In the mirror: hairflip, posture, pucker lips, flutter eyelashes, curtsey, pull back, meanmug. She runs down the list again, regarding her lean figure a moment longer. Then she hurries to the door, pressing one big coffee-brown eye to the peephole, studying wordlessly the mopheaded little boy in the hallway outside. He's in pajamas—good—nothing formal, nothing formal… and ratty old sneakers too—what a tease…
She cracks the door and throws it wide. "Sorry to keep you waiting, Cody. I was just freshening up. Won't you come in?"
He does, awestruck at first, eyes wide and circling circling.
"What's the matter?" cocking her head to one side and raking the door shut behind him.
"Nothing, I've," clasping his hands together, "just never seen a suite this size before."
She rolls her eyes in disgust. "This old broomcloset? Hope you're not claustrophobic. I know I am." Posing like an abject critic in her own quarters, "Go ahead. Make yourself at home." With a flip of the hair and a little twirl, bare feet sticking to the slick black marble, she turns and saunters off down the hall, leaving Cody stranded in the foyer, glancing about timidly.
Retrieving knife and grapefruit from the kitchen she flops into a thick white recliner at the far end of the living room. One leg slips over the other as she leans back watching Cody check his shoes at the door.
"What… what did you want to talk about, London?" taking a seat across from her, palming his knees.
"Cody, you're smart." She slices into the grapefruit, mushy center spitting a thin pink juice all over the glass coffee table. "Me—I excel at, well… other things…"
Cody just nods, smirking a bit; concealing it with a yawn.
"So," splitting the grapefruit in half, scooping a big chunk out on the tip of her knife, "I need you to do something for me."
"What's that?"
"My science project."
"London…"
"Come on," through a mouthful of pulp. "You like science."
Cody breathes a long slow sigh, watching pink juice pool silently in the middle of the table, spattering upon a pile of old magazines, and London not at all perturbed. "It's not that. I don't have the time."
Digging out her checkbook, knife still in hand, "I'll make it worth your while."
"London…"
"Stop saying London," she snarls.
Cody arches an eyebrow.
"Look," throwing her hands up in surrender. "Normally I'd just blow it off. But it's due in three days. And I've been lying to Daddy since Thursday." Puppydog eyes. "He thinks I'm building a volcano…"
Cody grimaces, ignoring her stare. "Why don't you just… do it?"
Pink juice dribbles from the corner of her mouth. "Is that supposed to be a joke?" As they exchange glances.
Cody, looking incredulous, runs a hand through his messy blond hair and groans: "What do you want me to do?"
"There's a checklist on the table," she grins, fully aware of her powers. "Under Cosmo."
He glares down at the huge pile of magazines, glossy covers smeared with sticky grapefruit juice. "Cosmo," he mutters, sifting through them one by one.
"No no no," directing him via knifepoint. "Over here."
But she moves too fast, clunking into Cody's arm, knife edge slitting the back of his hand from knuckle to wrist.
"Ohmigod—are you alright?"
His eyes flit sharply back and forth. "Uh. Maybe I should just go," a thin wire of blood zigzagging into his shirt.
"No no no—come here!" grabbing his wrist. "I can fix it! Let me see!"
At the last instant he shrinks from her, causing the knife to slip and gouge the inside of his forearm. "Will you put that thing down already!" he yelps, scrambling to his feet, shirtsleeve dotted red.
Let me get you something!
Forget it!
You cant leave! I need your help!
Clutching his wounded arm, I dont have time for this…
We'll make time! If you would just sit down! Now she's up and stumbling after him, down from the sitting room and across the smooth black marble floor, knife still in hand. Cody! She yanks him by the arm. Wait! He shakes her off, forcing the knife again through his shirt.
London, stop! His sleeve torn and bloodheavy he scampers to the door, tugging at the handle, fumbling with the latch.
Cody! wrapping him up, arms coiled about his shoulders. You cant leave!
His head jerks to one side, neck kissing the edge of the razorsharp blade. Black blood spills over the crook of her elbow. For an instant his hands go stiff, petrified. Then he crumples, head slamming hard against the vestibule door, sprawling emptily upon the welcome mat. And all is still.
London cringes.
Cody?
Sinking to one knee, nudging him with the heel of her hand. As his weight shifts the blood wriggles free from under him, trailing across the floor in one long thick tributary. His eyes are blank and crooked, boring into her, his lips only slightly parted, hair matted and red. She touches his neck, tracing with one finger the path of the carotid artery. Warm blood squeezes between her toes. She sets down the knife and shuts his eyelids.
Cody.
She allows the walls to help her up, then drags herself to the bathroom and vomits directly into the sink. Echoing back, she wipes her mouth on the stock of her arm and runs the faucet for a while, studying her reflection in the slow curve of the mirror, bronze skin sparkling in a net of sweat. She lets down her ravenblack hair and guides it behind her ears, concentrating inwardly on each successive heartbeat, each successive breath, on controlling her emotions. She is sad and worried and confused all at the same time, but she will not cry. She will mind herself. She will think clearly.
It takes her several minutes to track down the linen closet, having never in her life been responsible for the upkeep of either linens or closets. After rolling Cody's dead body into a giant hefty bag and sopping the dark pool of blood off the floor she washes her face and hands in the kitchen sink and changes clothes. Then, without a glance inside, she seals the bag with a thick double-knot and drags it out into the hallway. For a skinny fourteen year old he sure weighs a ton.
Packing into the elevator she stamps the lobby button and stands staggered in front of her bulky cargo, as if to conceal every inch of it behind her thin bare legs. But as the lone hand adorning the decorative half-circle above the doorframe sways slowly toward ten, a low bell sounds through the speakers and in wanders Maddie Fitzpatrick, hair frizzed in a satellite about her face, eyes alight and sunny as ever…
—Hey London. Going down?
—You bet.
Doors shut, whirring into motion now.
—So. What're you up to this hour?
—Nothing.
—What's in the bag?
—Nothing.
—Looks heavy.
—It is.
—Come on. You can't tell me?
—I just told you. It's nothing. Taking out the trash.
—You? Since when do you take out the trash?
—Since when does it matter?
—Come on. Now I'm curious. What's in the bag?
—Don't worry about it.
—Is it your science project?
—No.
—I won't tell anyone.
—I said don't worry about it.
—What's the matter with you?
—Nothing's the matter with me. What's the matter with you?
Maddie's eyes narrow suspiciously.
—London. What the fuck is in the bag?
—Sorry. This is where I get off. Catch you later.
Maddie won't follow her, not even across the lobby. She knows better. Tunnel vision.
It's getting late, so late that it's getting early. There's an awful desertedness to the Tipton at this hour, as if the warm golden glow emanating from the lobby is in actuality some imposed, ever-present supernatural construct that might always glow no matter the size or shape of the steel hull surrounding it. At the moment she can't see Mr. Moseby, but she can sense him; he's around here somewhere… somewhere.
She exits the side door and circles around the hotel, the hurried slap of her flipflops, the quiet hiss of thin plastic over concrete, dying abruptly in the openness of the night. Her shadow falls pencilthin upon brick and sidewalk, upon finely tailored lawns and yet darker shadows. There's an alcove on the broad side of the building just large enough to house a single graffiti-laden dumpster. This is all she needs.
She hoists open the mouth of the huge metal box, breaking a nail in the process, the wet smell of decay assaulting her nostrils, causing her eyes to sting and tear up. Her hair has drifted into her eyes, long black spiderlegs arranged along the angles of her face. She whips back her head, already panting heavily, then, glancing about, drags the bag a little closer.
Through the plastic she can feel her fingernails invading Cody's ears and eye sockets and as she lifts lifts lifts him over her head the bag is suddenly ripping, tearing open at either end. With one great heave she attempts to loft him up over the edge, but she is not strong enough. Catching the lip of the dumpster the bag flops stubbornly back to the pavement and unravels like an old tshirt.
And there lies Cody Martin, a disheveled mess, hair clinging to his pale, almost bluish face, one eye but partly closed, arms arrayed unnaturally upon his chest, blood dripping dripping dripping from the long black gash in his neck and the smaller, straighter cuts all up and down his arm.
She allows the crumpled bag to skip away downwind, past a row of silvery streetlights: vanishing, reappearing, then vanishing again. Wedging her hands up under his armpits she hoists him to his feet and props his back against the outer wall of the dumpster, her banging, apprehensive heart throbbing mere inches from his still one. His head nods limply from side to side. Now she forces him up and in; head first, legs second, a loud acoustic thud accompanying his nosedive into the dumpster.
She throws shut the curved plastic lid, turns and stands for a moment clutching her thighs, catching her breath. Somewhere out there Maddie is crouched on the lawn under an oak tree watching her, but she does not care.
She retraces her steps, around the building and in through the lobby, approaching Mr. Moseby on her way to the elevator.
"London," he mutters sleepily. "What are you doing up so late?"
Cracking her knuckles absentmindedly, calling the elevator, "Nothing. Just getting some fresh air."
"Well. You ought to be getting ready for bed. It's a school night you know."
"I know." Her face is distant, eyes low and unchallenging. When the elevator arrives she stands statuesque in the middle of the doorway, watching Mr. Moseby as he pretends to scribble at his datebook. "Hey. I heard a funny joke today," she smiles.
Capping his pen and looking up, "Oh yeah? What's that?"
A serial killer's sitting in the electric chair waiting to be executed when the chaplain of the prison comes up and asks him if he has any final requests.
The killer just nods and he sez to him he sez: Hold my hand. Get it?