watched Whit in public and women smiled at him, whereas women suddenly recalled other appointments and hurried
on their way when the Blade tried long conversations. Hating Whit was easy. The Blade imagined Whit dead, hollowed out, and
himself stepping into Whit’s skin, pulling the pallid skulllness face over his own like a mask, fitting his fingers into Whit’s
fingers like gory gloves.
Why not kill Mosley as well as take Velvet? He considered.Dismemberment held a certain appeal, as did evisceration, although they certainly cut short the fun. He considered decapitation
overrated; heads seemed mocking without bodies attached. The Blade had learned that truth the hard way.
He’d never wanted to kill a man particularly before, but it promised an interesting difference – like fries after a solid
week of potato chips. He daydreamed about Whit dying from a slow, careful series of cuts, and a slow whisper filtered into
his ears. He stared at the ceiling and its whirring fan. The fan, spinning, resembled a dark eye. Mama’s eyes. He stared,
barely breathing, only hearing Mama’s voice telling him what he must do.
He awoke and knew he had slipped to that inky world that Mama had shaped. She used to say, with her sure smile, right before
she warmed the wrench on the stove or clicked the clothespin shut on his little flick of a penis:
We’re together forever, honeybunch, and don’t you ever forget it.
Thank God, he would think, that he had managed to become the hero of his own story. Mama had not won. He had. He would still.
His phone rang; he picked up and chatted through morning niceties, then listened.
‘This young woman who found Pete’s body,’ the familiar voice murmured into his ear. ‘Do me a favor. Give her some money. Get
her out of town.’
‘Sure,’ said the Blade. ‘I can do that for you.’
‘Santa Fe is lovely this time of year, and I bet there’s a nice, affordable youth hostel. Or perhaps Florida, if she’s still
set on a beach.’ He listened to detailed instructions and hung up the phone.
His thumb began to itch for the keen sharpness of his knife. If Heather Farrell needed to leave town … well, many were the
avenues. A hefty bribe paled compared toother options. He’d gotten away with this every time. (Well, except that one time, so very long ago.) Why not again? He was
already in the mood.
He considered how best to approach the problem and how to avoid any messy ramifications. A lure, simple, would do. Nothing
could interfere, after all, with his plan for Velvet. He ducked under the sagging bed he slept on and reached for his bowie
knife. It was lovely, stout, and sharp enough to cut hopes and dreams. He rummaged in a box with MAMA’S STUFF written on the side in thick Magic Marker and found a worn sharpening stone. The Blade dragged the knife back and forth across
the stone, a rhythmic caress that whispered:
Heath-er, Heath-er, Heath-er.
The Blade flicked on his stereo. The Beach Boys sang in perfect harmony about their 409, and the knife moved to the beat.
14
Claudia wrote a terse report on the investigation’s status and left it on Delford’s empty desk. She grabbed a cup of thin
coffee from the kitchen. When she got back to her desk, the dispatcher was buzzing her. She had a visitor in the lobby, Faith
Hubble.
‘I get the feeling,’ the dispatcher whispered, ‘she don’t like waiting.’
The lobby was barely ten feet by ten feet, cramped with a chair, a side table of old magazines, and a rack of flyers on safety
and community policing. The woman sat in the chair, pulling a loose string from the tattered upholstery and snapping it with
her fingernail.
‘Mrs Hubble? I’m Claudia Salazar.’
Faith stood and offered a hand. They shook hands quickly, and Faith followed Claudia back to her office.
From their phone conversation, Claudia had pictured a different woman. She’d imagined one of those no-nonsense Austin politicos,
on their way when the Blade tried long conversations. Hating Whit was easy. The Blade imagined Whit dead, hollowed out, and
himself stepping into Whit’s skin, pulling the pallid skulllness face over his own like a mask, fitting his fingers into Whit’s
fingers like gory gloves.
Why not kill Mosley as well as take Velvet? He considered.Dismemberment held a certain appeal, as did evisceration, although they certainly cut short the fun. He considered decapitation
overrated; heads seemed mocking without bodies attached. The Blade had learned that truth the hard way.
He’d never wanted to kill a man particularly before, but it promised an interesting difference – like fries after a solid
week of potato chips. He daydreamed about Whit dying from a slow, careful series of cuts, and a slow whisper filtered into
his ears. He stared at the ceiling and its whirring fan. The fan, spinning, resembled a dark eye. Mama’s eyes. He stared,
barely breathing, only hearing Mama’s voice telling him what he must do.
He awoke and knew he had slipped to that inky world that Mama had shaped. She used to say, with her sure smile, right before
she warmed the wrench on the stove or clicked the clothespin shut on his little flick of a penis:
We’re together forever, honeybunch, and don’t you ever forget it.
Thank God, he would think, that he had managed to become the hero of his own story. Mama had not won. He had. He would still.
His phone rang; he picked up and chatted through morning niceties, then listened.
‘This young woman who found Pete’s body,’ the familiar voice murmured into his ear. ‘Do me a favor. Give her some money. Get
her out of town.’
‘Sure,’ said the Blade. ‘I can do that for you.’
‘Santa Fe is lovely this time of year, and I bet there’s a nice, affordable youth hostel. Or perhaps Florida, if she’s still
set on a beach.’ He listened to detailed instructions and hung up the phone.
His thumb began to itch for the keen sharpness of his knife. If Heather Farrell needed to leave town … well, many were the
avenues. A hefty bribe paled compared toother options. He’d gotten away with this every time. (Well, except that one time, so very long ago.) Why not again? He was
already in the mood.
He considered how best to approach the problem and how to avoid any messy ramifications. A lure, simple, would do. Nothing
could interfere, after all, with his plan for Velvet. He ducked under the sagging bed he slept on and reached for his bowie
knife. It was lovely, stout, and sharp enough to cut hopes and dreams. He rummaged in a box with MAMA’S STUFF written on the side in thick Magic Marker and found a worn sharpening stone. The Blade dragged the knife back and forth across
the stone, a rhythmic caress that whispered:
Heath-er, Heath-er, Heath-er.
The Blade flicked on his stereo. The Beach Boys sang in perfect harmony about their 409, and the knife moved to the beat.
14
Claudia wrote a terse report on the investigation’s status and left it on Delford’s empty desk. She grabbed a cup of thin
coffee from the kitchen. When she got back to her desk, the dispatcher was buzzing her. She had a visitor in the lobby, Faith
Hubble.
‘I get the feeling,’ the dispatcher whispered, ‘she don’t like waiting.’
The lobby was barely ten feet by ten feet, cramped with a chair, a side table of old magazines, and a rack of flyers on safety
and community policing. The woman sat in the chair, pulling a loose string from the tattered upholstery and snapping it with
her fingernail.
‘Mrs Hubble? I’m Claudia Salazar.’
Faith stood and offered a hand. They shook hands quickly, and Faith followed Claudia back to her office.
From their phone conversation, Claudia had pictured a different woman. She’d imagined one of those no-nonsense Austin politicos,
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