5

REVELATION 9:21

Neither repented they of their murders. . . .

~ * ~

"Fucking liar anyway!" Rita screeched.

The small mirror shattered as she brought her hands together with a crack! then flung the pieces aside. She felt around the long countertop until her fingers found something else—a drawer—and pulled it open. She stared uncomprehendingly at the lengths of stainless steel for a few seconds before her fogged brain told her what they were and where she was. Carving knives . . . of course. She was in one of the deli restaurants on the second floor.

Rita frowned. What was she doing here? No matter; she lifted a ten-inch blade and examined it. For a moment she imagined she saw her reflection dance along its length, just as she could have sworn she'd seen herself in the pocket mirror. If I'd had one of these, she decided, that bitch wouldn't have gotten me. Why hadn't Anyelet listened? Her lips pulled back and she stifled a cry at the pain that shot through her cheek. To show pain was a sign of weakness, and that would never do; anger, though, had always been impossible for her to hide.

Rita tucked the knife into her belt and sidled out of the restaurant while her fingers caressed her face, trailing over the lumpy scar tissue that had formed over the dirt, grease, and gunpowder embedded in the surface, sinking occasionally into a few still-open spots that continuously trickled moisture down her blouse. I'll change clothes, she decided. Then I'll get a phone book and find a plastic surgeon. After all, I run a modeling agency and I have to reflect my clients—it’s all so damned competitive now. She skittered across the corridor and leapt the last of the steps. That mirror, she told herself, had been . . . mistaken. Something had been wrong with it, a manufacturing flaw that had caused it to wickedly hide her reflection. She would stop and get a new one at the drugstore, one that wouldn't—

She tilted her head at a noise, trying to refocus her thoughts, then smacked the flat of her palm against her forehead in impatience, the pain of the blow causing a low growl in her throat. There was no agency, not since the night she'd crossed paths with that redheaded demon two years ago in Mother's, a Rush Street area bar. A half-dozen drinks and Rita had left with the seductive, deadly woman, taking the first steps of her one-way trip to hell. And was that Anyelet now? She had a few things to say to that slut, all right, and she'd start with a pointed reminder of her suggestion about weapons. Someone coughed and Rita grimaced; not Anyelet at all, but Siebold, lumbering around like an overweight, overstuffed penguin. Another disgusting bodily sound as he stepped out of a side hall, then froze. He turned to hurry away.

"Wait!" she commanded. He stopped, flinching when she circled him as he stared at his dirty shoes. "What are you doing here?" she demanded. "Spying on me? Did Anyelet tell you to?"

"No," Siebold said quickly. "I was just g-going up to look in on the people, that's all."

"Yeah," she sneered. "Gonna give some lucky lady the pleasure of your company tonight, huh?" Once so immaculate, Rita flicked a filthy fingernail beneath his chin. "And what's this? Big man with a little gun?" She laughed nastily as she poked at a small semi-automatic in the front of his belt. Howard said nothing, but an idea suddenly sparked in Rita's mind. She grabbed his shoulders and twisted him to face her. "Look at me. I said look at me! Tell me what I look like."

He glanced hastily at her face and back down again. "You look . . . all right."

Rita stopped, uncertain, then relaxed her grip and patted his arm. "Come on . . . Howard. You don’t have to be afraid. I've always admired honesty in a person—you know how I always say what’s on my mind. I respect that in another person. And, of course, I'm not having much luck trying to use a mirror. Help me out."

"You look fine, really," he insisted.

"Don't lie to me!" she screamed suddenly. She pushed her face close to his and he squeezed his eyes tightly shut. "If you don’t open your eyes and tell me the truth, you fat, fucking worm, I'll rip them out with my fingernails!"

”All right!" he yelled. He scrambled backward, her insult making the words spill recklessly from his mouth. "It looks pretty bad, okay? Like ground meat!" Sweat beaded on his forehead then streamed to his collar, and he fumbled the Uzi out and aimed it threateningly. "But remember you told me to be honest! You told me to!"

"Yes, I did," Rita said sweetly.

She crossed the space between them in less than a second and buried the knife in his gut. He squealed and squeezed the trigger spastically, the spray of bullets catching Rita across her chest and collarbone but not stopping her. Still, they hurt and she made him pay, cackling at his shrill scream when she twisted the blade and heaved upward, splitting his rib cage from sternum to throat. His blood, thick and red and repulsively plentiful, spurted in a dozen directions but Rita ignored it. She yanked the carving knife free and watched Siebold fall heavily to the floor atop his stupid, pathetic gun, a corpulent, sodden mass.

"Fucking liar."