

  “Looks like it.” I place my hands at the top of the wheel and spread my fingers, showing her that I’m unarmed. She points the handgun at Sean and Riley, waving it to the side as a signal for them to get out of the truck. “You guys need to take off.”

  “I’m not leaving you alone with a gun pointed at your head,” Sean says.

  “It’s pointed at our heads,” Riley says.

  “Don’t argue, just go. I’ll be all right.”

  “But—”

  “Stop.” I hold up a hand, cutting Sean off. “Take Riley and wait for me at the bar.”

  “But—”

  “Sean, go!”

  5

  If someone told me I’d be driving aimlessly through the streets of Northland with a body in the back seat, my knife with Sean back at the bar, and a mysterious girl in my passenger seat—one who hasn’t spoken a word, but has a handgun aimed at my chest—I would’ve said they were flat-out nuts. I’m used to drama-filled nights, fistfights, protecting Sean, drunken conversations about my past, arguing with Ed, and Riley asking far too many questions, but being held at gunpoint by a girl with a pink-handled Walther is a first.

  “Is this guy your boyfriend?” I ask for the third time, still not getting an answer.

  She unbuttons my coat and waves the gun at me to take it off. I do what she wants, letting her check my body for weapons, sent on full alert when her cold hands spend a little too much time below my belt. She smiles and leans back. Her gun’s black slide has a fierce look, the pink handle sweet—a dark and dainty pistol that fits her outward appearance to a T.

  “So, I’m just gonna keep driving and talking.” I glance at her then back at the road. “Maybe you can tell me what you want, or something about him, or if you’re gonna kill me.”

  Guarding me with her almond-shaped eyes, she removes her leather gloves and sets them on my coat between the two of us. Her gun doesn’t waver. I glance at it at each red light, waiting for the perfect moment to snatch it from her hand.

  “He was rough when he pulled you out of the bar. My friend Sean and I just wanted to make sure you were all right. I don’t know what you saw after that, but … so anyway, what did you see? I mean, you were there, right? You pushed him into my blade?” I take a long breath and wait. Still. No response. “I saw you. It happened fast, but it was you.”

  Not a word. What the hell is going on here?

  “Look, either start talking or get the hell out of my truck so I can deal with the problem in my back seat.”

  She lowers the Walther to her belly and grasps the slide with her left hand, driving the gun forward with her right. The quick rack of the slide is precise, about technique, not strength. It’s unsettling that she has it down pat.

  She moves the gun up to my head, the cold muzzle pressed to my temple, letting me know I’m in a tight spot.

  “Okay. Okay.” Be firm but not pushy. “This is what’s going down. I’ll drive to the East Side and look for an abandoned building. Then I’ll—”

  “No. You’ll keep driving south,” she says, matter-of-fact. “Go to the Lakeside neighborhood. And please don’t talk unless I ask you a question.”

  “Please? Who points a pistol at someone’s head and says please?”

  “I do. Now shut up and drive … Please.”

  I nod. Lakeside is four miles from here, about a ten-minute drive in this weather, a neighborhood I know well. It borders a polluted community lake with a crumbling dock and a secluded overgrown park on the water’s edge that’s pitch-black at night, a seedy spot that Ed once suggested as a dumping ground, a place he picks up hookers for play.

  “The lake’s frozen this time of the year, and I didn’t bring a shovel to bury him,” I tell her.

  “Stop whining.” She leans forward and wipes the fog off the front window with her coat sleeve, leans back and puts on the defroster. “Keep your hands on the wheel and don’t talk. I’ve told you once to be quiet. If you don’t stop, I’ll shoot. Then I’ll have a bloody mess to clean up.” She looks into my eyes, pressing the gun to my head. “And that’s exhausting to think about, considering I’m wearing my favorite coat. It will take forever to get the blood out.”

  I laugh. I can’t help it. She has to be toying with me, totally toying with me. Her composed voice doesn’t match her threatening words. And she smells like my favorite childhood drink—strawberry Kool-Aid—a mixture of fruit candies and spring air. She can’t talk to me like this and smell of such sweetness. It’s not right.

  “Take off your shirt,” she says.

  “What?”

  “Take. Off. Your. Shirt.”

  “While I’m driving on icy streets?”

  “Yes. Yes, please. Then put both hands back on the wheel.”

  I hold the wheel with one hand and unbutton my flannel shirt, freeing one arm at a time. It falls down my back and bunches at my waist. She slides it out and sniffs the sleeves, the armpits, and the collar.

  “There’s no sweat. No man stench. Take off your undershirt, too.”

  Her soft voice is calming, like Heather’s. Sean would call me a wuss if I ever told him this, but Heather often ran her fingers through my hair at night, dropping whispers into my ear to put me to sleep—nights when all I could think about were the lives I had taken, and why I couldn’t bring myself to defy Ed.

  I hand her my undershirt, and she sniffs it. I imagine it smells like the cologne I dab on my neck each morning, a cinnamon and leather concoction that’s easy on the nose.

  She hangs the flannel shirt over my forearm and circles a spot of blood on the fabric, either from the fistfight, or where the guy fell into me after he was stabbed.

  “I was at the far end of the alley next to the bar, close to the street that’s behind the building,” she says. “My coat blended into the brick. It was too dark for him to see me.” She looks over her shoulder at the body. “I held still and watched him light a cigarette. Then he took off when he saw you under the light by the door. He didn’t notice me.” She snaps the shirt off my arm and flings it into the back. “I heard that woman in the alley say your name, Dylan Marzniak.” She shimmies closer. “I know who you are, and I saw you kill him. His blood is on your clothing, not mine. It was your knife.”

  “You setting me up?”

  “Don’t. Speak.” The gun slithers down my chest, over my abs, stopping above my groin to goad my navel. “You have any tats?” she asks.

  “Two, they’re on my back. Why?”

  “Keep your hands on the wheel and lean forward for me.”

  I do what she says. Her fingers tiptoe over my back. Identical tats are on opposite sides of my shou
lder blades: the top view of a black rose with a petal dropping off. The name Jake is under the rose on the right, and Heather is under the one on the left, directly behind my heart.

  She circles Heather’s tat, then Jake’s. “Just these two?” she asks.

  “Yeah.”

  “No gang tats?”

  “I’m not in a gang.”

  “Are you a cop?”

  I chuckle. “God, no.”

  “But you’re friends with cops?”

  “Not really.”

  “Good.” She grips my shoulder and pushes me against the seat. “Do you always kill men for no reason?”

  “I did nothing wrong. Do you always point a gun at people and threaten to blow off their heads?”

  I catch a cunning smile. “Only men who’ve caught my attention.” She peeks at the snow accumulating on the windshield and turns on the wipers, patting my hand before her next request. “Take off your jeans.”

  “You kidding? No way.”

  “I said, take them off.”

  “The defroster’s on the window, not me, and I’m not warming up on this frozen seat, it’s too damn cold. No. Just no.”

  “Why are you speaking?” She angles her head, keeping a steady smile as a strand of hair falls over one eye. “I’m aware things shrink in the cold. I won’t hold it against you.” The muzzle is back against my temple. “Pants off, Dylan Marzniak.”

  “Fine,” I huff. Sean and Riley aren’t going to believe this. Held at gunpoint and forced to strip while driving into Lakeside without my knife.

  I pull down my jeans, unable to remove the legs because of my boots.

  “All the way off.” Her smile disappears.

  I reach down and untie my laces, slip off my boots, and free myself from my jeans. I pick the bundled ball of denim off the floor and drop it in her lap.

  “Thank you.” She lowers the Walther to her waist. It’s still pointed at my head, but not as threatening from a distance as when it’s pressed to my temple. “Drive to Sweetbriar Park.”

  “That little park in the middle of Lakeside? It’s surrounded by houses.”

  “Sweetbriar Park,” she repeats.

  “Bad choice. People will see my truck in that open area. Let’s go to the other park by—”

  “Sweetbriar.”

  “Can we talk about—”

  “Sweetbriar. Make a right here and then a left at the end of the street.”

  “Are you making me take the body to his house so his friends can beat me to a pulp? Is that it? Is this where he lived?”

  “Do what I tell you and don’t misbehave. This is your last warning.”

  I groan. If I leave him in the park, he’ll be found in the morning. And if she’s leading me into a trap, I’ll be the one found in the morning. Sweetbriar Park isn’t a good plan. Amateurish. I should take my chances and grab the gun instead of taking my chances leaving the body out in the open, covered with evidence.

  “Left, here,” she says.

  The wheels slip when I make the turn and the truck slides. The body in the back bumps my seat and drops to the floor, sending forth the pungent odor of piss and blood. I should’ve spread a blanket under the guy and bungeed him down.

  I turn the wheel with the slide and my truck quickly straightens out.

  “Make the next left.”

  “Sweetbriar Park is on the right.”

  “I know. Make a left.”

  All right. I’m doomed. I bet we’re heading to his home. I can only hope his roommates or wife hated him and they go easy on me.

  “Down here.” She points. “Straight ahead.”

  The street isn’t plowed, which works in my favor, giving my truck more traction. I creep slowly past snow mounds lining the curbs, the buried cars underneath them waiting to be shoveled out. Like most of Northland, it’s a dead street full of vacant houses. Windows are dark, streetlights are burned out, and not a soul is out walking the street.

  “Pull over in front of that one-story white house. The one that’s boarded up on the right.”

  “Every other one is white and boarded up.”

  “That one.” She points.

  I parallel park in a spot that’s been dug out. It’s a tight fit between two snow-covered cars, hinting at a story that they’ve been entombed for some time, abandoned like the houses. Once the truck is in park, she turns off the lights and kills the engine, then lowers the gun while staring at the dilapidated home.

  She let her guard down. I can grab the gun and—

  “Don’t even think about it. You’d be dead before you got it out of my hand, and anyone close enough to hear the shot wouldn’t care.”

  Okay, I can’t grab the gun.

  I look at the house. The boarded up windows are framed with soot, and the porch roof has buckled.

  “Take him around back. It’ll be open.”

  “What will be open? A door? A window?”

  “The back wall of the house. It collapsed and will be open to walk inside. Take him through the kitchen and into the bathroom, then leave him in the tub. Careful where you step.”

  Her delicate voice directing me to leave a body in the tub of a bombed-out house stirs my heart, in a slightly sick way. It’s why she’s stolen my manhood and has control over the situation. I’ve never experienced a girl quite like her, and I contemplate swiping my finger across her lips, then my tongue.

  I hold the door handle, looking down at her gun, noticing her pink fingernails match the handle. She has a simple gold ring on her pinky finger, embellished with the letter “A,” and a small black heart tattoo at the base of her ring finger.

  “What are you waiting for?” she asks.

  “Can I put on my coat?”

  “No.”

  “Can I—”

  “Take him. He’s too close to me.”

  She has no problem sending me out to haul a body through the snow without my clothes. I’m down to my flannel boxers and wool socks.

  She stares at my crotch, my pale legs, and my crotch again. Okay, I see what’s going on here. “Is this sexual?” I look down at my boxers. “Does it turn you on to watch me dump a body while I’m in the buff?”

  “No. And you’re not naked.” Her straight teeth disappear behind a tight-lipped smile. She slips the pistol under the edge of my boxers, moving her way up my inner thigh.

  “You sure about that?” I ask.

  “Making you undress isn’t sexual in any way.”

  “So she says,” I mutter. “Trust me, I’m not turned on anyway.”

  She pushes my coat to the floor and slinks alongside me, skimming her fingers over my jaw. I close my eyes, distracted by her warm breath seeping into my ear, her sugary-sweet scent drifting up my nose, and soft lips tracing my earlobe, spinning my head after one touch.

  I wait quietly and listen.

  “Think about how you feel exposed to me.” Her words pass between her lips in a seductive whisper. “This could be about control and learning to submit, or it could be about punishment.” The gun travels across the front of my boxers. “Tell me, is this sexual to you? Does it turn you on to be crippled by a woman?” My eyes stay shut. The muzzle of the gun moves up to my heart, making me tremble. “Answer me, please.”

  “I don’t know.” I clear my throat. “It feels … unreal.”

  “Am I?”

  I open my eyes. “No, not you.” I shake my head. “You’re definitely not a dream.” I look down at her hand stroking my thigh and swallow hard.

  “Dylan, take the body away and finish the job. Then I want you to come back to me.”

  6

  I open the driver’s-side door and check to see if anyone’s around before pulling the body from the back seat. He hits the ground in a heap, tossing snow flurries upward that land on my feet. I check again if anyone’s in sight. Dog tracks line the sidewalk, but I don’t see any human footprints. The street’s quiet.

&nbs
p; I move as fast as I can, dragging him up the driveway and around back. She’s right. The backside of the house is open, the inside looted and stripped down to the studs. Someone stole everything, including the drywall.

  I lean the body against the concrete foundation and climb inside, the step up from the ground to the kitchen a good three feet. I kneel in the snow to lift the guy by his armpits up and over the footing of the house. I’m not weak, I work out, but this guy’s massive, and it’s a struggle.

  On the third try, I get him up and lug him through the house. His jeans snag on a nail, launching me forward and down. I land on my knees on a pile of frozen newspapers and empty pizza boxes. The anger I felt earlier for this guy is bubbling up again. I hate it, or him, or the snow, or everything. I stand and tug him free, feeling my way through the house until I find an open doorway and a sink.

  She said she wants him in the bathtub, but I’m not exploring a dark bathroom in an abandoned house with my bare hands. Forget the tub.

  I drop him on the floor then backtrack out of the house. Snow sifts into my wool socks and melts between my toes, turning my feet into a solid block of ice. They’re numb as I kick snow over the trail of blood along the driveway to cover my tracks.

  Miserable, I plod down the drive to my truck, ticked off that this woman made me strip, subjecting me to freezing temps.

  I open the door to my truck and hop inside, slamming it shut. “Son of a bitch!” I smack the wheel. “Someone’s gonna find him here, trust me, this is the wrong spot.”

  “Good job.” She sets the gun between us. “Take the gun as a prize if you want.”

  I grab it quickly in disbelief. My teeth chatter as I look into her eyes. Should I kill her, or kiss her? “This might make sense if I were drunk, but being sober it makes no sense at all. What is this? What are you doing? Is this some kinda game?” I sit back and start the truck, hungry for heat and eager to get the hell out of here. I set the gun in my lap, turn the heater on high, and rub my hands in front of the vents, needing to defrost before I can drive. “Are you insane?”