Evil Never Dies

He heard her clattering down the hallway. He wasn’t worried. She no longer had much of a voice. All that screaming had destroyed her vocal cords. She would have to jump nearly fifteen feet out the window if she wanted to get away.

Gillian wasn’t a big lady, but she was tall, which made her quite an unwieldy load. She clawed at his hands and arms, doing her best to get away, but frankly, she had no muscle and no drive. All in all, she was a bit of a dud.

He knew Claire wouldn’t jump, but he didn’t like the idea of her ru

“Your sister and your parents have forgiven you,” Gillian cried as she staggered out of the kitchen and careened toward the front door.

She tried to open the door, gave up, and turned toward him. “It’s time to put a stop to this madness, Zachary.”

Knife clutched tightly in his hand, he walked toward her.

Before she could say another word, he plunged the blade into her chest.

He took one glance at her eyes and then guided her, by the knife’s handle—she was holding it with him now, gently, with both her hands—toward the kitchen, where her mess would be easier to clean up. He didn’t care about Gillian. He never would have gone after her at all if she hadn’t come for a visit.

The woman took her sweet time dying, standing before him in the middle of the kitchen, both hands still clutched around the handle of the knife. But the poor girl didn’t have the strength to pull the blade from her chest. Bored, he watched her until she fell almost gracefully to the floor.

He released a long laborious sigh, leaned over her, and removed the knife with a good, sturdy yank. “You never should have come. If it weren’t for you, Gillian, my parents would still be alive. As much as I wanted to kill them over the years, I refrained. They were my parents, after all. But then you came along and stuck your nose into my affairs.”

With the bloody knife in hand, he turned back the other way and made his way down the hallway. “Claire, my dear, come out, come out, wherever you are.”

He stopped to listen.

Silence. Not a peep.

He walked quietly into the master bedroom.

The window was open, as he suspected it would be. He poked his head out and took a moment to breathe in the fresh air and enjoy the lovely view. If his finances hadn’t been controlled by Gillian, he would own the house. He would have added on to the balcony off the main room, so it swept around the entire house. A shame really, to waste such a beautiful view with one useless window. If he did a good job of disposing of her body and car, it occurred to him, he might just have that balcony, after all.

He looked straight down at the hard-packed soil directly below the window. No sign that Claire had jumped. Turning about, he made his way into the bathroom. His fingers curled around the shower curtain. He jerked it back, expecting to find Claire, shivering in fear.

No such luck.

“Claire,” he called again. “Come out now and I won’t punish you for trying to run off. It was Gillian’s doing. We both know that.”

He crossed the room. Blood dripped from the sharp blade of his favorite carving knife.

“Don’t make me search for too long. I’ve had an exhausting day.”

Before opening the mirrored closet doors, he stopped to admire his reflection. He was quite a good-looking fellow, if he did say so himself. His teeth were straight and white, no stains at all. His eyes were piercing. His nose, although crooked, was not too big, not too small. He had yet to paint a self-portrait, but he could not lie, the idea intrigued him.

His fingers touched the edge of the closet door and slowly, almost lovingly, he slid it open. Anticipation filled him with excitement.

But then his heart sank.

She was sitting in the corner. And she wasn’t even going to bother putting up a fight. Instead, her arms were wrapped tightly around her knees, which were pulled up close to her chest.

“Claire,” he said. “Did you really think you could get away from me?”

Her head was bent forward, and she seemed to be sniffling like a baby.

“This was the best you could do?” He’d expected more from her, his little fighter. “Don’t be a coward, Claire. The reason I like you so much is that you’re a bit sassy and unconventional.”

He nudged her with the tip of his shoe. “Come on,” he urged. “I feel a second wind coming on. I think it’s time to paint another portrait.” He reached down and touched her arm.

Her head snapped up, her expression fierce. She reached out and slashed his arm with something sharp. A goddamn hanger.

Blood trickled down his arm.

The little bitch didn’t stop there. She lashed out, again and again, hitting flesh every time, across his arm and then his neck. But he felt no pain. He welcomed it. Simply put, he would never allow little Claire to get the best of him. He lifted the knife in his hand and slashed her across the right shoulder, rendering her arm useless.

End of story.

She fell back.

He tossed the knife and then took hold of her good arm and dragged her out of the closet and down the hallway. “Big mistake, Claire.”

She kicked and hissed, growled like a dying wildcat. Even if she’d been able to muster a scream, she’d come to accept it would be pointless. He dragged her all the way to the front entry, where Gillian’s corpse lay. The bitch had managed to crawl out of the kitchen, making a mess of his front entry, after all. He took a handful of Claire’s hair at the back of her head and shoved her face closer to Gillian’s. “In case you didn’t realize it, she’s dead.”

Claire let out a whimpering cry.

“Yes, yes, I know. So very sad.”

He shoved her face closer until her lips touched Gillian’s. An electric current charged through him. “The kiss of death,” he said, holding her there. “That’s the title of our next painting. I like it, don’t you?”

CHAPTER THIRTY

Gus had told Kitally to give him ten minutes before heading for the file room. That was exactly how much time passed before Gus walked by. Kitally and Betty stood in the doorway of Betty’s room and watched him.

He was pushing the woman in the wheelchair, the one who liked to caw like a bird, down the middle of the wide corridor. She was in fine voice today.

Behind them trailed a rising cacophony.

Not only had Gus rounded up the bird lady, he had gathered more than a dozen residents, all of them squawking, banging forks against plates, and stomping canes against the floors and walls like a parade accompanied by a marching band. One lady used candleholders as drumsticks. A tall fellow kept leaning over and grabbing handfuls of all the women’s butts. Some liked it and some didn’t, but the old man didn’t seem to care either way. He was having the time of his life.

Bringing up the rear was a hunched-over woman with an amazingly loud voice who kept shouting, “No more pudding! We want cake! We want cake!”

Betty shook her head. “She doesn’t like cake, either, but she always wants whatever they don’t give her.”

“Which way to the file room?” Kitally asked.

Betty looked both ways and then took off in the opposite direction Gus and his posse had gone. The woman was spry, and Kitally had to hurry to keep close to her side. Whenever someone in a green smock ran past, she pretended to be helping Betty along, but that wasn’t easy considering the woman didn’t need any help.

“Damn,” Betty muttered, pulling back from peering around a corner. “The file room is down that hallway. But it looks like Dixie is guarding the post.”