'Oh yes.'
'Or it was just nothing. Like animals. We said that, Ernie- remember?'
'Of course. That's the way I feel.'
'I know you do, dear. And I do, too. Well, if we love each other and we're going to get married, couldn't we…?'
'Oh Zoe,' he said. 'Oh my darling. You mean now? Tonight?'
'Why not?' she said. 'Couldn't we? It's all right, isn't it?'
'Of course it's all right. It's wonderful, marvelous, just great. Because we do love each other and we're going to spend the rest of our lives together.'
'You're sure?' she said. 'You won't be, uh, offended?'
'How can you think that? It'll be sweet. So sweet. It'll be right.'
'Oh yes,' she breathed. 'It will be right. I feel it. Don't you feel it, darling?'
He nodded dumbly.
'Let's go into the bedroom,' she whispered. 'Bring the wine. You get undressed and get into bed. I have to go into the bathroom for a few minutes, but I'll be right out.'
'Is the front door locked?' he said, his voice choked.
'Darling,' she said, kissing his lips. 'My sweetheart. My lover.'
She took her purse into the bathroom. She closed and locked the door. She undressed slowly. When she was naked, she inspected herself. She had not yet begun to bleed.
She waited a few moments, seated on the closed toilet seat. Finally she rose, opened the knife, held it in her right hand. She draped a towel across her forearm. She did not look at herself in the medicine cabinet mirror.
She unlocked the door. She peeked out. The bedside lamp was on. Ernest Mittle was lying on his back, hands clasped behind his head. The sheet was drawn up to his waist. His torso was white, hairless, shiny.
He turned his head to look toward her.
'Darling,' she called with a trilly laugh, 'look away. I'm embarrassed.'
He smiled and rolled onto his side, away from her. She crossed the carpeted floor quickly, suddenly strong, suddenly resolute. She bent over him. The towel dropped away.
'Oh lover,' she breathed.
The blade went into soft cheese. His body leaped frantically, but with her left hand and knee she pressed him down. The knife caught on something in his neck, but she sawed determinedly until it sliced through.
Out it went, the blood, in a spray, a fountain, a gush. She held him down until his threshings weakened and ceased. Then he just flowed, and she tipped the torn head over the edge of the bed to let him drain onto the rug.
She rolled him back. She pulled the sodden sheet down. She raised the knife high to complete her ritual. But her hand faltered, halted, came slowly down. She could not do it. Still, she murmured, 'There, there, there,' as she headed for the bathroom.
She tossed the bloodied knife aside. She inspected herself curiously. Only her hands, right arm, and left knee were stained and glittering.
She showered in hot water, lathering thickly with her imported soap. She rinsed, lathered again, rinsed again. She stepped from the tub and made no effort to wash away the pink tinge on the porcelain.
She dried thoroughly, then used her floral-scented cologne and a deodorant spray. She combed her hair quickly. She powdered neck, shoulders, armpits, the insides of her shrunken thighs.
It took her a few moments to find the Mexican wedding dress she had bought long ago and had never worn. She pulled it over her head. The crinkled cotton slid down over her naked flesh with a whisper.
The gown came to her blotched ankles, hung as loosely as a tent. But it was a creamy white, unblemished, as pure and virginal as the pinafores she had worn when she was Daddy's little girl and all her parents' friends had said she was 'a real little lady.'
Ernest Mittle's engagement ring twisted on her skinny finger. Working carefully, so as not to cut herself, she snipped a thin strip of Band-Aid. This she wound around and around the back part of the ring.
Then, when she worked it on, the fattened ring hung and stuck to her finger. It would never come loose.
She went into the kitchen, opened the cabinet door. In her pharmacopeia she found a full container of sleeping pills and a few left in another. She took both jars and a bottle of vodka into the bedroom. She set them carefully on the floor alongside the bed.
She checked the front door to make certain it was locked, bolted, and chained. Then she turned out all the lights in the apartment. Moving cautiously, she found her way back to the bedroom.
She sat on the edge of the bed. She took four of the pills, washed them down with a swallow of vodka. She didn't want to drink too much, remembering what had happened to Maddie Kurnitz.
Then she stripped the soaked sheet from the bed and let it fall at the foot. She got into bed alongside Ernest Mittle, wearing her oversized wedding gown and taped ring. She moved pills and vodka onto the bedside table. She took four more pills, a larger swallow of vodka.
She waited…
She thought it might come suddenly, blackness descending. But it did not; it took time. She gulped pills and swallowed vodka, and once she patted Ernie's cooling hip and repeated, 'There, there…'
The scene she had been seeing all night, the blasted landscape, came back, but hazed and softened. The pitted ground slowly vanished, and only the curling smoke was left, the fog, the vapor.
But soon enough that was gone. She thought she said something aloud, but did not know what it meant. All she was conscious of was that pain had ceased.
And for that she was thankful.
July 26; Saturday…
'Surveillance reported ten minutes ago,' Sergeant Abner Boone said, consulting his notes.
'Is she still there?' Thorsen said sharply.
'Yes, sir. Got home about six-forty last night. Hasn't been out since.'
'Any phone calls?' Delaney asked.
'One,' Boone said. 'About nine o'clock last night. The desk-man in the lobby, asking if Ernest Mittle could come up.'
'Mittle?' Detective Bentley said. 'He's the boyfriend.'
'He didn't leave,' Boone said. 'He's still up there.'
'Shacking up?' Sergeant Broderick said.
'He never did that before,' Detective Johnson said.
'Well, apparently both of them are still up there.'
'Maybe he's closer to this than we figured,' Broderick said. 'Maybe he's been in on it all along.'
'We'll soon find out,' Boone said.
'How do we do this?' Ivar Thorsen asked.
'Maybe I've overplanned it,' Boone said, 'but rather be safe than sorry. Two cars at Lex and Third to block off her street. Precinct men for crowd control. The two guys on the wiretap will cover the basement. One man posted at each end of her hallway. Then we'll go in.'
'What if she doesn't open up?' Thomas Handry said.
'We'll get the lobby man to use his passkeys,' Boone said. 'He's got them; I checked. Deputy, you, the Chief and I go in first. Uh, and Dr. Ho and Handry. Bentley, Johnson, and Broderick to follow. We got a floor plan of her apartment from the owner, and those guys will spread out fast to make sure she doesn't have a chance to dump anything. Sound okay?'
They all looked at Delaney.
'I don't think she'll try to run,' he said, 'but it won't do any harm to have a man on the roof.'
'Right,' Boone said, 'we'll do it.' He looked at his watch. 'Coming up to ten o'clock. Let's get this show on the road.'
Delaney, Dr. Patrick Ho, Sergeant Boone, and Thorsen rode in the Deputy's car.
'Ah, will there be any shooting?' Dr. Ho asked nervously.
'God forbid,' Boone said.
'I want this to go down quickly and quietly,' the Admiral said.
