Page 1 of Crawl
CHAPTER 1
Cash
First, I see the tawny glow of her upper arm. Her thick bicep twitches, then her fingers pinch at the fabric. The shirt flutters to the ground. There’s barely any room to move, but I shift my eye against the peephole, the inner surface of the plaster scraping my cheek. She crosses the room again and I get a glimpse of the tattoo on her back: two rib cages pressed together, the phalanges clutching each other like they’re afraid they’ll fall apart. But I’ve seen the piece in full: skeletons embracing, teeth against teeth, dark eye sockets turned toward one another. As if the only promise we can rely on is our base instincts.
These old houses weren’t regulated during construction, and occupants expect things like holes in the plaster. Some of these homeowners don’t even know that they have wall cavities. Itching to see her again, my hands scratch the inner wall, and suddenly, it’s deathly still. I can imagine it already; another complaint about rats sent in a work order. Pesky little things. The foul scent of decaying palm trees fills the air, a dampness heavy on my shoulders, like a mouth breathing down on me.
Then the artificial moans shriek through the wall. The adult actress squeals, backed by creaking wooden furniture, and I instantly know the video Remedy is watching. It’s the same one every time: a man with bloodshot eyes towering over a woman with a rope around her neck while he takes her from behind. She always comes back to this one.
It’s only midday and she’s already going at it. My kind of woman.
I lean back against the outer wall, inching a hand into my pants, but I’m compressed between the two walls, and it’s hard to get a hand on my shaft. There’s a layer of fabric between the hard inner wall and my hand, but my forearm grinds against the plaster. I press my eye against that tiny hole, shifting in each direction to get another peek of her. Remedy Basset. What a name. Medicine. Treatment. A substitute for what’s needed. And my favorite little cure.
Blood fills my bulge, but it’s no use with a hole this small. I can’t see anything. I’m lucky if I catch a flash of her shoulder, and yet, I still prefer this vantage point. An associate back in Missoula had helped me hack her webcam so that I can see everything: every twist of her lips, every scrunched eyebrow, every pant that escapes her purple lips. But when it comes to my free time, before she goes to sleep, I prefer to spend it as close to her as possible. And that means being pressed between her wall cavities.
Her bare foot props up on the desk, her toenails nude and unpainted, but I can picture the webcam footage now: Remedy with her legs spread, a bobby pin falling out of her hair, hands clutching at her holes. Perhaps she’ll have clamps on her nipples, with the rubber guards removed this time, so that it’s metal teeth on skin. The clamp’s chain will dangle between her purple lips.
The computer chair squeaks with each thrust of her hips. My dirty girl doesn’t take her time; she knows what she wants. I stare at her twitching foot through the peephole and imagine us in that video: my ropes around her neck, watching as her face turns a beautiful shade of plum that complements her painted lips, mascara staining her cheeks, blood racing down her chest and hips, slashes from my knife marking her like a torn bag of cement, her velvet walls constricting around my shaft like she’s taking the life out of me.
And then, on the other side of the wall, a moan erupts from Remedy’s lips like a lamb who knows it’s about to be slaughtered, a sweet cry that lets the last notes hang in the air. With that image of her mouth twisting in release as she rips the clamps off of her nipples, I rub my length, my knuckles ramming into the wall. She gasps. Her computer chair creaks as she quickly stands up. A ruffle of commotion, like things being pushed around her bedroom. Perhaps she’s searching for a weapon to defend herself against a rather big rat. And that fear pushes me over the edge; my hot spurts of release soak my boxers.
After a few moments, she gives up, and this time I see the tips of her brown nipples, raw and red, as she crosses in front of the hole. I’m hard again. But she’s distracted; this is my chance to move. I inch between the inner and outer wall, not wanting to disturb her this time. After all, I enjoy watching Remedy and want to keep doing so. As an expert in my field, my job gives me access to houses all over Key West, and I’ve gotten to know her well over the past few months. I know the jasmine scent of her hair that lingers on her lumpy pillow. I’ve sniffed the sweet and tangy musk in her dirty panties. I know exactly the kinds of dirty videos she watches on repeat. And I know that her full name is Remedy Elise Basset and that she’s a personal assistant to the wealthy. I even know that she uses the passwordBones1934for practically everything.
The doorbell rings and I freeze in place. There’s never been a visitor before. Curious, I slide back to the peephole. There’s a loud clatter—she’s probably hiding those clamps—then an aerosol room spray puffs into the air. She flickers in front of the hole for a moment. Once she’s gone, I press my nose to the hole, using that single moment of solitude to take it in: the nauseatingly ripe stench of fruit punch, synthetically saccharine. It beats the hell out of plaster, rotting trees, and come.
Another body passes in front of the hole. Pale soft arms, the strap of something—probably a purse—hanging from a shoulder. She doesn’t live here, or she would have left her purse in the other bedroom. This is a good thing; I prefer my little cure by herself.
“You should have had me pick you up,” Remedy says. Her words are muffled by the wall, but I can still hear the coarseness of her voice. I can’t wait to hear that raspy gasp when she screams for me.
“You’re one to talk,” the friend laughs, her voice high like a runty little puppy.
“I took the self-defense classes; you didn’t. A serial killer is out there.”
I hold back a chuckle. Like a groin jab or pepper spray will stop a serial killer.
“Peter escorted me,” the friend says.
Remedy scoffs under her breath; even through the walls, I can hear the disdain in her voice. Whoever he is, she doesn’t trust Peter like her friend does.
“So you finally got the transfer?” Remedy asks, changing the subject.
“Starting on Monday at this old lady’s house on Duval.”
“But did you tell LPA what Winstone did?”
The friend hesitates. And if I know my little cure, the longer the seconds drag on, the antsier she gets. She likes tapping her fingers on her sides, flicking them open and close, to keep herself under control. Straining my fingers, I match her movements behind the wall. I’m a big man squeezed into a tight space, like stuffing a king-sized mattress into the back of a golf cart. I can’t get comfortable, and it’s hot as balls, but it’s worth it. With these motions, I try to get inside of her head. Is it sadness? Perhaps. Anxiety? Anger? Why does she keep it locked inside of her rib cage?
Whatever happened doesn’t have to do with Remedy. It’s her friend’s problem.
“I just want it to blow over,” the friend says.
A faint sigh escapes Remedy’s lips. The lock on her bedroom door crunches, and the blinds over her windows shift up, then down, like she’s checking to make sure her windows are locked. It’s a nervous habit, one she does often even when she’s alone, to make sure she knows exactly who can get in and who can get out.
“He backhanded you,” Remedy says, anger in her raspy voice. “Slapped you. Spanked your ass like you were a child.” She groans, and I imagine her throwing her hands up in the air, but in the hole, I only see the empty spot next to her desk. The two women must be sitting on her bed. “Someonehasto do something.”
“But that doesn’t have to be me,” the friend says. “Or you.”
A slight pause passes between them. I shift my weight, angling myself toward the bed, but now, all I see is the wall.
