Chapter LVIII
CHAPTER LVIII
Hul Swisher sat on the basement floor, cradling his wife’s body in his arms. His life as it was had come to an end. Friends would quickly begin to wonder where Harriet might have gotten to. He supposed he could lie and claim she’d gone to visit her sister in Manhattan Beach, California, but that story would hold for only so long; or, he could report her missing once he’d disposed of the body, but he knew that would cause the police to search the house. Even if he managed to clean up the blood enough to fool their forensics people, the fate of the children had to be considered.
The silence in the basement was unnerving. Hul could no longer hear the boy or the girl. It could be they were waiting to see what he’d do next. First things first: He might have been torn up over Harriet, but he had to quit crying and let Donnie Ray Dolfe know that the children needed to be moved. Hul doubted Donnie Ray would approve of Devin Vaughn’s order to obliterate one of them. Like Hul, Donnie Ray believed in preserving the old, not destroying it. Donnie Ray might help Hul get rid of Harriet’s remains, the Dolfes having some experience in that regard, or he could decide to get rid of Hul as well as Harriet, leaving Donnie Ray with two children instead of one.
Upstairs, Hul’s cell phone began to ring. It was soon joined by the sound of his wife’s phone next to it, the pair of devices calling out in unison. Both phones were set to ring for the maximum of thirty seconds—being older folk, the Swishers required extra time to get to them—but Hul’s suddenly stopped mid-ring after about ten seconds and his wife’s ceased immediately after. They did not ring again. Either the callers had decided not to bother, or the phones had been silenced.
“Hello?” Hul called out, before realizing that if someone else was in his home, they had no right to be there. Hul did have a gun, so he wasn’t helpless. Then again, he was sitting with his wife’s body in his lap, and his hands and clothing were red with her blood. If it was the police up there, he was done for. But wouldn’t the police have identified themselves?
Hul calmed himself. He and Harriet always charged their phones in the morning, gradually letting them run down. Sometimes, they even got the best part of two days out of a charge, so little use did the phones receive. Hul tried to remember if they’d charged the phones that day. If they hadn’t, both could have lost their juice at more or less the same time.
He eased Harriet’s corpse to the floor and moved to the stairs. One thing about the house, Hul had put serious work into it. He didn’t hold with stuck doors or boards that creaked, and those basement steps were solid and soundless, especially in his stocking feet. Using the rail for support, he made his way upstairs with the barest whisper of cotton against wood.
The hallway was quiet when he reached the door. He held the Colt close to his side in a two-handed grip, the former so that nobody could knock it from his hands and the latter for stability: he wanted to be sure he hit whatever he was aiming at. The 1911 had a pretty gentle recoil, but Hul wasn’t as strong as he used to be and had developed a pronounced tremor in his hands in recent years.
But you managed to hit Harriet without any trouble, didn’t you? Right through the old ticker, no doubt there. Bull’s-eye, sir. Pick a prize from the top shelf.
“Fuck you,” said Hul aloud.
The torment came suddenly, starting at his back, worming its way through his insides, and exploding in a crescendo by his left breast. He felt something hard and sharp being withdrawn from his body, and then Hul Swisher was falling. He landed facedown and tried to raise the Colt, but his arm wouldn’t respond and he couldn’t feel his legs.
The gun was kicked from his hand before he was pushed onto his back, the pain of it causing Hul to shriek. He was staring up at a woman, and the moonlight caught the weapon in her hand. It was a bronze tumi, an ornamental Chimu dagger, but unlike any in the Swishers’ collection. This one was twin-bladed: the first blade six inches long, stiletto-thin, and currently wet with Hul’s blood, and the second semicircular and very sharp. The blades were connected by the effigy of a high priest, which served as the hilt. Under better circumstances, Hul might have been tempted to make an offer for it.
The woman moved to straddle him, her knees pinning his arms to the floor. With the tumi’s curved blade, she sliced through Hul’s pajama top and the layers of skin beneath. He was dying. He could feel it. He willed it to come quickly, before the woman commenced her labors in earnest. But it didn’t, and Hul Swisher was still alive when her fingers touched his heart.