and I flipped it so that it was facing out. I wanted to turn off the lights, too, and spent nearly a minute searching for the switch before finally giving up on the idea and returning to the back of the store.
Without the preacher's voice, the building had an ominous silence to it. Every noise I made echoed back at me from the shelves of food, sounding furtive, rodentlike.
I took the cashier by his feet and started to drag him toward the darkened storeroom. He was lighter than I would've thought, drained of blood, but it was still a difficult task. His body was cumbersome, awkward, and the floor was treacherous with blood.
My chest throbbed every time I moved.
The storeroom was tiny, a narrow rectangle. There was a mop in it, a bucket, some cleaning supplies on a shelf. In its very rear were a sink and a dirty-looking toilet. The smell of disinfectant was heavy in the air. There was no exit. If I'd run there, I would've been trapped.
I dragged the cashier in, feet first, but had to stop midway to untangle his arms from the narrow doorway. I laid them across his chest, like a corpse in a coffin, then pulled him the rest of the way in, propping his legs up against the toilet so that there'd be enough space to shut the door. I took his wallet, his watch, and his key ring and put them in my pocket.
Once the body was safely hidden, I walked back through the puddle to the front of the building. I went behind the counter and rang open the cash register. The hundred-dollar bill was in the bottom of the drawer, beneath the till. It was the only one there. I folded it in half and slipped it into the front pocket of my jeans.
There was a stack of paper bags on the counter. I grabbed one, shook it open, and emptied the rest of the register into it -- bills, change, everything.
As I was shutting the drawer, my eyes searching the surrounding shelves for other items a drifter might steal, a car pulled into the lot. The sight of it literally paralyzed me, froze me in place, my hand hanging in midair above the register. I watched as it rolled up to the edge of the building, its headlights shining through the front windows.
The sweatshirt and ski mask were sitting before me on the counter. I picked up the sweatshirt and started to put it on, but the arms were all tangled, and I couldn't get it over my head. Finally I just gave up and held it out in front of my chest, as if hoping to hide behind it.
The headlights went out, and the engine shut off. A woman climbed from the car.
I took the machete from my belt and set it on the counter, covering it with the cashier's newspaper.
You could see the puddle of blood and wine from the front door, could stare right down the center aisle to the rear of the store. I'd tracked it forward on my boots, too: my footprints trailed across the floor to the counter, looking painted on the tiles, like the kind they have at dance schools, a bright, shiny red, perfect and precise, their edges still glistening with wetness. I stared at them from the counter, a queasy flutter seizing hold of my chest. I realized that I wasn't thinking, that I was being careless. I was leaving clues behind.
As the woman approached the front door, another plane flew overhead, roaring in on its descent to the airport, its engines making the building tremble. She turned to stare at it, ducking a little, instinctively, at the sound. She was old, probably in her late sixties, and elegantly dressed -- a dark fur coat, pearl earrings, black high-heeled shoes, a tiny black purse. Her face, despite a thick layer of rouge, had a definite paleness to it, as if she'd been sick recently. Her expression was tight, firm, like she was late for something and rushing to make up time.
She tried the door, found it locked, held her black-gloved hand up to the glass to peer inside. Her eyes fell immediately on me, standing frozen behind the counter. She made an elaborate show of checking her watch. Then she held up two fingers. I watched her mouth form the words 'Two...minutes...till...six!'
I shook my head at her. 'Closed,' I yelled.
A voice was whispering madly in my skull, high-pitched, frantic:
I rested my hands on the counter and shook my head again, willing her to climb back into her car.
She rattled the door.
'I just need a bottle of wine,' she yelled through the glass. I heard her, but from a distance. Her voice reminded me of someone I knew, though I couldn't decide exactly who.
'We're closed,' I yelled.
She rapped at the glass with her fist. 'Please.'
I looked down at my hands, checking them very slowly, finger by finger, to make sure that they were free of blood. When I looked back up, she was still there. She was going to make me do it, I realized; she wasn't going to leave.
She rattled the door again. 'Young man!'
I knew what I was going to do, saw how it would end. The past three months had conditioned me for it, trained me, and now the weight of all that had come before seemed to eliminate any other possibility, render it impotent, a mere half measure where nothing but the most extreme would suffice. I'd just spent three hours talking with the police. If she were able to describe what I was wearing, they'd know right away who it was. And then I'd be caught; I'd be sent to jail. I recognized the horror of it, realized that it would be the worst thing I'd ever done -- worse even than killing my brother -- that it would be something I'd regret for the rest of my life, and yet, of my own free will, I chose to do it. I was scared, nervous, trapped. I'd just killed a man with a machete. There was blood on my pants and boots, and every time I took a breath it smelled of Jacob.
I stepped out from behind the counter.
'A single bottle of wine,' she yelled through the glass.
I unlocked the door with the cashier's keys. I pulled it open, glancing at her car to make sure she was alone. It was empty.
'I'll be extremely brief,' she said, sounding slightly out of breath. 'I simply need a dinner wine, to bring as a gift.'
She stepped inside, and I closed the door behind her, twisting the lock shut with a click. I put the keys back into my pocket.
She turned to look at me. 'You do sell wine?'
'Of course,' I said. 'Wine, beer, champagne...'
She waited for me to go on, but I didn't. I stood there, smiling, my body between her and the door. Now that I'd made my decision, I was remarkably calm. It was the same way I'd felt with Sonny, like I was slipping into a groove, acting out a role.
'Well? Where is it?' She hadn't noticed the bloody boot tracks yet.
'We have to make a deal, first.'
'A deal?' she asked, confused. She looked at me then, really looked, assessing me for the first time, taking in my face, the expression of my eyes. 'I don't have time for jokes, young man,' she said, her head assuming an imperious tilt, like a hawk's.
'I knocked over a rack of red wine.' I pointed toward the rear of the store.
She peered down the center aisle at the puddle. 'Dear me,' she said.
'My mop's up on a shelf in the storeroom, and I have to climb a ladder to get it. I need someone to hold the ladder for me.'
She stared at me again. 'You're asking me to hold the ladder?'
'I'm doing you a favor, letting you in like this.'
'A favor?' She snorted. 'You were closing up early, trying to sneak home before you were supposed to. I don't imagine your boss would look upon this as any great favor.'
'All you have to do is hold--'
The woman tapped at her watch. 'It was two minutes before six. A favor! I never heard of such a thing.'
'Look,' I said. 'I can't clean that up without a mop. And I can't get to the mop without your help.'
'Whoever heard of storing a mop on a shelf?'
'I'm asking for a very small amount of your time.'
'I'm dressed for dinner. Look at me! I can't be holding ladders for people when I'm dressed like this.'
'What if I give you the wine for free?' I asked. 'Any bottle you choose, on the house. All you have to do is come back to the storeroom and hold the ladder for me.'
