Martha Grimes by End of the Pier

Author:End of the Pier
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Published: 2010-04-18T23:07:48+00:00

"Nancy."

He whispered it even now and could imagine her all over again.

She'd started, out there in the unshadowed darkness, a dark so complete that only the stark whiteness of the ash trees in the cold moonlight could pierce it.

And his eyes. But his eyes had burned out patches of these woods, turned the hard dry leaves beneath their struggling bodies to cinders.

"Hullo, Nancy."

He heard her intaken breath, could see her fighting with the dark, trying to make out where the voice had come from. He giggled.

She'd tried to yell, but it came out a gurgle that he simply reached out and cut off, one hand around her neck, dragging her body towards him. Before he drew out the knife, he would make her understand that he was master and she nothing more than a pitiful wood creature, a squirrel or a rabbit.

He'd clamped his hand around her chin, squeezing her mouth up to his, felt his tongue like an asp darting, darting at her teeth as if he'd sting her to death.

And then she was on the ground, both of her hands held as if roped by his one hand, and, dreamlike, the knife appearing in the other, cutting into her clothes, her flesh like butter, trailing straight down from her chin, and all the clothes fluttering and unresisting beneath the tip.

As he plunged into her he shrieked. He felt the pure righteousness of it. Her eyes were hollow, white, turned back in her head as if she dared not look at his blinding eyes.

He brandished the knife in the air and waited for her to recognize this world he had ushered her into.

Her eyes stared up at him.

He smiled and slit her throat.

Tonight, he had to shake himself out of this remembrance.

How could she still have had a breath of life in her? How could she have had strength to leave a sign, a word in her own blood on the ground?

And why?

Why had she written that faggot's name, who'd never have the balls to do what he had done--why write that name in her own blood?

Ever since that night at the end of June, he'd puzzled over this.

It nearly drove him crazy, wondering. All he could think was that it was the hand of god or his dear angel mother, who wanted to make sure the evil were punished. And the righteous went free.

Nothing else could explain it.

It must mean he was on the right track. That it wasn't too soon.

And god only knew this one deserved to die, too.

He would have liked to stay here in the woods a little longer, one hand on the knife, the other on his neck, remembering.

But he must move off now down the path and get to a place where he could watch to see if she'd be out tonight as she usually was, and which way she'd go.

If anyone deserved to die. If anyone deserved to die.

A hat he thought she was doing was drinking. Someone in La Porte might

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