13 Mink Street

Chapter 20: The Hunt Begins

The engine started. They had covered only a few hundred meters when Karon heard a faint shuffling from the back seat. A moment later, an arm slid around his neck. Warm breath, scented with alcohol, traced his ear.

“Madam, I’m driving.”

“I’m so stupid.”

“Madam, why do you say that?”

“I’m ugly, unlucky, and very stupid.”

“You shouldn’t speak about yourself that way.”

“Aren’t you the one who called me stupid?” Mrs. Hughes asked. “On the phone.”

“When did I—”

“And this afternoon, in the living room, you and that policeman... were you talking about me? From your face, your tone, I could tell how much you look down on me.”

“Mrs. Hughes, please don’t joke about things like that,” Karon said. His eyes kept flickering to the rearview mirror, watching behind him.

“It wasn’t just what I did; you look down on me as a person! Karon, it hurts to know that’s how you see me. I’m so sad, so sad.” She shifted closer. “Did you know, the moment I first saw you, I wanted you in my bed. I could give you real pleasure, make you a real man.”

Damn it! Why had he buckled his seatbelt out of habit? The police in Roja City never checked for seatbelts, let alone fined people for not using them, and yet he’d still strapped himself in without thinking.

A soft, wounded sound escaped the woman. “Karon, you really have broken my heart. The watch I gave you—and you still won’t wear it.”

“Believe me, Mrs. Hughes, starting tomorrow, I’ll keep that watch with me everywhere I go. I won’t take it off.”

“A man’s words can never be believed,” Mrs. Hughes murmured. Slowly, she lifted her other hand from behind his seat. “But I have another way to make sure you stay true.”

Through the mirror, Karon watched her every move. He mapped his actions out: press hard on the gas, then slam the brakes; right hand to the seatbelt, left hand to the door; break her grip, and then throw himself out. She might have a knife, he might get cut and bleed, but he could survive that. He rehearsed it in his mind, until he saw what she actually held: a revolver.

A gun.

Cold metal pressed against his temple. He understood. With a gun, speed meant nothing; there was no outpacing a bullet. All his plans evaporated. A knife could wound, but a bullet would kill.

“Madam, as an artist, a knife would be more fitting. A gun feels empty. Soulless, even.”

“My strength is nothing special. I can’t handle a knife well. But with a gun, even Cole and Old Darcy had to behave themselves around me.”

“I’m not like them. Cole was strong, and Old Darcy, despite his age, worked an incinerator his whole life. He was sturdy. But I’m different. Honestly, madam, even if we fought bare-handed, I doubt I’d be your match.”

She let out a hollow, weary laugh. “You really are interesting. Look at you, still treating me like a fool.”

“No, madam. The fool isn’t you. It’s me.” He meant it.

Not long ago, he had stood in front of the inspector, coolly dissecting the killer’s psychology, even mocking how stupid the murderer must be. And now, here he was, driving the killer herself through the night.

Sometimes, when someone was foolish enough, foolish enough to shatter every expectation you had of them, their actions no longer looked like stupidity at all. Things curved past prediction, slipping from one extreme straight into another.

At that same hour, Inspector Duke was sitting in the police station, stunned and reeling from the latest revelation. One victim, the woman’s lover; the other, her longtime employee. One she’d just taken in, the other found dead in her crematorium. Placing the two files side by side, the truth stared back at him.

But Cole was from out of town, and time had already been wasted piecing together his identity and connections. That delay gave Mrs. Hughes the breathing room she needed. This wasn’t stupidity, but something that bordered on madness; actions so blatant that they seemed to defy reason.

“Madam, may I make a suggestion? Let me drive you home. Have a good night’s rest, and tomorrow, we’ll forget any of this ever happened. The sun will shine, the air will be fresh. You have my word, I know how to keep a secret.”

“Don’t say anything more, Karon, because at this point, no matter what you say, all I hear is the same thing, over and over: ‘I’m so stupid. I’m so stupid. I’m so stupid.’”

“All right.”

“I need a place now. Somewhere quiet, where no one will bother us. I want to spend the night with you.”

“It would be my honor, madam. Where do you wish to go?”

“I can’t wait any longer, especially after all that wine. I feel dizzy, I feel so alive.”

“I feel the same.”

“Turn up ahead, number 128. That house is empty now, isn’t it? It should be quiet.”

128? Karon felt a sudden tension knot inside him. That was the address he always had taxi drivers avoid, a place he preferred to keep at a distance. Yet when Mrs. Hughes selected the house, in the quiet hush of midnight, a part of him relaxed, breathing easier.

He carried an old unease about the place, but now, things had already gone so wrong, what difference could it make? Seeing a ghost was terrifying, but in the face of death, even ghosts became almost tolerable. Nothing was more dreadful than dying. In the end, once you were dead, you belonged to them anyway.

Karon pressed down on the gas, steering the car calmly through the empty street. Soon, he pulled up in front of 128 Mink Street.

"Out."

"Yes, madam."

"Open the trunk. Pick that up."

"Are these your brushes inside?" Karon asked.

"They are. The same brushes you called vulgar."

"If only I’d known they belonged to you, madam, I’d have worshipped the ground you walked on from the start."

"Go inside."

"Yes, madam." Karon pushed open the iron gate, hefting the bag, he walked in. Mrs. Hughes followed close behind. He glanced at the weighty bag and wondered whether he could swing it hard enough to knock her down, but abandoned the idea—he doubted his strength. Besides, he could see that her grip on the gun was unshakable.

"Do you know when Mary and I first met?" Mrs. Hughes asked.

If one were to guess, it would seem obvious: a funeral home owner and a crematorium operator, surely had met through work. But Aunt Mary hadn’t been an embalmer for long, and Hughes Crematorium hadn’t passed to Mrs. Hughes until after her husband died.

"The first time I met Mary," Mrs. Hughes said. "Was after I won a shooting championship one afternoon. Before I went on stage, Mary did my makeup."

"Madam, please be assured: I’m a coward by nature. I’ll do anything you say."

"Good. Now open the door."

"I don’t have a key."

Karon placed his hand on the knob. It turned with a click. The door was unlocked.

He couldn't know that, days before, a young man named Jeff had stood in this same spot, also pausing in the unlatched door.

"All the valuables are gone, so why bother locking it?" Mrs. Hughes smiled. "Besides, I brought tools to open any lock, if needed. Now, go inside. Keep walking."

"Alright."

"Madam, if we turn on the lights, the neighbors might notice," Karon offered.

"This is an indifferent world. I doubt anyone here would care or bother to report a newly emptied house. Even if the police come, by then, everything that matters will already be finished."

"I agree, madam. Our family’s hearse gets anywhere faster than the police ever could."

"Go upstairs."

"Yes, madam."

"The master bedroom."

"Yes, madam."

"Set the bag down and get on the bed."

Karon obeyed, crossing the bedroom and settling onto the bed. Mrs. Hughes, keeping one hand steady on her pistol, crouched to rummage through her bag. Her fingers passed over various cold metal tools.

“Madam, if Aunt Mary hadn’t dragged me out for barbecue tonight, then you would have—”

“Yes. Tonight’s subject was meant to be Mary. She’s my closest friend. I know her well. Once she became part of my work, I would be able to achieve complete immersion.” She smiled faintly. “Just like Cole, who touched my most sensitive nerves, and Old Darcy, who followed me for so many years. You understand, don’t you? Art demands resonance.”

“I do, madam. Completely.”

Mrs. Hughes’ lips curved into a trace of mockery. “And surely skill matters as well?”

“Believe me, madam, that was the blasphemy of an outsider; an ignorant slight against sacred art. I have repented for it countless times in my heart.”

Mrs. Hughes drew a knife from her bag. It was the kind you might see a butcher wield, solid, yet also sharp enough for bone. "You can lie down now. Or you can fight, if you want. This is your last chance. Mink Street isn’t some alley. Security is good here. Even one gunshot will be noticed by a dozen people. Still, the moment it sounds, you’ll already have a few new holes in you."

"A difficult choice," Karon murmured.

"It is."

“Madam, your first piece was a religious painting for the Berai Church. The second belonged to the Church of Abyss. I’m curious about the third one you’re planning... No, don’t answer yet. Let me try to guess.” Karon paused, then smiled faintly. “My guess is the Church of Order.”

Mrs. Hughes looked genuinely surprised.

“Did I guess correctly?” Karon asked, feigning delight.

“You did.”

“Then let me go a step further,” he continued. “The work you’re paying homage to is the one where the God of Order punishes his daughter, Ankara. The Light of Order. Am I right?”

“Karon,” Mrs. Hughes said slowly. “I have to admit something: you truly understand me.”

“Yes, madam. I think our tastes overlap far too much. There are too many things we could say to one another. That’s why—”

“That’s exactly why I chose you, Karon.”

“...”

“You aren’t a substitute for Mary, but were always my first choice for this piece. Only if you had come back later this afternoon, then—and only then—would I have settled for Mary.”

“Madam, before you begin, you must have a plan. That painting shows Ankara’s body broken apart.”

“I’m prepared. I’ll cut you apart after you’re dead, so you won’t feel anything.”

“But how will you capture the monstrous beast devouring its prey? I would hate to see you repeat the mistake of Old Darcy’s piece. You know it was never truly completed.”

“This time, I have an excellent method.”

At just that moment, Karon noticed a black mark blooming across Mrs. Hughes’s face, spreading and swallowing one of her eyes. When she next spoke, her voice had thickened, adopting a man’s timbre, “My approach this time is... after I’ve chopped you into pieces, I’ll eat you, bit by bit.”

That voice! Karon recognized it instantly. It was the same voice he had heard on the phone: “You disturbed my artistic creation.” It was exactly the same.

What was happening to Mrs. Hughes? She was not disguising herself the way Piaget had; she was, without doubt, a woman. Karon had seen that for himself when her skirt had risen in the backseat of the car through the fine, narrow line of lace she wore. He hadn’t intended to look, but even a glimpse was proof enough. Mrs. Hughes was certainly not a man.

Now, as she stepped toward him, her manner changed. Obsessive. Frenzied. As if she were possessed. Karon’s eyes darted about, searching desperately for a glimpse of a red high-heeled shoe, but saw nothing.

The red he had always avoided, he suddenly longed for it. If only it would appear, he would kneel and kiss it.

“Karon, I admit that your wisdom, and your artistic taste, surpasses mine. So I’ll proceed this way: first, I’ll complete my work. Second, after eating you, we’ll merge, and I’ll inherit everything you possess.”

“I have one last request. An artistic one. I hope you’ll allow it.”

“Speak.”

Karon pointed to the old tube radio. “Madam, if you dismembered me to gentle music from the radio, I imagine the scene would be beautiful. Would it not?”

“I think you’re right.” She reached out and pressed the switch.

At first, the radio whined with static.

Then, a magnetic male voice sounded from it, “Dear listeners, good evening. Welcome to the Roja Storytelling Program...”