Those Who Spoon

Chapter Nine

“No.”

That one, desperate word ripped a hole into the appalled hush that had filled the entire room. The denial did not come from Ebenezer Soon, as might be expected – the man’s face had become a hideously pale color – but from his butler: Tracy Spencer.

He knelt down next to the body, hands fluttering as they tried to decide whether or not checking her pulse was worth touching her breasts. In the end, the good in Spencer won  from his apprehension, and he laid a careful hand upon her chest. “Sir,” he stammered, “she’s not breathing.”

Ebenezer clawed at his armrests once again. “That’s not possible,” he managed to hiss. “She’s only been bleeding for a minute!”

“Sir . . .”

“What are you waiting for?” he roared. “Run outside! Call for help!”

“It’s too late!” Spencer cried. “She’s not breathing! Her heart, it’s . . .”

“I don’t care! I have my reputation to consider –  she cannot be dead! Now get out of my house and look for help!” Ebenezer smacked his fists together to emphasize his words and he moved his head to and fro wildly, as if to literally shake off the knowledge that there was yet another death that would stain his life forever. All he could do was stare at Samantha – the body – as Tracy Spencer threw open the door and ran out into the cold, his voice raw as it rang through the air; howled for help. All he could do was feel his own eyes grow bigger; all he could do was wonder when the printed scarf, which had hung so loosely around her neck, had become soaked and red; all he could do was scratch at his own arms and try to control his ragged breathing.  “No,” he moaned. “No, no, no.”

Her eyes were open – once again he noticed that they were a warm brown color, like Debbie’s. But alas . . . these were empty. So empty. It scared him to look at those chasms that had been so bright, so full of life and intelligence before. In a way, they were exactly like Natasha’s had been – only these were so full of accusation, of fear, of horror; emotions that Natasha had barely had the time to feel before she cracked her skull open on his floor.

What was he going to do now? Who would want to work for him? How would he ever get away with this? The Natasha Horvitz case had been one thing – that had obviously been an accident, whatever gossip magazines and her family had claimed. This incident, however . . . well, there was glass and blood everywhere. It looked like they had been in a bad fight . . . and if anyone had been walking past the house, Ebenezer would bet that they had overheard Samantha’s loud objections to his actions. No one apart from Tracy Spencer would know that there had been no true anger from both sides, that there had been no violence. And who would believe a man who’d already been regarded as suspicious once? Who would believe the nutcase?

Ebenezer wasn’t a complete idiot, whatever one might tell you. He knew what people thought of him these days, knew that despite Samantha’s brilliant ideas, he was never truly trusted after Natasha’s untimely death. What jury would not sentence him to life for what they thought he had done? Ben could hire the best defense attorney in the whole of America, but that would not prevent the inevitable – he was doomed; utterly doomed. If he plead to insanity (granted, that was rather believable to most people), then he would spend the rest of his sorry life in a psychiatric ward, which was hardly better. On the other hand, he could only imagine too well what people in prison might do to him . . . he had heard enough stories of the rapes and murders that happened within the confines of the thick walls.

Ebenezer shuddered. If it came to that, he would rather be locked inside a psychiatric ward indeed – he was not a criminal, he was not to meant to pay for this unfortunate death. Now all I have to do, he thought, tearing his gaze away from Samantha’s still eyes, is make the rest of the USA see that.