There is no answer from me. Instead, I retreat into the bathroom and turn the shower back on, waiting for the hot water to wash away the stink of death.
When I finish showering, towel dry, and slip on the loose blue jogging suit Monsieur has left for me to wear, he is no longer sitting by the dead woman’s side. He is at his workbench sorting out an array of shiny metal instruments a coroner or butcher might use.
His hands glide lightly across the instruments, finally settling on a large cleaver, a mallet, and a slender boning knife. “We have a series of unfortunate events, Souris.”
Does he mean it to be a pun, alluding to the children’s book?
“I cannot call the authorities for obvious reasons.” He points to me and at her. “And we cannot leave it here.”
She is “it” now, no longer a woman he spent time with, no longer human. She probably never was to him. This is the first time he has killed in front of me. Usually, I am locked in my dungeon, and anything he does in the cellar, I only hear. My imagination runs wild as I try to visualize what he is doing beyond my prison doors, but to see Monsieur end a life with his own hands resonates deep within me.
He walks to the metal shelf filled with storage items, selects a couple of huge dark duffel bags, and tosses them to me. He goes to a large roll of thick, frosted white plastic, attached to a wall and hung like a roll of paper towels, and pulls a long length from it. The vinyl comes away at the perforated edge with a rip. He juggles the cleaver, boning knife, mallet, and plastic sheet before setting them all on the floor next to the woman. He spreads the vinyl out, then rolls her body onto it. She left quite a bit of blood from her head wound. Robach sprays the puddle with liquid that smells of ammonia and begins preparing his knives, reverently laying them out in a neat row near the massive capped drain in the floor.
“Come.” He beckons with his fingers.
I acquiesce.
There is no time to unpack my feelings, a whirlwind of emotions: Perplexed at how he treats her like she is a slab of beef, curious about what he will do—although I am beginning to get an idea—and repulsed because whatever he does, he will make me watch. And I am afraid, always.
“Kneel.”
I do a few feet away, not wanting to be too close. He places the boning knife between us. We make eye contact. One look reminds me he expects me to take a chance.
No—if I try, it will be by surprise, when he least expects it and his guard is at its lowest. I wait for directions.
“I have a place, an incinerator, where I can dispose of this body, but I cannot walk out of here with a full-size body, you understand?” He pauses, waiting. “Because I did not plan for this. I did no intel. Anyone could be out right now.”
All I do is nod, unsure why he bothers telling me any of this, as if we are confidants.
“We need to make it travel size.” He chuckles.
Who will miss her now that she’s gone? Does anyone know where she went and with whom? When she woke this morning, she did not imagine her lover would smash her head in with his bare hands.
“You will assist me with cutting it up, so time will move faster. I would like to retire to bed soon.” He considers me. “You are not my first pet, Souris, but you are by far the most intriguing. You don’t cry or beg. You don’t simper like others have. You’re quiet, and I like that in girls, you know? If you continue to behave, perhaps your welcome won’t be worn out as quickly.”
His charity knows no bounds.
He talks me through the process as he begins to hack at her with the cleaver. It is ghastly work, and he soon deserts the instrument. He shows me how to use the boning knife to get between her joints. “So that I miss bone, like deboning a chicken. You see?” He ponders a minute. “I’ll need my saw for the big parts. What was I thinking, eh?”
He returns, saw in hand. “When I cut a part away, you quickly place it in a bag. Two bags should be enough. Good thing they are waterproof, yes?”
The least of my concern.
“Try not to get any more blood on my floor. It is hell to get out, as you can see already. And it’ll be less cleaning for you.” He chuckles. “You see how I look out for you, Souris?”
“Yes, Monsieur.”
He falls into a rhythmic silence as he sets to work. With the saw, he works deftly at detaching her limbs with the precision of a butcher. When the first part falls off, thumping onto the plastic, I jump. I stare at the leg, cut right above the knee. My mouth is slick with spit, and I desperately want to vomit.
The blow to the side of my head is so sudden and intense it knocks the wind from me, leaving a ringing loud enough to prevent my hearing anything else. I lose my equilibrium and tip over to the side. My hand braces on the floor to steady myself. Tears spring from the explosion of pain, but I bite back a yell, clenching my teeth, breathing through it all.