Shame

understand why pressing had never grown more popular in the States. On the Continent, it had commonly been used to torture and kill. What Feral liked was its simplicity. Pressing was easy. You just piled stones on a person’s chest, one atop another. As the weight grew heavier, breathing became more difficult. It was the rare person who didn’t break down, who didn’t capitulate with whatever the presser wanted.
    Junior had shown surprising mettle. Feral had thought him an unworthy son before. Weak. Afraid of his own shadow. A simpering cuckold. But the way Junior had managed to avoid capture, and the way he had even figured out one of Feral’s schemes, showed he was at least a resourceful coward. In a moment of weakness, Feral had even been tempted to end Junior’s life on that road, but that wouldn’t have served his plans. There was still a stone or two he needed to lay on Junior’s chest. Heavy stones. Headstones.
    Feral was sure Junior wouldn’t prove to be any Giles Cory. He wished he could have been present at Cory’s pressing in 1692.Who said that the Pilgrims didn’t have any fun? Cory was the only colonist ever pressed to death. He had refused to plead either guilty or innocent to the charges brought against him. There was a reason for his silence. Because he refused to plea, his possessions couldn’t be confiscated by the state. Though the stones had piled up on his breast, they hadn’t broken Cory’s spirit. Feral suspected that was the presser’s fault. He was confident he had just the right straw for the camel’s back.
    Pressing. The thought invigorated him.
    Feral thought of other stones and found himself getting excited.
    As she had been getting out of her car, he had sneaked up behind her and said, “Do you know what Charles de la Roi said to the warden the day before he was sentenced to die in the gas chamber?”
    She had jumped, and then she had seen who it was standing there, and her expression had become disdainful. She had said his name, had announced it as if it were some pitiful thing, but she never came up with an answer.
    “He said, ‘Warden, I’d like a little bicarbonate, because I’m afraid I’m going to have gas tomorrow.’”
    She was used to his morbid histories, but she wasn’t ready for what followed. He had laughed, and she had seen something in him and heard something in his laugh. She became aware of Feral for the first time. Then she had spotted the large rock in his hand and knew that the wilding was about to take place.
    “No,” she had said. “Don’t.”
    Her last words were not at all original, not at all.
    It was a happy memory. Pity today didn’t go as well, thought Feral. To use a tiresome cliché, he’d been so close, yet so far. It annoyed him to have done so much planning for such an unsatisfactory climax. He had been twice denied. But that’s what contingency plans were for.
    Patience, he told himself, patience. His inner sermonizing reminded him of one of his favorite cartoons. The picture showed one very annoyed vulture telling another vulture, “Patience, my ass. I’m going to kill someone.”
    Feral understood that kind of killing hunger. Like the vulture, he was tired of waiting. But he wasn’t a carrion feeder. He was a hunter grown impatient.
    “Patience, my ass,” Feral said aloud. “I’m going to kill someone.” And soon.
    It was time to get back to work. He referred to his notebook, picked up a pen, and dialed a number.
    “Yes, can you please connect me with Ann Dickens’s room?”
    Feral had methodically entered the name and telephone number of every San Diego area hotel and motel into his notebook. The private dick had documented that Queenie invariably registered under any one of six names. The detective was good. He had worked for Feral on several occasions until he’d had his untimely accident.
    “Ann’s not there?” Feral did his best to sound surprised. “She was supposed to be traveling with Angel Lake. Can you check and see if she’s registered there? Yes, the last name is Lake.”
    The night auditor sounded none too happy being bothered in the middle of the night. Feral hoped the cretin was being methodical.
    “She’s not there either? Hmmm. Well, thank you.”
    He wrote down the names and the time of his call. It wouldn’t do to call back the same hotel for several hours.
    Another name, another hotel.
    “Yes, could you please connect me with Vera Macauley’s room?”
    Feral checked the other name