Six Guardians of the Underworld

Chapter 57

You tell her to find something to lever the lids off with. he nods happily and tells you about a screwdriver in the kitchen drawer. You walk with her. he opens the drawer and finds the screwdriver. You walk with her, back to the bathroom. You tell her to take the lids off, one by one. he's calm. he kneels next to the first can. he works the tip of the screwdriver in under the metal flange of the lid and eases it upward. he works around it in a circle. The lid sucks off. The chemical smell of the paint fills the air.

he moves on to the next can. Then the next. he's working hard. Working quickly. You tell her to be careful. Any mess, he'll be punihed. You tell her to smile. he smiles. he works. The last lid comes off.

You pull the folded refuse sack from your pocket. You tell her to place her clothes in it. he's confused. Which clothes? The clothes you're wearing, you tell her. he nods and smiles. Kicks off her shoes. Their weight pulls the folded bag into shape. he's wearing socks. he tugs them off. Drops them in the bag. he unbuttons her jeans. Hops from foot to foot, taking the

m off. They go in the bag. he unbuttons her shirt. Shrugs it off. Drops it in the bag. he reaches back and fiddles with the catch on a her b*a. Pulls it off. Her breasts are swinging free. he slips her underpants down and balls them with the b*a and drops them in the bag. he's n***d. You tell her to smile.

You make her carry the bag down to the front door. You walk behind her. he props the bag against the door. You take her back to the bathroom. You make her empty the cans into the tub, slowly, carefully, one by one. he concentrates hard, tongue between her teeth. The cans are heavy and awkward. The paint is thick. It smells. It runs slowly into the tub. The level creeps up, green and oily.

You tell her he's done well. You tell her you're pleased. The paint is in the tub, and there are no drips anywhere. he smiles, delighted at the praise. Then you tell her the next part is harder. he has to take the empty cans back where he got them. But now he's n***d. So he has to make sure nobody can see. And he has to run. he nods. You tell her now the cans are empty they weigh less, so he can carry more each trip. he nods again. he understands. he threads them onto her fingers, five empty cans in each hand. he carries them downstairs. You make her wait. You ease the door open and check. Look and listen. You send her out. he runs all the way there. he replaces the cans. he runs all the way back, breasts bouncing. It's cold outside.

You tell her to stand still and get her breath. You remind her about the smile. he bobs her head apologetically and comes back with the grimace. You take her up to the bathroom again. The screwdriver is still on the floor. You ask her to pick it up. You tell her to make marks on her face with it. he's confused. You explain. Deep scratches will do, you tell her. Three or four of them. Deep enough to draw blood. he smiles and nods. Raises the screwdriver. Scrapes it down the left side of her face, with the blade turned so the point is digging in. A livid red line appears, five inches long. Make the next one harder, you say. he nods. The next line bleeds. Good, you say. Do another. he scratches another. And another. Good, you say. Now make the last one really hard. he nods and smiles. Drags the blade down. The skin tears. Blood flows. Good girl, you say.

he's still holding the screwdriver. You tell her to get into the bath, slowly and carefully. he puts her right foot in. Then her left. he's standing in the paint, up to her calves. You tell her to sit down, slowly. he sits. The paint is up over her waist. Touching the underside of her breasts. You tell her to lie back, slowly and carefully. he slides down into the paint. The level rises, two inches below the lip of the tub. Now you smile. Just right.

You tell her what to do. he doesn't understand at first, because it's a very odd thing to be asked. You explain carefully. he nods. Her hair is thick with paint. he slides down. Now only her face is showing. he tilts her head back. Her hair floats. he uses her fingers to help her. They're slick and dripping with paint. he does exactly what he's been told. he gets it right first time. Her eyes jam open with panic, and then he dies.

You wait five minutes. Just leaning over the tub, not touching anything. Then you do the only thing he can't do for herself. It gets paint on your right glove. Then you press down on her forehead with a fingertip and he slips under the surface. You peel your right glove off inside out. Check the left one. It's OK. You put your right hand in your pocket for safety and you keep it there. This is the only time your prints are exposed.

Your carry the soiled glove in your left hand and walk downstairs in the silence. Slip the glove into the refuse sack with her clothes. Open the door. Listen and watch. Carry the sack outside. Turn around and close the door behind you. Walk down the driveway to the road. Pause behind the car and slip the clean glove in the sack, too. Pop the trunk lid and place the sack inside. Open the door and slide in behind the wheel. Take the keys from your pocket and start the engine. Buckle your belt and check the mirror. Drive away, not fast, not slow.

THE CALLAN FILE started with a summary of her military career. The career was four years long and the summary ran to forty-eight lines of type. His own name was mentioned once, in connection with the debacle at the end. He found he remembered her pretty well. he had been a small, round woman, cheerful and happy. He guessed he had joined the Army with no very clear idea of why. There's a definite type of person who takes the same route. Maybe from a large family, comfortable with sharing, good at team sports in school, academically proficient without being a scholar, they just drift toward it. They see it as an extension of what they've already known. Probably they don't see themselves as fighters, but they know for every person who holds a g*n the Army offers a hundred other niches where there are trades to be learned and qualifications to be earned.