“Bitch!” Michael yelled, grabbing her by the hair as the door flew open. Carol screamed, grabbed at his hands behind her, flailing helplessly, her legs partway out the door.
Michael slammed on the brake, and the car slid to a stop.
Carol slammed into the dashboard, her knees exploding in bursts of sharp, focused pain. He yanked her hair again, hard, hard enough to get another yelp out of her.
“No, please!” Carol yelled as she felt herself being pulled back into the car. She fought, scraped, jumped, flailed as she felt him pulling her closer. Then he had her with both hands, cradling her head, pulling her face down onto his lap. She tried to think, but panic swept over her. Her arms fluttered like the wings of a bird caught in a trap, with about as much effect.
She thought of the tiny canister of pepper spray she carried hooked to her key chain, the one she’d left at home because they were going through so many airport security checkpoints.
Then she felt his right arm around her neck, the crook of his elbow right at the hollow of her throat. And pressure.
Tightening pressure …
Her eyes bulged as she realized for the first time what was happening. She tried to kick, but in the tight confines of the front seat of the Buick, there was nothing to kick, nothing that would help her. She opened her mouth to scream; nothing came out. She felt his forearm against her throat, his right hand locked in the crook of his left arm, his left arm bent around the back of her head. She felt his palm on the top of her head, pushing down into his curled right arm. She opened her mouth, tried to push her face into his crotch where she could bite him, but he held her too tightly to move.
Her eyes watered, the pressure behind them causing them to bulge.
And then …
From the corners of her field of vision, tiny sparkles. Red ones and gold ones and blue ones, like glitter. Sparkling and dancing.
Her chest was about to explode.
Her grandmother. She saw her grandmother’s face in front of her.
She felt her legs kicking, her arms shaking, as if they were no longer part of her, as if they had minds and wills of their own.
She heard a voice, a soft voice, a low, masculine voice above her, behind her head: “Let go, Carol. Let go. It’s easier this way.”
Where had she heard it before?
The sparkles were larger now, like a cascade of colored gemstones spilling in on both sides of her, filling her vision.
And as the dark shapes in front of her became more and more dim, the twinkling colored lights got larger and more vibrant.
“That’s it, baby,” the voice said again, soothing, almost sweet. Michael’s voice. “Let it go. Go to sleep, my sweet baby. It’s time for you to go to sleep.”
Her cheeks tingled red, felt full, the skin stretched almost to breaking. Carol Gee felt an overwhelming sadness that welled up inside her, and as the dancing brilliant blues and reds and greens and purples and yellows ran together and through each other and into each other until they became one pulsating, blood-red globe surrounding her, she felt the sadness drift away and the lights shift from painfully bright to soft white, and there was a humming in her head, like the bowing of a violin string, and then she let go. Carol Gee let go of everything.
And found her peace.
Michael stared down at her as she went limp. He let go slowly, ready to clamp on again if she had somehow managed to fake it better than anybody had ever faked death in the history of the species. He patted her back, felt the bra strap beneath the fabric of her blouse.
He shifted her over on the seat, off his lap, then reached down and pulled her legs inside the car. He snatched the door to, killing the dome light inside the car. He listened carefully and looked all around. There was no one. No traffic, no nearby homes, no intruders. He shifted the car back into gear and eased forward down the narrow road.
He drove slowly this time. No need to hurry. Still, it took only a minute or so to get to the end of the road. He parked the car, got out, listened carefully for any unexpected noises.
All was silent, except for the wind and the crashing of the waves at the base of the cliff that was the blunt end of Point Loma.
He opened the passenger door and lifted her out. She couldn’t weigh more than one-ten, he thought. During a break in the signing, after the last idiotic inscription had been written and the last sycophant rushed through and out, he had wandered over and picked up a local paper. The tide had crested at nine forty-five, not quite an hour ago. He lifted her up and threw her over his shoulder, grateful that neither her bladder nor her bowels had let go. He’d done his research and verified it in practice: It was a myth that the body always emptied itself at the moment of death.
He walked the fifty yards or so from the end of the road to the edge of the cliff and set Carol down in the grass. He removed her ring and necklace and checked the pockets on her slacks. They were empty; there was nothing on Carol Gee to identify her.
He looked over the edge of the cliff. There was only a thin sliver of moon to illuminate the ocean floor below, but it was enough to see that the waves were still lapping at the base of the cliff.
He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply through his nostrils, savoring the fresh, salty air. The hairs on his arm stood up, tingling and dancing on his skin. The sound of the waves below intensified, grew louder and sharper, more focused.
Like a needle being dragged across a record …
Every nerve in his body alive to every sense, Michael Schiftmann grinned broadly and lifted the lifeless body of Carol Gee over his shoulder, holding her by the collar of her blouse and the belt buckle of her slacks. Already she was beginning to stiffen. He backed up a few steps, held her high in the military press position, then ran forward and flung her out as far as he could over the edge of the cliff, barely missing going over with her.
He froze, a clump of dirt under his foot breaking loose and falling, and listened. Perhaps two seconds later, he heard a crystalline, full splash, clear and sharp like the breaking of glass.
The tide would carry her out, out into the vast, endless Pacific. If she was ever found, there most likely wouldn’t be enough left to autopsy. And there were a thousand Dumpsters between here and downtown San Diego. Carol Gee’s purse and the contents inside, along with her jewelry, would be spread out through a dozen of them.
Michael Schiftmann had never felt more alive than at this moment. It was a sensation beyond sexual, beyond any physical thrill he’d ever felt or experienced.
Michael Schiftmann felt …
Liberated.
He sauntered back to the car, relishing the feel of the soft earth beneath his feet, the smell of living grass, breathing plants and trees. He felt the clean air fill his lungs.
Despite the chill, he was warm all over, and in very good appetite.
CHAPTER 12
