The Axeman's Jazz

happened after his grandfather died.”
    “What happened? We buried him, what do you think?”
    Skip found it hard to believe he could be so unpleasant even with his son surrounded by cops with guns.
    “I mean, what happened to Sonny? Surely you didn’t let him get away with what he did.”
    “Of course I didn’t. What kind of parent do you think I am? The boy was punished, of course. Do I honestly seem like a neglectful father?”
    “Not at all.” Cindy Lou showed him a mouthful of teeth you could have used for piano keys. “I just wondered.” She paused. “Something that serious … how do you make the punishment fit the crime?”
    “Fit the crime is right. I said to him, ‘When I get done with you, you’re going to know what a serious thing you did; I’m going to teach you what death is all about.’ And when I got through with him, he did.”
    “How did you do that?”
    “Well, first I whaled the living tar out of him, of course. And then I made him go with me to take his dog to the pound. Had this old dog named Zeke we’d had since right after Sonny was born. I said to Sonny, ‘Dead means they don’t come back. When they’re gone, they’re gone. And I’m going to show you what I mean.’ So we got old Zeke, and on the way there I explained how they kill the dogs—you know how they do it, right?”
    “Right,” said Cindy Lou hastily. “It’s not pretty.”
    “Damn betcha it’s not pretty, and I wanted that kid to know about it. We got there and I made him take that dog up to the attendant and say, ‘I made a mistake that killed my grandfather and I want you to kill my dog, please.’ ”
    Skip gripped the edges of her chair, her palms wet, a knot of despair lodged in her belly, her throat tight with misery. In a way this was almost worse than listening at the door had been as Sonny confessed to three murders. She hoped Missy didn’t come back before Cindy Lou was done, half-wanted to join her herself.
    “Was that all?”
    “Hell, no. I wanted him to feel it, see it, touch it, smell it. I wanted ‘dead’ to be more than a word to that kid. I wanted to make sure he’d never forget for one minute what he could do if he wasn’t careful. I knew he’d be a doctor one day and how important it was going to be to know that relaxing his vigilance for one second, even one instant, could mean somebody’s life. I just wanted him to know what ‘dead’ meant.
    “So what I did was I went out and got a live chicken; I got two, just in case. And don’t think it was easy finding them, either. Then I took him out in the back yard and I made him strangle one. Well, it didn’t work. Kid went squeamish on me, nearly killed the first chicken, but didn’t manage to twist its neck quite enough. I don’t know what happened—he paralyzed it, I guess. Just lay there with its eyes open, making terrible noises. I finally had to make him step on its head.”
    Skip put her hand firmly over her mouth.
What I say three times is true: Police officers do not puke in public.
She said the last part two more times, like a mantra.
    “Flat? I mean road kill. Kid started screaming like there was no tomorrow and running around the yard like—you know—a chicken with its head cut off. I thought, ‘Good; kid’s getting the idea.’ Finally had to beat him to get him to shut up.”
    Missy came in with a tray of drinks.
    “You know what?” said Cindy Lou. “I know it sounds crazy, but I drink milk in iced tea. Would you mind … ?”
    “Of course not.” She set the tray down and was gone, the perfect little hostess. “Threatened to beat him some more if he didn’t get the second one right.”
    “The second chicken?”
    “Oh yeah, the second chicken. He got it right. Screamed the whole time he was doing it, but he did it.” Robson’s face was set in a thin, grim line:
It hurt me more than it hurt him.
    “Then when those chickens were stiff, I made him go feel ’em, see what that was like. Then I let ’em stay there a couple days till they started to smell, so he’d get that part too. Then I made him bury ’em.”
    Skip went into the bathroom and washed her face in cold water. It helped some with the nausea, but her throat remained tight as a lock. She realized she wanted to cry even more than she wanted to vomit, and that that would be even less helpful. She took in a deep breath, then another, sat on the floor, and kept breathing. Finally Cindy Lou came and banged on the