A Black Deeper Than Death (Miki Radicci Book 1) by M.E. Purfield - HTML preview

After dinner, Chris and I go back to the living room and finish off the bottle of wine. My head spins a bit and my body melts into his arms. I’ve been waiting to be alone with him like this since I met him. And here it is. Even though I’ve only been with one other guy in my life, I can’t help but feel like a pro with him. Our wine tainted lips and tongue move together, tasting and teasing, and our hands explore. I feel how hard he is under his shirt, my fingers pressing into his chest. When he makes a move to cup my breast over my top. He’s cautious with his moves, giving me a chance to draw the boundary. I don’t stop him. I doubt I will stop him from doing anything with my body tonight. I’ve been through so much the last few weeks that I need this kind of healing, this kind of tender attention.

As I start to massage his lap, Chris moans and says, “We better go to the bedroom, no?”

“Your mom should be home soon?”

Chris cranes his neck to the clock above the white marble fireplace. “No. But you never know, we could lose sense of time. Better to be safe.”

“Mmmm, the prospect of losing sense of time is a big promise.”

He grins. “I’ll try not to disappoint.”

Unlike the rest of the apartment, Chris’s bedroom should not be in the magazine. The white theme is gone, giving ways to browns, blacks, and some grays. The standard bed with sharp boarding school edges, dressers, and desk occupy the room. Framed posters of Aspen and Hawaii hang from the gray painted walls.

“Should I get another bottle of wine?” Chris asks.

“Yeah, that would be great.”

Chris, his hands on my waist, plants another sweet kiss on my lips.  “Be right back.”

When he’s gone, I wander to the pictures taped to the mirror over the dresser.  Most of them look like they were taken when Chris was in high school. I smile and touch his cute face, which was more of a baby face then. The snapshots on the other side are more recent. I notice he’s with a lot of girls in the pictures. I’m not surprised, but one of them catches my eye. From the background it looks like they’re at a booth in a bar. Katherine Moore sits on his lap. The kiss looks serious. Their hands are all over each other, and I spot tongue. Right below that is another picture of just Katherine holding up a drink and smiling at the camera.

“Here you go,” Chris says.

I take the glass of wine and point to the picture. Jealousy percolates and sharpens my movements. “You dated Katherine Moore?”

“I wouldn’t really call it dating.”

“But you didn’t mention that when we met.”

“I said we were friends. And we were. Sometimes we were…friends with benefits. Doesn’t mean I didn’t care about her.”

I sip my drink. My mind spins, I don’t know if I should be mad at him for not telling me the truth or be okay with it. No, he didn’t lie to me. But I lied to him when I met him and said I was a friend a hers.

“Does this bother you?” Chris asks, his face lined with worry.

“No.” I kiss him and put the drink on the dresser. “It’s fine. Just surprised me. God, can’t believe I got jealous over a dead girl.”

“No. It should bother you.” He swipes the pictures off and slaps them face down. “I feel so stupid. That’s not how my life is now. Besides, I want new pictures up there. I want you there.”

Chris puts his drink down and kisses me. As my lips move against his, I forget about the pictures. He’s right. It’s in the past. And he wants me in his future. And I want him in mine.

I lead him to the bed. I push him down on the blanket and straddle him. He smiles, clearly enjoying my assertiveness. I don’t stop. I start to unbutton his shirt all the way down, pulling it out of his pants. I part the shirt, caressing his skin. He lifts up and helps take it off. When he lies back down, I see something that stops me.

Hanging from a gold chain is a quarter-sized silver pendent of a silverfish. It’s exactly the same one from my painting, the same one the killer wore when Katherine was killed.

I freeze. I hear nothing but my heart racing in my ears.

“Miki? Are you okay?”

The memory of the knife going through Katherine’s stomach resurfaces in my gut.

“Miki?” He notices what I’m staring at. “Is it the pendent?” He smiles. “It’s just the Chandler company logo. The primary product is insecticide. God, don’t make me sing the jingle.”

I stare down at Chris’s concerned face. Otto said that they have not found the video of Katherine’s death. And they won’t.  How could I have been so stupid? She wasn’t killed in the studio. She was killed in the alley.

“Miki?”

He seems so genuine, so sweet. But underneath he has to be evil. He has to be Katherine Moore’s killer. He didn’t run into me by accident at the memorial. He knew exactly who I was. And my unlisted cell phone number. I wasn’t too drunk to give it to him. He was the one who called on my cell phone and threatened my family.

My tears drip down on his chest. “Oh, Chris.”

He tries to take my cheeks in his palms. I slap his hands away.

“What?” he asks.

“Don’t touch me.”

I jump off him and the bed. I face him, not daring to give him my back. Chris sits up, keeping his confused act going.

“You killed her,” I say. “You killed Katherine Moore.”

His concern cracks. His eyes look around the room like he’s following a fly. I can see it, just the slightest bit of worry. “What are you talking about?”

“It wasn’t Devlin Straub and his web site. It was you. That’s the pendent I saw in my vision. That silverfish.”

“Miki, y-you’re confused. This is the logo for my family’s company. It’s on all our products in the store. You-you had to have seen it before someplace else.”

“Doesn’t matter. I still saw it that night. I know what I fucking saw.”

Chris stands up and slowly walks closer. I back to the closed door.

“Miki, just calm down. Okay. I swear I did not kill Katherine. I loved her.”

“Oh, now you love her? Before she was just a fuck buddy.”

“I…You don’t understand.” Tears stream down his cheeks. “I love you. Please don’t do this.”

He reaches out. I slap his hand away.

“I told you not to touch me,” I say. “Don’t ever touch me again.”

Chris rushes me. I slam my foot into his groin and then punch him in the jaw so hard he falls to the floor. Pain flares out in my knuckles and jaw, but my fear is stronger. I turn around, open the door, and run down the hall.

“Miki,” he screams. “Don’t”

I cross through the living room to the front door. I grab the knob and pull. It won’t open. Shit! I need a key. I scan around the room and realize there’s no place to hide…except for outside. I rush to the glass doors and step onto the balcony just as I hear Chris call out my name. The wind blows so strong that I feel my flesh turn to ice. I crouch down between the couch and the stone railing. My back to the loud traffic, I take my cell out of my back pocket and text HELP ME!!! to Otto’s phone . If he’s really watching me tonight, then he can get up here faster than my screaming his name down to the windy street.

“Miki?”

I keep still, fighting the urge to peer over the lawn couch to see where Chris is standing. It’s hard to tell with the winds, but he could just be by the door.

“Miki, please come out,” Chris says. “I know you’re out here. C’mon. Come back inside so we can talk.”

I slip the phone back into my pocket, wrap my arms around my legs, and try to keep my teeth from chattering too loud.

“I swear to you, Miki. I did not kill Katherine.” His voice sounds closer.

Yeah, right.

“When I heard what happened to her, I nearly fell apart,” Chris says. “I couldn’t believe it. I didn’t want to believe that it happened again.”

Again?

“I really thought she was getting better. I had no idea it was going to happen,” Chris says. “And when I heard that she called you…I…I just couldn’t let it happen. I know this sounds stupid and cliché, but I didn’t think I would fall in love with you. I love you Miki and she promises she’s not going to hurt you or anyone in your family. Please. I know you love me, too. I know you love me enough to…accept her. To keep quiet and help her.”

Who the hell is he talking about?

Chris kneels on the couch while his upper body hovers over. “Miki?”

I scream out.

He grabs my arm. With my other, I slam the heel of my hand into his nose.

…a crunchy pain flares in my nose as the world flashes white for a few seconds…

Chris releases me and grabs his busted face. He screams out and falls to the ground.

I gasp and stand out from behind the couch. My eyes flood with tears as the phantom pain in my nose throbs. I make a run for the glass doors. Chris moans, holds his bleeding nose, and rolls around on the floor. Just as I grab the knob, he grips my ankle. I fall into the doors, opening them, and land inside. Chris barely stands and glares down at me. Blood and tears coat his rage-sculpted face. His body hunches over and his shoulders hitch for air.

“Get up,” he growls and offers his hand.

I take it. For a flash I feel sorry for him for being so gullible. As he pulls me up, I slam my fist into his nose.

…white lightning and cracking bone…

Chris and I fall back. I land on the floor, but he stumbles to the stone railing. He must be so disorientated that he leans too far back, loses his balance, and flips over the edge.

Instead of reaching out to save him (I know I’m not going to help him in time) I scramble as faraway from him as I can. Just as I clear the couch…

…stars above me…millions of pounds of asphalt slam into my back and head and legs and arms…an explosion of jelly within my pulverized bones…the air escapes my body…

…all black…

 

PARENTAL RAGE

I open my eyes and wonder how I got home. My painting of Chris wearing a raincoat and derby and holding a large knife hovers over me. The silverfish charm dangles from his wrist. But the lighting is different. And he’s breathing. And I can make out the face under the brim of the hat.

No. It’s not Chris.

Where the hell am I?

“I knew you couldn’t be trusted,” she whispers in that harsh voice. “Where’s my son?”

I recognize her make-up job. Eye shadow that reaches up to her forehead, red lipstick smeared across her lips, and lashes as long as mosquito legs. It’s as nutzo as the night Katherine Moore was murdered. I moan. She didn’t just find me that night. She was never homeless. She probably woke me to find out if I saw anything, if I saw her kill Katherine.

Crazy Make-Up Lady kicks me in the ribs. “Where is my son, you disgusting whore?” She shakes the large knife at me, like she doesn’t know what to do with it.

I gasp and point to the balcony.

She keeps the large knife raised and her eyes on me as she walks to the glass doors. “Christopher?”

With the ache of falling fourteen stories and landing on my back, I manage to get on my hands and knees and crawl to the front door, which is now open.

Crazy Make-Up Lady, aka Mrs. Chandler, screams and sets off a bomb in my head that makes my eyes water.

I feel her foot press down on my butt and flatten me to the floor.

“You killed my son,” she screams over and over.

Her foot stomps on my back as if she’s killing a thousand roaches. I flop like a fish and do my own screaming, trying to find a break in her pounding so I can roll away. But she’s too fast, too determined to snap my spine. After a while, I feel my body go numb with defeat. She won. She promised to kill me and it looks like she’ll do just that. God, why can’t she stop stomping me and just stab me with the knife?

“Put the weapon down NOW!”

I recognize the voice. Detective Otto.

The stomping stops. All is quiet but heavy panting. Is it from me?

I roll onto my side, but not able to bend my back just yet.

Mrs. Chandler backs away, keeping the knife raised. Her fear-filled eyes dance around in her heavy eye-shadowed face. Otto and an officer keep their weapons aimed at her.

“She’s a filthy whore,” she screams. “She deserves to die just like the others. All they want to do is take the ones I love away from me. Why do they want to take them away?”

“I said put the knife down,” Otto screams.

She slams the blade onto the hardwood and releases such an animalistic roar that a shiver overwhelms the pain in my back.

As Otto keeps his gun trained on her, the other cop sends Mrs. Chandler to the floor and cuffs her hands behind her back.  As he recites the Miranda Act, Otto kneels down next to me and places his hand on my wet cheek. His fear breaks through his cop mask. He takes his radio out and calls for an ambulance.

“Miki, are you all right?”

I look into the handsome face of the man who saved me again.

“Next time, let me save you, okay?” I whisper. “This is getting embarrassing.”

Otto smiles.

 

ALL CLEAR

I lower the back of my shirt as the EMT sits down on the coffee table. “You really should get some X-Rays,” she says.

“I’m fine.” I place a blue icepack to my ribs. “No more hospitals. Not now anyway.”

I sit on the couch while the crime scene team works behind my back. Mrs. Chandler was taken away a half hour ago. She kicked and screamed and threw me a lot of evil looks. But I didn’t start crying because of how she acted. The tears broke out when I thought about poor Chris who fell to his death. I cried because I murdered him.

“She okay?” Otto asks. He stands next to the EMT who nods and packs up her med box. When she leaves, Otto sits down next to me on the couch. He places his hand on my knee.

“So how are you really?” he asks.

I stare at him. My face feels like a fragile jigsaw puzzle.  He wipes the tears from my cheek. “Are you going to arrest me?”

“No,” he says. “From what you said it sounds like self-defense and an accident. Coroner confirms the wounds to his face. Whenever someone gets their nose smashed twice like you did to him they are not going to go out and walk a high wire. He probably didn’t even realize he was falling.”

“I wish that would make me feel better.”

“You’ll be okay. With forensics, your testimony, and her confession, she’s going to probably get life. Plus, there’s the fact that she was under suspicion for her husband’s murder a few years back.”

“Why didn’t they arrest her?”

“Dunno. Haven’t spoken to the investigating officer yet. But when we interviewed Christopher about Katherine, he said that he was home studying that night. Mrs. Chandler confirmed it. Maybe, when Mrs. Chandler murdered her husband and mistress, he lied for her and said she was home with him.”

“Okay, so Mrs. Chandler killed Katherine Moore fearing that she was going to take Chris away from her like some other woman stole her husband away?” I ask.

“Most likely.”

“I can’t believe how stupid I’ve been this week. I should have just stayed home and watched TV.”

Otto smiles. “Not easy being a cop, huh?”

“No easy being human.”

He pats my hand. “C’mon. Time for you to go home. You can give me a statement tomorrow.” Otto walks off. With the sleeve of my shirt I wipe the tears from my face, suck snot back up my nose, and straighten my aching back. I make a promise to myself that I am not ever going to search for killers again. I’m just going to stay home, avoid the world, and paint. Can there be anything better than that?

“You ready, miss?” the officer asks.

I stare up at him and smile. “Take me home, jeeves.”

 

HOME

I come home to the welcoming arms of Corey and Grandpa. They say nothing about Chris. No expression of shock or dismay that he didn’t turn out to be the greatest guy in my life. They just hold me and offer to make me tea or get me food.

“I just want to be alone,” I say, then smile.

They smile back and watch me as I enter my bedroom. Not able to take standing or walking, I drop down on my bed, curl into a fetal position and release the aching pain that has been hiding in my heart. I sob and pound the mattress and whine Chris’s name a few times.

And no matter how many times I beg his ghost to forgive me for killing him, I don’t get an answer.

 

TWO CALLS

I sit on the bench of Pier 26. The whiskey in a brown paper-bagged bottle fills me with shots of warmth. I stare out at Jersey City and the coasting boats. I feel so good out here all by myself. The temperature is almost 20 degrees today and I’m the only one crazy enough to be out here. But I had to leave the condo. I’ve been sketching and painting all day. I think I may make the deadline Marvel gave me for tomorrow. I take another sip to celebrate that fact and the fact that it has been two days since I cried about Chris. I often wonder what might have happened if he didn’t fall over the edge. Would we still be together? Could I still love a boy who’s mother was a killer? Then again, there’s my family, who’re not a bunch of saints.

I just don’t know.

My cell rings. Otto’s name shows up on the ID screen.

“Detective Otto.” I smile. I think my voice may be slurred.

“Ms. Miki. How are you feeling?”

“Pretty good. Bruises are going away. Doctor didn’t find any broken bones.”

“Glad to hear.”

“So what do I owe the pleasure of your sexy voice?”

Okay, I may be drunk.

Otto chuckles. “Um, I’m afraid this is a business call.”

“Oh, God. Devlin Straub didn’t escape again?”

Police found Devlin Straub trying to sneak out through the Lincoln Tunnel. He was hiding in the trunk of a family’s car. He threatened the parents that he would shoot the kids through the back seat if they gave him any trouble at the police checkpoint that was set up outside the entrance. The family played it cool. Devlin almost got away except for the unfortunate fact that the trunk was broken and the door opened right as they passed the cops. Before he could harm anyone, he was arrested and brought back to jail.

“No. He’s locked up tight. He isn’t going anywhere this time.”

“Good.”

“This has to do with Valerie Chandler.”

“She escaped?”

“No. She died last night. Suicide.”

A tsunami of depression crashes my heart.

“Miki?”

“Yeah.” I sigh. “I’m here.”

“They found her this morning,” Otto says. “Her wrists were cut with the plastic casing of a pen. She was on suicide watch, but…no one knows how these things happen.”

“Yeah. Okay.”

“You don’t sound okay.”

“Listen, I have to go. I need to get back to work.”

“Okay, Miki. Take care of yourself.”

We hang up. I swig a few gulps of whisky down to keep from crying. What if Valerie Chandler killed herself because her son is dead and she couldn’t live anymore? That would make me responsible, right? Or maybe she couldn’t live with being a murderous psychopath. I don’t know. Maybe I don’t want to know. Everything is so fucked. How could this day get any worse?

The cell rings again. I have a new email. It’s from an undisclosed recipient. Maybe it’s from Sharon. Sometime she emails me PDF contracts to look over.   But it’s not a PDF. It’s a JPEG. I stare at the blank email as dread replaces my depression. I open the file and the evil old man face from my paintings stares at me. Like the last one that was sent, this is also in stippled pen and ink. The date and time the email was sent is for a few minutes ago. If Valerie Chandler died this morning and she didn’t email me the first picture, then who sent this too me?

November 2010 – April 2011

To be continued in In A Blackened Sky Where Dreams Collide

Keep up to date with his next release by signing up for the newsletter at http://eepurl.com/jufar.

Acknowledgements: Thanks to Dave Symonds, Bliss Kern, Nathalie Mvondo, Catherine Ferguson, Stacy Mozer, Lisa-Liza-Liz who have helped me shape this novel. And most importantly Neen and D.

 

Preview of Party Girl Crashes the Rapture

 

TREK ACROSS THE GARBAGE FIELD

“Lorelei,” she whispers. “Remember.”

I look up at the blurred red void. The throbbing pain attacks my head. I close my eyes to see if that will lessen the ache. No luck. I’m screwed either way.

I remove the scarlet blanket from my head and sit up on the floor. My consciousness rushes with memories of last night’s party. Jorge lays face down on the couch, still naked except for Arianna’s thong and push-up bra. Arianna doesn’t seem to be around unless she’s in one of the bedrooms. I spot a few snoring guys on the floor and one stretched across the wooden coffee table. None of them are Foley. He must have left already. He likes to get a full six hours of sleep before he starts his shift.

So who called my name?

I shrug and then rub my temples. Doesn’t matter. I’m up.

I take the cell phone out of my skirt’s back pocket and check the time. Damn, it’s 4:36 A.M. No wonder Foley left me here. I probably told him to do it. It’s happened before. I get so engrossed in the music and the dancing and the people that I don’t want to leave.

I use the tall lamp in the corner to help me up to my feet and walk across the shrapnel of chips and popcorn on the floor, trying to be aware of bottles and cans that will surely make me trip and land on my face.

Blinding green lightning flashes through the room.

My legs weaken as the floor drops.

I stare up at blinding white lights.

Thin paper crinkles under me like I’m on one of those doctor’s tables. My legs are spread. My calves float above the table even though ice coats them. A little girl’s upside down face blocks my view. She may be around six or seven. Her long light brown hair dangles close to the sides of my face. Her old pink eyes stare into mine. I might know her but I’m not sure.

My heartbeat increases.

Chills clamp my spine.

“Say it,” she says.

“S-say what?” I ask.

“I can’t see you anymore.”

“What?” I ask.

Green lightning flashes again.

All is gone for a sec until…

The back of a man’s head. He has cropped brown hair and hunches over.

Thunder.

A crimson explosion from the back of his head.

I open my eyes and grab the throbbing pain in my skull. I’m at the other side of the room. How the hell did I get here? The last thing I remember is walking across the floor. I must have blacked out. Figures.

I check my cell again. 5:03 A.M.

I’m going to be so late for my first day of senior year.

 

THE UNBEARABLE PRESSURE OF TARDINESS

You would figure by now I’d be used to going to school with a hangover. I guess there’re some things that you just can’t adapt to.

I run down the school hallway as the final bell rings. After crossing the threshold, I stop short inside homeroom. Even though I’m the last one to enter, I can’t help but be impressed with my stamina since my brain is thumping against my skull and my stomach feels like it swallowed a thousand centipedes.

Instead of desks, large stations with black stone tops, sinks, and propane gas spouts for science experiments form three rows. Each station has two people on stools. Mr. Gulager glares at me from behind the master station at the head of the class. I flash him a smile and point to the only empty stool in the middle row towards the back, the one next to Tara Cunningham who I’ve been sitting next to for the last four years.

“Um, over there?” I ask.

“You’re late, Lorelei.” Mr. Gulager frowns so hard his bushy eyebrows and ridiculous graying mustache look like they’re going to collide around his nose and hold it hostage. “How many years have you had homeroom with me? By now you know I don’t tolerate tardiness.”

I nod my head and zip up my hoodie before he can see that I’m wearing a Fuck Buttons spaghetti strap tank that shows off my belly ring and the wings of my tat. Why hand the man more reason to give me shit?

“Yes, sir,” I say.

He glances at the same faces from the last four years and begins his speech about ‘tardiness’ and how it screws up the whole morning. And there I am: standing by the door, watching everyone’s bored face and trying to keep from falling asleep standing up. When he finishes, he motions for me to sit.

I exhale a gracious, “Thank you,” and walk to the stool as the man continues to talk.

“Being late is no way to live your life,” he says. “Punctuality is the structure of life, Lorelei.”

With my back to him, I roll my eyes. Holy guacamole! This guy has such a hard-on for lateness. It’s effin homeroom. Not like I’m late for my period. Now that would be something to freak out about. Besides, it’s the first day of school, you know?

Mr. Gulager stops talking as I sit on the stool. I slouch forward, cross my arms, and close my eyes. The room is quiet (the way Gulager has trained us to be) and I’m so tempted to take a 5-minute power nap. I think twice about it since I’m in deep shit as it is for my first day of senior year. Man, I wish I had some weed on me so I can sneak right off after homeroom, but my stash is in my locker.

After attendance, faking the pledge of allegiance, and the start of morning announcements, I sneak my phone out of my hoodie pocket. I cross my legs and hope to God Mr. Gulager can’t see the phone hidden behind the table.

I check my text messages as the kid over the loud speaker spouts bullshit club information and when try-outs are for the lame sports the school takes way too seriously. I have two messages from Fatima and one from Foley. Fatima’s first message asks where I was last night. We’ve been friends most our lives so she probably knows the answer to her own question. I open Foley’s. He asks if I need a ride to Chuckie’s party tonight. Chuckie? Ah, in Lakehurst. Right. I sneak a quick text back to him: f yeah, baby. The coast clear, I slip the phone back into my hoodie pocket and case the classroom.

At the table up one row and to the right, a new guy throws me a smile. He needs to lose that mini Mohawk. His clothes seem too perfect - khaki cargo shorts, tennis sneakers, and solid blue T-shirt – like his mommy picked them out for him. He’s kind of cute, and I might give him a throw if the chance arrives this year.

For kicks, I open my hoodie and lean forward so my cleavage presses out over the low cut collar. He might be able to see some of the biker demon on my right breast, maybe even some of my bra. I catch his eyes staring and his mouth smiling wider. To seal the deal, I flash a slight kiss. The guy blushes and places his hands over his lap. Yeah, like I don’t know what he’s trying to hide. Mission accomplished, I turn away and congratulate myself on a job well done.

I spot another new guy sitting to my left. He’s a super cutie in jeans, black Doc Martins, and an old Fear T-shirt. He scores major points for the T. I’ve only met one boy during my four years who has ever heard of Fear. New Super Cutie’s black, curly hair stops at his neck and his bangs dangle over his eyes. Hands down, I want him. I’m already imagining how he looks naked and on top of me. But the boy pays me no mind. For some odd reason, he focuses on sketching in a notebook. I keep staring, waiting for him. C’mon, I mentally scream, what is so important that you have to draw instead of check me out?

He finally looks up. New Super Cutie stares into my eyes, his face blank. I smile, wink at him, and give him a view of my thigh. He glances at my legs, but his expression doesn’t change. He looks back into my eyes and then continues his sketching.

Holy guacamole!

I feel my face flush red. What is his problem?

I turn forward. Brian Callahan leans over his desk and grins at me. He’s probably remembering the time we fooled around at that party in Point Pleasant last month. He arches his blond eyebrows and motions to my breasts. I pout and ease my shoulders together. I doubt he can see much from that distance, but the action sets him off. He fakes a death on his stool and smiles.

Yeah, New Super Cutie has to be gay.

 

THE GAP OF IMMATURITY

Leaving homeroom, I walk down the hall and find Fatima waiting for me at my locker. She looks good in a Radiohead T-shirt she bought when we saw them live last summer in Jersey City and tight jeans even though she has those stupid Hello Kitty patches on the thighs that match the Hello Kitty earrings and charm bracelet. You figure her obsession with Hello Kitty would be a cause for alarm. But it’s her hair that makes me flinch. I’m still not used to the amount of bleach she used on it. I want to tell her that because of her pale skin she almost looks albino