The Cryo Killer Read Free

Learn their habits. Routines. What time
they get home. Typical neighborhood behavior.
    But it’s day two now, and I’ve forgotten
about gassing techniques and emergency response times. I don’t know
when it started exactly – my fascination with Inesa. No, actually,
I do.
    I followed her to the grocery store
yesterday. And you’d think grocery shopping couldn’t be sexy. You’d
think. But Inesa lifted the melons to her nose as though they were
holy relics. She worshipped their fragrance. And the way she
studied the ingredients on the pasta sauce, with a hand on her hip,
and a lock of raven hair falling across one eye …
    But it was when she paid at the till, that
it happened. That’s when my heart lost its rhythm. I guess, to an
outsider, it was unremarkable. I mean, people talk to the cashiers
all the time. But the woman operating her till was grizzly. The
lips on that old sow hadn’t curled into a smile in over a decade.
She scowled as Inesa offloaded her shopping onto the counter.
    “The peaches,” growled the cashier.
    “The peaches?”
    “Weigh ‘em.”
    “Do you like peaches?” asked Inesa.
    “What?” The cashier’s wrinkled brow
arched.
    “Peaches. Do you like them?”
    The cantankerous old woman eyed Inesa
sideways. “They’re okay, I guess.”
    A minute later the two were chatting like
they were old friends. The cashier’s jowls bobbed up and down as
she laughed. A grating sound. Unpracticed, but pleasant.
    After Inesa had weighed and paid for the
fruit, she ‘forgot’ the peaches on the till. The old woman snuck
them beneath the counter greedily. Inesa looked behind her as she
left the store, with her cheeks bunched into that that smile. The
very same as that day in my office. And since then, I haven’t been
able to take my eyes off her.
    Beside the technical details of her killing,
there was another problem: Paul. Before following Inesa to the
grocery store, I’d watched him go through his morning. Golf with
yuppy execs. All morning.
    I slotted in as the caddy.
    “Inesa expects me to talk during
dinner.”
    “Yeah, Barbara was the same. Until I
explained the way things are.”
    “Hey!” shouted Paul. “I told you last hole.
Three iron. Not Two.”
    “Sorry, sir,” I said.
    “Idiot,” he grumbled. “She’s difficult,” he
said to the others after a moment. “Demanding. Never shuts up. And
expects me to do the same. You know how hard I work. Don’t have the
energy when I get home.”
    “How’s the sex?” asked one of the other
execs.
    “More trouble than she’s worth. Inesa gets
pains. Especially around her time of the month. Wish she’d told me
about that before I married her. But we’re Catholic. I’m
stuck.”
    “Jesus. Yeah, Barbara is pretty wild. I was
lucky. But she’s dog-ugly down there. I never look. Just shove it
home.”
    It had carried on like this for nine holes.
By the end of it, my TMJ was so bad I wanted to scream.
    *
    The next week passes in a blur of Inesa. I cease
trailing Paul, and focus on her instead. My Inesa. I tell myself
there’s a professional reason for this. For following her for so
long. But as the days pass, I no longer have a reason. And I don’t
need one.
    All I need is Inesa.
    Almost every morning she meets with her
neighbor, Daisy, at a rustic coffee shop a few streets away. I
listen to them laugh over frappes. Inesa’s cheeks bunch into that
smile, and Daisy slaps the table as they guffaw together. Those two
are joined at the hip. On the days when they don’t meet, Daisy
comes over for dinner with her husband. Don’t know why – Daisy
isn’t worth Inesa’s time. Plain brunette with a pig nose, Daisy
ain’t no oil painting. Inesa could do better.
    Sitting at a table two removed from theirs,
I listen to Inesa talk about how she’s almost finished her masters
degree in anthropology. I love her mind. I yearn to talk with her.
To get rid of Daisy, and have coffee with Inesa. Talk about
anything. Even anthropology. I’d reach