between her legs as her body shook and recoiled.
“Ah, you are.”
“Let me go, motherfucker,” she said, low. There was strength in her voice, but it was thwarted and futile.
His gaze came to rest on her nakedness. He took in the light hair at her crotch that just touched the place of opening, of confusion and mystery, that tabernacle of life. When he was no longer a boy, he knew he was capable of bringing life, together with a woman. But to what end? It wouldn’t get him any closer to God. He felt the love and hate surge inside him.
“What are those?” she asked, looking up at the hooks, connected to an iron bar, suspended from the ceiling.
“It’s called a gambrel. You don’t need to worry about that,” he assured her.
“Why are you doing this?” she asked, her ability to control herself diminishing. “Why did you take me?”
“It’s not something to cry about, it’s just something that happened,” he said.
He picked up a wooden-handled steel awl and ran it down her sternum to the soft skin of her belly and began pressing.
“You’re hurting me,” she said.
“I know.”
Then he put his mouth on hers. She didn’t resist, but merely submitted. It wasn’t remotely satisfactory.
“That kiss wasn’t sincere.”
“Please,” she said.
He put his mouth back on hers, cutting off her words, but this time he bit down and yanked his face away without letting go. He spit outpulpy chunks of her flesh. She was screaming now, but the sound was wet and indistinct, on account of her lips being gone …
He can’t wait anymore and flicks on the lights and sees it there, resting on a plate on the corner of his workbench: Cinnamon’s head. Her eyes, lids hanging open, eyeballs beginning to go soft, mouth fleshy, the remainders of her torn lips pursed, and that streaked blond hair still shining, though it is starting to fall out.
He feels the urgency in his pajama pants anew and loosens the drawstring, letting them slide down to his thighs, and then he moves toward her head in order to relieve it.
Later, he slips back into bed. Margaret is sleeping heavily and doesn’t move. He stares up into the darkness and knows he’ll be looking for a new project in no time.
27
It was a misty morning in the fields near Elwood, home of the Cross Creek Conservation and Gun Club, the location where Gary Breslau had texted Behr to meet. The thermometer said forty degrees, but a moist, bone-chilling breeze made it feel at least twenty degrees colder than that as Behr stepped out of his car. Barks of “Pull!” and the popping of skeet guns filled the air.
Behr asked for Breslau in the small clubhouse and was told what field he was on and given a set of earplugs. Rolling the bits of foam into cylinders, Behr stuffed them into his ears as he walked past a man holding the leashes on a pair of young springer spaniels getting trained to the gun. He continued on toward the end of the skeet range, where he arrived in time to see Breslau, dressed like something out of the Upland Hunting page in a Cabela’s catalog, finish off a clean double.
“Nice,” Behr said, as Breslau turned and broke his gun, sending the spent shell casings flying over his shoulder in a curling cloud of gun smoke. An old-timer in a blaze orange hat and vest who was holding the skeet release switch drifted off a ways for a cigarette.
“Seventeen for twenty. I’m pulling off my follow-through,” Breslau said and shrugged, not particularly pleased or displeased with the effort. “What do you want?”
“A password.”
“To what?”
“Your bank account,” Behr said. “To the department’s criminal index, what do you think?”
“Why?” Breslau asked.
“For my Gibbons case.”
“We don’t give civilians access to that. Liability reasons.”
“C’mon, I need it.”
“Yeah? I need things too. Like back rubs and blow jobs. Should we get out our lists?”
“How about I’ll shoot you for it?”
Breslau gave Behr a look.
“Ah, you are.”
“Let me go, motherfucker,” she said, low. There was strength in her voice, but it was thwarted and futile.
His gaze came to rest on her nakedness. He took in the light hair at her crotch that just touched the place of opening, of confusion and mystery, that tabernacle of life. When he was no longer a boy, he knew he was capable of bringing life, together with a woman. But to what end? It wouldn’t get him any closer to God. He felt the love and hate surge inside him.
“What are those?” she asked, looking up at the hooks, connected to an iron bar, suspended from the ceiling.
“It’s called a gambrel. You don’t need to worry about that,” he assured her.
“Why are you doing this?” she asked, her ability to control herself diminishing. “Why did you take me?”
“It’s not something to cry about, it’s just something that happened,” he said.
He picked up a wooden-handled steel awl and ran it down her sternum to the soft skin of her belly and began pressing.
“You’re hurting me,” she said.
“I know.”
Then he put his mouth on hers. She didn’t resist, but merely submitted. It wasn’t remotely satisfactory.
“That kiss wasn’t sincere.”
“Please,” she said.
He put his mouth back on hers, cutting off her words, but this time he bit down and yanked his face away without letting go. He spit outpulpy chunks of her flesh. She was screaming now, but the sound was wet and indistinct, on account of her lips being gone …
He can’t wait anymore and flicks on the lights and sees it there, resting on a plate on the corner of his workbench: Cinnamon’s head. Her eyes, lids hanging open, eyeballs beginning to go soft, mouth fleshy, the remainders of her torn lips pursed, and that streaked blond hair still shining, though it is starting to fall out.
He feels the urgency in his pajama pants anew and loosens the drawstring, letting them slide down to his thighs, and then he moves toward her head in order to relieve it.
Later, he slips back into bed. Margaret is sleeping heavily and doesn’t move. He stares up into the darkness and knows he’ll be looking for a new project in no time.
27
It was a misty morning in the fields near Elwood, home of the Cross Creek Conservation and Gun Club, the location where Gary Breslau had texted Behr to meet. The thermometer said forty degrees, but a moist, bone-chilling breeze made it feel at least twenty degrees colder than that as Behr stepped out of his car. Barks of “Pull!” and the popping of skeet guns filled the air.
Behr asked for Breslau in the small clubhouse and was told what field he was on and given a set of earplugs. Rolling the bits of foam into cylinders, Behr stuffed them into his ears as he walked past a man holding the leashes on a pair of young springer spaniels getting trained to the gun. He continued on toward the end of the skeet range, where he arrived in time to see Breslau, dressed like something out of the Upland Hunting page in a Cabela’s catalog, finish off a clean double.
“Nice,” Behr said, as Breslau turned and broke his gun, sending the spent shell casings flying over his shoulder in a curling cloud of gun smoke. An old-timer in a blaze orange hat and vest who was holding the skeet release switch drifted off a ways for a cigarette.
“Seventeen for twenty. I’m pulling off my follow-through,” Breslau said and shrugged, not particularly pleased or displeased with the effort. “What do you want?”
“A password.”
“To what?”
“Your bank account,” Behr said. “To the department’s criminal index, what do you think?”
“Why?” Breslau asked.
“For my Gibbons case.”
“We don’t give civilians access to that. Liability reasons.”
“C’mon, I need it.”
“Yeah? I need things too. Like back rubs and blow jobs. Should we get out our lists?”
“How about I’ll shoot you for it?”
Breslau gave Behr a look.
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