Blow Fly (Kay Scarpetta #12)(12)
"Oh," she moans. "Don't stop," she begs, moving his head closer.
"Want more, baby?"
"Oh."
He sucks her, disgusted by her salty, sour taste, and shoves her hard with his bare feet.
The thud of her body hitting the floor, her shocked gasp, are familiar sounds in the fishing shack.
11
BLOOD SEEPS FROM A SCRAPE on Bev's dimpled left knee, and she stares at the wound.
"How come you don't want me no more, baby?" she says. "You used to want me so bad I couldn't keep you off me."
Her nose runs. She shoves back her short, frizzy, graying brown hair and pulls her torn blouse together, suddenly humiliated by her ugly nakedness.
"Want is when /want."
He resumes the blows with the meat cleaver. Tiny bits of flesh and bone fly out from the thick, shiny blade and stick to the stained wooden table and to Jay's sweaty bare chest. The sweet, sour stench of rotting flesh is heavy in the stifling air, and flies drone in lazy zigzags, lumbering airborne like fat cargo planes. They hover over the gory mother lode inside the bucket, their black and green swarming bodies shimmering like spilled gasoline.
Bev collects herself off the floor. She watches Jay hacking and tossing flesh into the bucket, flies darting up and greedily dive-bombing back to their feast. They buzz loudly, bumping against the side of the bucket.
"And now we're supposed to eat off that table." Hers is an old line.
They never eat off it. The table is Jay's private space and she knows not to touch it.
He swats furiously at the sea gnats. "Goddamn, I hate these f*cking things! When the f*ck are you going shopping? And next time, don't come back here with only two bottles of insect repellent and no pups."
Bev disappears into the lavatory. It is no bigger than the head on a small boat, and there is no tank to chemically store and treat human waste, which slops through a hole into a washtub between pilings that support the shack. Once a day, she empties the tub into the bayou. Her persistent nightmare is that a water moccasin or alligator is going to get her while she sits on the wooden box toilet, and at especially uneasy times, she squats above it, peering down at the black hole, her fat thighs shaking from fear and the strain of supporting her weight.
She was fleshy when Jay first met her at a campsite near Williamsburg, Virginia, where his family business brought them together by accident, really. He needed a place, and hers was out of the way, an overgrown, garbage-strewn, densely wooded property with abandoned, rusting campers and a motel mostly patronized by prostitutes and drug dealers. When Jay appeared at Bev's door, she was thrilled by his power and was instantly attracted to him. She came on to him the same way she did with all men, rough raw sex her only means of gratifying her lonely, angry needs.
The rain was driving down that night, reminding her of shiny nails, and she fixed Jay a bowl of Campbell's vegetable beef soup and a grilled cheese sandwich while her young children hid and watched their mother involving herself with yet another stranger. Bev paid her little ones no mind at the time. She tries not to think about them now or wonder how big they're getting. They are wards of the state and far better off without her. Ironically, Jay was nicer to them than she was. He was so different then, when he took her to bed that first night.
Three years ago she was more attractive and had not gained weight from eating snack foods and processed cheeses and meats that don't spoil.
She can't do push-ups and squats all day long the way Jay does, and she gets no exercise. Behind the shack, grass flats thick with mussels and rich black muck stretch for miles. There is no dry ground to walk on except the pier. Maneuvering Jay's boat through narrow waterways burns few calories.
A small outboard motor would do, but Jay will have nothing less than a 200-horsepower Evinrude with a stainless-steel prop to speed through channels, heading to his secret spots, and drift silently beneath cypress trees, waiting perfectly still like a possum if a helicopter or small plane flies low overhead. He helps Bev with nothing, his distinctive looks impossible to disguise because he is too vain to ruin his beauty. When he goes to shore, it is to get money at a family hideaway and not to run errands. Bev can venture out for provisions because she scarcely resembles her photograph on the FBI's most-wanted list, her skin withered by the sun, her body overblown, her face puffy and hair cut short.
"Why can't we close the door?" Bev asks as she walks out of the tiny, dirty bathroom.
He goes to the refrigerator, rounded and white with spots of rust, left over from the sixties. Swinging open the door, he grabs another beer.
"I like being hot," he says, his footsteps heavy on the old planking.
"The air-conditioning's going right out the door." Hers is the usual complaint. "We only got so much gasoline for the generator."
"Then you'll just have to go out and get more. How many times do I have to tell you to get your fat ass out to get more?"
He stares at her, his eyes weird, the way they get when he is engrossed in his ritual. His arousal strains against his zipper, and soon he will relieve it-again, at a time of his choosing. Body odor and a rotten stench waft past her as he carries the bucket outside, flies storming after it in a loud buzzing blitzkrieg. He busies himself, pulling up crab pots by their yellow nylon ropes. He has dozens of pots. He simply tosses pieces too big to fit inside them into the water, where gators will drag them to the bottom and feed off them at their pleasure. Skulls pose the biggest problem, because they make identity certain. Another ritual of his is to pound skulls into dust, which he mixes with powdered white chalk that he stores in empty paint cans. Chalky, bony dust reminds him of the catacombs that wind twenty-five meters below the streets of Paris.