Ashes of Another Life (6 page)

What am I doing? This is wrong. This is a sin. You’re one of God’s chosen people, and here you are, fornicating with a Gentile. What has this devil made you do?

Bile rose in his throat, and he swallowed hard, forcing it back where it belonged. He frowned down at her with disgust. God would not mourn her death, but Randall would not defile himself in the process.

“Will you tell me what I need to know, or won’t you?”

There was a silent moment as the two sized each other up, still sprawled awkwardly on the floor. He heard the prophet’s voice again: “Do what must be done.” A melancholy look washed over her face, a mix between surrender and absolute fear, and he knew she must realize the truth. He couldn’t let her live. Not now. He had gone too far to turn back.

“No,” she barely managed to say. A defeated expression dulled the glow in her eyes, and tears ran in rivers down her cheeks.

She was gorgeous, even with sweaty hair matted against her forehead and her makeup smeared in black and purple streaks. She enticed him with her fit body, mostly exposed, just inches away.

He hated her for it.

He brought his fist down and smashed her in the temple. A sickly green bruise was forming on the side of her face where the butt of the gun had hit her, and he used this as a target. The first blow knocked her out, but he did it twice more for good measure.

Forgive me, Lord. I do this at thy bidding.

He stood up, bent over and gripped her ankles. He raised her legs to chest-level, and took a moment to regain his wits. He noticed that from this angle, he got a look up her skirt, and he couldn’t stop an idea from forming. He lowered her, scooted her panties down her legs and stuffed them into his pocket. It was not a sin, he told himself, to keep a small token by which to remember her scent.

Her shoes had come loose and lay on opposites sides of her body as he hoisted and began to drag her. One of the designer pumps got wedged under her back, scraping along the hardwood until it dislodged before they reached the bathroom door. Her eyelids fluttered.

Casey started to move as he scooped her up.

He dropped her into the tub, and his shadow slithered over her face as he reached into his pocket.

Her eyes tried to open, barely did, and she moaned at the sight of him pulling the knife from his slacks. He was sickened with himself to discover he
liked
the sound of her whimpering. He
liked
punishing her.

But her kind deserves it.

Eyes like tiny slits in two puddles of makeup, Casey threw herself forward over the side of the tub, punching feebly in the air with one fist, then the other. She missed Randall by a longshot.

He delivered a punch to her head, this time square in the face. Her nose crunched inward. Blood leaked onto her lips, teeth lost in a crimson wetness that glistened in the dim bathroom lights. She sucked in frantic breaths. Bubbles of blood formed and popped, dotting the white tile with red splatters.

He knelt down beside Casey, and she squealed, shoulders quaking. Her battered face shook back and forth, one blue eye pleading with him, the other swollen shut. He couldn’t be sure, but she seemed to snarl and spit in his direction. Saliva dripped from her chin.

He rammed the blade into her neck just below her right ear and carved it across her throat. Her neck yawned like the bottomless pit of Death itself as her life essence spilled out, warm and red and sticky against her breasts. Her lungs rattled and then she fell silent.

Chapter Six

Casey had never felt such agony in her twenty-eight years of life. It was as if his massive fist had flipped a cerebral switch and sent her pain receptors into overdrive. Everything hurt, from her throbbing skull to her aching toes. The nerves in her body fizzled and popped, and blackness fueled her panic. She longed for the strength to raise her eyelids.

Floorboards ripped at her shirt as Randall tugged her limp body. She couldn’t move, but she could feel the polished wood underneath her, feel him gripping her by the ankles. She tried to summon the strength to turn her head as the bruised side of her face thumped over each board, but in a way, she was glad for the sensation. It kept her from slipping into the soothing, numb oblivion that pulled at her from the darkness.

Her body scraped over something hard. It lodged itself beneath her.

At least I can feel it
.

She couldn’t move her limbs, but she could feel her spine. She might survive, if she could get away.

Her eyelids fluttered. All she could see were the walls rolling by, the lines in the wooden floor moving past her. For a brief moment, she thought,
Please don’t take me to the bedroom
, but quickly realized it didn’t matter
what
his intentions were, so long as she got through this alive.

In her semi-conscious state, she knew how easy it would be to end her own misery. She was dangling by a thread of consciousness, and if she let go, she wouldn’t suffer.

But she couldn’t let go.

Death held no charm for Casey like it did for others. It meant only the end. She couldn’t envision the white, pearly gates, the castles in the clouds that captured the beliefs of so many. Though she understood the value of man’s mysticism, she saw in it no value for herself.

The walls and baseboards in her peripheral vision faded. Her apartment grew fuzzy around her. She smelled the familiar scent of her parent’s home and recognized the worn blue carpet and mahogany decor. She knew this couldn’t be real, but it felt real. The air was cool, just like her mother always kept it.

She saw her father, knelt in prayer, his wrinkled hands clasped together atop his quilted bed spread. He bowed his head, gray hair combed neatly on his head, bulky frame hunched over the bed.

“Why do you do it?” she had asked him. “How can you pray for him?”

He had turned to her then, eyes full of scorn at having his private moment interrupted. “Go to bed, Casey.”

“But he nearly
killed
you. Why pray for him?”

He had sighed, airy and deep, an old train letting off steam. “I pray for his family, and I pray for his soul, because it helps me get to sleep at night. If he had killed me, I’d be in Heaven, I know. But his family doesn’t get that guarantee. His soul is not guaranteed rest.” He turned away without another word and resumed his prayer as if she had left the room.

Her face throbbed with pain. She wiggled her fingers but couldn’t move her hands. Her heart pounded in a sluggish, discouraging rhythm despite the panic she was feeling.

She told her legs—no, she mentally
screamed
at her legs to move. They began to obey just as Randall scooped her up like a broken Barbie doll and dumped her into the cold bath tub. Her tail bone slammed against the hard surface, sending a fresh shock through every appendage.

Her mind blinked in and out of blackness, mixed with the memory of Randall’s fist raising the gun, swinging it down onto her face, and her father, kneeling, praying…

Casey’s mortal life had taken precedence over hoping for a second one, and though this put her at odds with the rest of humanity, it was something she felt down to her core. The sheer beauty and majesty of the world coaxed a tear from her eye the same way a prayer did for her father, and for her, this had always been enough. She’d chosen a career in social work so she could fight for human life, so she could nurture and protect it. Human life was the greatest gift of all, and now hers was slipping away.

Her clumsy fingers attempted to find purchase on the slick porcelain tub. She was breathing so fast she could hardly fill her lungs. Her lips drew into thin lines and she rolled her head from side to side, crying.

This is bad. This is really, really bad.

Her left eye was swollen shut, but she managed to pry the right one open. Nausea punched her gut as yellow light flooded her vision. She tried to scream. She couldn’t tell if it came out. The ringing in her ears and beating of her heart were all she could hear.

Randall pulled a knife from his pocket and glared down at her. She wanted to plead with him, “You don’t have to do this. We can work this out,” but her tongue was stifled by the trauma to her head, and all that came out was “Ahhhhooooohuhooooh.”

The bathroom turned hauntingly quiet aside from their heavy breathing and a soft whimpering as Casey tried to form coherent words. She gulped, savoring the taste of blood in her mouth—coppery, full of life, something she’d never take for granted again, if only…

Fight, Casey, fight!

Gasping, she sat upright. She tried to hurl herself over the side of the tub, throwing all of her weight into it. She punched the air, but neither blow connected with her assailant.

Randall delivered a fist, like a cannonball to her face. He hit her so hard it felt like there was a gaping crater where her nose used to be. The pain worsened until her nerves were aflame, and in a sudden moment of clarity, she thought,
this is the nature of the beast. Innocent people are murdered every day. Children are snatched from their parents. Civilians are slaughtered in the streets.

You know it better than most people, don’t you? Isn’t that your expertise? What made you think you were above it? Did you think tragedy could never touch you? Life’s a lottery, and your number is up.

She thought about her father, about Henry Wendell and his penchant for forgiveness. He had forgiven the man who nearly took his life two decades ago, but would he forgive Casey’s murderer as well?

Don’t forgive him, daddy. For my sake. Abandon all forgiveness and curse this monster.

The knife plunged into her jugular and kept slicing, and as the pain gave way to paralysis, her thoughts returned to her father. She saw him, leaned way back in his chair with his hands laced over his chest, saying, “Forgiveness is the least I can give in return for my life. After all, I’m still here, aren’t I?”

She let go of the world, thinking,
But not me, daddy. Not me.
Then she stopped thinking altogether.

Chapter Seven

Randall had seen dead bodies before, but never like this. Never in such vibrant, gory detail. Stomach acid rose in his throat, and he swallowed it, refusing to get sick.

I had to do it, had to keep my head straight. She would have seduced me until I was wrapped around her finger… and who could blame me for falling into her trap? She was gorgeous. Would have made a fine wife back in Sweet Springs. But out here in this world, they’re all filled with sin.

In the end, it hadn’t been much different than bleeding a hog, except the woman put up less of a fight and smelled better, too. The first cut hadn’t been easy, but after the initial slice, her flesh gave way to his razor-sharp blade just the same as a pig’s.

He looked down on the woman with pity, wondering which way her soul had gone. Blood oozed down the walls where it had sprayed in thick, hot bursts, but the flow from her neck was now a slow drip. Viscous fluids congealed on her body.

As an afterthought, he reached into the bloody mess below her gruesome neck wound and folded Casey’s bra back into place, pulling the cups over her exposed nipples.

That’s never been what this was about
.
You almost had me, devil.

Randall stood. He washed his hands and left her corpse in the tub. He had to think, had to decide where to go from here. That’s when he spotted the post-it note on the floor, half-dangling from the pocket of Ms. Wendell’s stylish suit jacket.

He plucked it from the floor and smiled, saying a silent prayer of thanks.
God provides for His chosen.

Chapter Eight

“Tara Jane!”

She struggled to open her eyes. The last thing she remembered was crying herself into a stupor. Now her eyelids were swollen and heavy.

“Tara Jane, what happened?” The voice reached out to her like a warm hand, pulling her back from a cold abyss.

Mrs. McKelvey stood over her, hands on her knees. Concern wrinkled the corners of her eyes as she leaned closer to where Tara Jane lay. School books had been strewn across the floor. One lay face-down and open.

“You okay?” The woman knelt down and helped her sit up, then settled down beside her.

The ticking of a grandfather clock and the soft whir of the AC were the only sounds as they sat together on the floor, trying to find words to fill the quiet. Even in Tara Jane’s groggy state, it didn’t escape her attention that one of Mrs. McKelvey’s arms slipped behind her back, hesitated, and then dropped to the floor as if fearful to make contact.
Good
, she thought. She wasn’t ready to get close to anyone.

“What are you doing down here? Are you hurt? Did something happen at school?” She spoke in a soft tone, as if calming a frightened puppy. The compassion in her voice made Tara Jane feel ashamed.