Yucatan

Death

The pain drilled into Constantina's right temple. She opened her eyes, expecting someone standing next to her with a drill in their hand. It feels more like a nail gun.

She glanced to the right. She stared at glass with brown smears on it. Connie narrowed her eyes, and the pain turned into an explosion.

“Oh my God,” she heard herself say, but she couldn't feel her tongue move.

“Here, put that on, it'll help.” She knew the voice but couldn’t place it right away. Then, something soft and moist fell into her lap. She shrieked, shut her eyes, her head jerked, and the explosion tore through her head once more.

“Don’t be such a pussy.”

She focused on her breath; in, out, in, until she was able to prey her eyes open. The wet object in her lap was a wet paper towel. With shaking hands, she pressed it against her head. The coolness of the towel was bliss against the throbbing wound on her temple.

She turned toward the rude voice. Mark sat next to her.

“Where are we?” She squinted and recognized the interior of her own car, with Mark driving. Her stomach tightened as she watched the scenery fly by. Lush, green, some fields, dirt roads, no houses. Warm, humid air blew in through the open windows. I believe we've arrived in Mexico. The knot in her stomach became a heavy stone. She rubbed her belly, and her hands felt fabric. She was dressed again. Someone, perhaps Mark, had put her clothes back on. Except he didn't give me my shoes.

“Take two of these. There's water in the bag behind you.” He threw a medicine bottle into her lap.

Connie's hands twisted and pushed, but the cap wouldn't come off.

Mark hissed, and he checked the rear-view mirror. He pulled over. “Christ, woman, can't you do anything? Give me that.”

His large, claw-like, hand ripped the bottle out of hers. With one twist, the cap opened, and he handed it to her. He reached behind her and grabbed a water bottle. He tossed it into her lap and got out.

Mark stretched and walked around the car. He opened the trunk, disappearing from her view.

Connie kept an eye on him in the side mirror as he re-appeared and approached her side. He opened the passenger side door.

“Take those damn pills and get out.” His voice was loud and shrill, like a woman's.

Yeah, somehow, I don't think it's a good idea to tell him that, though.

The pain made her weak, vulnerable. She obeyed, swallowed the painkillers and got out. Her legs refused to carry her, so she leaned against the car. Mark approached and before she could react his hand was on her cheek, turning her head.

Connie was surprised to see the first-aid kit in his other hand. He placed it on the roof of the car. He flipped through different colored, small, envelopes, until he found what he was looking for.

“Why are you keeping me alive?”

Mark laughed while his hands ripped open the small envelope. He took out an antiseptic wipe. “You claim you killed Duane. I’d like to know how that came about.”

He cleaned her wound. She hissed as the alcohol burned the raw flesh. His hand reached to her left cheek. His index finger turned her face toward him. “There, that should keep you alive a bit longer.” He tossed the used antiseptic wipe. “And since I’m not sure that I believe you, I’d like the opportunity for some private time with you.”

Connie stared at his square jaw line, the indication of pure masculinity, or so romance writers say. She studied his high cheekbones and wondered if he had native American blood. She felt his index finger caressed her face. For my part I'd like to know how a monster like you manages to look so damn normal. You should have 'pervert' carved into your forehead. She remembered the first time he shook her hand and how disgusting his skin felt. Now, however, the skin of his hand was dry and warm, comfortable.

Mark moved his face closer to hers. His nose touched hers. A whiff of cologne and minty smell emanated from him. She shuddered, feeling dirty as he touched her. Connie bit the inside of her cheek, desperately trying not to scream. “And I know that my aunt’s boy-toy would love to get his hands on you, especially when he hears that you claim you killed Duane. He has a thing for women with power.”

Connie's eyes narrowed and for a moment, the pain was forgotten. “Unlike you, who prefers powerless women?”

Mark nodded, his lips parting into an eager smile. “Yes.” He sighed.

“Guess that’s what you get when a woman like Gina raised you”

His eyes grew dim, he let go of her face and took a step back. “What?”

She smiled at his confusion; lips sagging at the corners, eyes staring off into empty space.

She turned and rummaged through the first-aid kit. With her back turned to him, she continued. “You don’t like Steve, do you?”

Mark laughed. “I don’t like people that think they can do whatever the hell they want.” Connie turned, surprised. “Irony?”

Mark quizzically stared at her. He really doesn’t get it. She sighed.

“What did he do that has you so upset?” She found a small package of antibacterial solution.

“He drugged me, tossed me into the car like luggage and drove me to St. Louis.” He laughed. “But he can’t be everywhere at the same time, so I took off the moment he went to the office to call my aunt.”

“What were you doing in St. Louis?” Constantina kneeled to get a good view of her face in the side mirror. The wound was small, but her temple showed the early signs of bruising. She applied ointment, careful not to use too much pressure. It already hurt like hell.

She heard Mark shuffling his feet. Connie turned. She didn't want him surprising her again.

Mark stood in the same spot, his hands rammed into his jean pockets, shoulders hunched. “Making sure Duane didn’t leave anything incriminating behind.” He pursed his lips. “And then it turns out that someone, you, put a tracer on my phone. That’s when I decided I had enough. I took off, continued to New Orleans, hoping whoever traced me would follow. And you did.” He stepped toward her. “You see, you kind of ruined a good hobby I had with him. Something that didn’t involve my controlling family.”

“Then why did you call Gina after you caught me?” Constantina waddled up the empty ointment pack and tossed it into the car.

He grabbed her bicep. She tried to move away from him, but the car was behind her, stopping her. “Because you’re not only a normal person, you’re also a familiar to our family.” He sighed. “Granted, a very remote familiar, but it still can cause issues. What I need is a solid accident and, unfortunately for me, Steve has control over our resources in that department.”

She shook off his arm and pushed him away. “Well, I’m sorry getting rid of me won’t be that easy. You really are a myopic, heartless bastard.” She turned, closed the lid of the first aid kit. Her hands were shaking, her fingers cold. Mark hadn’t denied that her fate was to die by his hands. And who do you think he’ll go after once you’re dealt with? Connie shivered. You just painted a bulls’ eye on Nena.

Mark laughed, and his head lifted. For the first time since she met him, his eyes looked alive, and his smile was genuine. “Yes, you are quite inconvenient.” He shrugged. “And it’s my aunt who’s the heartless bastard. It was her, after all, that dictated these rules, who stays, who goes, who dies. I told you, she’s very controlling. If she could, she’d control her own heart and order it to work without the aid of modern medicine.”

Connie walked toward the trunk of her car to toss it back in there. Her head jerked at Mark’s words. “She goes caving with a weak heart?”

“She’s not supposed to. She takes digitalis and that seems to prevent any serious issues. She always has spare medication around; every apartment, office, digitalis everywhere.”

Constantina stared at him. An idea occurred to her. “A close friend of mine had heart issues. If he’d ever stopped taking his digitalis, he’d die almost immediately.” She probed.

Mark crossed the short distance between them, his hand grabbing her check, caressing her. “What are you saying?” His nose touched hers. “Are you implying I’ve been thinking about killing my aunt? The only family I have left?”

She felt her legs give out beneath her. Her hands, desperate to prevent a fall, pressed against the car. We're back to psychopath, then. She shook her head, another explosion of pain, but this one a little bit less than before. “It was a feeble attempt at sympathy.” She squeaked.

His index finger gently tipped her cheek; “Very feeble.” He smiled, genuine and warm.

His nostrils opened wide, inhaling her smell. The color of his eyes darkened from pale blue to indigo blue. He pressed against her, and she felt the reason for his sudden change in demeanor pressing against her legs. Shit.

Her headache was finally gone. Now all she felt was the thing in his pants, the snake that caused suffering and death.

Constantina felt his warm breath, the hand that held her chin with great care, grew firm, then strong. He moved slowly, deliberately.

“You know, I always wondered why Steve only screws her, no one else. What makes sex with an older woman so different?” His spit sprayed onto her skin.

She shivered.

Connie narrowed her eyes and moved her head away from his. She didn't want his pouty lips touching her. Mark laughed, as if her fear and the fact that she didn’t want to be with him were amusing. He reached for her. Connie took two steps away from him.

She looked around, hoping a stranger would drive by. The area was deserted. The road was nothing more than loose dirt, winding itself through tall, leafy, shrubs on both sides. Beyond where only more green leaves, some grass, but no other human beings. She hadn't seen another car since she woke up.

She glanced into the open trunk, and she saw the heavy-metal rod that Monique bought before her departure. Just in case. Except it used to be next to the driver seat.  Mark must have thought it safer to keep it in the trunk. And here’s your chance of saving Nena, again. She sighed, took a small step back and to the left. Her leg touched the bumper, she rested her hand on the trunk rim. The rod mere inches away from her reach. Bricks, rods, it’s all the same. Just swing high and come down hard and fast.

Constantina bent left and reached until her hand felt the cold, hard metal rod. Her fingers wrapped around it.

Mark smiled, his eyes running up and down her body in anticipation of sexual gratification. His hands were busy opening his belt. Mark still stood at arm's reach before her, fiddling with his belt, when she lifted the weapon above her head.

His hands finally managed to open the belt buckle. Connie swung the heavy metal rod, striking the right side of his head. His face disappeared into a pool of blood and raw flesh. The smell of fresh blood filled the air. His left eye, cold-blue and unaffected by the damage, stared at her. His hands still on the belt, still trying to unbuckle it. But his hands no longer moved. Mark Praeda swayed, silently. Then he fell.

Mark Praeda was dead before he did the dirt road.

***

Heat traveled up Constantina's throat. Mark's cold eyes watched her. She walked toward the lifeless body and tried closing them. The eyelids refused to stay shut. She walked out of his sight and fell to her knees, vomiting.

She lifted her left arm to wipe her mouth, noticing specks of blood on her hand, her arm, some small as pinheads, others as large as a quarter. Her shirt was no longer white. Red dots splattered the front and the short sleeves. That’s why I hate wearing white; you see every bit of dirt on it. She heaved. Seriously? That’s your first thought after killing a guy? She shook her head, trying to rid herself of these ludicrous thoughts.

Connie scrambled to her feet and walked to the car to look in the side door mirror. Streaks of blood ran down her face. With shaking hands, she reached for the back of the shirt. Her fingers rolled up the fabric until her back was exposed. She pulled the shirt over her head, frantically trying not to have it touch her skin.

She hurried toward the trunk. She had spotted her suitcase in there earlier. That and a duffle bag she assumed was Mark’s. She opened his and took out the first shirt she found. Carefully, she wiped her face, making sure not to rub too hard or fast. I don't want it to get into my eyes or my mouth; God knows what kind of diseases he had. She shivered.

Half-naked, she walked to the passenger side, retrieving the remaining water bottles. She took off her pants and underwear and doused herself with the contents of six bottles. When they were empty, she stuffed them into Mark's duffle bag.

Still naked, and with his blood-soaked shirt in hand, she returned to the body, wrapping the murder weapon into the shirt. Both disappeared into the duffle bag.

She took a small towel, a pair of paints, a shirt and shoes. With fresh clothes on, she began feeling more like herself. Her hands stopped shaking.

Now what do I do? I can't leave him lying there at the side of the road. She examined the surrounding area. For the first time since Mark pulled over, she saw the scenery in all its beauty.   Tall bushes guarded the dirt road to both sides.  Pale yellow flowers pushing through the thick, large, leaves, reaching toward the sun.

Through large gabs between the individual shrubs, the lush rainforest began a hundred feet to her left. Plenty of space for a burial. Damn, never a shovel around when you need one. Constantina glanced into the trunk and reached for the tarp that she used as a trunk liner. She walked toward the pile of what used to be a human, repulsed and fascinated at the same time. She spread out the thick, blue, plastic, liner next to him. Instead of pushing him onto it, she stood there, wrapping her arms around herself, staring at the dead body. After a moment, she walked back to the car and rummaged through the glove compartment. Connie re-emerged with a red marker in her hand.

With steady feet she returned to the corpse, kneeled next to him, uncapped the pen and wrote on Mark's forehead: Pervert.

“Now you're ready to be buried.” She put the pen into her pant pocket. She kneeled, pushed the body, rolling him like a burrito until he lay firmly on the tarp. Her hands wrapped around the corners of the liner, cradling Mark in the middle. She pulled him toward the tree line. Every few steps she paused, breathing harder than she ever had during fencing practice. By the time she reached the forested area, she was drenched in sweat. With a sigh, her hands let go of him. His head rolled back, his damned blue eyes staring up at her.

“Stop staring at me.”

She kneeled next to him. Despite the heat and the laborious work, her hands felt ice cold. The thought of touching him again made her gag. I’ve got to make sure he has nothing on him that could rat me out. Besides, he was on his way to see Gina and Steve. He mentioned GPS coordinates. A map. I need those.

She rummaged through his pocket and found keys, a phone, a paper map and a pack of gum. The keys went into her pocket. She pushed the phone on. He’s still not locking his phone with a code. She shook her head. She scrolled through the phone messages. She remembered the conversation on the boat, and she knew Mark had the GPS coordinates to Gina’s place somewhere. When she did find them, she scribbled the numbers on the paper map with the same red marker she used on Mark’s forehead. Then she removed the battery and the memory card. She threw each item in a different direction, as far as possible. She searched his body one last time to make sure she missed nothing.

She moved dead leaves aside with her feet, peering down, afraid to run into any of the local insects. She didn't know exactly what type of snakes and spiders inhabited the jungles of South America. She didn't want to find out the hard way.

When a large enough area of soil was exposed, she kneeled, and her hands began removing the topsoil. Carefully, she worked through each layer.

“Ugh!” She fell back onto her ass when a light brown, thin legged, spider dashed over her hand. She rushed to stand up, brushing herself down, frantic to make sure the spider was off her.

“Ah, please, don't be a biting, poisonous one.” She stared at the floor, wondering where the small critter went.

Connie remained standing for some time waiting for a painful spider bite. When none came, she returned to digging.

Soon, she had dug out a shallow grave.

She patted his back before pushing the body into it. He landed face down. “You should be able to rest here without anyone finding you. Except for hungry wildlife. If I'm lucky.” She rubbed her hand against her leg.

With both hands she pushed the loose soil over his body. She gathered broken off foliage from surrounding trees and shrubs.

“This one looks a lot like fig leaves; I know where I'll put those.” She tossed the fig leave look-alikes over his mid-section.

Connie walked in the direction of her car, glanced back, then returned to add more branches and leaves lying on top of the moist soil. Finally, after the third trip, she nodded.          “The grass from here to there will lift up again. I hope.” She glanced around, wondering how obvious the trail was. She saw several areas of grass that were uneven and spotty patches of brown. Clearly, uncultured grass didn't look like a golf club course. Satisfied that she had done everything she could, she returned to the car.

She ran her hands over her face and hair. With each moment she stood there, her breathing steadied.

Connie wanted to make sure she left nothing behind. She walked around, using her foot to shove loose dirt from the road over the bloodstains.

After one final check of the crime scene, she felt satisfied.

Regina Praeda was expecting her. Constantina didn't want to keep her waiting.