Long Night Moon (Bad Mojo Book 1) Page 3
He frowned. Then the offer sank in. He stared at her. Vanessa’s the only girl he’d ever had sex with, for free. He became aware of what a daring thing it was he’d done that day. Jeff realized something else. He had the whole house to do the things he used to do in the secret place in the attic.
A big grin.
Kelly appeared to be studying a knothole in the wooden floor. He placed his hands on her shoulders and turned her back to him. Took his time unbuttoning her dress, curious what he’d find under the baggy thing. Even more curious why she’d worn it. He suddenly wondered if the dress was one of his mamma’s? He let go. The dress dropped like a heavy stage curtain.
He checked her out.
Beached whale, was his first thought.
Her body had a meaty-spongy look. Stretch-marked rolls of blubber engulfed the wide elastic waistband of her granny-style cotton briefs.
A willing partner, was his second thought.
Clad only in panties, socks and shoes, she had to step out and over her dress and bra before she could go anywhere. A foot got tangled in a bra strap, almost tripping her. Red-faced, she sat down, slid her foot under the table to hide the bra.
Jeff rolled his eyes, reached in the cupboard behind the radio on top of the moldy refrigerator, and brought down one of his father’s whiskey bottles. Found two jelly jars in another cupboard. He blew in them a couple of times to remove most of the dust. Pouring enough whiskey to fill both glasses he thought about the things he wanted to do to her. Stuff he had secretly watched his father do to his Marie. Not enough to where he couldn’t get Kelly to come back, of course. He also didn’t want to frighten her. The last thing he needed was for her to blab to her parents, or the police, about him. As always, keeping a low profile was essential.
They remained at the table until they’d consumed no less than eight shots apiece. He worked on her, trying to raise her level of passion, whatever the hell that was. Jeff drank straight from the bottle now. He tried to recall what a couple of older boys tried to teach him about sex back when he was incarcerated in the county jail.
He casually massaged one of her breasts. Squeezed the nipple, watched it harden. She gasped. He squeezed harder as the thrill of it all shot to his groin. He stood so fast he made her jerk back, nearly spoiling the mood.
He led her to his father’s bedroom.
She removed the rest of her clothing.
He shoved her backward onto the bed.
Minutes later she screamed loud enough to wake the dead. He knew he’d hurt her, but he was too far-gone to give a shit. Was he trying to humiliate her as his mamma had done to him? He didn’t know. He was too drunk to think straight. Grunting to a climax, he quickly moved away from her. Rolled onto his side, turning his back to her, and stuck his thumb in his mouth.
>+<|>+<
Jeff awoke with a start.
Lightning flickered on the ceiling. No sound of thunder yet.
He wondered if it was still Friday? Lifted his arm to check the time. Four... thirty-five? He couldn’t tell with the locust in the way.
Locust?
He swatted it with his hand. Sat up gradually, becoming aware he had ended up on the floor somehow. He looked to his left.
“Gaaah!”
Jeff scooted backward on his bottom. Jumped up. Pressing his hands against his head, he paced the room. He tried not to look at her but kept doing it anyway. Slashed ear to ear, she lay on her back in a pool of blood. The remaining locusts still feasting on flesh and what appeared to be wild honey had eaten parts of her face down to the bone. The gaping hole in her neck coupled with the empty eye sockets transformed her face into a hideous Halloween mask.
He rubbed a hand down his cheek, came away with a bloody palm. Stared at his outstretched hand, unsure what to do with the sticky mess. Found blood spatter mostly on the front side of his naked body. He needed a shower but the water had been disconnected, along with the electricity, years ago after the property was declared abandoned.
Damn, how many drinks did I have?
He snatched the thin beige blanket off the bed, and spread it over her. Rolled her up inside, bugs and all.
“Whoa.” Where’s the knife?
His gaze encompassed the room. He checked under the bed. The closet. Sprinted to the bathroom. A quick look at the sink and tub. “Goshdarnit.”
Jeff by-passed the other rooms on the second floor, certain it’d be a waste of time, and ran down the stairs. In the kitchen he kicked over a trashcan. Nothing fell out. Checked the sink and the pantry. Not here. Not there. Not any damn where. He knew it’d be a waste of time but went ahead and searched the yard anyway.
Not sure what else to do, he carried their glasses to his car that was parked in the weeds behind the barn, and hid them under the spare tire in the trunk. He pressed his back against the vehicle. A quick inhale and exhale. “Ah well, that’s the way the cookie crumbles.”
CHAPTER 7
Jeff sat on the floor in the partially furnished living room. Most of their stuff had been sold over the years to help pay bills. He lit a cigarette and spotted the old seascape, still hanging off-kilter. The wavering heat of the flame momentarily put the pirate ship in motion. He wondered what it would be like to stand on that deck… all decked out like a buccaneer. Then wondered why the shitty painting, that didn’t match anything, hadn’t also been sold.
As the sun disappeared behind low and dense clouds, he collected the cigarette butts from the ceramic soup bowl he’d used for an ashtray, and stuffed them in the front pocket of his blue jeans. He took the bowl outside to dump the ashes. A gust blew them in his face. Thinking like they were the cremated ashes of Kelly Murphy, his knee-jerk reaction caused him to drop the bowl, breaking it into several pieces. He kicked the largest ones under a bush, ran into the house and up the stairs.
There she was, right where he’d left her. He clutched a handful of the blanket, dragged her out of the bedroom. When he reached the stairs, he centered her on the top step. Shoved her downward. Strolling behind her as she bobbed toward the bottom, he debated about putting her in his car and driving to the pond. Decided not to after she landed face down and he saw all the blood that had seeped through the blanket. He carried her outside, and put her on the ground.
Jeff rushed to the barn to fetch a few things. Loaded them in a wheelbarrow. The tire was flat but functional. He picked her up and dumped her on top, lifted the handles too fast and almost pulled a shoulder muscle. He readjusted his grip. The wheelbarrow rocked side to side with so much weight. Every few steps he had to stop long enough to catch his breath before maneuvering the wobbly tire over molehills and furrows. The sky had turned completely black by the time he reached the water’s edge. Lightning whitened the horizon. A deep rumble of thunder soon followed. He plunked down the wheelbarrow, ran to his car to get the flashlight he’d forgotten.
Returning to the pond, he felt he was being watched. Jeff fooled himself into believing it was just a guilty conscience.
He fastened a small burlap sack full of rocks to her ankles with three feet of baling wire wound tight. Dropped a rock into another sack with her clothes, shoes, and one of the ugly red butterfly hairclips. Its mate nowhere to be found, like the knife. He secured the bag above the neck wound. Rowed his father’s boat to the middle of the large pond where dark green scum floated on the surface and mosquitoes multiplied by the millions.
Ignoring feelings of remorse, he dumped her overboard. Stared in morbid fascination as her body sank beneath the surface. Big raindrops hit his head, startling him. He thought for a moment he, too, had fallen in.
>+<|>+<
Windshield wipers at their highest setting, Jeff Wentzel drove through a torrential downpour on his way to his apartment in downtown New Orleans. He only stopped long enough to order fast food from a popular hamburger joint. Anxious to get home, he disregarded the globs of special sauce dripping on his wet shirt.
He unlocked the door, and stepped across the threshold. Felt the t
ension begin to drain out of him. His comfortable modern apartment was a whole other world from the very old, dilapidated farmhouse.
He paused before the coat closet in the hall to admire his new uniform centered on a wooden hanger dangling from a J-hook screwed in the door. He’d spent four long years in the Army; four more years in a college mostly paid for by the government. Fresh out of the police academy, he may have graduated at the bottom of his class but at least he did graduate.
After changing clothes, he hurried to the spare bedroom he’d converted to an office, and booted up his computer. He went to his favorite chat room, eagerly searched for Suite Sue. Compared to Kelly, Sue knew how to make him feel like a man.
CHAPTER 8
BJ Donovan rolled her chair away from her desktop computer and stood up. Between last night and this morning, she’d had enough chat room bullshit to last her for a while. She’d also grown tired of waiting for a response to an email she’d sent earlier.
She went downstairs to the kitchen. Refilled her coffee mug. Stepped out onto the patio facing the back yard, and marveled over the sunny Saturday morning she’d missed from wasting time on the computer. The only reason she was even home was because she couldn’t go to work. To her dismay she’d been unable to open Wild Capers, her surprisingly popular Italian restaurant in the French Quarter. Friday night’s severe thunderstorm had caused widespread power outages across the French Quarter and some of the other neighborhoods surrounding New Orleans. She tried not to think about the food spoiling in the freezer or the eerie silence of the slip printer.
She set the mug on the white wicker table beside her favorite chair. Stretched her arms toward the angled roof over the patio to get the kinks out of her back; breathed in the fresh and fragrant aroma of wildflowers. At least the storm helped cool the air and lower the humidity. For now. Storms usually made the atmosphere hotter and stickier.
She followed a redbrick trail to the far side of the grassy and blossoming yard. Noticed the water in a plastic bird bath the previous owners of the house had left behind had turned a dark shade of green. Bits of tree debris floated on the surface. BJ thought the stagnant water most likely harbored mosquito larvae. She shoved the thing over with her foot. The slimy coating on the bowl reminded her of something or someplace. Whichever, the gunky water gave her an inkling of an idea to use in a short horror story someday.
She grabbed her mug, and hurried up the stairs to her writing room.
BJ opened the BOOKS folder on her computer. Clicked the file marked MISC. she used to keep track of plot ideas, character names, and other miscellaneous whatnots. Most of her published short stories featured the misadventures of a sous chef turned amateur sleuth. The first standalone mystery novel she ever tried to write was based on a strange occurrence that happened a few years ago when she was a telemarketer for a funeral home. The office she worked in was nothing more than a singlewide trailer parked on the far side of Bald Cypress Cemetery, instead of up front by the road where my car was parked, she recalled with a shudder while also remembering having to walk past graves where moonlight shining on thin branches of honey locust trees swaying in a light breeze created living shadows on the headstones. October 31, her last night there and she was the only employee to show up. An hour or so into her shift she heard a faint noise coming from behind the trailer where a few burial vaults and grave liners were stored. She peeked through the blinds on the rear window. A semi-transparent layer of fog swirled around the moss covered statue of a guardian angel before continuing on a steady course toward the trailer. Leaning closer to the window, she could see—
The blast of a car horn made her jump, the mental picture exploded into a million tiny shiny pieces then dissolved into blackness. She walked over to the window and looked down. Saw the boyfriend of the teenaged girl who lives in the house across the street get out of his car and amble around to the passenger side. He drank from a beer bottle then tossed it through the open window of the back seat.
BJ forgot how she intended to use gunky water in a story. She exhaled in a short angry huff. Closed the file. Checked email. Scrolling past the spammy junk, she found a real message. A response to her email, the one she’d spent most of the morning waiting for. It was from Mister Mystic, her favorite online lover. She had asked him for his real name, city and state.
She gnawed her bottom lip, glimpsed over her shoulder. Went to the stairway and stopped. Listened to the stillness of the old Victorian house in the Garden District, left unharmed by the storm. She tread softly all the way to the interior garage door in the utility room, and pressed her ear against the hollow wood. Her husband, Frank, was busy tinkering with whatever it was he tinkered with in there.
She returned to her office. Read Mystic’s email. Deleted it. Quickly opened the file for her current work-in-progress, just in case he came upstairs. She tried to relax even though some of the things Frank had said to her last night still bothered her.
BJ took a sip of coffee, stared at the keyboard and idly slid her thumb across the smooth surface of the large red and black mug with a silver trim. Using a catchy screen name and avatar, many men, and women, were drawn to her chat room persona. Those faceless and voiceless people on the Internet, so eager to please, so eager to be wanted, were nothing more to her than background information to create lovable, and sometimes hate-able, characters. She took notes on everyone’s description of his or her life and appearance. Switched things around enough to where they wouldn’t recognize their self in her stories thereby protecting her own true identity.
Mister Mystic was different from all the others. He amused and intrigued her.
In his current email he claimed he lives in Louisiana. Said he’s a business consultant. Has a house on Caulfield Lane in New Orleans. His name is Jeff.
BJ had told him her name is Sue.
Soon after they’d met online they began sending dirty flirty emails to one another. Her second attempt at writing a novel was about a woman named Alma pretending to be someone named Sue, someone who was searching for love in all the wrong places, mainly chat rooms. BJ couldn’t wait for Frank to leave for work every morning so she could go online and read Mister Mystic’s message, a message Alma would have anxiously awaited, as well.
Halfway into the story, BJ realized the subject matter was too damn cliché. She needed to either find a new twist or scrap the project altogether.
Visiting a different chat room she met Rx-man. They sent private messages to each other. He said his name is Roger. Called her ‘pretty girl’ based on her description. Joked about selling drugs for a living. Then told her he’s a traveling pharmaceuticals salesman who lived in Mobile, Alabama with a wife and a cat.
Because of him BJ had found a better premise for her story.
She propped her elbow on the cushioned armrest. “Now what the hell was it?”
The plot idea had come to her in the midst of all the other shit that had gone on last night. The shit that started when Roger sent her an email saying he had thought about her while he drove on I-10 through Mississippi. He had to make a delivery in Chalmette, Louisiana, which took him right past Slidell. He wanted to meet her, maybe have coffee, but he didn’t have her phone number.
BJ had told Jeff and Roger she lived in Slidell in Louisiana. She didn’t understand why she’d done that. She could’ve just as easily told them she lived on the moon.
Roger’s email had given her goose bumps. The very thought of one of those online men coming anywhere near her home was scary-exciting.
Right after deleting his email she went in the living room and laid down on the couch. Staring blankly at some movie on TV, she mentally tried to create a scene that might help her recall the elusive plot. She begins by having Sue, a call girl, meet Roger, a married businessman, at some posh hotel for dinner and dancing. BJ had just gotten to the part where Roger is nuzzling Sue’s neck when Frank shouted something and startled her. She looked at him, frowned.
“You heard me. That online
shit’s got to go,” Franklin Donovan exclaimed in a joking manner. Sitting on the other side of the living room in a worn-out recliner, reading glasses perched on the tip of his nose, he read the newspaper article out loud.
“Listen to this. A woman in Utah met a man on the Internet who said he lived in Australia. They chatted regularly for six months. One day he sent a plane ticket to a post office box she’d gotten earlier in the relationship. She left her husband and their two kids, and flew away to meet the man who had captured her heart. Humph. How stupid can somebody get? The dumb bitch could’ve been murdered and buried in the Outback wilderness where no one would’ve ever found her.” He flicked his wrists to straighten out the newspaper, patted the bottom away from his white dress shirt.
Annoyed, BJ rolled onto her side. Cupped a hand on her forehead to block him out.
“Anyway,” he continued, “the article goes on to tell about the growing rate of online romances resulting in real life affairs. Hmm.”
“Uh-huh.”
She focused harder on the movie for fear he’d see the guilt in her eyes. There was also a bit of anger around the edges. Why didn’t he care she’s, supposedly, trying to watch the movie? If she were to disturb him while he... “Do you know if we’ve got more rain coming?” She counted to ten. Snorted with contempt. He wasn’t listening. As usual.
The phone rang.
BJ got up to answer it. Her head chef said the power hadn’t been restored yet so they might not be able to open the restaurant tomorrow, either.
Off and on for the next three or four hours, Frank taunted her with offhand remarks about chat rooms. She was grateful when their Akita, Tomi, scratched the door to go out. Instead of turning him loose in the fenced back yard she put him on a leash.