The Quiet Man, she thought as she watched him walk off in the rain.
It was almost as though the killer had been reading Casey’s mind. An open letter to the police appeared in Friday’s morning’s Province: Maggoty: A word from the Angel of Death I am chosen to destroy, to kill and to cause to perish upon the thirteenth day all women which are harlots. Esther 3:12.
CHAPTER NINE
Today was the day.
She was ready.
The meat was pink and angry-looking toward the center. When she held it under her nose and sniffed, there was definitely a nasty odor. Thousands of nasty bacteria marching about in the bloody fibers of the pork. Though perhaps marching was the wrong word. Exploding might be more like it because, according to her library book, Clostridium botulinum was a sporulating bacillus, like mushroom spores exploding. Albert would swallow them down in the spoiled meat. Once they invaded his bloodstream, still sporulating like fireworks, Matty supposed, they would cause neurological and vision problems, fatigue, vomiting, diarrhea and death.
According to the book.
Today was Sunday, Albert’s birthday. Not that they ever wished each other happy birthdays anymore. For years, birthdays had come and gone with zero recognition, like Christmas and Easter. But Albert would be getting Clostridium botulinum for his birthday this year. And by tonight or tomorrow, or the next day at the very latest, Matty would be living alone in her own home once again.
She popped the two chops into the oven.
A short time later, they sat down to dinner. She served Albert his chops covered in apple sauce.
She watched him brandish knife and fork.
That was when she knew she couldn’t do it.
As much as she longed for freedom, and for the house to belong to her again, she simply could not go through with it.
Albert started cutting into his chop.
She wanted him dead and gone, but she was not a murderer.
She threw down her knife and fork with a loud clatter that caused Albert to wince.
He stopped sawing at his chop and stared at her.
“This meat isn’t right. I had my suspicions when I put it under the grill, but now I’m certain.” She reached over and whisked Albert’s plate away from him.
“What!”
“The meat’s off. No sense in making ourselves sick.” Before he could protest further, she quickly scraped the food off both plates into the garbage. “You can’t be too careful with pork. Wait till I see that butcher at the market! I’ll give him what for! I’ll do you some scrambled eggs instead. You like those. And we can still eat the vegetables.”
His face was red. He stood and hurled his napkin onto the table. His voice loaded with loathing and contempt, he said, “Call me when you decide that dinner is ready.”
Matty’s legs felt wobbly. She took the knives and forks off the table, then gripped the counter and collapsed onto her high stool in the corner of the kitchen, trembling uncontrollably and weeping into the tea towel.
Rusty Carlson had always walked to the gym, only two blocks away. But nowadays she drove her car. A woman couldn’t be too careful, not with a homicidal maniac in the West End. Lance had volunteered to escort her, but she told him she could manage perfectly well on her own. She hadn’t got to where she was in life by depending on any man. Besides, Lance was hardly ever home in the evenings.
So three evenings a week, she took the elevator down from her Lagoon Drive penthouse apartment to her secured underground parking. She then drove her BMW a few blocks to the underground parking underneath the fitness center and rode the elevator up to the gym. And simply reversed the procedure when she had finished her workout. It was foolproof: not a single step onto the perilous street.
On Friday evening she drove out of her garage into torrential rain and wind. She turned on the wipers as she cleared the gate and headed for the fitness center.
Rusty Carlson hadn’t become the president of Canadian Woman magazine by taking chances. She was a professional who had planned her career patiently and carefully. Making sacrifices, avoiding distractions and accepting success as her due after so many years of single-mindedness and hard work. Taking chances was the gambler’s way of life. Rusty Carlson was no gambler.
She drove into the fitness center garage off Haro Street. Plenty of parking spaces. She picked a slot near the elevator.
All those years of sacrifice and hard work had paid off. Now that she had reached her goal, she was starting to take more time for fun and relaxation. She was starting to make changes and define her own personal lifestyle. Part of that new lifestyle was regular fitness workouts. Another part was her new love life, something she would prefer husband Lance to know nothing about.
The gym wasn’t crowded, which was one of the advantages of coming in the late evening. The music was thumping away as usual. She did her stretches and warm-ups on the mats. Then she moved to the StairMaster and the weight machines. Content with her own thoughts, she seldom talked to anyone. If people spoke to her, she usually nodded, smiled politely and moved away.
Lance was a workaholic. Perhaps that was what had attracted them to each other ten years ago. They had both been studious and hardworking, serious about their futures. Lance now had his own software company. He loved the work. Computers were his passion. And he loved Rusty. At least she was pretty sure he did. And she loved him. She couldn’t see, however, why this should be any reason to spoil her fun.
Sex with Lance had become a habit. Once a week, Saturday or Sunday night, but never both. He climbed on top to have his floppy disk scanned. Then with a few humps and pumps and wriggles of her internal hard drive, she downloaded his deposit, emptying him of his cache, and it was all over for another week.
“Say, would you mind spotting me a set?”
She turned. It was that beautiful muscular man. The one with the skimpy rag of a shirt, who always looked so preoccupied and serious. Doc, everyone called him. She followed behind, admiring his triangular back and firm buns.
He lay on the bench, chest under the barbell and feet on the floor. A position that had the effect of thrusting his lumped crotch into prominent relief. He gripped the bar with both hands and lifted it down over his chest ten times. Then he rattled it back into the rests with a loud groan. He stood and wiped his brow with a towel.
“Thanks.” He held out his hand. “Stanley Blunt. Everyone calls me Doc. Appreciate the spot.”
She ignored the hand. “Rusty Carlson.
You’re quite welcome.”
She was not about to ask him why he was called Doc, because she didn’t want to know. Doc indeed. My god! What a bod! Well endowed in all respects. What would he be like in bed?
She worked out for a little over an hour. Time to go. In the locker room, she peeled off her gloves, washed her hands and glanced in the mirror. Her new black exercise suit looked good on her. Skintight, it made her feel sexy. She had the figure for it, so why not show it off. Had Doc liked what he’d seen? She pulled her tracksuit on over her exercise suit. She never showered at the fitness center, preferring her own bathroom at home. Who knew what kinds of bugs and germs grew to maturity in public showers these days! TB was on the rise again because antibiotics no longer did the job. One would have to be a complete fool to take unnecessary risks. Just last month, Sandra, her health and fitness editor at the magazine, had run an article on the new “hot” diseases, Ebola virus and dengue fever. Their increasing ability to travel by airplane from Africa to North America in a matter of hours. Scary.
Rusty brushed her hair in the mirror, fogged slightly from the excess steam from the shower room. “Rusty”
