Fuzzy Navel Read Online Free Page B

to be murdered at the hands of this lunatic.
    She has to warn Jacqueline. Has to make sure Alex can’t get her.
    “Do you bake?” Alex asks.
    “What?”
    “I know it’s a stereo type, that all old women bake. But do you?”
    “Yes,” Mary says.
    “What do you bake? Cookies? Bread?”
    Mary doesn’t like these questions. They seem too intimate. She forces herself to say, “I make pies.”
    “What kind of pies?”
    “Peach. Cherry. Apple. I was going to make an apple pie today, for after dinner.”
    “You’ve got all of the ingredients?”
    Mary nods.
    “Okay, let’s do it,” Alex says. “Let’s make a pie.”
    Alex takes Mary’s hand, leads her into the kitchen. Mary doesn’t understand where this is going, what Alex’s ulterior motive is. But she has no choice other than to let it play out.
    “What do we do first?”
    “There’s some dough, in the refrigerator.”
    Alex opens up the large stainless steel door and takes out a bowl with a wet towel covering the top. Mary stares at the gun in the back of Alex’s jeans. She needs to get closer.
    “This the dough?” Alex asks.
    Mary nods. “Yes.”
    “It’s done rising, or what ever?”
    “Yes.”
    “What else do we need?”
    “Apples. Brown sugar. Lemon juice. Flour.”
    “You want to lend a hand here, Mom? This pie isn’t going to make itself.”
    It’s silly. Mary has been slapped, punched, and threatened, and she stayed stoic. But a simple act of baking makes her eyes well up with tears.
    Maybe it’s the perversion of a normally enjoyable activity. Mary loves to bake. It’s one of the simple joys of life. But being forced to by this murderer makes the whole experience seem tainted, dirty.
    Alex acts normal the whole time. She rolls out the dough. She slices the apples. She’s chatty and cheerful and asks many questions about the process. But she never lets down her guard and gives Mary a chance at the gun.
    Jacqueline loathes baking, has no patience for it. Mary hasn’t baked with her daughter since she was twelve years old. That fact makes this experience even worse. Mary should be bonding with her daughter, not with a psycho.
    “Why do you bake if it makes you so sad?” Alex asks.
    Mary wipes her face with the back of her hand, furious with herself for showing weakness.
    “Or are you just upset because this is the last pie you’ll ever make? There’s a last time for everything, Mom. At least you can savor it, knowing it’s the last time.”
    “The oven is done preheating,” Mary says. “Put the pie on the bottom rack.”
    Alex obeys. Then she pats the excess flour off of her shirt and laughs at the cloud it makes.
    “You never baked with your mother?” Mary asks.
    “I might have. I don’t remember. When I was small, Father tied her to a beam in the basement and whipped her until she died.” Alex pops a stray apple slice into her mouth. “He made me help him, made me beat her.”
    “I’m sorry. That must have been horrible.”
    “Not really. He let me rest when I got tired.”
    Alex turns away, looks past the living room, out the large bay window facing the street. “Does Jack still drive that shitty Nova?”
    Mary doesn’t answer, sees a car coming up the driveway.
    Not Jacqueline’s.
    Oh, no. It’s Latham.
    Mary takes a deep breath, ready to scream out a warning, but Alex is on her, tearing at her house dress, pulling off a sleeve and shoving it past her split lips, wadding it into her mouth. Then the gun is out again, pressed up against Mary’s temple, and they both wait in silence for Latham to come in.

6:42 P.M.
     
JACK
    L EAVITT STREET BUZZES with activity. As in the previous crime scene, cops and onlookers surround the house, a walking, talking wall. The media already arrived, two news vans sending live feeds to their networks. I park in the center of the street, since nothing is getting through anyway. Herb extricates himself from my car with much grunting, but I refrain from making any jokes involving