Chapter Eight

JUDE

Look what you’ve done now. This is bad, Kate. Last night you drugged me, but you couldn’t just stop there could you? Nope. You had to go and drug our neighbor, and why can’t you just hold normal grudges like other wives? Do you know how easy life could be if you were content to shop and decorate and post random garbage on social media showcasing how great your life is, instead of thriving on stirring up trouble in the form of retaliation?

I don’t know what to tell you to do to fill your time. But I do know we can’t go on like this. Take up a hobby—knitting or reading—anything‚ but preferably something that’s safe for others. Maybe start a blog. Maybe that’s the trick. All I know is that’s what all of the other women seem to be doing these days. So, you know, maybe do that. Personally, I don’t get why they think anyone other than pedophiles and their passive aggressive mommy friends give a shit about little Johnny and his every move. But I digress. This is about you.

As for me, I’ve just murdered a man for money. He wasn’t exactly salt of the earth, but still. I’m tired. Murder is hard work. So to say it isn’t comforting to come home with proverbial blood on my hands and find my living room full of law enforcement and rubber-necker neighbors is an understatement. What am I supposed to do with that? How much lower can it get? I don’t know. But I do know you’re getting crazier by the minute, and they warned me this happens with women.

I wanted to give you the benefit of the doubt—I still do. But you beat a dead man last night, which doesn’t exactly help your case. Only that wasn’t enough for you. I know because our dead babysitter is in the back of my car, and somehow you think it’s okay to up the ante with an unconscious drunk woman on the bathroom floor.

After the party is over, and the paramedics have taken Anne away to pump her full of charcoal and shame, you send the kids home with Josie. After all that’s happened, it only makes sense that you’d need a rest. Or so you say—and so she thinks.

Only instead, you and I are not resting; we have a job to do, and so we head down to the water’s edge to dispose of the nanny. All in a day’s work, you joke. You seem to have missed that I’m not in a joking mood.

“I don’t know,” you tell me as I glare out the window, surveying our surroundings. I put the car in park, and I don’t really care what you do or don’t know, but that’s never stopped you before and it doesn’t stop you now. You inhale and let it out slowly, smooth and dramatic, just to drive home your point. “I think maybe we should’ve taken her out to the barn.”

I don’t answer, and you take that as a sign you are winning. You aren’t. You tighten your ponytail; it’s your tell, you’re ready to go to war. “It’s just that dead bodies in water always seem to have a way of washing up…”

“Not if you do it right,” I say, taking off my seatbelt. I turn toward you and I wait for more. You’re not the only one who’s ready for a fight. All the way here, you’ve bitched and moaned about those women, about my father, and about how tired you are, and quite frankly I’m over it.

“Whatever,” you huff, and then you check yourself in the mirror as though getting rid of a body is something one needs to be presentable for. Paradoxically, it’s in moments like these I find you most beautiful. Looking at you now, your profile lit by the soft glow of light coming off the mirror, my anger subsides a little. I don’t understand the extremes I feel toward you, I only know I can’t help myself. I start to tell you as much, but true to your nature, you don’t give me the chance. “I’m just happy to get away from the kids for a little while,” you exclaim, and then you proceed to drone on. It’s meaningless chit-chat which I refuse to partake in and eventually, annoyed by my silence, you shift in your seat and you mirror me. “Also,” you add, lowering your voice. “There’s something I need to talk to you about…”

I meet your gaze, and my expression isn’t exactly what you’d call friendly. I don’t get why you can’t just say what you need to say— but if I were a betting man, I’d wager it’s because you have a vagina.

You look away again, and I see it for what it is. A sign of guilt. I watch as you chew on your bottom lip, and as much as your hesitation irritates me, there’s something about it that turns me on too. You’re teasing me, seeing how far you can get, and it works, you have my attention. Finally, you decide to quit messing around. “It’s about Brady.”

“What about him?” I ask impatiently. I hadn’t expected it to be this.

You shift in your seat, and you stare straight ahead, out the windshield, at something far off. It’s dark, and I know you’re unsure and so you don’t answer, at least not right away.

It isn’t like you to start something without finishing it, and this forces me to press for more. “Kate?”

You exhale and then you trace your eyelids with the tips of your fingers. “You know what…” you start and then you pause and shift. “Never mind,” you add, and I watch as you sit up a little straighter. You mess with your hair, and you aren’t focused. “I’m sure it’s nothing.”

“Kate.” I urge, and you look over at me because my tone comes out harsh. It was meant to.

“I’m just worried about Monique’s fall…”

“You mean you’re worried about Brady?”

“Yes.”

I rub my jaw. “You mean, you’re worried about how much he saw?” I ask, because I read you well, and you’re better at being a mother than you think.

You tilt your head slightly and you study my face. “Yeah.”

I place my hand on yours. “Kids are resilient,” I tell you. You look away for a second, and then over at me again. Your expression is blank but eventually you smile.

My least favorite part of any gig is disposing of the body, if the job calls for it. It’s the worst part, mostly because it’s what tends to get people caught. Also, it’s messy and not at all simple. Even worse is disposing of a body you hadn’t planned to have to dispose of. So to say I’m irritated at having to do this would be putting it mildly. Also, I can tell you think you’re going to get away with letting me do the dirty work here—but that’s where you’re wrong. You’re still wearing the dress you wore to the party—with sandals—, and I have absolutely no idea why you couldn’t have come more prepared. I’m not sure how you plan on submerging a body wearing that, but then, I guess that’s your problem, not mine. You don’t realize it yet, but I’m onto you. You’re trying to get out of work by pissing me off, by worrying me, by wearing the wrong thing. But it won’t work. Not this time.

Determined to get this over and done, I turn off the ignition, press the button to pop the trunk, and look over at you. You look weary but you’re the reason we’re here to begin with—if it weren’t for you, we wouldn’t have a dead girl in the back of my car. We’d be at home, putting our children to bed, where we belong. I start to tell you this, because it’s been a long day, and it needs to be said, but you catch me off guard when you open the door and climb out without saying anything, without the push-back I expected. I watch in the rearview mirror as you walk around to the back of the car. You close the trunk. You’re dead set on going to the barn, you’ve said so a million times. But I’ve already made my decision, and so I remove the keys from the ignition and follow your lead. There’s still a part of me that hopes you’ll surprise me, that maybe you’re willing to get your hands dirty. Sooner rather than later would be better, because it’s nearly pitch black out, save for the headlights, and we haven’t got time to dilly dally out in the woods. It’s eerie out here, even for me.

“What are you doing?” I ask, watching as you hoist yourself up onto the top of the trunk.

You reach for me in the glow of the brake lights, and you pull me in close. I let you, and I know this is a bad idea.

“I need to feel something,” you say, and then I feel something, and that something is your teeth grazing my neck. You know what gets me, and I hate you just a little for that.

You spread your legs wider, and it’s convenient you don’t wear panties. “Jude,” you say, and I know what comes next by the way you say my name and it’s you. “I want you to fuck me,” you plead, and well, you know me. I’ve always been a sucker for good manners and a woman who knows what she wants.

You’re digging your nails into my back when I hear the words echo through my ears and settle in my solar plexus. My throat constricts and then suddenly, my world goes still.

“Freeze! Hands up! Police,” the deep voice calls out once again, as though it hadn’t done the trick the first time.

Your breath catches as I take my hands off of you. I hold them in the air and you look into my eyes and you’re searching for something. I’m not sure what that something is, reassurance perhaps, but there’s something else in your expression, too. Anger, I think, maybe a little bit of mischief, and I swear Kate, now is not the time for that.

“Turn around slowly,” the officer instructs, and what else could I possibly do with my pants undone and my dick hanging out?

Not much, apparently, and so I do as he says. He flickers his flashlight from me to you, the light is blinding. I hear your breath quicken, and it makes me uneasy. You know there’s a gun in my right pocket, and I say a silent prayer that you don’t do anything drastic.

“Move,” the officer orders and I scoot out from between your knees and move to the side just a little in order to allow you some decency, but also so you can’t reach the gun. Only, you don’t immediately move to close your legs, and this pisses me off more than you know.

“Well, well, well… look what we have here,” he says, blinding me with his flashlight once again. “I would’ve guessed you was two teenagers, out here doin’ the dirty—but nope. Look at you. You’re old enough to know better…”

“Can we help you, officer?” You ask in the worst southern accent I’ve ever heard, and this is when I realize how fucked we are. Who says shit like that at a time like this? He’s just caught us screwing in the woods, on private property—of course, we can’t help him. We’ve offered him a handful of charges, wrapped neatly with a fucking bow, and handed it to him on a silver platter. I’d say we’ve already helped him enough. I sigh, and I can’t believe you’re going to play it this way, but obviously you are, and I can be a lot of things, Kate—but a cop killer isn’t one of them. So it would really do us both some good if you’d take my long, heavy sigh for what it is—a sign that you’d better not fuck this up.

He laughs at your stupidity, and immediately I can hear there’s something off in the sound of it. “Yeah, actually you can, darlin,” he tells you, stepping forward, too close for my comfort. “I was just lookin’ for a good time, and here I came upon you two gettin’ it on in the woods. Can’t say we get that kind of excitement out here in these parts very often…”

Somehow I doubt that, I think. But apparently you don’t know how to think thoughts without speaking them. “I’d guess not,” you say to him, and I shake my head. I can’t believe I let you get me into this. We should have just disposed of the body like we planned— but no—you had to go and distract me, and now here we are instead in hillbilly hell with a cop that seems straight out of a B-rated movie.

“You kids got ID?”

“Of course, officer,” you say in the worst sultry voice I’ve ever heard. But your act doesn’t stop there. It gets a lot worse before it gets better. You exhale slowly, too slowly, and you scoot forward just a tad, drawing your dress further up on your hips, and it’s no accident, you know exactly what you’re doing. And I swear to God if you show that redneck bastard any more of what’s mine you’re about to be the second female I know to die today.

“It’s in the car,” I say, interrupting your peep show, and he points his weapon at my face. Fuck. He’s a jumpy one, and that can’t be good. Also, it’s clear, he likes talking to you better.

“Who asked you?” he says, and I take it as confirmation. He steps forward again, and fuck, it’s obvious where this is going. I’ve seen enough of those homemade videos to know how this scenario goes down. This bastard hasn’t seen much in the way of action— but he wants to—and now I’m going to have to kill this motherfucker in order to save myself, and this is all your fault.

“Sir. SIR,” you call out in what appears to be a lame attempt to diffuse the situation. You realize too that one shot is all it would take, and we’re out in the middle of fucking nowhere, with a shitty cop who has a vendetta, and we aren’t exactly innocent are we?

He turns his attention to you, and I have to give you credit. Maybe your plan isn’t so lame after all. “Why don’t you be a lady and grab it for me, hon’,” he orders, motioning in your direction. Still, he steadies his gun on me. “You, cowboy,” he says his voice drawn low. “I want you to turn around slowly and place your hands on the car.”

I do as he says, and this is when I know for sure. I’m going to have to take him out, and it’s going to have to happen soon.

“You know what an indecency charge’ll do to ya these days, boy?” he asks, and I don’t— but that’s okay—I’ll make damned sure it never comes to that.

“It’ll get you on one of those kiddie watch lists,” he tells me, and that’s when I decide I’ve officially had enough.

“Fuck you,” I tell him and I rear backward, ready to end this. I head butt him, although he’s quick, and all of a sudden he’s aiming pepper spray directly at my face. It feels like there are a thousand fire ants stinging my eyeballs and I can’t breathe. But that’s not enough for him, because in the next second it escalates, and before I know it, I’m on the ground involuntarily rolling in the dirt. He’s tasing me, and I have no fucking idea where you are, because my whole world has gone dark. All I know now, is I don’t give a fuck if you show him you’re crazy, because he deserves it and this sick bastard, he’ll get what’s coming to him, one way or another. I can promise you that.

“Here it is,” I hear you call from somewhere that feels very far off. Your voice seems desperate, and I’d hoped you would do better than that. He places cuffs around my wrists, and if I’d thought this situation couldn’t possibly get any worse, I was wrong.

Buying time, but mostly because I’m half out of it and drooling, I let him cuff me without a fight. As he attempts to haul me up, however, I weigh my options and I conclude, fuck it; I’ll take the bullet.

I hear you pleading as he pulls me up to a standing position. I stumble forward a little, and he orders you to stay put and then he kicks my feet out from under me. He’s showing off for you, and you’re making this worse. He laughs as he pushes my head down onto the trunk. Hard. He holds it there, in the palm of his hand, and even though my ears are ringing, I swear I’ll never forget that laugh so long as I live. As I consider all the ways I plan to extinguish this motherfucker, I can hear that you’re speaking to him in a hushed tone. I can’t make out exactly what is being said, I only hear the static of his radio come in and out. Using my left foot I do my best to inch my pants up my leg just a little. If I can just reach my gun, I can get out of this the easy way. And this is exhibit A of why you never let them take the first shot, I hear my father say. All of my training, all of the tactics I’ve learned over the years, everything that’s been drilled in comes down to this very moment—whether or not I can get out of the bind you’ve gotten me in. Never trust a woman, my father always said, and maybe there’s something to that.

“It’s your lucky day,” he tells me as he leads me up to a standing position once again, only this time he hauls me up by my hair. I start to kick backward, but there’s the issue with my pants, and in turn my attempt does nothing. I try to find you in the dark but I can’t see anything given the pepper spray and the blood that’s trickling down my forehead and into my eyes. And for reasons I can’t name, I go against everything I know, which is idiotic, seeing that this is what got me into this mess. Still, I’ve seen you work magic, and I decide to give you the benefit of the doubt and this is why I walk with him when he instructs me to.

“Hang tight in here,” he orders, and he laughs as he does his best to force me down into the back of his squad car. But I know better than to let him put me in that car. And I’m certainly not going to hang tight and leave you out here alone with this dirty pig, which is why I make the move I do, only to be thwarted once again. This time it’s his baton that puts me in my place. The blow knocks the wind out of me, and I’m being tased again, and I can’t help but think if I hadn’t gotten caught with my pants around my ankles this might all have turned out differently.