Maplecroft (The Borden Dispatches #1)(12)
I followed more slowly behind it, drawing the cellar door down behind me and fastening the interior locks. The exterior set would have to wait, for now. I could return to them later, when I was finished cleaning up.
The battered remains smelled disgusting. Whatever these things circulate for blood, it is more foul than anything I could imagine for comparison purposes. The liquid itself congeals quickly when exposed to air, forming a nasty jelly the color of coffee—which meant I’d be scrubbing the steps and wiping down the floors before bedtime, whether I liked it or not. There’s only so much evidence I can stand to live with overnight.
Using the axe to keep the corpse at arm’s distance, I shoved, nudged, and leveraged the squishy, crunchy sack of skin over to the largest trapdoor—the one next to the slot where I keep the dreaded green stones contained and concealed.
I opened this horizontal cabinet to reveal the most expensive appliance in Maplecroft. Truly, it’s a work of art. It’s almost a shame that no one ever sees it.
Privately I think of it as “the cooker,” a perfectly gruesome description that no doubt says something awful about my mental state, or possibly my sense of humor. But I’ve learned the hard way that simply burying the inhuman little bodies is insufficient. As they decay, their odor becomes increasingly unbearable, even when smothered with several feet of earth. Worse yet, it attracts more of their loathsome kind. And then what? Do I kill every intruder, every strange, murderous invader of dubious origin? After a while, I’d surely run out of places to bury them. Our yard is not so large that I can afford the space for a cemetery of the weird.
No, the cooker is the only reasonable means of getting rid of them.
It cost a small fortune, and I had to bring in a man from out of state to set it up. I couldn’t risk any of the locals gossiping about it. That’s the last thing Emma and I need, especially now that we seem to be watched by more than just the usual neighbors, who remain convinced that I’ve somehow escaped justice.
? ? ?
(They wait for me to make a mistake, to reveal some telltale clue or make some offhanded incriminating statement. They think they know the truth, and to a certain extent, they do. But they do not know the whole of it, and I am careful. I must be, for my sake and Emma’s. For the whole of Fall River’s sake, too. I do not know if I can save us all, but I have to try.)
? ? ?
I reached down into the cabinet in my floor and gripped a metal latch. I turned it, and a small handle released with a pop. I cranked it, and the cooker’s heavy lid ratcheted upward.
The cooker is essentially an oversized version of a cast-iron pressure device—thus my revolting shorthand for it. Made of steel rather than iron, it is heated by a complicated system of pipes that siphon gas from the same household system that powers our lights. These pipes work together to heat the cooker well beyond normal boiling temperatures, necessitating the ring of asbestos that lines the cabinet—thirteen inches deep, on all sides—lest I inadvertently set fire to the place. This lining cradles an oversized metal basin. The basin is filled with lye.
Using the axe like a rake, I scraped the corpse to the basin’s edge and then lifted it, exhausting what felt like the last of my strength. I couldn’t just drop the thing into the corrosive bath, not unless I wanted to splash myself with its awful contents, so I lowered the body carefully into the thick, strong-smelling solution.
With a shudder, I released the crank hook and the lid ratcheted quickly shut. I fastened a set of locking bands into position, and then I worked a round dial just beneath the pressure gauge. I turned up the heat as far as it would go, and set the timer to keep it at full temperature for the next three hours—which would certainly be time enough to dissolve the creature down to viscous syrup.
Then, in the morning, I’d make sure. And once I was satisfied that there was nothing left, I would pull a lever and let the oily residue drain down a refuse pipe which emptied out under the lot behind our house.
As I said, this was not a cheap thing to have designed, produced, and installed in our cellar, though I don’t regret a single penny of the expense. I got the idea from one of Emma’s biology periodicals, wherein various authorities were discussing the best way to dispose of dead farm animals; and every day I half expect to see some sensational news story with my name on it because my bribery of the workers who brought the machine was not enough to keep them from talking.
Any day now, the authorities will knock and the headlines will declare I’ve been murdering again, and this time destroying the evidence.
? ? ?
I stood up straight and leaned back. I gazed tiredly at the cabinet door and kicked it shut. It fell with a thunderous clank that Emma heard, all the way upstairs on the first floor, where I’d left her.
“Lizzie?” she cried out.
“Everything’s all right. It’s done now,” I said with a sigh. Then I remembered and called, “Emma dear, I’m nearly finished.”
“Thank God,” she murmured. I barely heard it.
“I’m cleaning up, that’s all.”
My axe was on the floor beside the trapdoor. It was covered in the creature’s bile, or mucus, or blood, or whatever fuels it—pumping through those sinewy lines and oily muscles. The slime was foaming very slightly, blossoming into a revolting brown fluff. I picked up the axe and held my breath as I brought it close to my face, so I could see it better.