In the center of the shop, surrounded by burnt out candles, lay the body of another victim. Jess tiptoed around it, careful, like a nervous mouse slinking through shadows. She waited patiently for the surge of happy adrenaline a dead face always bestowed. When it came she surfed it like a roaring wave. She grinned, even danced a little. She dipped her finger in the woman’s blood, which was cold and rapidly thickening, and etched tiny graffiti on the shop’s crumbling walls. She whispered things to the dead woman which she’d never repeat, not even if she lived to be a hundred. The woman was never real in the first place, so it was okay to trust her with secrets. Jess laughed quietly, thinking of the silent organs beneath the skin–kidneys, liver, spleen–which would never again be able to assert their unintelligible wills. Double helixes, furiously dividing cells, an erratic, pulsating, voracious heart–she’d put a stop to all that. Someone ought to have thanked her. But who? Not the woman, forever silenced. Not the people who may have hated or loved her. Not God, who, if He existed, passed his vast, glistening, indifferent eye over the toils of the people so far below they may as well not be seen at all. Behind her, a bell jangled.  Shit, she muttered, don’t you idiots see the _Closed _sign?  The bell shouted again, then a third time. Jess wiped her hands, hurried to the front of the shop, opened the glass door, which was smeared with fingerprints and dead bees. A tall figure, wreathed in shadow, lurched forward. _A monster, _she thought, _a ghost._ But no, he was an ordinary man. Wolfish grin, pale eyes, a tattered plaid sport coat. His jovial voice fractured the silence.  So sorry, sorry to disturb, he said. I saw your sign but really, what did you think would happen with something like that in the window? Who could resist?  Bemused, Jess surveyed the dusty heap of items. A doll with one eye and a ragged dress. A rocking chair sporting hundreds of scratches. An ancient cash register. A dirty quilt with a  half-completed pattern, as if its maker had gotten bored halfway through. A few marbles that caught the fading light and turned it greasy and insubstantial.  The man brushed past her, humming to himself. He smelled of hot skin and an aftershave like rotting mangoes. His soft steps drummed on the tile. What if this man were real, after all? Unlikely, but just in case, she fashioned a polite, inquisitive smile. She followed him to the table which supported her visitor’s registry (tourists loved it), ledger, and laptop.  Sorry if I seem unwelcoming, she said, but I’d be happy to help. What is it you’re interested in?  Oh, the doll, no question about it. Have to have that doll. For my daughter, you see–she’s six. Her mother and I tried to resist teaching her stereotypical gender roles, but what can you do? She just loves dolls. She lines them up on her bed and sings to them. Christmas Carols, mostly, but sometimes show tunes. She’s partial to that one about the technicolor dream coat.   Of course, but just so you know, she’s missing an eye.  Oh yes, I saw, but the thing is, my daughter loves defects. Wounds. Things that aren’t whole. A laudable sentiment, don’t you think? We think she might join the Peace Corps some day. You know, help the unfortunate. Lovely, Jess replied. Well, I’d be happy to– Just one thing, the man said, leaning forward, as if about to tell a juicy secret. What’s her name? Name, Jess repeated. I mean, she’s a doll. She can have any name you want.  Ah that’s where you’re wrong, young lady. But never mind, we have all evening to resolve this issue.  He settled his long body in the chair she kept in front of the table. His smile was tantalizing but also, somehow, an insult. Staring at the wet lips, the big shiny teeth, Jess felt like a cockroach scuttling towards a pile of crumbs. She wished his eyes had a color. She wished he would do something criminal–shoplift, punch her in the nose–so she’d be justified in having the police haul him away. But of course he did nothing. People never do satisfy, Jess thought, they’re all like candy on an empty stomach. The man kept smiling. Jess wiped her bloody finger on her jeans and smiled back.  *** Jess found the woman in the forest. It wasn’t really a forest, just a ragged slash of trees and lumpy undergrowth that bisected the local cemetery. Jess liked to trudge barefoot in the soft grass between the headstones, read the names, laugh at their irrelevance. _Rose, Beloved Sister. Jackson, Devoted Husband. Cynthia Grace,_ who loved birds but only lived three years. All those stupid, flickering ghosts, demanding and begging and yelling long-lost secrets. But Jess didn’t mind. She removed dead flowers and squirrel droppings, dusted away fallen leaves. When she felt she’d done enough, she communed with the trees. Unlike the dead they didn’t whine. They just whispered, and endured.  The woman knelt in a clearing. Her hair was very red. She wore a turquoise windbreaker, muddy jeans, earrings that were nothing but wires twisted into some arcane pattern. Like modern art in a museum, the kind nobody understood but pretended to. She was digging industriously with a spade, turning the rich earth, ignoring the worms that wiggled out and coiled wetly between her knees.  Dammit, _dammit_, fuck! Her voice was screechy, disquieting. Jess stepped back, then forward. She wasn’t sure this woman was right. She was too skinny and had an odd rippling mouth and her hands were filthy.  _Fuck_, repeated the woman.  Sorry, Jess said, but– Whoa! Said the woman, scrambling backwards. You scared me! Sorry, I was just— Listen, said the woman. You have to go now. This is something–I mean, I don’t want to be rude. I can’t explain it. I just have to find what I’m looking for.  Jess bridled. I don’t have to go anywhere, she said. This is public land. But listen, why don’t you let me help? It looks like a big job.  The woman’s eyes were spring-sky blue. Her face was freckled. There was a heavy sweetness to it, like a cherry tree laden with overripe fruit. Jess realized she might even be real. She fingered the knife nestled in her pocket. It was as sharp as ever.  I guess, said the woman, well, okay, if you want to. It’s dirty work, though. Look at me. I don’t mind dirt, said Jess. Washes off, right?  The woman laughed. Sure, almost always.  What is it, Jess asked, kneeling across from her. Buried treasure, of course, said the woman, still laughing. It was such a satisfied laugh, Jess thought. As if this woman had never been alone or afraid. Jess began to hate a little, feed on the hate. Delicious as always. She would have liked to toss away the knife and her bottle of chloroform, finish the job with her bare hands, but she knew she wasn’t strong enough. She and this woman were the same size. Same bony wrists, same swirl of freckles. It was nearly unendurable. Guess you’re a pirate, then, Jess said.  Arr, growled the woman, handing Jess the space. I’m Amanda, by the way. I know, Jess muttered, digging into the mud. You don’t have to say.  In twenty minutes, the woman lay white-faced and bleeding in the grass. Jess pondered logistics. She thought she could just about drag the body to her car without being seen. But what about the treasure? She didn’t believe in it, not really, but a word like _treasure _had echoes. It colonized the mind. We’re all such insects, she thought wearily, and picked up the spade again.  *** I just remembered, Jess told the man. Her name’s Amanda. He nodded, not agreeing, just acknowledging that she’d spoken.  I’m sure you just made that up, he said. Just now. Tricky, aren’t you?  He wagged a finger at her, like a nun or a disappointed teacher. Someone who’d never inched close to the blurred, fragile line between good and evil. Jess was suddenly very tired of him.  Not sure what to tell you, she said. You want her or not? I’ll knock off twenty percent. Okay, okay, deal. I guess I’ll call her Cherry. Because of those red cheeks. And to remind me of the pretty red hair of the young lady who sold her to me. Perfect, said Jess.  She wrapped the doll in long sheets of tissue paper. She enjoyed the thing’s slow disappearance beneath the folds. Legs, then knees, arms, the rosy-cheeked face. All swallowed in whiteness. She taped, slid the package into a plastic bag. She started to hand the bag to her customer, but something quivered. Jabbered. Closed her fingers tight around the bag’s handle. Refused to allow her to let go.   I forgot, she said, this doll is buried treasure. That’s why she doesn’t have a name.  How romantic! I’ll be sure to tell my daughter.  He grasped the bag. Each of them tugged. The man’s pale eyes widened. Jess was suddenly sure the whole place smelled of death, even though the woman was fresh. Could he have noticed? Maybe he had, maybe he was hatching plans to turn her into the police. She couldn’t just let him take what he wanted. Vanish unremembered, like a summer storm. Like her father when she was eight. One moment, she said. While I print up your receipt.  She fetched the chloroform and the knife from the back. When she came back out, the man was stabbing the glowing screen of his phone, frowning. It turned out it was easy.  *** The two bodies lay side by side. The man’s sport jacket complimented the blue windbreaker. The air smelled of blood, which as far as Jess was concerned, was the best smell in the world. Jess removed each person’s shoes–scuffed sandals for the girl, shiny black wingtips for the man. His socks had holes, which made her a little sad. She tucked his wedding ring in her pocket. Might fetch a good price, she thought.  Jess settled in an armchair and watched them. Nothing would change, but that’s what she liked about death. It answered so many questions. Tomorrow, before they began to smell, she’d dispose of the bodies. She had a hacksaw, a plastic barrel. She wouldn’t mind the work, though it would be hard and messy, and she’d always remember these moments in the churchlike peace that only a body emptied of everything could grant.  Okay, mom, she said. You left me decades ago, but I fixed things for you. Now you have someone to love again. Forever and ever, amen. She thought maybe they both smiled. Just a little. She fell asleep and dreamed of chests brimming with gold rings, pearls, riches beyond imagining. She laughed and ran her fingers through the bounty. She shoved handfuls in her pockets and teetered heavily down the splintery planks of the ship, which wobbled, buffeted by massive white-tipped waves. She watched a shark tear ravenously at a school of fish. Their strange blood rippled through the gray sea. The shark swam away, sated. She waved; she didn’t want to see it go. The pirates watched but did not interfere, although they had curved swords at their waists and a glittery viciousness in their eyes. They probably don’t know I’m real, she thought. But she was the shark and the pirates and the doll and the woman and the man. She was everything, which made her nothing, and that was good. She awoke happy, even though she didn’t remember the dream. Not even a trace.