e, drawn-out wail shattered the stillness of the tomb. The priest
dropped to his knees and I clapped my hands over my ears, but the
dreadful shriek penetrated. My stomach turned over and I retched. The
Good Father followed suit. We were no supermen and our bodies and our
very souls revolted against this monstrous thing.

"Let us finish, my son," the priest said slowly, after a time, his face
the color of ashes. "We must bury these dead, that they may sleep in
consecrated ground."

I couldn't. I had to see her again before it was done. She lay, small
and fragile as ever, her face calm, only there was no trace of life now.
She was still and white, as only the dead--the truly dead--are. Tod's
arm was flung across her chest, as if to protect her. I made myself move
the arm, resting her head upon his shoulder, where it belonged. Then, as
I looked, there was just Maria. Tod was gone and only a handful of dust
lay piled up around the stake. It was enough. I slammed the lid shut.

* * * * *

Looking back now, I can see it was all for the best. Ria was
different--apart from other women. A dreamer, a mystic, too easily
influenced by the bizarre and un-normal. I, on the other hand, am
practical almost to a fault. Had she married me I might have crushed in
her the very thing that drew me to her. In time she might have grown to
hate me.

Hunter, on the other hand, was a student. Introspective, given to
romanticizing. Susceptible to suggestion. Had I been confronted with an
Eve, I should have run like hell. To him, though, she was cloaked in
mystery; hence, more desirable. What better choice for him ultimately
than Ria? That Ria had to die to achieve her happiness is of no real
importance. Life is a transitory thing anyway.

Sometimes, though, when I look at Ria's picture, it's hard to be
practical. She was everything I shall ever want.

I had never been to Europe before the summer of 1947. I went to find
Maria, to marry her. Instead, I found and murdered her, and I will never
go back again.

End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Each Man Kills, by Victoria Glad

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