“I can’t.” Sal dropped the pillow.
“You love her.”
“Yes.”
“She’s suffering. See?”
The man did something unspeakable to Maggie, and he kept doing it. Sal tried to shove him away, but the intruder had muscles like brick. Maggie made a sound that didn’t sound human, a gurgling moan of pure agony.
“Stop it! Please stop it!”
The man didn’t stop. He smiled.
“Only you can stop it, Sal.”
Crying out, Sal took the pillow and pressed it hard against what was left of Maggie’s mouth, putting his weight on it, trying to drown out her screams, her pain, her life.
She twitched under him, an oddly intimate sensation that reminded Sal of lovemaking. He sobbed and sobbed, and the twitching went on and on, and Sal couldn’t tell if it was her or him anymore, but he wasn’t going to stop, wasn’t going to check to see, had to make sure that she was safe, make absolutely sure that she didn’t hurt anymore.
“You killed her,” the man said. “You can get off her corpse now.”
Sal didn’t move. He felt a piercing grip on his shoulder and was tugged backward, the bloody pillow still held tight in his old hands.
Maggie’s ruined face was still, her remaining eye staring dully at Sal.
Then her chest shuddered and she gasped, sucking in air.
“Well,” the intruder said. “She’s a tough one.”
Sal squeezed his eyes closed, clamped his hands tight over his ears. He couldn’t take anymore. This wasn’t supposed to be happening. This isn’t how their lives together were supposed to end. He’d always pictured a quiet, peaceful death for them. Going to sleep and never waking up. Slipping in the shower and a quick bump on the head. Dying in a hospital bed, the morphine drowning out whatever killer lurked in their elderly bodies. Not like this. Not awful like this.
“Here.” The man handed Sal his knife. “Put it in her heart.”
Sal held the knife like he’d never seen one before. Maggie’s chest rose and fell, accompanied by a wet, rattling sound. He reached out tentatively, gently laying his fingers on her breastbone.
“Right there. Press down hard, so you get through the ribcage.”
Sal focused on the spot, trying to block out the reality of the act. This wasn’t his wife. He wasn’t killing her. This was a normal, routine task, like filleting a fish. A job that needed to get done. Unpleasant, but necessary.
Sal pushed down on the knife, forcing it in to the hilt, making himself stone for her sake. He held it until Maggie’s heart ceased to beat, until the vibrations in the knife’s handle stopped.
“That did the trick.” The intruder clapped him on the shoulder. “Congratulations, killer.”
The moment descended on Sal, pierced him. He cried out, an ineffectual curse at the universe for letting this happen, and then tried to pull the knife from his wife’s chest so he could plunge it into the monster who caused this. Sal tugged, but the knife stayed put.
“This knife is meant for more delicate work and has no blood groove,” the intruder said. “You have to twist it to break the suction.”
He demonstrated. There was a sound like an infant suckling. The man freed the blade and then wiped it clean on the bedsheets.
“Now let’s try to concentrate on answering my questions.”
Sal’s body shook, but he thrust out his chin at his tormentor.
“No. I won’t do it.”
Darkness seemed to spill out of the intruder’s eyes.
“Yes, you will. You think you know pain, old man? You know nothing of pain. You’ll answer every question I have and beg me to ask more of them.”
“No,” Sal said, folding his frail arms, silently swearing on Maggie’s head to not give this bastard the satisfaction. “You won’t get anything out of me.”
It took less than three minutes for the intruder to prove Sal wrong.
• • •
Fran Stauffer dumped the used coffee grounds into the garbage can beneath the cash register and wondered—not for the first time that night—why she had traded shifts with Jessie Lee.
Merv, whose name graced the marquee of the diner, had hired Jessie Lee back at the beginning of summer.
“She’s a kid, needs to work to help pay for her wedding,” Merv had said, winking in a way he thought was charming but Fran considered condescending. “Besides, it’ll give you some time off. You’ve been running this place solo for seven years.”
Fran could have objected, and Merv probably would have listened. But badly as Fran needed the money—and everyone in Safe Haven seemed to need money these days—fewer hours at Merv’s meant more time with Duncan. So Merv hired Jessie Lee, but more often than not Fran wound up working her shifts anyway.
Al, one of their regulars, had grown roots on the last counter stool. He held out an empty cup of coffee as if begging for change. Al was sixtyish, fat, and sported a walrus mustache that was waxed to little curls on either side. Nice guy, so-so tipper, a little too talky and a little too flirty.
The diner phone rang. Fran made no move to get it. Dollars to donuts it was a local, wanted to know if he could get a meal in before they closed for the night. Fran opened the top of the coffee machine, put in a cleaning tablet, and pressed the brew button. She took the practically empty carafe of leaded and gave Al another hit of caffeine. After five rings, the phone stopped.
“That was probably a customer,” Al said.
Fran smiled a waitress smile. “I’m not in it for the money. I’m in it because I love filling salt shakers.”
Al chuckled. “Well, you make a damn good cup of coffee.” He twisted the end of his mustache. “And you’re easy on the eyes, too.”
Fran knew she was tired because—for the briefest instant—she imagined herself romantically involved with Al. She squinted at him, marveling at how desperate she’d become.
While Fran didn’t consider herself beautiful, she had a full head of long, curly blond hair, and pale blue eyes, and a body that still fit nicely into a size six. Her late husband had told her, often, that she looked like Melanie Griffith. Fran could see the resemblance, when her makeup was on and she wore something flattering. She certainly didn’t lack for male attention. At one point or another, Fran had been propositioned by every eligible bachelor in town, and by countless others during the busy tourist season. But she hadn’t been on a date in months.
If she were in her twenties like Jessie Lee, she would have gone out more often. These days, romance came in the form of Lifetime on cable, books on tape borrowed from the library, and late-night baths with plenty of bubbles and a detachable oscillating shower head.
She’d given up hope on men. And though she didn’t mention it in therapy, Fran knew she’d also pretty much given up hope for happiness, as well.
A car horn snapped her out of her reverie. Fran glanced out the storefront window, saw a pickup truck motor past. Then a car. Then another car. Something was going on. Perhaps some kind of sports thing. A local team had apparently won, judging by the yells accompanying the horns. Fran didn’t follow sports, and she was in no mood for the diner to fill up with fans. She eyed the cat clock on the wall, its yellow eyes synchronized to its pendulum tail. Almost midnight. Merv had left an hour ago, trusting her to cook if any business walked in. None had. And none would. It was time to get home. She walked to the front door and flipped the hanging sign over to CLOSED.