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Four inches of S35VN steel buried in Norris’s solar plexus.
The awful stench of raw innards meeting air.
Covered in dampness, Norris’s face shimmered in the faint light.
He gripped the knife handle, his fingers not able to close.
The bottom of Evan’s foot ached from the impact. At least he’d been on the right side of the knife. They were down to minutes now.
“Why were Johnny Seabrook and Angela Buford killed?” Evan asked.
Norris stared at his wet hands, white latex doused in crimson. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he made a gurgling sound of disbelief.
“Were you all in on it?”
Norris’s eyes rolled up to white, then rolled down once more as if coming back online, the effect supernatural, ghastly.
“Did Luke Devine order their deaths?”
Norris tilted forward, arms spread as if in a hug. Evan caught him under the armpits, felt the cold butt of the sunken knife against his own bare stomach. Norris’s legs went out, but hegrabbed behind Evan’s neck, tugging him down, his face lifted to look into Evan’s eyes.
Their noses were inches apart. Evan could taste Norris’s breath, bitter and dry, puffing up from parted lips.
Evan eased him sloppily to the floor. One of Norris’s stockinged feet pawed loose circles on the kitchen tile. His cheek came to rest against Evan’s leg, his arm slung over the knee, clinging with what little strength his fingers had left. It was a meager sort of embrace. Sweat and blood turned his skin tacky.
Death came on like a galloping horse. His whole body shook. His breaths shuddered. His lips wavered, the hollow of his throat sucked in, a pitch-black hollow. He blinked long, blinked longer, his eyes screwed up toward Evan. He didn’t want absolution or forgiveness.
He just wanted someone there.
Sprawled in the darkness of the kitchen, Evan held him until he slipped away.
38
The Fine Art of Disappearing Corpses
Ring-ring.
“Whatnow?”
“I need to dispose of a body.”
Evan had pried the stray round from the kitchen soffit, patched and painted the bullet hole with supplies he’d found in the garage. He’d gathered the jigsaw-puzzle pieces from the floor, placed them back on the kitchen table, and repaired the jostled frame. He’d rolled Norris onto a bed of trash liners, cleaned the blood off the floor, and aired out the kitchen. He’d retrieved his Strider knife and washed it extensively with hot water and bleach. He’d stripped off his boning-knife-incised shirt, bagged his bloody clothes, and showered. He’d left a single drop of blood on the white carpet of the guest room, which he’d scrubbed with water and then cleaning solvent to no avail. He’d dabbed rubbing alcohol on the tiny puncture wounds on his stomach, which hurt more than a minor injury had any right to hurt.
Then he’d called Orphan V, a virtuoso at the fine art of disappearing corpses.
“Start with a hacksaw,” Candy said, “preferably lightweight extruded aluminum with a rubberized handle to avoid blisters. You’re gonna want a ten pack of replacement blades, at least twelve inches with twenty-four teeth per inch. For the legs I prefer a hand ax to speed things along. Safety goggles, two industrial blenders, a super-heavy poly tarp, call it twenty-three mils to avoid nicks and drips. I’ve been off hydrofluoric acid lately, playing with concentrated sulfuric acids. The hydrogen peroxide’s gotta be added drop by drop—that’s the trick. It’s called piranha solution. Leaves behind nothing but black organic sludge and gallstones.”
“Tasty.”
“Don’t be a baby. Gallstones are actually quite pretty.”
“I’ll have earrings made up for you.”
“I only need green to complete my collection.”
“Seriously?”
“No,” Candy said. “You gotta leave the body parts to boil in a hazardous-waste drum. Fifty-five gallons should do you fine.”
