Page 29 of The Accomplice
‘I don’t do commissions, now get the fuck out of my apartment.’
He stepped forward, shoulders tensed, right hand in a fist, cocked and ready to unload. The Sandman guessed Durant was six foot four, maybe six five. Two hundred and fifty pounds, easy. There was a jagged scar on his forehead, and his nose had been broken some years ago and not set accurately. None of these imperfections appeared in the self portrait. The Sandman added vanity to what he knew of Durant. That, and the man was clearly a brawler. The scar could have been caused by a few things, but judging by it’s angle he guessed it was a broken bottle.
Little raised white scars sat up like maggots on Durant’s knuckles.
Casting his gaze behind Durant, he saw two empty bottles of Jack on the floor.
He caught the scent of it on the artist’s breath, too.
‘Last chance to walk out,’ said Durant, taking a step toward the Sandman, who stood very still.
‘You go now, or you’ll be carried—’ Durant didn’t finish his sentence. His jaw dropped slack and his eyes widened as he looked down.
The Sandman’s arm was extended. In his hand was a skinning knife. The blade was not visible, only the hilt, which touched the skin of Durant’s muscular abdomen.
‘Do you know what Damascus steel is, Mr. Durant ?’ he asked.
Durant said nothing. He didn’t even breathe. He just stared at his stomach with a look of abject horror frozen on his face.
‘They say it is so sharp you don’t even feel the cut.’
Taking a step back, he removed the blade from Durant’s stomach and dark blood began to erupt from the wound. His breath returned, but not for long.
The Sandman planted his feet, bent his knees, dropped his shoulder and then thrust the blade upwards, using his legs and turning his hip to put power into the strike. A similar movement to a boxer executing an uppercut. The knife was supposed to slip under the chin, through the roof of the mouth and into the brain, killing Durant instantly and before he could scream.
He missed.
There was a sound that gave him gooseflesh. A shrill, scraping and cracking noise. That sound was quickly followed by thetinkleandpitter-patterof broken teeth bouncing off the polished hardwood floor.
Durant’s body dropped suddenly, wrenching the knife from the Sandman’s hands. He bent low, put his right foot on the top of Durant’s forehead, yanked the blade free from where it had lodged, quite solidly, in his face.
He wiped the knife on Durant’s sweatpants, then took a moment to examine it. There was no sheen on the blade, but it had a distinct pattern. It appeared as if someone had cut a slab of silver and blue marble in two, revealing the ripple effect in layers. It was not true Damascus steel, but it was perhaps the closest thing to it. He put it away and looked down at the dead man on the floor.
He grabbed Durant’s ankles, dragged his body back into the bathroom. Stepping around the corpse, he got behind it, lifted Durant by the hair into a sitting position, then bent low and locked his arms over the chest. Then he stood and tipped the corpse into the bathtub.
As he washed his hands in the sink, the Sandman hummed a familiar tune.
He dried his hands on the towel and moved to the window. A perfect view of the building opposite. He pulled up the single chair in the room so he could sit while he looked out over Manhattan.
Teresa Vasquez lived in the apartment next to the late Lilian Parker. This view was just as good for watching her as it had been for Lilian last year. Vasquez would die today. He hadn’t decided when, but the opportunity would come. He couldn’t take the risk of Vasquez testifying against Carrie in the murder of Lilian Parker.
For a moment, all thoughts of killing Teresa Vasquez left him. His mind drew a powerful memory. One Sunday morning that felt like a lifetime ago. Lying in bed beside Carrie, her head on his chest. The smell of her hair. His fingertips gently brushing her shoulder. The only sound was the soft rustle of the sheets as she slowly rubbed her feet together. She did that when she was tired. It was one of those thousands of little things that he loved about her. It was those things he clung to. Those memories were important. He was good at remembering details, facts, patterns. His emotional memory was different. There were snatches of images from his childhood. So fleeting and abstract that he sometimes wondered if he had invented them. His time with Carrie became imprinted on his brain like a movie reel. He could recall almost all of it. And those intimate moments were a cool drink of water for his mind. So vital and unique.
He enjoyed killing. The sensation of taking life sent shudders of pleasure through him. It was only now that he was apart from Carrie that he realized how powerful his feelings had become for her. He wanted her. He wanted to lie in that bed, with her head on his chest, her feet kneading the sheets. He wanted the smell of her, the warmth and the sensation of belonging to her, and she to him. He knew it from the first moment he saw her.
He loved Carrie Miller. She was the only person he had or would ever love.
And that made her the most important woman in the world.
Worth fighting for.
Worth dying for.
Carrie should never have been put on trial. That was something he had not expected to happen. He could not let her be separated from him again. There would be a time, in the next few days, when they would be reunited. When her trial was over and her worries behind her. When he had killed Chester Morris, cut off his head and put it in that bag, when he had killed Delaney, it was for a different reason than the mere pleasure of the kill.
Now, the Sandman killed to protect Carrie.
He killed for one reason. The purest reason.
