After Midnight

Nobody had come to Judy’s rescue. I was almost certain of that. I can’t explain exactly why, but I’d sensed from the start that we were alone in our clearing by the creek. I’d felt the solitude, the privacy. I’d never doubted it.

“Judy?” I asked. I didn’t call it out, but spoke in a normal voice. And knew she was near enough to hear me.

Probably hiding in the bushes or trees just beyond the table, not daring to move because she knows I’ll hear her.

“Where are you, Judy? It’s me. Alice. Are you all right? I’m sorry I ran off and left you, but…I thought you were dead. Somebody ambushed us. Do you remember that?” (I figured her memory might be fuzzy about a lot of stuff, because of being shot in the head, etc.) “You got shot and went down, and I ran for my life.”

I saw no movement in the darkness of the woods. I didn’t hear anyone, either.

“Then I came sneaking back and saw this awful woman. She had you on top of the table. She was beating you with something. I wanted to help you, but…I wouldn’t have stood a chance, you know? I mean, she had a gun. She would’ve shot me, just like she shot you.”

I stopped telling the story, and listened.

Nothing.

“She finally quit beating you and went away,” I said. “She ran into the woods. I followed her for a couple of minutes to make sure she was really leaving, then I came back to help you, but…Where are you?”

No answer.

I wondered whether she was already out of earshot, or unconscious again—or just didn’t believe me.

“It’s safe for now,” I told her. “But that woman might come back pretty soon. You’d better come out. I know you must be scared and confused—and in terrible pain—but if she comes back…Please, Judy! I’m scared. Let’s get out of here! I’ll drive you to the emergency room.”

Drive?

What if Judy wasn’t cowering in the darkness beyond the table or unconscious or sneaking deeper into the woods?

What if she was circling around me?

Going for her car!

I snatched my shirt off the bench, then whirled around and raced to the slope. I chugged my way up it, pumping hard with my arms, the pistol in one hand, the shirt in the other. The wet shirt slapped my side. My breasts leaped about wildly. Halfway up the slope, one of my loafers flew off. I didn’t dare stop for it.

At any moment, Judy might reach her car, climb in and drive away.

I knew it would happen.

It WON’T happen! Look what I did to her! How can she make it to the car? She can’t.

But she will.

I was doomed. I’d been doomed from the start of all this, and I’d known it, but I’d resisted.

In my mind, I heard the engine start. I heard it kick over again and again, roaring defeat at me.

But I didn’t hear it for real.

Not yet.

Dashing over the crest of the hill, I saw the vague shape of the car in the darkness ahead.

No sign of Judy.

Of course not. She was already behind the wheel, concealed in darkness behind the windshield, reaching for the ignition.

I dodged a picnic table and sprinted toward the car.

With every stride, I expected the headbeams to shoot out and blind me.

But they didn’t.

The engine didn’t turn over.

The headlights stayed dark.

Nothing happened.

Staggering to a halt, I ducked down a little and peered through the open window of the driver’s door.

Nobody there.

Nobody in the back seat, either.

With the last of my energy, I jogged in a circle around the car to make sure it was safe. Then I slipped the .22 into my pocket and pulled open the driver’s door. The car filled with light. Squinting, I dropped into the seat. The key was in the ignition. Judy must’ve left it there when we set out to search for Tony. I jerked the door shut and the light went out.

For a while, I just sat there streaming sweat and gasping for breath.

I could barely put my thoughts together, I was so pooped.

But I knew I’d lucked out. I’d gotten to the car first. Judy had lost her chance to drive away.

My skin itched from the heat and sweat. When I couldn’t stand it any longer, I rubbed myself with the shirt. It was still wet. It felt cool and wonderful.

I started feeling better about things.

Nobody ever said it would be easy, I told myself. It’s a tricky business, trying to get away with this sort of thing. There are bound to be setbacks.

By and large, I’d handled matters fairly well so far. I would’ve met with complete success if I hadn’t gone to Judy’s apartment by mistake.

Pretty big damn mistake.

Bigger for her than me. She’d be dying because of it.

I rubbed my face and chest again, then leaned sideways and used the shirt to wipe off the interior handle of the passenger door. I also did the window sill and dashboard. Then I sat up straight and wiped the steering wheel.

As I did that, I realized that one of my shoes was gone.

Gotta go find it.

Time’s a-wasting.

I pulled out the ignition key. With the key case in one hand and my shirt in the other, I climbed out of the car. Again, the light came on. In its glow, I saw the strap of Judy’s purse on the floor. She’d apparently shoved her purse underneath the driver’s seat.

I started to reach for the strap, then stopped myself.

What do I need her purse for? Just have to get rid of it later, like Tony’s wallet.

I would’ve been better off if I’d never touched Tony’s wallet.

That’s what got me into this.

Finding that paper with the wrong address.

So I decided to leave Judy’s purse untouched.

Standing in the V of the open door, I did some more mop-up with my shirt. Then I shut the door and wiped its outside handle.

I dropped Judy’s keys into a pocket of my cut-offs, then went around the car to take care of fingerprints I might’ve left on the outside of the passenger door.

The surface of the parking area was pavement littered by old leaves and twigs. I doubted that my bare foot was leaving any tracks. To make sure, though, I opened the passenger door. The interior light came back on, and spilled a yellow glow onto the pavement. I did a couple of tests with my bare foot. Nothing showed, so I shut the door and wiped it again and took off.

I headed back to the scene of Judy’s escape.

She’ll be down there, somewhere. Maybe trying to crawl away, or hiding in the bushes.

Maybe watching me.

About halfway down the slope, I found my shoe. I slid my foot into it. Then I put the shirt on. It stuck to my skin. I left it unbuttoned so air could get in.

About the next step I took, my shoe slipped on the wet grass. I started to drop backward, but caught my balance in time and stayed on my feet.

Close call, I thought. What if I’d fallen and really hurt myself? Bumped my head on a rock, or something, and got knocked out cold? Then I’d be the one in big trouble. Judy could come up here and finish me off. Or take her car keys and escape. Lucky thing…

Would she?

What if she saw me fall, tumble down the slope, and not get up? Would she come out of hiding?

She might.

Or she might figure it’s a trick.

I took a few more strides, then pretended to trip over a rock or something. Yelling, “AHHH!” as loud as I could, I windmilled my arms, stumbled a couple of times as if trying to regain my footing, then plunged headlong.

I wanted it to look real.

It suddenly was real.

I slammed against the ground. It knocked my wind out and seemed to kick me into the air. I flipped over. The ground kept battering me, shoving me along. I twisted and rolled and flopped, arms and legs flying, all the way to the bottom.

Like Judy after her fall down the same slope, I came to rest on my back.

History repeats itself.

At least I hadn’t been shot in the head.

I felt plenty bruised and scratched and battered, though. And I’d lost both shoes.

Plus the pistol.

I should’ve been able to feel its weight against my right thigh, but the pocket had an awful lightness.

So much, I thought, for another brilliant idea.

Now what?

I had two choices. Either forget the trick and go looking for the pistol, or stay on my back and pretend to be unconscious.

I felt vulnerable without the gun. But I could get along without it for a while. I didn’t need artillery for handling Judy.

Just stick with the plan for ten or fifteen minutes, I told myself. See what happens.

It might be a waste of time.

On the other hand, searching for her in the dark woods would probably be a waste of time, too. If she’d found herself a good hiding place, and didn’t make any noise, I’d hardly stand a chance of finding her. Unless I tripped over her, or something.

This way, at least, was restful.

Just don’t fall asleep, I warned myself.

There probably wasn’t much danger of that. Though I was worn out, I didn’t feel sleepy. I was too tense for that. And too uncomfortable. The tumble down the slope had bruised and scratched me. I felt small pains in a dozen places, and I itched in about a dozen more.

I ached to rub my injuries, scratch my itches.

But I couldn’t do it.

Judy might be watching.

Or so I thought, anyway, until she shrieked, “No!” into the night somewhere far away.

18

CRIES IN THE NIGHT

Either Judy, or someone else.

It had to be Judy, though. A woman’s voice, and coming from the right direction. Who else could it be?

If it was Judy, she’d missed my tumble down the slope and she wasn’t watching me now. My fall had roughed me up, but accomplished nothing. I got to my feet, wincing a couple of times.

Standing there, I searched my pockets. Tony’s wallet was still in my back pocket. I still had all the keys, too. Apparently, nothing had fallen out except the gun.

I wiped the sweat off my face and rubbed my hurts and itches and stared into the woods.

Nothing to see.

I heard the trees whispering quietly with the breeze. Birds and crickets and other forest sounds. But not another outcry.

Okay, I thought. What’s going on?

She’d shrieked like someone scared witless, or hurt, or both.

So, was it real or fake?

If fake, she must be trying to lure me into a trap. A gutsy move. A crazy move. Hell, I was bigger and tougher than Judy. I’d already beaten the snot out of her. And I had a gun. Her only real chance of survival was to avoid me.

But you never know with people. They do weird, stupid stuff sometimes. Especially when they’re scared. Maybe Judy thought she could out-smart me.

Maybe she’d figured out a great, flawless trap.

On the other hand, she might be in real trouble.

Either way, I didn’t have a choice. I had to go looking for her. And finish her off, unless somebody’d already saved me the trouble.

I wasn’t going anywhere, though, without the pistol.

I wanted to find my shoes, too, but they didn’t matter much. The .22 mattered plenty.

Turning away from the woods, I searched the grassy area around my feet, looking for the gun. I’d been aware of losing my shoes early in the fall, but didn’t have a clue as to when the gun had slipped out of my pocket.

It didn’t seem to be nearby, so I began to study the route of my fall. For the most part, the slope was clear of trees. A lot of moonlight got through. Before even starting to climb, I picked out half a dozen chunks of darkness. A couple of them would probably turn out to be my shoes. I saw nothing that might be the pistol, though.

I started trudging up the slope, taking it slowly, hunched over, my knees bent and my arms swaying. I must’ve looked like a kid playing elephant. It was a nice, relaxing posture. But I was too tired and hot to be comfortable. My shirt stuck to my back with sweat. My eyes stung. My face and chest itched with trickles of sweat.

I started out thinking the pistol would be the real problem. Because it was flat and so much smaller than the shoes, it might disappear in the grass. I even worried that I might not be able to find it at all.

But I found it first, only about fifteen feet up the slope. The way I was bent over with my arms swaying, I almost brushed it with my fingertips before seeing it. The pistol lay nestled in the thick grass. In the moonlight, its stainless steel finish looked gray like dirty snow.

I snatched it up.

Then I rubbed it against the front of my cut-offs to wipe off the dew from the grass.

Afraid of losing it again, I kept it in my hand.

A few minutes later, I came across one of the loafers. I slipped my foot into it and went looking for the other.

One shoe off and one shoe on…

“Help!”

This time, I recognized Judy’s voice. Or thought so, anyway. It’s how she might’ve sounded, squealing out a plea to be saved.

She’s gotta be in deep shit.

Or else a great actress.

But my guts told me this wasn’t faked.

So did my skin. Though burning hot and slick with sweat, I felt goosebumps spreading up my thighs and belly and breasts. The hairs on my arms stiffened. Prickles scurried up my back and the nape of my neck. My nipples tingled and got hard. Goosebumps crawled over my cheeks, my forehead. My scalp crawled.

It’s pretty much what happens every time I get a strong case of the creeps, the willies, the heebie-jeebies.

And I had them now.

Something about the sound of Judy’s cry for help, maybe. Or what it triggered in my imagination.

Something awful had happened to her.

Or someONE.

Something or someone worse than me.

Turning around slowly, being careful not to slip on the wet slope, I stared at the woods. There was nothing to see.

Judy’s cries had come from deeper in. The first had sounded nearer than the second. Was she running away from a pursuer? Or was she already caught, and being carried?

If he kills her, I’m in business.

But killing her was my job. It gave me a queer feeling to think of it being done by someone else.

Who? My prowler?

I hurried to find the other shoe. No more cries came from the woods while I hunted for it.

Is she already dead?

Did she get away?

This might sound odd, but I didn’t want either to be true.

Finally, I found the loafer. I slid my foot into it, then turned around and started making my way down the slope again—carefully. I’d found out the hard way that the slope was tricky and not as gentle as it seemed.

Safe at the bottom, I broke into a run. And ran like crazy until I came to the picnic table. There, I stopped and listened. Mostly, all I heard were my heartbeats and my hard breathing.

What’s he doing to her?

The sick bastard.

I thought about what he’d done to the glass door.

Might not even be him.

I stepped past the end of the table, took my usual route to the creek, and knelt in the water. Then I twisted around and sat down on the bottom. A tricky thing to pull off, one-handed. But I managed to do it and keep the pistol high and dry.

No, not because I was afraid of getting my ammo wet.

As a fan of mysteries and thrillers, I’ve read enough to figure out that most people who write them don’t know squat about firearms. (That goes double for the people who make movies and television shows.) One thing I know, and some of them don’t, is that ammo won’t get hurt by a little dip in the creek.

The reason I kept the pistol high was in case I needed it fast. I didn’t want to shoot it and find out, too late, that I had a barrel full of water. I wasn’t sure about a .22, but some guns can blow up if you pull a stunt like that.

(Anyway, I just wanted to make that clear. I don’t want you to read my book and think I’m one of those idiots who worries about a little water wrecking my ammunition.)

Okay.

So there I was, sitting in the creek and holding my pistol overhead while I rested and cooled off. The water sure felt good. Cool and smooth. With my left hand, I cupped some of it into my mouth.

And there I sat.

Not really wanting to move.

The water felt great, rushing against me. And it tasted great, too. Fresh and woodsy.

But I was wasting time.

Scared to move.

On my right, the woods loomed high, hiding the moonlight. A kingdom of darkness. It was where I needed to go. Judy was over in that direction.

But so was whatever horrible creature or person had made her shriek.

I didn’t want to go there.

I felt safe in the creek. And the area to my left seemed even safer. That’s where the picnic table was. The one I’d had Judy on. I could see a bit of it through the trees. In that same direction was the slope to the parking lot. And Judy’s parked car. And the roads out of the woods.

In that direction, nothing bad would happen to me.

I could even drive away in Judy’s car, leave it somewhere in town, and walk home.

I wanted to do it.

To put an end to all this. To stop being scared and tired and hurt. To go home and lock myself in my good, safe room above the garage and maybe never come out again.

I longed to do that, and forget all about Judy.

And save myself.

Whatever got her might get me.

Leaning forward, I lowered my shoulders and head into the creek.

I would’ve looked very odd to anyone watching me.

All they’d see was my arm sticking up, holding the pistol high. Like the Lady of the Lake with better weaponry.

I’ve got a gun, gang. What the hell am I scared of?

I stayed under for a while longer. Then my lungs started to ache, so I came up for air. And struggled to my feet. And trudged through the knee-deep water, my shirt clinging like someone else’s sodden skin, my shorts so wet and heavy that they hung low on my hips, ready to fall.

I climbed the bank on the side of the creek where the forest began. With the pistol clamped under my left armpit, I tugged my cut-offs up and tightened the belt. Then I took off my loafers, emptied them, and put them on again.

I was shivering slightly. No matter how hot the air is, it always feels chilly when you first come out of water. Also, I hadn’t gotten over being scared.

The pistol gave me enough courage to go on, but it didn’t make me fearless.

I was still vulnerable.

After all, a .22 doesn’t pack much punch.

And I’d never counted the rounds in the magazine, so I didn’t know how many cartridges were left. They were singlestacked, I knew that. Fully loaded, a magazine that size might hold about eight or ten.

I’d already fired one.

And maybe it hadn’t been fully loaded to start with.

I could find out how many rounds were in the gun. But not without unloading it. Which didn’t seem like a great thing to try. In the dark, I might drop a couple of cartridges and lose them on the ground. Or what if somebody came along while I stood there with a handful of loose ammo?

Doesn’t matter, anyway. When I run out, I run out.

Let it be a surprise.

I started walking into the dark woods, keeping the pistol down close to my side, raising my left arm in front of me for protection against crashing into tree trunks or low branches. I walked slowly, unsure of where my feet might land. Very soon, the chill from the water went away. The air again felt hot and heavy. Here, surrounded by trees, I felt no breeze at all.

I walked without knowing where to find Judy.

Just that her cries had come from deeper in the woods, somewhere east of the creek.

I walked slowly in that direction and tried not to make much noise.

19

THE SEARCH

Soon, I began to think it was a waste of time. I might search till dawn and never find Judy.

How could I find her? Miller’s Woods went on for miles, and she might be almost anywhere. Maybe I’d already missed her. I might’ve walked on past her and left her behind. With any step I took, she could’ve been a hundred yards away to the north or south. Or sprawled unseen in the darkness five feet away.

It would take a huge stroke of luck for me to find her.

And maybe that wouldn’t be so lucky.

Maybe I’d be luckier not finding her.

If she’d faked the outcries, a trap was waiting for me. If she hadn’t faked them, I might have to face whatever had torn those shrieks out of her.

Even if I couldn’t find Judy, it might find me.

It or he.

Probably a he.

Most monsters are.

At any moment, he might jump me from behind. Take me down and drag me away. Do things to me so I would cry out in terror and pain just like Judy.

The pistol might not do much good if he caught me by surprise. Or if there turned out to be more than one guy.

I knew what it was like. All of it. To be jumped from behind. To be outnumbered. To be beaten and tortured. To be raped, gang-banged, sodomized and all the rest.

No, not all the rest.

I hadn’t been killed.

Not yet.

I’d been left for dead, but not killed.

I’ll tell you about it. I hadn’t planned on getting into stuff like this, but what the hell. Why should I keep it a secret?

It happened when I was eighteen, and got a flat tire on a highway outside Tucson. I was alone. Alone, I tried to change the flat. But three guys in a pickup truck stopped to “help.” They helped me, all right. Drove me off into the desert and spent all night “doing” me, doing everything that popped into their sick ugly heads. By the time they were done with the fun, I apparently seemed to be dead. So they dug a grave for me, rolled me into it and covered me up. Then they drove off and left me. I would’ve ended up dead for real, but I’d landed at the bottom of the grave with an air pocket under my face. I also would’ve ended up dead if they hadn’t been such lazy bastards. They’d dug the grave too shallow, hadn’t bothered to pile some heavy rocks on top, and so I managed to crawl out. Then I was picked up by a family of off-roaders who happened to come along in a Jeep.

You might think nothing would scare me, after being through a deal like that.

But guess what.

It’s the opposite. Everything scares me.

You’ve probably heard the saying, “What doesn’t kill me makes me stronger.” It might be true, as far as it goes. I have gotten stronger and stronger from all the bad stuff. But I’ve also gotten more and more afraid.

So even as I crept through the dark woods hoping to find Judy, I shivered with fear and felt ready to scream and wanted to run for home.

If the fear wasn’t bad enough—and it was plenty—I also had accidents. I was trudging through rough wilderness, not hiking on a path through a park. All I could see were a few bits and pieces of moonlight, dim gray blurs that might be anything, and blackness that might be nothing.

I hated walking into the black places. I might drop into a pit or step on a body or get leaped on by a madman. And the gray places weren’t much better.

Three or four times, I tripped and fell down.

Twice, I scraped the top of my head against low limbs.

Countless times, I was whipped across the face by unseen branches or bushes.

Only once did I get the real shaft. Striding through a black place, I walked straight into the end of a large, broken limb. I never saw it coming and didn’t even slow down. Just plowed into it. It slammed into me above my belly button. It probably would’ve plunged all the way through and killed me if it hadn’t been so thick. Instead of skewering me, though, the branch gouged me, caved me in, punched my breath out and knocked me backward. I fell sprawling.

For a while, I twisted and squirmed and couldn’t breathe.

When I was able to catch a breath, I curled onto my side and clutched my belly. The wound felt raw and seering hot. Not very deep, but awfully painful. I held it with both hands and cried.

Finally, I was ready to get up. I found the pistol on the ground beside me, then struggled to my feet.

Judy no longer mattered much.

I really had no hope of finding her, anyway.

And so what? With or without me, she probably wouldn’t leave the woods alive. Not unless she’d faked those cries, which I doubted.

Even if she gets away, I told myself, she doesn’t know who I am or where I live.

She knows my face.

So what? Unless she bumps into me at the supermarket…

What if she describes me to a police artist?

That could be bad. Sometimes, those drawings turn out to look exactly like the suspect. I might be watching the TV news in a few days and end up staring at my own face. Most of the people in Chester would see it, too. Even though I pretty much kept to myself, I wasn’t a total recluse. I’d be recognized, for sure.

On the other hand, maybe Judy wouldn’t be able to describe me. Though we’d spent time together in her well-lighted apartment, she hadn’t gotten a good look at me after I shot her in the head and pounded the daylights out of her with a stick. It’s very common for head injuries to screw up your short-term memory.

That’s what I’ve read, anyway.

In my own experience, I’ve always been able to remember every detail no matter where I got injured, in the head or otherwise.

I wouldn’t have minded a little memory loss, here and there. Especially if I got to pick which memories to dump.

Memories can be a real pain.

While I was thinking about all this, I kept on sneaking through the woods. I’m not sure, though, whether I was looking for Judy or for a way out. I just kept moving along, trying not to get hurt again. I still couldn’t stand up straight or take a deep breath because of ramming into the branch.

Every now and then, I imagined how it would feel to catch a branch that way in the middle of my face. That was almost enough to make me sit down and wait for dawn. But I kept moving, anyway.

I needed to finish with Judy and get back to Serena and Charlie’s house before daylight.

The lawn might have some Tony on it. The saber was still hidden in the bushes. I needed to do a whole slew of other chores, too, like make sure nobody would ever hear Tony’s voice on the answering machine, and burn his wallet and…

Firelight!

In the distance ahead of me and off to my left, I saw bushes and low-hanging tree branches that trembled with yellow-orange light.

This is it! Has to be!

I made my way slowly toward the glow, trying to be quiet.

Let this be it! Let it be Judy!

I walked as close as I dared to the firelit clearing, then crawled even closer and peered through a gap in the bushes.

And found her.

Found a tent, a campfire, and Judy.

The green tent was pitched a few yards to the right of the fire. The fire, burning brightly, cast its glow far enough to shine on Judy.

Nobody else seemed to be there.

But someone belonged to the campsite. Someone had pitched the tent, built the fire, and captured Judy. Someone had put her this way.

She stood under a tree limb, her arms high, her wrists tied together. The rope went over the top of the limb. I couldn’t see where it came down, but the other end must’ve been tied to a tree somewhere behind her. She wasn’t dangling, or standing on tiptoes, but she didn’t have enough rope to let her slouch. She looked as if she were stretching for the ground. Her back was arched. Her skin was pulled so taut that all her ribs showed. Her breasts were drawn high. Her belly looked flat and long. She stood with her legs pressed tightly together. Her feet, flat against the ground, weren’t tied.

When I’d left her on the picnic table, she’d been wearing her shoes and socks, her skirt, and her blouse. The skirt had been rucked up around her belly and her blouse had been pulled half off, but she’d still had them on. Now, they were gone.

All she wore now was a hat and a gag.

An old, felt hat covered her head all the way down to the eyebrows. Her upraised arms pinned the brim up against its sides. The strange hat must’ve belonged to her attacker. Maybe he’d jammed it on her head to hold a bandage against her gunshot wound. Or maybe he liked how she looked in it.

The hat made her look like some sort of beautiful hillbilly girl. Maybe the Feds had stripped and tortured her, trying to make her give up the location of her moonshine still.

Of course, she couldn’t tell any secrets with the gag in her mouth. It looked like a red bandana. The sort of thing you might see tied around the forehead of Willy Nelson or around the neck of a too-cute-for-words dog. In this case, it was stuck in Judy’s mouth and tied somewhere behind her neck.

A gag like that could suffocate someone. But Judy seemed to be okay. From where I watched, I could see her ribcage expanding and contracting. She was able to breathe, if only through her nose.

Her eyes were shut. She couldn’t be unconscious, though, and still stand that straight and rigid and hold her head up.

Probably just resting.

She’d had a hard night.

Mostly because of me. Well, all because of me, in the sense that I’d dragged her into the whole mess.

Just goes to show what a wrong address can do.

But I’d also been the one who shot her and beat her with a stick. From my hiding place behind the bush, I could see plenty of bruises and scratches and swollen places on her body. Most of them had been put there by me.

Maybe all of them.

Some bastard had grabbed her, brought her here, stripped her, tied her under the tree, shoved that silly hat onto her head and gagged her mouth, but I wasn’t sure he’d hurt her.

Don’t forget the shrieks.

He’d probably raped her. He must’ve raped her. You don’t grab a gal and strip her naked and hang her by a rope that way, and not rape her. Logic tells you that.

I couldn’t tell by looking, though.

This may sound funny, but I hoped he hadn’t done it.

Judy didn’t deserve that kind of treatment. She was a beautiful, fine, sweet girl, and I liked her. I never saw her as my enemy. Only as my problem.

She could “finger” me.

So she had to go.

But not like this?

I hated it to be like this.

But in part of my mind, I knew it was perfect! This was like a best-case scenario. I wouldn’t be murdering her at all. And therefore, nobody could ever pin it on me. They’d nail this bastard for it, or nobody. And they’d likely figure he’s the one who chopped Tony into little pieces, too.

Because of this guy, whoever he might be, suspicion would never fall on me. I ought to be cheering him on.

But I couldn’t.

I didn’t want him to rape her, kill her, touch her.

Weird, huh?

I’m not sure how to explain it. Maybe I’m not even sure why I felt that way. It wasn’t that I wanted to save her, or spare her the pain, or anything like that.

I mean, I did and I didn’t.

I would’ve loved to spare her, but she had to go.

The thing is, I had to be the one to do it.

Not this guy, whoever he might be.

Not this stranger, this interloper, this thief.

She was mine, not his.

20

CHOICES

Opening her eyes, Judy stared straight at me. I caught my breath. My heart pounded faster.

Can she see me?

I didn’t think so. I was well hidden in the bushes.

If I can see her, she can see me.

Maybe so, I thought. But I still doubted that she’d spotted me. She didn’t react, just stood there the same as before, stretched tall, her skin agleam in the firelight.

I raised the pistol and took aim.

Judy still didn’t react, so she was obviously unaware of me and the gun.

I aimed for her heart.

She was about twenty-five or thirty feet away. That’s farther than it sounds, when it comes to hitting a target with such a small handgun.

I could certainly hit her. But where wasn’t certain at all.

Shooting for her heart, I might just as easily hit her in the neck or shoulder or breast or stomach. I might only nick her in one side or the other.

The chances of killing her with the first shot were slim.

It might take three or four rounds to do the job.

Then what would I have left for the guy who’d brought her here?

And where the hell was he, anyway?

Asleep in the tent? Maybe. Or maybe wandering the woods to gather firewood.

Or sneaking up on me.

When that little idea popped into my head, I got goosebumps again. They went scurrying everywhere. I brought the gun back close to my body and dropped onto one knee. Twisting from side to side, I checked behind me.

Nothing but darkness.

And I couldn’t even see the darkness very well. The campfire had ruined my night vision.

My hearing was okay, though. I heard nobody trying to sneak up on me.

Doesn’t mean he isn’t.

I turned forward again and studied the campsite. Judy’s head was now bowed and her eyes seemed to be shut. Maybe she’d fallen asleep or passed out.

Other than that, everything looked the same.

I stared at the tent. It was about as high as my chest (if I’d been standing up) and maybe seven or eight feet long. Big enough for one or two guys sleeping lengthwise. No light seemed to be on inside it. With that kind of material—nylon, I guess—the light would’ve seeped right through. From where I stood, I couldn’t see whether or not the front was open.

The longer I watched the tent, the more certain I felt that Judy’s attacker must be inside. Cozy in his sleeping bag, and fast asleep. After all, he’d had a long and busy night. And that’s what guys do after they’ve screwed you—they sleep.

If he was asleep in the tent, I could do whatever I pleased.

But what should I do?

1. Kill them both?

2. Kill him and rescue Judy?

3. Avoid him and rescue Judy?

4. Avoid him and kill Judy?

5. Avoid them both, go home, and hope for the best?

Other possibilities entered my mind. Most of them involved trying to capture the guy, and what I might do with him afterward. Or what Judy and I might do to him. Or what the three of us might do together.

That stuff didn’t seem practical, though.

Too risky.

Basically, I had only the five realistic choices. I gave them a lot of thought. Each had merits and disadvantages. After a while, though, I managed to rule out the plans that involved killing the man.

You don’t want to kill your fall guy.

That whittled the choices down to three. Should I kill Judy, rescue her, or go home?

If I went home, the guy would still have her as a prisoner to torture, rape and murder as he wished. From a purely logical standpoint, I couldn’t ask for anything better. But I hated the idea. He had no right to her. She was mine, not his.

Which didn’t seem like a very good argument.

I mean, this was supposed to be about my survival. If the guy kills her, I’m home free. I’d be a fool to interfere just because of some bizarre emotional thing about Judy.

The logic nearly convinced me to leave her.

But then I found a fairly good argument against it.

What if he doesn’t kill her?

It seemed ridiculous, at first. A guy in his position had to finish Judy off. You can’t let a girl live after this sort of thing. She’ll tell on you.

But something might go wrong.

Maybe he doesn’t have what it takes to finish her off. Or what if she escapes? Or maybe somebody comes along and scares him away or arrests him or…who knows? I could think up plenty of scenarios.

Hell, I’d gotten away a few times myself. I’d gotten out of tougher jams than this one Judy was in.

If I could do it, she could, too. She might not be as tough as me, but she was likely smarter.

Anyway, I just couldn’t count on the guy killing her. And that gave me the excuse I’d been looking for. The option of walking away was no good.

That left me with two choices. Do I kill her or rescue her?

Judy obviously needed to be killed. And I should do it quietly, with a rock. But should I do it here, or “rescue” her and take her somewhere else to do it?

If I did it here, the guy would still have her body. I didn’t like certain aspects of that, but I really liked the aspect that he might get caught with it.

On the other hand, if I “rescued” her, we could go somewhere else and have plenty of privacy. I liked the idea of that. I liked it a lot. But disliked the possibility that she might escape from me.

Whereas she wouldn’t stand a chance of escape if I walked over and bashed her head in while she dangled there.

It was a hard decision.

I kept going back and forth.

I couldn’t make up my mind.

So finally I decided not to decide. I would play it by ear.

In the clearing, Judy still hung with her head down and her eyes shut. But the campfire had dwindled. Her skin no longer shimmered so brightly with the golden light. She looked darker now, and less distinct.

If I waited a while longer, the fire might dwindle down to nothing and I would have darkness on my side.

Then again, I might be running out of night.

I’d lost track of time, but figured it had to be after three o’clock in the morning. Maybe even after four. Waiting any longer would be foolish.

Carefully, I stood up. My body felt stiff and sore, but I managed to rise without groaning or making any other sound. With the pistol in my right hand, I crept away from the clearing. Then I slowly circled around to the other side, staying in the darkness. Finally, I approached the campsite from behind Judy.

The fire had dwindled even lower. Judy was little more than a dark shape hanging below the limb, a silhouette against the fire’s dim glow.

There was still no sign of the man who had put her there.

From my new position, I could see the front of the tent. Its flaps were shut. I figured he must be inside.

Fast asleep.

Standing motionless for a while, I watched and listened. Then I moved in with slow, gentle steps. Though I tried to be silent, a little noise couldn’t be helped. The ground was covered with old leaves and twigs. The leaves sounded like wads of paper crinkling and crunching under my shoes. Some twigs broke like toothpicks. Others snapped like pencils.

I kept my eyes on Judy. She never flinched or raised her head, never reacted in any way to the sounds of my approach.

When I was only a few strides away from her, I realized that I didn’t have a rock yet.

Stopping, I squatted and studied the ground. There were old, dead branches scattered around, but no rocks. None nearby, anyway.

Too bad I didn’t have the one from the creek.

It’s not that there were no rocks in sight. I saw a whole bunch of them. But they were out in the middle of the campsite. Three or four boulders, large enough to sit on, were arranged near the fire. I couldn’t really use one of those. But dozens of smaller rocks, stacked about a foot high, formed a low wall around the fire.

Most of them looked to be the right size for pounding out Judy’s brains.

Most of them would probably be hot, too. But there had to be some that wouldn’t burn my fingers, and I only needed one.

To get it, of course, I would need to abandon the darkness and enter the clearing. Stride out past Judy. Search for my rock out in the open, directly in front of the tent.

Why not?

Judy’s head was down and the tent flaps were shut.

Besides, her mouth was gagged. Even if she saw me, she couldn’t cry out.

Also, I had the pistol. If things went sour, I could start shooting people.

Before going anywhere, I made sure the safety was off.

The gun shook like crazy in my hand. I was plenty scared. But this wasn’t the creepy sort of fear that gives you goosebumps. This was the kind that makes your heart pound like a club, makes you shake like a lunatic and sweat like a glass full of ice in a heat wave. It makes your legs feel so weak you think they’ve decided, on their own, to keep you from walking into trouble.

But I made mine walk.

There’s this thing about me. Maybe you’ve already noticed it. I’m the sort of gal who gets things done. I’ll do almost anything, no matter how dangerous or messy or awful it might be, if I figure it’s a thing that needs doing.

I wanted a rock, so I made myself go for it.

Staying about five feet away from Judy’s left side, I walked softly past her. She just stood there, arms high, head down. Except for her breathing, she didn’t seem to move at all.

When I was in front of her, I looked back. I’d expected a better view, but the flames had sunk very low. She was bathed in a murky glow that trembled with shadows as if I were looking at her under water.

I couldn’t even tell whether her eyes were shut.

But she didn’t act as if she saw me.

I kept walking.

I glanced at the tent, scanned the clearing ahead of me, checked over each shoulder, eyed the tent again, and several times twisted around for a brief look at Judy.

And wished I could see her better.

Darkness was good for sneaking around, and I should’ve been grateful for it. But I’d expected more firelight. I wanted to be able to see what I was doing—and see Judy.

So when I reached the fire, I crept around to the other side, crouched down by a small pile of wood, and started adding sticks to the shaky remains of the flames.

21

A HELL OF A GAL

Within a few seconds, the fire grew brighter. I added more sticks, and larger ones. They crackled and snapped, crawling with flames.

As I built up the fire, I kept watch on the front of the tent. It stayed shut. No light or sounds came from inside.

I added larger sticks and chunks of branches.

It seemed crazy, even to me. Had I lost my mind? Did I want to get caught?

Who knows?

I kept telling myself that nobody wakes up just because a fire outside the tent is getting larger.

But it was getting louder, too. A lot more snapping and crackling. And every so often, a burning stick would go off with a bam!

I refused to stop adding wood, though, until the fire was large and bright.

Bright enough for its light to spread over Judy.

When her skin gleamed like molten gold, I stood up. I started to step around the fire, then realized I’d forgotten to grab a rock.

Bending over, I patted a few of the rocks along the top of the fire circle. They all felt hot enough to scorch my fingers.

Neat play.

If I’d been taking care of business, I would’ve found one before building up the fire.

Too late, now.

But the far side of the wall wasn’t being lapped by flames, so I hurried over there. Sure enough, several of the rocks were only mildly warm.

After switching the pistol to my left hand, I used my right to pick up one I liked. It was shaped like a large wedge of pie, and must’ve weighed three or four pounds. Perfect.

On my way over to Judy, I turned around completely a couple of times. The clearing, now alive with firelight, looked deserted. Nobody seemed to be peering out at us from the woods. The tent was dark, its flaps still shut.

Judy’s head still hung down. She didn’t seem to know I was there.

I slipped the pistol into my pocket, held the rock behind my rump so she wouldn’t be able to see it, and walked up to her.

Where my shadow fell on Judy, her shine vanished. I stepped sideways enough to let the firelight reach her.

Her skin was so sweaty she looked as if she’d been rubbed with oil.

“Judy?” I whispered.

She didn’t stir.

I slid my left hand gently up her side. She was slick and smooth and hot.

“Judy?” I asked, a little louder.

She still didn’t respond. My hand was just below her armpit, so that’s where I patted her a few times.

“Judy. Wake up. It’s me.”

Nothing. So I gave her a good, solid smack in the same place. Her breasts lurched. With a gasp, she jerked her head up. She looked into my eyes.

“It’s okay,” I said. “I’m here to save you.”

Her eyes flicked from side to side, studying me. She moaned into her gag.

I glanced over my shoulder to make sure nobody was coming. Then I faced Judy again and went into my routine. “I thought you were dead,” I told her. “Somebody ambushed us and you went down. Do you remember?”

She shook her head slightly from side to side.

“I ran away. But you were gone when I came back. So I’ve been looking for you. I’ve been searching all over. I had no idea…Then I saw the firelight. Just hang on, I’ll get you out of here.”

She nodded, moaning again.

“I’ll take the gag off, but you’ve gotta be quiet.”

Keeping the rock out of sight, I reached up with my left hand and tried to work the bandana loose. It was too tight. So I stepped around behind her, set the rock down on the ground, and used both hands to work on the knot.

Why was I even bothering?

Why not just bash her head open and be done with it?

Maybe for the same reason I’d wasted time building up the fire. Whatever reason that might’ve been.

Just to delay things? To put off the moment when I would have to kill her?

Maybe.

How should I know? I’m not a shrink.

All I know is that I needed to take her gag off. After a minute or two, the knot came loose. I untied it and slipped the bandana out of her mouth. I stuffed it into my pocket, then picked up the rock and stepped around to her front.

She was taking deep breaths through her open mouth like someone who’d been held underwater way too long.

“Are you okay?” I whispered.

She nodded, and kept on taking huge breaths.

“Who did this to you?” I asked.

“Don’t…know.”

“You don’t know?”

“It’s all…dark. Blank.”

“Do you remember how you got here?”

Her head shook slightly.

“Or who beat you up?”

“No.”

“Or tied you like this?”

“Just…we were walking. You and me. Looking for Tony. And then…I don’t know. Somebody must’ve…brought me here.”

“But you don’t have any idea who?”

“Did Tony?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” I told her. “I never saw who did it, either. But somebody shot you and then must’ve carried you here. Maybe it was Tony. Do you think he would shoot you?”

“I don’t know. Yeah. Maybe. He was awfully…crazy about me.”

“Does he own a gun?”

“Yeah.

“Maybe it was Tony,” I said. “Do you think he’s in the tent over there?”

“Don’t know.”

“He might be,” I told her. “I’m pretty sure someone’s in it.”

“Oh, God.”

She sounded frightened.

“Don’t worry. I’ll get you out of here.”

“Hurry, okay? Please?”

“Tell me if he comes out.”

She nodded.

“Tell me if anyone comes out. We don’t know for sure it’s Tony.”

“Okay.”

“I’ll have to untie you.”

“Okay.”

Not wanting to set the rock down again, I slipped it underneath my shirttail and shoved a corner of it down inside the right rear pocket of my shorts.

Then I reached high with both arms. As I stepped in against Judy, the front brim of her hat shoved me in the face. “Let’s get rid of this,” I whispered, and gently lifted the hat off her head.

She winced.

“Sorry.”

“It’s okay.”

Her hair looked wet. Shiny golden curls were matted flat against her scalp. If there was blood, I couldn’t see any. But another red bandana, folded into a pad, was clinging to the side of her head above her ear. Her ear had a crusty nick on top. The pistol sight must’ve done that.

Turning away, I gave the hat a fling. It sailed across the firelit darkness and landed in some nearby bushes.

Just as I faced Judy again, the makeshift bandage lost its grip and fell. It dropped softly onto her shoulder. I stuffed it into a pocket, then looked closely at her gunshot wound.

The bullet had taken an upward course, gouging a path through her hair and scalp. The furrow looked shallow and about half an inch high. The hair around it was stained a rusty color, but the wound didn’t seem to be bleeding anymore.

“You were really lucky,” I whispered.

“I don’t feel so lucky.”

“It just nicked you.”

“It hurts like crazy.”

“You’re lucky you aren’t dead.”

“I feel like I’ve got the worst hangover in history.”

“Must’ve been the beer.”

“Sure,” she said. And a corner of her mouth tilted upward, trembling. I guess it was supposed to be a smile. The other corner of her mouth, red and swollen from when I’d worked her over with the stick, didn’t move at all.

“We’ll get you some aspirin,” I told her. “But first we have to get you out of here.” Reaching for the rope around her wrists, I leaned forward. Our bodies met. I couldn’t help that. It was necessary if I wanted to work on the rope. My shirt was open. We were bare against each other except for my shorts.

“Sorry about this,” I whispered.

“It’s fine.” When she said that, I felt her breath against my lips. I was slightly taller than Judy, but her head was tipped back. Every time she exhaled or spoke, soft air brushed my lips and entered my mouth.

Our difference in size made her breasts level with mine. Our nipples met. Hers were hard, too.

“Scared?” I asked.

“Yeah.”

“Same here. But don’t worry. I’ll get you out of this.”

“Hurry, okay?”

“I’m trying. Where are your clothes?”

“I don’t know.”

“Maybe they’re in the tent.”

“Yeah.”

“Unless he burnt them. Or maybe he left them in the woods somewhere.”

“I…they’re just gone. I don’t know where. I was like this when I came to.”

“This is a tough knot,” I told her. Which was sort of a lie. I was only fiddling with the thing, not really trying to undo it.

“You can get it, can’t you?” Judy asked. She sounded worried.

“I’ll get it.”

“What if he comes out?”

“Just give me a warning. I’ll take care of him.”

“But he has a gun.”

“He does?” I asked, forgetting.

Judy hesitated a moment. Then she said, “He must have one. He shot me, didn’t he?”

“Yeah. I forgot about that for a second. My God, if he comes out with a gun, we’ve had it.”

“Maybe you oughta run and try to get help.”

“And leave you here? No way. We’re in this together. You and me, honey.”

Murmuring, “Thanks,” she eased her head forward. Her cheek brushed against my jaw. Then she rested her face against the side of my neck. “You’re risking your life for me,” she whispered.

“I’m a hell of a gal,” I told her.

“Yeah,” she said. “You are.”

A few moments later, I told her, “This knot’s really giving me trouble. I can hardly hold my arms up.” With that, I lowered them and put them around her. “Don’t worry, I’m not quitting. I just need to rest for a minute.” I gave her a gentle hug. She winced and stiffened. “Sorry. Did that hurt?”

“Yeah, a little.”

“He must’ve really done a number on you.”

“I guess so. I don’t even know what he did. But I’m…awfully sore. All over. Inside, too.”

“The dirty bastard.”

“He’d better not’ve made me pregnant.”

“Don’t worry about it. If we don’t get you out of here, it won’t matter.”

“Trying to cheer me up?”

“How am I doing?” I asked.

“A lousy job.”

I gave her rump a pat, then said, “I’d better get back to work.” Reaching high again, I started to fool with the knot.

“If you get me out of this,” she whispered, “I’ll owe you my life.”

“Forget about it,” I said.

“I’ll do anything for you.”

“Anything?”

“Anything.”

22

HERE COMES TROUBLE

“Okay,” I said. But was she serious? She sure sounded serious, all right. Not only about doing “anything” for me, but about her memories of what had happened to her.

Her lack of memories.

But what if she was lying?

What if she remembered everything?

“What’s wrong?” Judy whispered.

“Huh?”

“You’re suddenly…all tense. I can feel it.”

“It’s the knot,” I said. “It’s too tight.” Shaking my head, I let go of the rope. I put my arms around her.

“Are you quitting?” she asked. She sounded scared like a little kid in the dark.

“No. No way. I’ll never quit on you. I just have to figure out another way.”

“What about the other end of the rope?” she asked. “He tied it to a tree behind me.” She went rigid. I suddenly knew exactly what she’d meant about me going all tense. She felt as if a live current had zipped through her body. But hardly missing a beat, she said, “Maybe it’ll be easier. Why don’t you go over and give it a try?”

“You did see him,” I said, letting go of her and taking a step backward.

She shook her head. “I didn’t see anyone. All I know is that it’s tied to a tree back there. I didn’t see who did it, or when, or anything. I turned around and saw it there, that’s all.”

“What are you so nervous about?”

“What do you think? Jeez, Alice. If we don’t get out of here, that guy’s gonna come out of his tent and kill both of us.”

“Is he?”

“Yes! What do you think is going on?”

I put my hands on her sides and said, “Why don’t you tell me?”

She stared into my eyes. She was breathing hard again, her ribs rising and falling under my open hands. I could feel tremors running through her.

“Do you think I did this to myself?” she whispered.

“No, of course not. But I think you know more than you’re telling me.”

“Look, just get me down. Please. I don’t care about anything else. I don’t care what you did. I just want down from here before he…”

“Tell me the truth,” I said. “The truth shall set thee free.”

“You shot me. Okay? Then you put me up on the picnic table and…I don’t know what. You were doing stuff to me. And then you went at me with a stick or something. I think you knocked me out with it. When I woke up, you were gone. So I climbed off the table and hid in the bushes. And then later I ran for my life. I kept running till he caught me. Now will you get me down from here? Please? I don’t know why you did any of that stuff, and I don’t care. I’ll never tell anyone. I promise. It’s just between you and me, okay? Just get me out of here.”

“You lied about everything,” I muttered. My fingers ached from digging into her ribcage, but I didn’t let go.

“I meant it about owing you,” she said. “I meant that. Get me out of here and I’ll do anything for you. I’ll give you all my money, everything I own. I’ll go with you. I’ll live with you. I’ll be your slave. I’ll be your lover. Whatever you want. Anything. Just get me out of here.”

“What makes you think I want any of that?” I asked.

“Don’t you?” It sounded more like a challenge than a question.

“I’d like to have the truth,” I said. “How’s that? How about the truth right now?”

“Like what?”

“What about this guy?” I asked. “Who is he?”

“I don’t know. I don’t want to know. He’s horrible.”

“More horrible than me?”

“You’re not so bad. When you’re not trying to kill me.”

“Haven’t lost your sense of humor.”

“Just get me away from him. Please. I’ll never tell on you. I promise. Cross my heart and hope to die.”

“Nobody keeps their word anymore.”

“I do.”

“That’s a good one, coming from a liar.”

“I’m telling the truth now,” she said. “If you get me away from this guy, you’ll never regret it. I’ll never do anything to hurt you. Never. I’ll never say a word against you. I’ll lie for you. I’ll take blame. I’ll do whatever it takes. I swear to God.”

“What’d he do to you?”

“We don’t have time. Come on, Alice. If he wakes up…”

“Does he have a gun?”

“I don’t know.”

“How did he get you?”

“He jumped me from behind. I’ll tell you everything later, okay? We haven’t got time for this. You’ve gotta untie me. Please!”

“Shhh. Raise your voice, and you’ll wake him up.”

“Maybe I should,” she blurted. “Maybe I will! Stop screwing around and get me down from here!”

“Shut up!”

“Get me down!”

I clamped her left nipple between my thumb and forefinger and twisted it. She flinched and writhed. Breath hissed out around her teeth. “Just shut up,” I told her.

She jerked her head up and down.

“Now, tell me about our friend in the tent. I take it he’s not Tony.”

“No,” she said, and panted for air.

“Who is he?”

“I don’t know.”

“What does he look like?”

“Big.”

“Big? What’s big?”

“He is.”

“How big?”

“I don’t know. Don’t just keep…Do you want him to catch us?”

“He doesn’t scare me,” I said.

“Then you’re dumber than you look.”

I gave her a very hard pinch and twist. She cried out and squirmed. Then, gasping for air, she blurted, “You stupid bitch, now you’ve done it. He’s gonna come out!”

“I’m trembling.”

“You oughta be! We’ll be next.”

“Huh?”

“He’s got a body in the tent with him. Some dead woman. He eats her.”

“What?”

“He eats a dead woman in his tent!”

I didn’t like the sound of that.

But I didn’t have time to give it much thought, because I heard the tent flaps whap open behind me.

Letting go of Judy, I spun around. The weight of the pistol slapped my left thigh. A good thing, since it reminded me that I had it in the wrong pocket.

I went for it left-handed as this guy crawled out of the tent.

In spite of Judy’s description, I still expected him to be my prowler.

But he wasn’t.

My prowler was sleek and handsome.

Not a fat, bald, drooling slob.

He really was drooling, too. Slobbering all over the place as he struggled to his feet.

Grunting.

Naked.

Filthy with old blood that looked brown and crusty.

Coated with curly, filthy hair all the way down from his shoulders to his feet.

Only one part wasn’t hairy. It jutted out in front of him, so big he was getting drool on it.

He lumbered toward me, hunched over, his arms outspread as if he wanted to give me a bear hug. But he had a knife in one hand, a hatchet in the other.

No kidding.

They didn’t look any too clean, either.

He grunted and laughed as he picked up some speed and charged at me.

You’ve gotta be kidding!

I had this urge to laugh. But what came out was a scream. Behind me, Judy screamed, too.

This might’ve been hilarious in a movie.

I mean, the guy was such a monstrosity! It crossed my mind that all this was some sort of a gag. But I figured it must be real.

I forced my eyes away from him just long enough to glimpse a shadowy body inside his tent. I couldn’t be sure, but it looked like a woman. And it looked dead, to me.

I started firing.

Better late than never. The deal is, I’d had a little trouble with the pistol. I began to go for it when the guy first came crawling out of the tent. But it was down at the bottom of my pocket, and I had to drag it out with my left hand. I’m a righty. So after I got the pistol out, I spent a few moments switching it to my right hand. Only after that did I start pumping bullets into him.

I pulled the trigger fast.

BAM-BAM-BAM-BAM-BAM!

But he didn’t go down.

He was backlit by the fire, so I couldn’t see where I was hitting him. I had to be hitting him, though. I’m an okay shot and this was close range and he was a large target charging straight at me. How could I miss a thing like that?

I couldn’t, that’s how.

I was hitting him, all right. But the little .22s weren’t doing the job.

In another second, he’d be on me. I had Judy at my back, so I dodged sideways, holding fire. He tried to follow me, but he was too big and clumsy. He couldn’t change course in time.

Judy kicked out at him. She was probably trying for his nuts. I heard the smack sound of her bare foot meeting his skin, but he didn’t cry out or drop.

He plowed into her.

His body slammed against Judy and crashed through her, knocking a grunt out of her as he sent her flying backward and upward, twisting at the end of her rope. Stumbling past where she’d been, he managed to turn around and start coming after me again.

Judy came swinging toward his back like Tarzan on the attack. But I don’t think she meant to do it. She was at the mercy of the rope and the whims of motion.

She meant what came next, though.

As the guy staggered toward me, Judy raised a slim bare leg and kicked him in the back of his head. She rebounded away from him, spinning wildly.

He grunted, stumbled forward and fell to his knees.

I ran up to him, fired a shot into the top of his shiny head, then pranced backward out of reach, not sure what to expect.

What I hoped was that he’d drop like a sledge-hammered bull.

But instead, he squealed and started crawling forward, trying to get up.

I glanced at the pistol. If I’d been out of ammo, the slide would’ve been locked back. It was forward. Which meant I had at least one more round.

There might be a couple, but I could only count on one.

So I wasn’t eager to use it.

As he stumbled to his feet, I hurried around behind the campfire. He lurched toward me, hunched over, arms out like before as if he wanted to give me a big, friendly hug. He still had the knife in one hand and the hatchet in the other.

By now, he had a face of blood from my shot to his head. The rest of his body was a mess, too. A worse mess than before. Now, it wasn’t just the woman’s old, dry blood. It was his blood, too, and plenty of it. It was pouring out of four or five holes in his chest and belly.

Have you ever seen those cartoons where a character gets all shot up, then drinks a glass of water and suddenly he’s squirting out of every hole?

It was like that.

Except these holes weren’t really squirting. They were flowing like garden hoses when the water is just barely turned on.

A guy shot up like that shouldn’t have still been coming at me. And he certainly shouldn’t still have a hard-on. What kind of a freak was he?

“You’re dead!” I shouted as he lumbered closer. “Fall down, you motherfucking idiot! Don’t you know when you’re dead?”

He raised his head slowly and grinned at me.

What a nice thing. What lovely teeth. Brown and crooked. Maybe it was just my mind playing tricks, but I thought I could see shreds of flesh caught between some of them.

I gagged.

He stopped just on the other side of the fire. Still grinning, he drew back his right arm. He was getting ready to throw the hatchet at me.

I stuck my own right arm straight out over the fire, shouted, “Eat this!” and fired.

Instead of going into his open mouth the way I wanted, my bullet slashed his right cheek open and punched a hole through his earlobe.

My slide locked back.

I gasped, “Shit!”

He hurled the hatchet. It flew at me over the fire, tumbling, coming straight for my face.

I dodged it. The damn thing came so close that I felt a gust of air against my left cheek. And I’d lurched sideways too fast. I stumbled, trying to stay on my feet. Then I fell.

The bastard cried out, “Ah-ha!”

He thought he had me.

As he staggered his way around the fire, I rolled over, got to my hands and knees, and tried to scurry up. My feet slipped on the dewy grass. I fell and banged my knees, and he gained on me.

“Get away from me!” I yelled.

He grunted and kept coming.

He was almost on me by the time I made it up and launched myself out of reach.

“Thata girl!” Judy cried out.

Cheering me on from the sidelines.

“Get his ax!” she yelled.

I’d already thought of that.

I’d already spotted it, too. The hatchet lay flat on the ground about fifteen feet beyond where I’d been standing before my fall.

I could get to it, but I needed a lead. I’d have to swoop down and snatch it up. Without a good lead, he might end up on my back.

“Die, you bastard!” I yelled as I ran.

He giggled. Giggled! Do you believe it?

Maybe he had a right to giggle. He’d taken all the bullets I could throw at him. Now, he was only a few strides behind me. He’d be on top of me if I slowed down to pick up the hatchet. And he’d probably plunge his knife into my back.

So I didn’t slow down, I dived. Slamming the dewy grass, I slid on my chest and belly, my arms reaching out ahead of me. In mid-slide, I grabbed the hatchet with my right hand. As I skidded to a stop, I flipped onto my back.

Grinning, the big boy sank to his knees in the grass just beyond my feet.

He clamped the knife between his teeth, then leaned forward and clutched my ankles. Grunting, he jerked them apart. He started pulling me toward him.

I don’t know what the hell he thought he was doing.

Well, maybe he wanted to pull me closer in order to work some sort of mischief on me. If you can call rape and murder mischief, which I’m not sure would be proper.

Anyway, he obviously wasn’t thinking straight.

How could he, with all those bullets in him?

I slid toward him on the seat of my cut-offs. He kept forcing my legs farther apart as if he wanted to dive between them. Judy dangled in silence from her limb.

When he dragged me close enough, I raised the hatchet high and swung it down with all my might. It got him in the back of the head.

WHUNK!

Chopped him deep, the hatchet busting through his skull and into the mush underneath. Blood and stuff flew up, glistening in the firelight.

He grunted.

He farted.

Then he plunged forward.

Like he had it all planned to land on top of me and pin me down, crush me, suffocate me, kill me with his corpse.

I jerked the hatchet, trying to turn him away. With a slurp, it jumped out of his head and I was left holding it. Before I could scoot out of the way, he bumped me in the stomach. Then his head slid lower as if he wanted to shove it down the front of my cut-offs. It was too big to fit in, though. So it stayed outside. The next thing I knew, it was shoving at my crotch. As he kept on falling, his head acted like a plow and pushed me ahead of him.

By the time he’d finished, I was in the clear.

23

SURVIVOR

Utterly worn out, I lay on my back and figured I might stay that way for an hour or two. But the top of the guy’s head was jammed between my legs, big and leaking blood through my cut-offs and making me all sticky down there.

So I squirmed to get away from it.

When nothing of me was touching him anymore, I sprawled and shut my eyes and took deep breaths.

Vaguely, I knew that I had to get up. A lot needed to be done. But I had no interest in moving.

“Alice!” Judy called.

“Yeah?” I answered, not even bothering to lift my head.

“Are you okay?”

“I guess.”

“Is he dead?”

“Pretty sure.”

“That’s great. You really did great. You saved our lives.”

“Yeah.”

“Can you come over here and cut me down?”

I didn’t answer, just sighed and stayed on my back.

After a minute or two, Judy said, “Please?”

“What’s your hurry?” I called to her.

“This isn’t very comfortable.”

No kidding, I thought.

Even though the ground felt good under my back, I wasn’t very comfortable, either. I ached just about everywhere. I was sweaty and itchy. And I didn’t like how my cut-offs were soaked with the dead guy’s blood. I needed a bath and a bed.

“Alice?”

“Yeah?”

“Come on, okay? Please?”

“Yeah, yeah. I’m coming.” I picked up the hatchet, got to my feet, and stood over the body. It wasn’t a pretty sight, I can tell you that. You should’ve seen the butt on this guy. It would’ve ruined your appetite for a week.

Anyway, I thought about going for his knife. It had fallen out of his mouth when I chopped him. It was probably on the ground underneath him, somewhere in the region of his waist.

Only one problem about getting it.

I didn’t want to touch him.

“What’re you doing?” Judy asked.

“Nothing.”

I’d managed to keep Tony’s loafers on, so I sat down on the grass near the side of Fatso the Friendly Corpse. Drawing in my legs, I swiveled around so my feet were aimed his way. Then I leaned back, braced myself up with my arms, placed the bottoms of my shoes against his hip and buttock, and punched out.

His body lurched and shook, but didn’t go much of anyplace. So I kept ramming it with both feet, shoving it and kicking it until finally he rolled onto his side as if he wanted to take a look at this gal who was making his life so difficult.

The knife was a little lower than where I’d expected to find it. Good thing I hadn’t tried to grab it by reaching under him. I might’ve gotten a handful of something that wasn’t a knife.

Anyway, I picked it up.

The fire had dwindled quite a bit, by then. On my way over to it, I found the .22 on the ground. I couldn’t remember dropping it, but there it was. When I put the pistol into the right rear pocket of my cut-offs, I noticed that I’d lost the rock I’d tucked back there.

I kept losing stuff.

It was turning into a trend.

Near the campfire, I set down the hatchet and knife on one of the larger rocks. Then I went to the small pile of firewood and started adding pieces to the flames. Soon, a pretty good blaze was going.

I emptied my pockets to find out what I still had.

The pistol. Two red bandanas and one white handkerchief. Judy’s keys, Tony’s keys, my keys. And Tony’s wallet.

Inspiration striking me, I dropped Tony’s wallet and keys into the fire.

“What’re you doing?” Judy asked.

“A little house-cleaning.”

I put everything else back into my pockets. Down in the fire, flames wrapped the black leather wallet and key case.

So much for my fingerprints.

I realized, of course, that the keys wouldn’t burn. I’m not stupid. Maybe some of the things in Tony’s wallet would survive the fire, too. But that was fine. His stuff, being found here in the campsite with everything else, would probably make the cops think Tony was just another victim of Fatso.

I stood there, added more wood, and even turned the wallet over with a stick to make sure it was burning okay.

Then I retrieved the knife and hatchet. I dropped the hatchet into the fire, but kept the knife. After watching for a while to make sure the handle was catching fire, I started toward the tent.

But changed my mind. For one thing, I’d seen more than enough nasty stuff for one night. The remains of Fatso’s last victim, last lover, last meal—whatever—were in there. I didn’t need to see her close up and personal.

For another thing, why risk leaving evidence of myself inside or near the tent? I happen to know that people always leave stuff behind at crime scenes: a telltale hair or fingerprint; samples of their own blood, saliva, semen, etc.; maybe a hat, maybe a glove. This one serial killer in L.A. actually got caught because he lost his wallet at the scene of a crime and it had his driver’s license in it. Talk about morons!

But here’s the deal. I couldn’t possibly leave any evidence of myself in or around the tent if I stayed a safe distance away from it.

So I avoided the tent and headed for Judy.

She was all golden and gleaming in the firelight, standing there straight and rigid with her arms high, like before. The gag was gone, but she was breathing hard, anyway.

Gasping for air and staring at me.

“You saved my life,” she said. Her voice sounded rough and shaky.

“I know.”

“I’m not your enemy.”

“Who said you are?”

“Nobody. But look…I know you think I’ll tell on you, but I won’t.”

“Tell about what?”

Looking me straight in the eyes, she said, “You killed Tony.”

“Really?”

She nodded. “That was his wallet you threw in the fire, wasn’t it? His wallet and keys.”

“Who’s to say?”

“Me. You killed Tony. Then you were trying to cover it up, but you came over to my place by mistake. So then you figured you had to kill me, too. Because I’d be able to recognize you. And you still want to kill me, don’t you?”

“That’s right, Sherlock.”

“Well, don’t. Okay? You don’t have to.”

“Afraid I do.”

“No, look. Like I said, you saved my life. I’m not going to do anything that’ll hurt you or get you thrown in jail or anything.”

“It doesn’t bother you that I killed your old lover-boy?”

She didn’t answer right away.

“Come up with a good one,” I suggested.

“It bothers me,” she said. “Sure it does. We were in love. But maybe he deserved what he got.”

“And maybe he didn’t,” I said.

“Either way, he became my enemy when he attacked me. And you became my friend when you killed Milo.”

“Fatso? You know his name?”

She nodded. “Milo. That’s all I know. And I know that you saved me from him. I would’ve ended up in the tent.” She shuddered, and I actually saw her chin tremble. She said, “You’re my friend now. And forever. I won’t betray you.”

“There’s only one way I can be sure of that,” I told her.

She glanced at the knife in my hand. Then, very quickly, she said, “No, look, I’ve got a plan.”

“Let me guess,” I said. “The plan is for me not to kill you.”

“Will you listen?”

“I’ve got places to go…”

“I’m Milo’s victim!” Judy blurted. “I’ve got his sperm in me to prove it!”

“You do?”

“What do you think? The first thing he did was rape me. He got me about ten minutes after I ran away from you.”

The idea of it sickened me. That filthy, bloody slob, grunting and drooling on top of Judy while he shoved his vile cock into her.

“I’ll tell the cops I killed him,” she said.

“Sure.”

“No, listen. I’ll say that Tony and I came over to park and mess around. We were going at it on the picnic table when all of a sudden this stranger jumps us and kills Tony. See? That gets you off the hook for Tony.”

“I’ll be off the hook for Tony the second I kill you.”

“I wouldn’t know about that. Maybe, maybe not. But I don’t think you really want to kill me. You don’t, do you?”

“Just go on with your story.”

“Okay. So Milo kills Tony, and I make a break for it. But he catches up to me. I can show the cops right where it happened. My clothes’ll be there. Most of them, anyway.”

“Yeah. Your panties are over by the picnic table somewhere. In pieces.”

“I’ll say Tony did that. He has done it.”

“Yeah.”

“But they’ll find everything else in the place where Milo got me. They’ll find other stuff there, too, if they really look for it.”

“Like what?”

“You know.”

“Your blood and his semen?”

Nodding slightly, she said, “And I guess our footprints. Anyway, it’ll all back up my story. And then I’ll explain about him bringing me to the camp, here, and hanging me up like this.”

“Which he did,” I threw in.

“Right! And the cops’ll find that poor woman in the tent, and they’ll know I would’ve been next. They’ll figure Milo was some kind of Dahmer. I’ll be a hero for killing him. And you’ll never enter the picture.”

“How do you plan to explain killing him?”

“Easy. While Milo was asleep in the tent, I got my hands loose and found his gun.”

I switched the knife to my other hand, then reached into my pocket and pulled out the pistol. I raised it in front of her. “This one, right?”

“Right.”

“It’s Tony’s gun,” I explained. “How do you get hold of it?”

“Easy.” A smile twitched at the unhurt corner of Judy’s mouth. “Tony took it with him when we were making out on the picnic table. He would’ve done that, too. We came here sometimes, did I tell you that? We hardly ever stepped a foot out of the car, but Tony knew this was sort of a dangerous area, so he always brought his .22 along, just in case.”

“Why didn’t he use it when Milo attacked?”

“It was in the pocket of his jeans, and his jeans were down around his ankles. He couldn’t reach it in time. Then, after he was dead, Milo took the pistol. And kept it.”

“Where?”

“In a pocket.”

“A pocket of what?” I asked.

“He was wearing overalls most of the time. You know, bib overalls?”

“Cute. The pig dressed up like a farmer.”

“Yeah. And he kept the gun in his pocket. So when I finally got my hands free, I snuck into his tent and found it. But he woke up and came after me. That’s when I start shooting him. Just like you did. From there on, my whole story can be almost exactly the same as how it really happened, but it’ll be me instead of you.”

“I could leave you the loafers to wear,” I suggested. “That way, you’d match the footprints.”

“Good idea.”

I nodded, frowning, wondering. “It’s not a bad plan,” I admitted. “Almost sounds like something I might’ve come up with.”

“It’ll work.”

“That’s what you think.”

“What’s wrong with it?”

“Lots of stuff.”

24

FRIENDLY PERSUASION

“Like what?” Judy asked. “What’s wrong with my plan? Tell me. Maybe we can work it out.”

“I’m running out of time, here.”

“Alice, look. I’m giving you a chance to walk away from everything. If we can work this out, the cops will think nobody was involved but me, Tony and Milo.”

“Here’s one little problem,” I told her. “Tony’s body is in the trunk of his car. Which is parked in the garage of your apartment building.”

She gaped at me. For a few seconds, she looked stunned and lost. But she recovered fast. “Easy,” she said. “Take my car. Drive to my place, put my car back where we got it, and come back here in Tony’s car. Park it where mine is, now. Then just leave his body in the trunk and be on your way. I’ll say Milo put him in the trunk. Hey, that’ll be perfect! He knocked me out and left me on the picnic table. That way, I’m out cold while he hauls Tony’s body over to the car. But before he can make it back, I come to and run into the woods. Then he hunts me down and, you know…the rest.”

“That sounds okay. But where are you while I’m driving the cars back and forth?”

“I’ll stay right here in camp.”

“Like a good little girl,” I muttered.

“Okay. Well, leave me tied up. But if you do, you’ll have to come back and cut me loose after you’ve dropped off Tony’s car. I mean, I can’t exactly be found like this or it’ll blow the whole story.”

“It’ll blow the story if I help you. They’ll wanta know who cut the rope.”

“Then just untie the knot.”

I shook my head.

She stared into my eyes and said nothing for a few moments. Then, in a softer voice, she said, “You don’t have to do it now. It can wait till you come back.”

“When I come back?”

“From switching the cars.”

“Oh. Right.” I pulled one of the bandanas out of my pocket, wiped the knife clean, and tossed the knife to the ground. Then I stepped behind Judy.

“What’re you doing?” she asked.

“I don’t want you yelling for help.”

“I won’t. I promise. Don’t put that on me. Please.”

“There are other ways to shut you up,” I said.

She didn’t argue after that, but just stood motionless while I put the gag into her mouth and tied it behind her neck.

Then I stepped around to the front.

She stared into my eyes. She was breathing hard again, air hissing through her nostrils.

“I’m not switching the cars,” I explained. “It’s a stupid idea. Somebody’d probably see me. Anyway, I’m too tired to play any more games. What I’m going to do, Judy, is leave you here just as you are.”

She nodded slightly.

“I’m not going to kill you. Okay?”

Her nod grew a little more enthusiastic.

“I mean, you helped me out with Fatso. If you hadn’t kicked him in the head…I don’t know, maybe he would’ve gotten me. So I owe you for that. Besides, none of this is your fault. I just bumped into you by mistake. Wrong address. I was afraid Tony might have a redial button…Whoa!”

Judy’s eyebrows lifted.

We needed to talk.

Instead of bothering to untie the gag, I hooked a forefinger underneath it at each corner of her mouth, pulled roughly, and dragged it down over her chin. The bandana hung around her neck like a dog scarf.

And like a dog, she panted for air.

“What about redial?” I asked. “Did Tony have it?”

“Just…wait.”

“Come on. Did he? I know he moved to a new apartment and you’ve never been there, but what sort of phone did he have at his old place? He might’ve taken it with him. Did it have redial?”

“If I tell…”

“You’d better tell, unless you wanta die right now!”

“No gag, okay? Please?”

I punched her in the belly. A good hard one. Her breath gushed against my face. She couldn’t fold over because of the way she was hanging; instead, the blow made her knees jump up and sent her swinging backward.

When she swung forward, I caught her by the sides. I stopped her, held her steady for a moment, then took a couple of steps backward so I could see her better.

Mouth agape, she wheezed for breath. Her eyes were shut tightly. She kept her knees high, so all that held her up was the rope around her wrists.

She really looked as if she were being stretched. Her arms and torso actually seemed longer and skinnier than before. Her belly was sunken in. Her ribcage was high and bulging. Her breasts were pulled almost flat against her chest.

“It’s okay,” I said. “Put your feet down.”

She just kept hanging there, gasping.

“Put them down and stand up.”

She didn’t.

Instead, she blurted, “I just…I just…You didn’t have to…”

“Shut up and tell me about his redial!”

“Okay. Okay.”

“Stand up!”

She lowered her legs until her feet met the ground. Though she still had to stand tall, she no longer looked as if she were being pulled apart on the rack.

“Now,” I said, “what about it?”

“He doesn’t. Have it.”

“Have you been to his new place?

She shook her head.

“Then how do you know what kind of phone he has?”

“I…gave it to him.”

“What?”

“His phone. I gave it to him. When we were…going together. He…I don’t think he’d…get rid of it.”

“I’m sure he wouldn’t,” I said. “Not if it came from you. And it didn’t have redial?”

“No. Huh-uh.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.”

“You’ve told me a lot of lies tonight,” I pointed out. “How do I know this isn’t another one?”

“I swear. Honest to God.”

“Why’d you buy him a phone that didn’t have redial?”

Her face contorted with confusion or pain or disgust—hard to tell which, since it was sort of battered. She said, “Huh?”

“If you’re buying your boyfriend a new telephone, why do you get him one that doesn’t have a redial button?”

“I don’t know. It didn’t…I didn’t buy it for him. It was my old phone. I got a new one…I was going to throw it away, but…he asked me for it. So I gave it to him.”

“Why do you want to lie about a thing like this?” I asked her.

“I’m not lying.”

“Did you forget about Tony’s answering machine?”

“No. That’s what it was…an answering machine. The one I gave him.”

“I don’t think so. Tony told me that you never had an answering machine.”

“But…That’s not so.”

“Oh, yes it is. Why did you lie about it?”

“I didn’t. Honest.”

“You lie like a rug, Judy.”

“So do you.”

“But I’m running this show,” I said, and started to unbuckle my belt.

“What’re you doing?”

I pulled the belt out of its loops, and my cut-offs fell down. I stepped out of them.

“Hey,” Judy said. She sounded like a kid again. “Come on, Alice. Don’t.”

“Admit you lied.”

“Haven’t you hurt me enough?”

“I saved your life. Remember? You said I can do anything I want.”

“Why do you want to hurt me?”

“Because you lied. Admit you lied.”

“Okay. I lied. Okay?”

“You didn’t give him his phone?”

“No.”

“You wanted me to leave here thinking he didn’t have redial. Why?”

“I don’t know.”

I swung the belt. My sidestroke, at a slightly downward angle, caught her just above the hip then curled around and lashed her across the buttocks. She jerked and gasped.

“Why?” I asked again.

“I don’t know what he’s got!” she blurted.

“Then why did you lie?”

“You won’t…”

“Won’t what?”

“Believe me.”

“Try me.”

“It was just…just because…I didn’t want you to worry.”

“What?”

“Your…You must figure…redial’s got your number. If he has it. You’re scared.”

“Does he have it? Do you know?”

“He’s got it.”

“Shit!”

“It’s…I know his answering machine. It’s got…everything.”

“Fuck!”

So then I sort of lost it.

I whipped the hell out of her with Tony’s belt, lashing her with all my strength, circling her as I swung.

Finally, my arm fell to my side, spent. The belt swaying by my leg, I stumbled around to Judy’s front.

She was limp, her feet on the ground but her knees bent, all her weight on the rope again.

The fire had burnt down low, so I couldn’t see her very well.

I staggered over to it, squatted, and added some twigs and branches. I could hardly catch my breath. Sweat poured off me. The shirt was clinging to my back and my loafers felt slimy inside. I didn’t like being this close to the fire. It was too damn hot. But I wanted the fire bright, so I kept adding fuel for a while.

Finally, the light reached Judy and turned her to polished gold. Along with her other injuries, she now had stripes. In some places, the stripes bled. All down her body, her skin was shiny with blood and sweat.

I rose from my squat and hobbled over to her.

She was panting for breath and crying. It made her shake a lot.

I picked up my cut-offs, then stood to the side and watched her.

She was really shaking. It made me wonder if she had a fever.

“Sorry you made me do that to you,” I said.

She raised her head and looked at me.

“Now, I suppose you’ll tell on me.”

Her head moved slowly from side to side.

“No?” I asked.

When she spoke, her lips made some small bubbles. Red bubbles of spit and blood.

She said, “You…saved…me.”

“You’re not gonna tell?”

“Milo…did…it.”

As I worked Tony’s belt into the loops of my cut-offs, I said to Judy, “How do I know you’re not lying again?”

She didn’t answer.

I fastened the belt, then looked down at the knife on the ground.

I knew that I ought to finish her off.

I’d told her that I wouldn’t, though. And besides, you should’ve seen her. She looked so vulnerable and hurt, hanging there in the firelight. And so beautiful. And she had that bandana hanging around her neck.

I bet you couldn’t have killed her, either.

“You’d better not tell on me,” I said to her. “If the cops ever come looking for me, I’ll hunt you down. And what I’ll do to you…you’ll wish I’d left you for Milo.”

She moved her head slowly up and down.

“Hang in there, honey,” I said. And then I left.

25

ON THE WAY OUT

Dumb, I know.

Just call me Miss Sentimental. I knew better than to walk off and leave her alive, but that’s exactly what I did. My heart got in the way of my brain.

I’d gotten to like her. That was the problem. It isn’t easy to kill someone you like. Let that be a warning to you.

Of course, as I wrote early on, it’s better not to kill anyone at all. Hell, look what happened to me all because I got carried away and whacked Tony with my saber. An accident, and look at all the shit that’s already flown because of it. And we’ve still got plenty of book to go, so you don’t even know the half of it yet.

You give some poor jerk a chop in the head and you’re in for a world of troubles. So try not to do it.

Anyway, I left Judy behind, hanging by the rope and pretty beaten up—but alive—and hurried out of the clearing.

After so much time with the firelight, the woods seemed blacker than a pit. I walked slowly, feeling my way with both hands, trying not to crash into anything or fall down again. Before long, I’d lost all sense of direction and didn’t know where I was.

Somewhere in Miller’s Woods, that’s all I knew for sure.

But I still had high hopes of finding my way home before dawn.

As I trudged through the woods, my night vision returned. No longer completely blind, I could make out the shapes in the darkness.

I kept thinking about how stupid I’d been about Judy. If only I’d finished her off, I would now be completely in the clear. The cops would never in a million years connect me with anything.

Now, I was in Judy’s hands.

She probably would finger me. Why not?

Because I’d saved her from the clutches of Milo?

I’d also spared her from myself.

I mean, I’d hurt her, but I hadn’t killed her. So, really, I’d saved her life twice.

She owed me, and she knew it, but she would probably spill everything to the cops anyway. As you may have noticed, she’s a goody-two-shoes. A regular Girl Scout. A gal like her might be grateful to me and she might lie sometimes—for instance, if she’s trying to pull a trick on someone planning to kill her—but she’ll have this compulsion to be truthful to the cops.

She’ll rat me out.

Which wasn’t exactly a sudden revelation. I’d known it all along. Sort of. Even while she’d been telling me about her big plan to leave me out of the picture, I’d never quite believed she would carry out her end of it.

Maybe she’d thought she would.

Or maybe the whole business had been a lie to save her ass.

Well, something had saved her ass. I’m not sure what. Maybe a combination of things.

Such as a ton of luck. Plus the facts that she was beautiful and friendly and all that. And I knew it was only by a mistake of mine that she got dragged into this whole mess in the first place. Then I had to feel sorry for her because she’d gotten herself raped by Milo. Then I had to feel grateful because she kicked him in the head. Then she confused me with promises about never telling on me.

Those are probably some of the things that saved her, but maybe not all of them.

Who knows why stuff happens?

Not me, that’s for sure.

I’m interested, and I like to look for answers, but the answers don’t seem to be very simple and I’ve got a feeling that there’re secret forces at work. Genes, for instance. Or Fate. Or God. Or gremlins. Or certain stuff you don’t want to admit, not even to yourself. I mean, who the hell knows? Maybe we aren’t even supposed to know the real answers.

Maybe “the truth is out there,” like they say on the TV show, but that doesn’t mean we can ever find it out.

All I knew for sure was that I didn’t kill Judy, so now my life was in her hands.

It made me feel like a patsy. A softie. A dope.

But it made me feel good, too, somehow. I liked knowing that she was still alive back there at the camp. And that she was only alive because of me.

In a few hours, she would probably be back in her apartment.

Even if she couldn’t get out of the rope, somebody would be sure to find her soon.

Maybe not.

Though I knew Miller’s Woods pretty well (at least in daylight), I wasn’t exactly sure where the campsite was located. It might’ve been in a remote part of the woods, not close to any trails. I mean, if you’re going to do what Milo’d been doing to people, you’d make sure to set up camp where a bunch of nature lovers won’t stumble into it.

He must’ve had plenty of confidence in its remoteness, or he wouldn’t have built a fire. He’d not only built the fire, but he’d left it burning—and Judy dangling—while he went to bed in his tent.

That’s confidence.

Or stupidity.

He must’ve been awfully sure, too, that he’d tied Judy so well she didn’t stand a chance of getting loose.

What if she can’t get loose and she doesn’t get found?

She could die at the end of that rope.

That’d be fine, I told myself. If she dies that way, it won’t be my fault. Milo put her there, not me. But she’ll be just as dead, so she won’t be able to tell on me.

I wondered how long it would take her to die that way.

A few days?

Hell, somebody would probably find her before that. Or she’d work her way out of the rope.

I could go back and save her.

Yeah, right. In my condition, I’d be lucky to make it home. I sure couldn’t turn back, now, and go hunting for the camp.

Maybe tomorrow. Get some rest, and go looking in daylight.

1. Why would I want to?2. I probably couldn’t find the campsite again, even if I tried.3. If I did find it, the cops might be there waiting for me.

Maybe I’m a sentimental fool, but I’m not crazy.

Eventually, after trekking through the woods for at least an hour, I made my way into familiar territory. I’d really hoped that I might come out in Serena and Charlie’s back yard, but it didn’t work out that way. The familiar territory was only the creek.

But I sure was glad to find it.

I worked my way out to the middle of the creek (without falling!), sat down, leaned back, and let the wonderful, chilly water rush all over me. It felt so good it hurt.

I was in awful shape. I’d never been so worn out in my life, and I still had a long hike home. At least a mile through the woods. It made me almost cry, just thinking about it.

The night was still dark, though. I still had time. So I lay in the water with just my face out, and rested for a while. Soon, the water didn’t feel so cold. It seemed cozy and almost warm.

A nice bath. Gotta have a nice, long bath when I get home.

Then I thought about how to get there. I’d made the hike between home and the picnic area many times during my three years living above Serena and Charlie’s garage. Never in the dark, though. I’d always been afraid of the woods at night.

They even frightened me a little in daylight. Though I loved the solitude and quiet, I’d always been aware that someone might be lurking nearby, watching me, stalking me. Not that I’d ever discovered anyone doing that sort of thing. But I’d felt the potential. I’d even felt the urge, myself, to sneak around and spy on other people I found in the woods.

A few times, I’d surrendered to the urge.

But that’s another story.

The deal is, I knew how to get home from the picnic area by hiking through the woods. But I wasn’t too sure about doing it at night. The trails got tricky in places. I might miss a turn-off and end up lost. There were slopes and ditches to contend with. I might take a bad fall. Or walk into a broken limb and skewer myself.

What about taking Judy’s car?

At first, the idea seemed incredibly idiotic. For one thing, somebody might see me driving it. For another, what would I do with her car afterward? Where would I leave it?

I’d be asking for trouble.

On the other hand, I had Judy’s keys in my pocket. Her car was waiting for me just up the slope from the creek and it could get me home in less than ten minutes.

Fantastic!

I’d park it in the garage, directly under my room, where it would be safely hidden. I could dispose of it later—tomorrow night, for instance.

I was awfully tempted.

It’d be so easy!

But it’d be so incriminating, too. What if I got caught with Judy’s car?

Then came a thought that changed everything.

If I leave it here, somebody might get suspicious and go looking for her.

That settled the matter.

With her car gone, no park personnel or random visitor or cop would start wondering who it belonged to. And if a friend or relative should report Judy missing tomorrow or the next day, her car wouldn’t be found in Miller’s Woods to give searchers a starting place.

I had to take it home.

Feeling fairly rested and revived and eager to get started, I stood up in the creek and waded ashore. Then I crouched in the bushes for a couple of minutes to make sure the coast was clear. I didn’t see or hear anyone. So I walked over to the picnic table, my shoes squelching with every step. At the table, I sat on the bench, took off my loafers, and dumped the water out of them.

I put one of them back on, then changed my mind.

They were Tony’s shoes. Evidence. I really didn’t need them anymore, since I planned to be driving home instead of walking. Also, disposing of them here and now would save me from having to deal with them later.

I still had one bandana, and used it to wipe the shoes clean. Then I threw them into the bushes behind the picnic table.

For a while, I thought about getting rid of the rest of Tony’s stuff. But that would mean driving home naked. I might get away with it, but the risk was too big. If I happened to drive past a cop…

Besides, everything except the belt would be easy enough to burn.

And none of it could be traced back to Tony, I was pretty sure of that.

Barefoot, dressed in nothing but the cut-offs and shirt, I walked away from the picnic table and headed for the slope below the parking area. I couldn’t see Judy’s car. It had to be up there, though.

It better be!

I trudged slowly up the slope. The dew made the grass slippery.

I remembered the big, fake tumble I’d taken on this very hillside in hopes of tricking Judy. And how the pistol had fallen out of my pocket.

Suddenly alarmed, I slapped my pockets.

No pistol!

For a moment, I thought I’d lost it again. Panic hit me. But then I remembered that I wasn’t supposed to have it. I’d gotten rid of Tony’s pistol on purpose, back at the camp.

What a relief!

But then, still in a fret, I checked the soggy pockets of my cut-offs to make sure I hadn’t lost the keys.

I felt only two sets.

Which scared me all over again until I recalled that I’d thrown Tony’s keys into the fire and I only wanted to have two sets: mine and Judy’s.

What if I tossed in the wrong keys?

With a groan, I stopped climbing the slope and pulled both key cases out of my sodden pocket and studied them. I recognized my tan leather case right away. But I wasn’t too sure about Judy’s.

Find out soon enough.

I hurried the rest of the way up the slope, trying to ignore the nasty cold feeling in my stomach. At the top, I spotted Judy’s car.

It was still the only car there.

Breathless from the climb, I walked slowly over to it.

After checking inside and underneath the car to make sure I was alone, I opened the door. The overhead light came on inside. I climbed in and shut the door.

And hoped I hadn’t thrown the wrong keys into the fire.

It wouldn’t have surprised me much, the way things had been going so far.

The first key I tried didn’t fit.

But the second did. I twisted it, and the engine started.

“All right!” I blurted.

Keeping the headlights off, I backed up and turned around. I drove out of the parking area. Enough dim light came down through the trees to let me see the pavement of the road out. I didn’t put the headlights on until I came to the main road north of the woods.

26

HOME AT LAST

You might find this hard to believe, but I made it back to Serena and Charlie’s house without any trouble at all. I saw nobody. Every road I traveled was empty. I could hardly believe my luck, especially figuring how lousy most things had gone that night.

The night was still dark, but starting to get pale in the east by the time I swung into the driveway.

I checked the front lawn on the way by, but couldn’t see much. So I drove ahead, stopped in front of the garage, and climbed out of the car. Standing there, I scanned the rear of the house, the pool area and lawn, and the dark border of the woods.

Everything looked fine.

No sign of my prowler.

The truth is, he didn’t worry me.

For one thing, I figured he was probably long gone by then. I’d made him think I was on the phone with the cops, so this was probably the last place where he wanted to be.

For another thing, I was too worn out to care.

Also, I’d killed Milo the Monster, so what did I have to fear from a nice, clean-cut pervert like my prowler?

Just let him come, I thought.

Over by the side of the garage door, I tapped the code number into the key pad of the remote control box. The motor hummed and the door started its noisy rise.

I returned to Judy’s car. When the garage door was all the way up, I drove inside and parked in the empty space beside my own car.

The space was where Serena and Charlie sometimes parked their Land Rover. Not often, though. They rarely bothered to put it in the garage. Usually, they parked on the driveway so they’d be close to the house.

But they were gone for a week, and so was their Land Rover.

Nobody would have any reason to open the garage door and find a stranger’s car inside.

I killed the headlights and engine, removed the key from the ignition and shoved the key case into my pocket. Leaving the windows down and the doors unlocked, I climbed out. I glimpsed Judy’s purse on the floor, but didn’t touch it.

The garage door was still open. Nervous about that, I hurried over and thumbed the button to start it shutting. As it rumbled down, I returned to Judy’s car and closed the driver’s door. Then I went to the side door of the garage and let myself out.

With that door locked behind me, I gazed up the stairway to my room.

And wanted to climb it.

Go in and clean myself up and fall in bed and not get up for hours and hours.

But I had a few matters to take care of, first.

Such as the saber.

I found it in front of the house, hidden in the bushes. Leaving it encased in the denim legs of Tony’s jeans, I carried it to the front door. The door was locked, of course. In my key case, though, I kept a full set of house keys. It took me a minute to find the right one, but then I unlocked the door, let myself in, and set the sword down on the foyer floor.

Then I went out again to look around. The sky was slightly lighter than before. It looked like dusk—the way things are in the evening a while after sundown and just before night takes over. Not the greatest for trying to see. I would need to inspect the area again in daylight. But I had to do it right away, even in such mediocre light, just in case there might be something nasty in plain sight.

A finger, for instance.

An ear.

Whatever.

First, I inspected the driveway between the house and the road. Then I walked back and forth a couple of times on the road in front of the house.

Everything looked fine.

So I returned to the front lawn and started traipsing over it, head down, studying the grass. This search paid off. I found a few small pieces of Tony. Some skin and muscle, I guess. Nothing anyone would be likely to recognize as human, but I picked them up, anyway. You can’t be too careful about such things.

The left front pocket of my cut-offs had nothing important in it—just a bandana and hanky, so I stuffed the pieces in. Better than carrying them around in my hand, I figured. But they didn’t feel very pleasant. There was nothing between them and me except a thin, wet layer of cloth. They sort of rested against my thigh, soft and gooshy. I tried to tell myself this was no worse than wandering around with some raw chicken in my pocket. It didn’t help much, though. For one thing, I’ve never roamed around with raw chicken in my pocket. I mean, who does? I really couldn’t trick myself into thinking it wasn’t Tony.

I felt pretty disgusted and crummy.

This was the sort of thing you’d find Milo doing.

With the stuff in my pocket, I couldn’t concentrate too well on my search anymore. So I decided to quit and try again later.

Before going back into the house, I sat on the stoop and checked the bottoms of my bare feet. They were wet. Bits of grass and leaves clung to them. I didn’t see any blood, though.

I took off my shirt and used it to clean my feet. Then I went inside, carrying it.

In the kitchen, I turned on the light and made sure the curtains were all shut. Then I draped the shirt over the back of a chair. Stepping up to the sink, I dug into my pocket and pulled out the Tony parts. They were slimy. They also had some ants crawling on them, which didn’t make me feel too great about hauling them around in my pocket. I stuffed them down the garbage disposal. With water running, I switched on the disposal to grind them up.

Then I washed my hands very quickly, snatched my shirt off the chair and rushed over to the laundry room, which was just off the kitchen.

I tossed the shirt into the washing machine, then whipped off my belt. My cut-offs dropped to the floor. I stepped out of them. Standing there bare naked, I checked myself for ants. I was feeling itchy, but couldn’t find any critters. So I picked up the cut-offs and emptied the pockets. The shorts, hanky and bandana went in with the shirt.

I set the keys aside, added detergent to the wash, and started the machine. While it was filling, I hurried to the foyer and slipped the saber out of the denim legs. Sword in one hand, legs swinging in the other, I returned to the laundry room. I tossed the legs into the machine with the other stuff.

Back in the kitchen, I stood at the sink and washed the saber. It looked clean even before I started. I must’ve done a pretty good job on it with the hose. But I scoured the thing with a rag and liquid soap, being especially careful to get at the crevices where the blade joined the handle.

You can never get rid of all the blood. That’s what I’d read, anyway. Police investigators would take the sword apart and find traces, no matter what I might do.

I wasn’t doing this for the police.

I was cleaning it so Charlie or little Debbie wouldn’t notice blood on the saber next time they took it down to play “charge” or “Peter Pan” or something.

With a dish towel, I wiped every bit of water off the sword. Then I dried my own bare front, which had gotten splashed.

On my way into the living room, I changed my mind about hanging up the weapon right away. What if some water or blood was trapped inside the handle, and leaked on the wall?

Besides, I sort of liked having it handy.

So I took it with me.

In the den, I set it down and turned on a lamp. Right away, I looked toward the sliding glass door where my prowler had been. I couldn’t see it, though. The curtains were shut.

Thank God.

What I didn’t need to see, on top of everything else, was the mess my prowler had left behind.

With a feeling of relief—and a touch of nausea just from thinking about what he’d done—I turned my attention to the answering machine. It blinked a tiny red light to let me know we had a message.

I poked the “new message” button.

The quiet hiss of rewinding tape seemed to last a long time. When it stopped, Tony said, “Ah, you finally got yourself an answering machine. Hope it’s not because of me. But it probably is, huh?”

Listening to him, I felt strange.

So much had happened in the hours since he’d made that call. Especially to him.

But my own life would never be the same, either. Nor would Judy’s.

Or Milo’s, for that matter.

All because Tony had dialed a wrong number.

He’d probably only been one digit off, or reversed something.

And WHAM!

Just goes to show what can happen because of a little mistake.

“The thing is,” he was saying, “I’m not going to call again.”

How right you are, I thought.

But I didn’t laugh, I wrinkled my nose.

And kept listening.

He sounded like a pretty nice guy.

When he started in about moving to a new place, I pulled open a drawer of the telephone stand and hunted for something to write with. There were plenty of ballpoints and pads of paper. And some miniature tape cassettes. I snatched up a pen and note pad just as he started to give his new phone number.

While I was busy writing, his call ended.

That’s because I had picked up and blurted, “Tony!”

My voice wasn’t there. Nothing else was there. The tape stopped, and the machine made a few beeps to let me know there were no more messages.

I frowned at Tony’s phone number for a few moments, not sure why I’d bothered to copy it down.

Maybe it would come in handy for something.

But probably not.

It was only on paper, though. I could burn it easily enough, later on—along with the rest of the note pad, so nobody would ever be able to discover the imprint of Tony’s number.

For now, though, I had another matter to deal with.

I opened the answering machine, pulled out the tape, and replaced it with a spare cassette from the drawer.

Then I stood there, staring at the machine and wondering what to do next.

Get everything together.

Seemed like a good idea. With the note pad and cassette in one hand, I picked up the saber. Then I headed for the laundry room. Along the way, I noticed my favorite blue silk robe draped over a chair in the living room, where I’d put it such a long time ago. It had pockets and I needed pockets. But I was awfully hot and sweaty and dirty, so I decided to save the robe for later.

I walked on through the kitchen and entered the laundry room. The washing machine was still going, of course. My belt lay on the floor, and the two sets of keys were on a shelf beside the washer.

Except for Judy’s car and the odds and ends in the washer, that was everything.

I wanted to keep it all with me.

But I left it in the laundry room for a couple of minutes while I rushed into the kitchen. Serena keeps a drawer full of small bags. I grabbed one, returned with it, and loaded it up with the two sets of keys, the tape cassette and note pad. I wound up the belt and stuffed it inside, too.

Leaving the washer to finish its business, I carried the saber and bag into the living room. There, I grabbed Charlie’s robe.

In the hallway, I stopped just long enough to flick the air conditioner on. Then I went to the end of the hall and entered Serena and Charlie’s bedroom. It was dark with the curtains shut. I didn’t turn any lights on, though. I just walked straight through to the master bathroom.

I swung the door shut with my elbow, bumped it with my rump to make it latch, then elbowed the light switch. I needed a hand, though, to lock the door. So I held the sword between my legs and thumbed down the lock button.

After that, I hung the robe on a hook. I set my bag on a counter near the sink and took the saber with me to the sunken bath tub.

I set it down on the tile floor beside the tub.

Not that I’m paranoid, or anything. I just wanted to be safe. And what good is a weapon if it’s out of reach when you need it?

While the tub was filling, I used the toilet. Then I stood in front of a full-length mirror and looked at myself.

What a wreck.

My hair, dark and clinging to my scalp, looked as if I hadn’t shampooed it in a month. Everywhere, my skin looked greasy. I must’ve had about two dozen scratches on my front and back. Several of them had bled. I didn’t have much blood on me, probably thanks to spending time in the creek. But some of the scratches looked like bright red threads across my skin. I had plenty of welts and bruises, too.

The grand-daddy of all my injuries was my stomach, where I’d walked into that broken branch. It had rammed me and gouged me raw. Skin was ruffled up around the edges of the wound, and I had a bruise the size of a grapefruit.

Nothing looked bad enough to require medical attention, though.

I’d gotten off lucky.

At least compared to a few other people I could think of, such as Tony, Milo, the gal in Milo’s tent, and even Judy.

Three out of four needed a coroner, not a doctor.

I wondered how Judy was doing.

Probably still hanging there. Her wrists had been tied together very well. She might not be able to get loose at all. Not without help, anyway.

Watching myself in the mirror, I raised my arms high and crossed my wrists. I stood as Judy had been standing, probably still was. It made my breasts lift and my belly sink in. I’ve got a terrific build, but I looked even better that way.

Anybody would, I guess.

Maybe that’s why guys like to string up their victims by the wrists.

No. It might be one of the reasons, but not the main one. I’d spent enough time with Judy to know the truth about that. I sure did like how she looked so stretched and taut, but more important was that her whole body was right there dangling in the open. Nothing was hidden.

You had total access.

You could swing her. You could spin her. You could wander around her, look at any part of her. You could pick up her legs and spread them apart. Touch any part of her. Hurt any part of her.

I turned around slowly, staring at my reflection in the mirror.

And wished I could see Judy again.

27

SPLISH-SPLASH

Over at the tub, I shut off the faucets and eased myself down into the deep, hot water. It made my scratches sting a little, and felt like burning oil on the raw gouge from the branch. None of the really bad pain lasted more than a few seconds, though.

I leaned backward, easing myself down. Soon, my whole body was submerged except my face. The back of my head lightly rested against the rear of the tub. My buttocks lightly rested on the slippery tiles of the bottom. Nothing else of me touched the tub. I felt cool air on my face. Everywhere else was water. Its liquid heat surrounded me, wrapping me, caressing me softly all over, whispering in my ears, licking me between the toes and sliding into every crease and crevice.

It was luscious.

Heavenly.

After so many rough hours of fear and pain and strenuous labor, I’d come to a place of peace. My arms drifted beneath the surface, weightless and limp by my sides. My legs, open and bent at the knees, lingered at mid-depth as if held off the bottom by ribbons of silk. I heard little more than the quiet lapping of water. My muffled heartbeat sounded calm. Breathing slowly, I felt hot currents rub against my chest and breasts.

I supposed it would be a good idea to sit up, soap myself and shampoo my hair. But I couldn’t force myself to abandon the luxury of lounging motionless.

Suspended in the lazy heat.

After a while, my mind seemed to slide off into the air and drift out over the woods. I wasn’t searching for anything, just drifting. But when I saw the glow of a campfire, I went down for a closer look.

I found Judy suspended from the limb like before, shiny as oil and glowing with firelight. She still wore the red bandana loose around her neck.

But all her injuries were gone.

She looked beautiful.

As I walked up to her, she said, “I knew you’d come back, Alice.”

“Then you knew more than me.”

“I’ve always known more than you,” she said, and gave me a sly grin.

“I didn’t even know how to find this place,” I told her.

“How did you find it?”

“Just luck. It’s been my lucky night.”

“Mine, too,” Judy said.

“How do you figure that?”

“You came back for me, didn’t you?”

“Yeah. I did. I couldn’t just leave you here.”

“You’re such a softie.”

“That’s me,” I said, and smiled.

“Give me a kiss, you softie.”

Her words shocked me, thrilled me. I laughed and shook my head. “No, I don’t think so. Thanks anyway, but…”

“You don’t have to be afraid of me,” she said.

“I’m not afraid of you.”

“You love me, don’t you?”

“No!”

“You came back because you love me.”

“That isn’t why.”

“Then why?”

“Only because it was wrong to leave you here. And because I don’t want you to die like this. I wouldn’t be able to stand it if you died like this. You never did anything to hurt me. And you helped me with Milo.”

“You love me, don’t you?”

“Stop saying that.”

“Kiss me, and I’ll stop saying it.”

“I don’t want to kiss you.”

“Yes, you do.” She slid her tongue slowly across her lips, moistening them so they glistened. “Don’t worry. It won’t hurt a bit.”

“I know it won’t hurt,” I said. “That’s not why.”

“Then why?”

“Just because.”

“I’ll never tell,” she said. “I promise. Nobody will ever find out about this. It’ll be our secret, just between you and me.”

“I don’t know.”

“Yes, you do. You’ve wanted to kiss me from the start.”

“No.”

“Everywhere. You’ve wanted to kiss me everywhere. My mouth, my breasts…”

“Shut up.”

“Everywhere.”

“No.”

“Do it, Alice. Now. I want you. And I want you more than anything.”

I nodded, trembling. Then, I leaned in until our bodies met, and kissed Judy lightly on her open lips.

Her arms and legs clamped around me.

“Now I’ve got ya, bitch!”

But it wasn’t Judy saying that.

It was a man, his voice low and scratchy and gleeful.

This wasn’t Judy at all, not anymore. It was Milo, face bloody and eyes bulging, squeezing me so hard with his arms and legs that I was sinking deep into the soft bulges of his body, being enveloped by him. As I tried to scream, his mouth covered mine. His writhing lips felt slimy. He stuck his tongue into my mouth. Only it wasn’t his tongue. It was hard and thick, and he shoved it in deep. Thrust it down my throat.

I’ll bite it off, you…!

I suddenly came wide awake and found myself staring up through the water.

Shit!

I rammed my elbows against the bottom of the tub and burst through the surface fast, choking. I sat there, wracked with coughs. Some water had found its way into the wrong place, that was for sure. Probably not much, but enough to keep me coughing for a while.

After I finished, my chest ached every time I took a deep breath.

I was okay, but didn’t feel much like trying to relax in the water again. For one thing, I might catch another snootful. For another, I didn’t want any more dreams.

Dreams are so damn weird. If you ask me, the point of every single dream and nightmare is just to torment you. That’s all any of them ever do. They scare the crap out of you or they humiliate you. Or else they tantalize you with a situation that is really fabulous, wonderful beyond belief—only to jerk it away from you.

They twist things.

They really suck.

And they seem to be ten times worse—more real and more twisted—when you’re really tired.

I was hugely tired, so I didn’t dare relax again. I opened the bathtub drain and got to my feet. The water almost came up to my knees. The tub was so large, though, that I didn’t need to worry about it overflowing. As the water gurgled out, I slid the plastic curtain shut, turned the faucets on, and lifted the gizmo to start the shower.

The hot, stiff spray hissed down, pelting my scalp and face and shoulders. It felt great.

But two things were wrong.

First, the water made too much noise coming out, splashing my skin, pattering against the plastic curtain, raining against the water pooled in the tub. It made me worry about all the things I couldn’t hear. In other rooms, phones might be ringing. A window might be breaking. Someone could even kick open a door and I wouldn’t be able to hear it.

Second, the frosted white shower curtain hung between me and my saber.

What if I needed it?

After worrying for a while, I slid open the shower curtain, bent over and picked up the saber. I brought it in with me. Then I shut the curtain again and set the sword on the bottom of the tub.

I couldn’t hear any better, of course, but now I had a weapon. That made things all right.

I went ahead with my shower, sudsing myself all over with a bar of soap, then shampooing my hair, always being careful where I put my feet.

Naturally, nobody came along and tried to attack me.

They never attack you when you’re ready for them.

How about if old Mother Bates had swept open the shower curtain and found Janet Leigh facing her with a cavalry saber! Would’ve changed the course of movie history.

Anyway, I was ready. But nobody came.

Just as well. I’d had a long night.

When I was done with the shower, I turned off the water and opened the curtain. Squatting down, I picked up the sword. Then I climbed out of the tub, set the sword aside and stepped over to the towel rod.

Two matching bath towels hung there. They both looked clean, but I could tell that they weren’t fresh from the laundry. I didn’t know which had been used by Serena, which by Charlie, so I just grabbed one and started drying myself with it. The towel was enormous, thick and soft. As I buried my face in it, I wondered who it had rubbed, and where. Not that it mattered much. I was just curious, that’s all. Either of them using it on any parts of themselves was fine with me, and nice to think about.

After drying myself, I dried the sword. I was very careful doing that, because I didn’t want to cut the towel.

Then I applied some of Serena’s roll-on deodorant to my underarms. I knew this was hers, not Charlie’s, because I recognized the scent.

I used Serena’s hairbrush. The mirror was fogged up, except near the bottom, so I had to squat very low in order to see my head in it. I gave my hair a quick brushing, then stood up again.

Finally, I put on Charlie’s silk robe and left the bathroom. Of course, I took along my sword and bag of goodies.

While I’d been in the tub, the sun had come up. Even with most of the curtains shut, the house was filled with grayish light.

In the laundry room, I took all my things out of the washing machine. I loaded them into the drier and started it. Then I went to the front door.

I opened it and walked to the edge of the stoop.

Morning was here, all right. The sun was still very low in the east. It spread brilliant, golden light across the lawn, making the dew sparkle. There didn’t seem to be any breeze at all. The warm, moist air smelled of flowers and grass. Birds twittered in the distance. I heard a woodpecker somewhere. Insects were humming and buzzing. It was as quiet and peaceful all around me as a forest glen.

It was lovely.

When I stepped down, the grass felt warm and wet under my bare feet. I wandered slowly, looking for bloodstains and pieces of Tony. I saw a few butterflies. And some bees. But nothing bad.

The lawn seemed fine.

I was about to take a closer look at the driveway, but heard the far off sound of a car engine. It sent a tremor through my stomach. I figured the car must be coming here. Quickly, I turned around and walked toward the front door.

The car sound grew louder.

Cops?

No way, I told myself. They couldn’t be after me. Not yet, anyway, and probably never.

What if it’s Serena and Charlie?

Maybe something had gone wrong with their trip. It hardly seemed likely. Anything was possible, though. People do return home unexpectedly.

I felt cold and sick inside with the idea that it might be them. I could probably hang up the sword and clear out the clothes drier in time, but what about Judy’s car in the garage?

I leaped onto the stoop, planting wet footprints on the concrete, and rushed to the front door.

The car sounded as if it had almost reached the driveway.

Brakes squeaked a bit.

I shoved open the door and ducked inside.

Before I had a chance to shut the door, though, I heard a familiar sound.

THWAP!

I’d rarely been outside at this time of the morning, but I’d sometimes heard such a sound coming through my windows above the garage.

It was the Chester Tribune smacking the pavement near the end of the driveway.

Standing in the doorway, I shook my head and smiled. I felt like a dope for being so scared.

After the sound of the car engine faded, I went to get the paper. On my way up the driveway, I looked again for evidence of Tony.

There was nothing.

The paper had landed on the pavement a few yards down from the top, so I didn’t need to go all the way to the road. I went the rest of the way to the top, anyhow, just to take a look around.

Everything seemed fine.

I walked back and forth on the road in front of the house, searching.

Satisfied that there was nothing to find, I returned to the driveway. On the way down, I picked up the newspaper. I peeled off its rubber band and unrolled it.

The headline read:

ALICE SOUGHT IN MURDER SPREE!

Just kidding.

I half expected it to say that, but it didn’t.

I don’t remember what the hell the headline was. It had nothing to do with me.

As I carried the Tribune down toward the house, though, it gave me an idea.

28

YVONNE

Until I’ve had a cup of hot, black coffee, I’m useless in the morning. And this qualified as morning, even though I’d never gone to bed.

Back inside the house, I tossed the Tribune onto the kitchen table and set to work making a pot of coffee. I knew right where to find everything. Before long, the cozy aroma of coffee filled the kitchen.

I had to wait for the pot to fill, though, so I sat at the table and looked through the newspaper. It didn’t contain a single story about anything I’d been involved with last night.

Nothing in the Obituary section, either.

None of which came as much of a surprise.

When the coffee was ready, I poured myself a mugful. I almost took it outside to drink it by the pool. That would’ve been nice on such an early, lovely morning. On my way to one of the back doors, though, I remembered what the prowler’d done. That changed my mind. So I returned to the kitchen table and looked at the newspaper again while I enjoyed my first mug of coffee.

I went straight to the movie ads. I like movies. Chester had a cineplex with six theaters. Not bad for such a worthless little town. Some good stuff was playing. I checked the times on a couple of them, and wondered about going to a movie today.

Why not? I deserved a treat, the way I’d toughed it out and taken care of so many problems.

One problem still needed to be dealt with, though.

Tony’s redial.

I now had a plan.

If it works, I thought, I’ll take in a movie afterward to celebrate.

When I went for a refill on my coffee, I checked the clock on the kitchen wall.

6:20.

I should probably wait until after 8:00 to try out my idea.

To help pass the time, I decided to make myself a huge breakfast. Normally, I don’t have any breakfast at all—just coffee. But I’d had a long, hard night. I’d gotten enough exercise to kill off a high-school football team, picked up scads of minor injuries (food heals), and must’ve burnt off one or two zillion calories. I deserved a feast.

While a skillet full of bacon was sizzling on a burner, I made myself a Bloody Mary. I prepared it my special way—half tomato juice and half vodka, double the usual amount of Worcestershire Sauce and Tabasco to give it a real bite. After stirring it around with ice cubes, I squeezed a slice of lime into it. Then I sprinkled ground pepper over the top.

It tasted so fine.

I sipped it while I finished tending to the bacon, made some toast and fried a couple of eggs. After buttering the toast, I topped each slice with an egg. Then I sat at the table and devoured it all.

One of the best things you can put in your mouth is a piece of buttered toast that’s dripping with egg yellow. Try it by itself, or with a chunk of egg white and a bite of bacon. Wash it down with coffee or a Bloody Mary. Mmmmm.

I hated to see the last of it go.

After breakfast, I did the dishes and skillet by hand and put everything away. I was tempted to have another Bloody Mary, but resisted the urge. One had been enough to make me feel pleasant. A second might knock me off my feet.

I needed to have my wits about me—and my feet under me—for taking care of the redial problem.

Before leaving the house, I hung the saber on the wall where it belonged. I also hung Charlie’s robe in the bedroom closet and put on my swimsuit from yesterday. The swimsuit was all I had to wear, because I didn’t want to use Tony’s clothes again now that they’d been washed. In the laundry room, I emptied the drier and stuffed everything into a grocery bag.

Carrying my bags, my purse, and the Chester Tribune, I left the house and went up to my room over the garage.

It was nice to be in my own place again. It felt so safe and cozy. I wished I could stay—climb into bed and bury myself under the covers and sleep for ages.

Maybe later.

A lot later.

First, I needed to hide Tony’s things. I hung up his shirt in my closet, just as if it were my own. I folded the cut-offs and slipped them into a dresser drawer where I kept other pairs of shorts. The handkerchief and bandana also went into drawers. I put the note pad and both sets of keys in my purse. I hid the cassette tape in a chest pocket of an old flannel shirt near the back of my closet.

That left nothing except the severed denim legs of Tony’s jeans. They certainly weren’t incriminating, so there was no reason to hide or destroy them. I decided to take them out to the car with me. They might make good rags. So I folded them and set them near my purse.

Next, I took off my swimsuit. I put on thong panties and a bra, then stood like a dope and wondered what else to wear.

Making the decision wasn’t easy. Mostly because I didn’t really know what I’d be doing. Also, maybe, because I needed sleep. And the Bloody Mary might’ve had a little to do with it.

Finally, I made up my mind and got dressed.

With my purse, the morning newspaper and the denim legs, I hurried downstairs and let myself into the lower part of the garage.

I took Judy’s car.

I didn’t like the idea of driving it around. I wanted to dump it somewhere and be done with it, but using my own car for a mission like this would’ve been idiotic.

Judy’s car, at least, couldn’t be traced to me.

And I doubted that anyone would recognize me. Not in my sunglasses and red wig.

Yeah, I had a wig on.

I kept a small collection of them, just in case. A gal never knows when she might want to alter her appearance a bit. Or a lot.

The curly red hair looked pretty damn gawdy, but that was the idea. Gawdy all the way. My lipstick was too bright, too red. My gold hoop earrings were the size of bracelets. If people saw me, that’s what they would see. They’d never stand a chance of recognizing—or identifying—me, Alice.

I drove to the busy area near the highway. Some of the locals call it “motel row.” But it had a lot more than just motels. Along both sides of the highway were tons of restaurants and gas stations, and even some fruit stands and gift shops.

There were also scads of public telephones.

You hardly ever find phones in enclosed booths, anymore. I didn’t want to deal with highway noise, so I parked the car and went into a restaurant called Pokey’s. The hostess was busy seating a family, so I went straight for the restrooms. Near the end of the corridor, I found two public phones between the doors marked Guys and Dolls.

Nobody was using them.

I took the note pad and a pen out of my purse. After checking the newspaper, I jotted down a number I’d found on the masthead.

Then I dropped a quarter into the phone and made the call.

“Tribune circulation,” a woman’s voice told me. “This is Yvonne. May I help you, please?”

“I hope so,” I said. “This is Mrs. Tony Romano. I’m afraid we didn’t receive our newspaper this morning.”

“May I have your phone number, please?”

I read her Tony’s number off the pad, and figured she was probably tapping it into a computer.

“Yes. You should’ve gotten it by now, Mrs. Romano. I’ll…”

“The thing is,” I said quickly, “we haven’t been getting it since our move. We just recently moved to a new place. I was wondering if there might be a mix-up and maybe it’s still being delivered to our old address on Washington.”

“Hmm. No. We have it here as being delivered to 8448 Adams.”

I wrote the address on my note pad.

“Is that your correct address for delivery?” Yvonne asked.

“Yeah, it is.” Laughing softly, I said, “So much for my theory.”

“Well, I’ll make sure we get this straightened out for you, Mrs. Romano. We’ll have this morning’s paper to you within the hour.”

“Thank you very much.”

“Thank you for being a subscriber, and we do apologize for your inconvenience.”

“No problem. Thanks again. Bye-bye.”

I hung up and grinned.

After glancing around to make sure nobody had an eye on me, I wiped the handset and number pad with a tissue. Then I walked out of Pokey’s and climbed into Judy’s car.

Next stop, Tony’s place!

I felt brilliant.

Of course, the trick would’ve fallen flat if Tony hadn’t been a Tribune subscriber. Lucky me, he was. And lucky me, he’d been prompt about giving the paper his change of address.

If my luck held, I would walk up to Tony’s front door and find it unlocked.

Which was sure to happen.

Sure.

In my dreams.

Too bad I’d gotten rid of Tony’s keys. I could’ve stepped right up to his door, unlocked it and walked in easy as pie. But last night, I’d been sure there was no possibility of learning his new address. I’d been positive. There just wasn’t any way to do it, not without drastic steps such as questioning people in his old building.

Besides, I’d already thrown his keys in the fire before Judy told me that she knew for a fact he had redial.

If only I’d kept them!

Thought I was so smart, throwing all that stuff in the fire.

Yeah, yeah, burn the evidence! Great idea!

Shit!

Of course, the keys would probably still work fine. All I had to do was drive over to Miller’s Woods, hunt around until I find the campsite, dig the keys out of the cold campfire, hike back to the car and drive all the way over to Tony’s…

That’s all.

And in the meantime, maybe the cops might find Tony’s body.

If they haven’t already.

And they get to his place ahead of me.

What if they’re already there?

Tony’s address on Adams was only a few blocks away from Judy’s apartment building. Just for the sake of caution, I made a slight detour and drove to her place, first. The neighborhood probably would’ve been crawling with cops and curious neighbors if Tony’s body had been discovered. But it was quiet, so I drove on.

As I drove, I wondered how to get inside his apartment.

I had no idea.

I planned to play it by ear.

Now, you might be asking yourself, All this over a redial button? Is she nuts?

Maybe.

I wondered about that myself.

But I kept picturing a cop in Tony’s apartment. He notices the redial feature and thinks, This’ll have the last number Tony ever called! It might even belong to the murderer! Check it out! So he gives it a try. Next thing you know, Charlie’s voice is in his ear, saying, “Thank you for calling. Nobody is available to answer the phone, right now, but if you’d like to leave a message…”

This’ll really get the cop going. Especially if he ever lays his hands on the phone company records and finds out what time Tony made the call—and how long it lasted.

He’ll be very eager to pay Charlie a visit.

But Charlie and Serena are out of town for the week.

And the only person with access to the house and phone is me.

Not a pretty picture.

But I now had a chance to make it go away.

All I had to do was get inside Tony’s apartment and make one telephone call.

Worth a little risk, don’t you think?

I thought so.

But then, I’d been through a lot, so maybe I wasn’t thinking very straight at the time.

29

MURPHY

Leaving Judy’s car parked around the corner, I walked back to 8448 Adams.

It was an old, single-level building with eight small units and an open, grassy courtyard in the middle. I didn’t know Tony’s apartment number. So instead of entering, I just looked the place over and kept walking.

Each front door had a mailbox nearby. Too bad. If you’re in a complex with a bank of mailboxes, the post office requires names on all the boxes. But when you’ve got your own box, like at this place, you don’t need to put your name on it. And nobody does.

Three of the units had newspapers in front of them.

One of those was probably Tony’s.

But which?

Had the Tribune delivery person shown up yet with the replacement? If not, I could simply wait for him and see what he does.

But there was a slim chance that he’d already been here and gone. (He certainly wouldn’t have left a second paper on the doorstep.) If he’d already shown up, I would have an awfully long wait.

There was just no way to know for sure.

Anyway, I didn’t have time to waste. I had to get this done and get going.

Maybe the car ports or garages would give me a clue as to Tony’s apartment number. So I headed for the end of the block to look for an alley entrance.

And heard a distant siren.

Oh, my God!

The sound froze me.

My mind went nuts. The cops had found Tony’s body, knew I’d killed him, knew where to find me, and were swooping in for the arrest. In a matter of seconds, squad cars would roar around the corners and shriek to a halt. Cops would leap out and come at me with their guns drawn.

I had an urge to break into a run.

The siren’s cry grew louder.

They can’t know it’s me! How can they know it’s me?

Just play innocent, I warned myself. Admit nothing. Stay calm.

What can they really prove?

As the siren noise bore down on me from behind, I turned my head and looked over my shoulder.

Siren blaring, lights aflash, an ambulance sped by me and kept going.

I laughed at myself. But my heart was thumping like mad, and I was suddenly out of breath.

Even after the ambulance was out of sight, I stood there gasping, trying to calm down.

Not enough sleep, that was the problem.

That, and a little too much stress.

Maybe I should’ve had that extra Bloody Mary with breakfast, after all.

I’ve gotta get out of here!

But I couldn’t just give up on Tony’s place without at least trying to get in. It was almost a miracle that I’d been able to find out his address. I was meant to come here, get inside somehow, and take us off his redial.

Just go for it!

I turned around and walked back to his building. I wasn’t sure what to do. Go door to door, maybe, saying my car broke down and I need to use a phone…

MANAGER

It was a sign near the door of apartment one.

The building manager would have to know Tony’s apartment number. And he or she would have keys for it.

I hurried over and rang the doorbell.

I did it with a knuckle.

Knuckles don’t leave fingerprints.

Nothing happened, so I rang it again. This time, a man’s voice called, “Hang on, there! I’m on my way!”

A few seconds later, the front door swung open. The screen door still stood in the way. Through the gray mesh, I could barely make out the man on the other side.

“Well, hello there,” he said.

“Good morning,” I said.

“Take a step backward, and I’ll open the screen. Don’t wanta knock you on your keester, do I?”

I took a step backward, and he swung the screen door open. He held it wide with an outstretched arm. He was maybe about thirty years old. He had messy brown hair and wore glasses. He also wore a Bear Whizz Beer T-shirt that showed a grizzly bear peeing in a woodland stream. His shorts appeared to be swimming trunks, even though the apartment building didn’t seem to have a swimming pool. He was barefoot.

Not much to look at, but he had a nice smile and I sort of liked the glint in his eyes.

“My name’s Fran Johnson,” I told him, and held out my hand.

“Murphy Scott.” He gave my hand a hearty shake as if we were old pals. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Fran. And what brings you here, this fine morning?”

“I’m looking for my boyfriend, Tony. Tony Romano.”

“Ah, Tony!”

“He lives here, doesn’t he?”

“He does indeed. I helped him move in last Saturday. Apartment six, directly across the way.”

Nodding, I muttered, “Six, I know,” and glanced over my shoulder at the unit on the other side of the lawn. It was one of the three with a Tribune on the stoop.

I faced Murphy again and said, “The thing is, he isn’t…I’m afraid something might be wrong. We were supposed to meet for breakfast this morning, but he didn’t show up. I waited over an hour for him.”

Frowning, Murphy shook his head.

“Have you seen him at all this morning?” I asked.

“Nope. I just got up.”

“I phoned him a few minutes ago, but all I got was his answering machine.”

“Maybe he screens his calls.”

“But I told him it was me, and he still didn’t pick up.”

“He might’ve been indisposed at the time. That sort of thing happens. He could’ve been taking a shower, for instance.”

“Maybe, but…”

“A lot of possibilities.” With a sheepish look on his face, Murphy said, “Sometimes, guy’s just…” He shrugged. “Were you getting along all right?”

“Sure. I mean, as far as I know. Nothing seemed to be wrong. And we had this date for breakfast.”

Frowning past my shoulder, Murphy said, “He hasn’t picked up his paper yet. Maybe he just overslept or something.”

“But he didn’t answer his phone.”

“Why don’t you go over and give his doorbell a ring or two?” Murphy suggested.

“I already tried, but…okay.”

While Murphy watched, I walked across the grass to unit six and pushed the doorbell with my knuckle. The sound of the ringing gave me flutters in the stomach.

What if he comes to the door?

Yeah, right. In his condition?

But somebody else might open it.

A cop. A friend. A twin.

Be ready for anything. Stay cool.

The door stayed shut.

I rang the bell a few more times, then turned around and headed back for Murphy. As I walked toward him, he checked me out.

Normally, I don’t like it when guys do that.

Most guys are pigs.

Anyway, I didn’t mind Murphy looking me over. I’d only just met him, but I already knew he wasn’t some kind of asshole. Also, I could tell that he liked what he was seeing, and I can’t say I blamed him.

Along with my red wig, bright lipstick and enormous earrings, I wore a yellow blouse the color of a lemon. I would’ve preferred a halter top, but had to keep my midriff covered because of the injury. To make things interesting, I’d left a few of my upper buttons undone. Plenty of cleavage showed.

My legs were scratched and bruised, too, so I couldn’t wear my really short, snug shorts. I’d chosen a skirt, instead. A light, full skirt of forest green. It drifted against my legs and had a slit up one side. In a certain light, you could see through it.

The whole outfit was intended to draw men’s eyes. To attract them and distract them. They would see the flamboyant redhead, the stacked and leggy broad—not me.

My shoes, actually, weren’t part of the outfit. The costume screamed out for something like gold lamé slippers or snake-skin boots. But I wore white sneakers for comfort and speed.

Murphy, watching me, shook his head and smiled.

“What?” I asked.

“Tony’s gotta be either nuts or dead to miss a breakfast with you.”

I must’ve blushed. I sure felt very hot all of a sudden.

“The thing is,” I said, “he’s diabetic. Did he tell you about that?”

Murphy lost his smile. “Oh, man,” he said. “No, he didn’t say anything about that. Diabetic? Maybe we’d better have a look. I’ll go get the keys.”

He vanished inside, but his screen door barely had time to swing shut before he pushed it open and came out. As I followed him across the courtyard, I scanned the rest of the apartments. I saw nobody.

He pulled open Tony’s screen door and knocked a couple of times on the wooden door. But he didn’t wait for a response. He stuck a key into the lock, turned it, and pushed the door open. Then he called out, “Tony?”

We both listened, but heard nothing.

“Tony? It’s Murphy, the manager. Are you here?”

Still no answer, so Murphy stepped inside. I crouched, picked up the Tribune by the rubber band around its middle, and entered behind him. We were in a small, tidy living room.

I saw Tony’s answering machine on a lamp table beside his couch. “Maybe I’d better wait here,” I whispered. “In case he’s…indecent or something.”

“No problem,” Murphy said, and hurried away to search the apartment.

The moment he stepped into the bedroom, I rushed forward, tossed the newspaper onto Tony’s couch, swung my purse behind my back to get it out of the way, and picked up the telephone.

At the sound of a dial tone, I started to tap numbers into the keyboard.

The three-digit local prefix.

Then four random numbers.

In the earpiece, I heard quiet, ringing sounds.

YES!!!

Murphy, coming out of the bedroom, looked at me and shook his head.

I gave him a smile, then spoke into the mouthpiece. “Barb? It’s me, Fran.”

Murphy hurried on, apparently to check the kitchen.

“I got the manager to let me into his apartment, but he doesn’t seem to be here.” Then I called out, “Murphy, any sign of him?”

“Nope.”

To the ringing phone, I said, “I guess it’s good news. I was really afraid he might’ve had another seizure.”

Murphy came back into the living room, his eyebrows raised, his head shaking.

“Any sign of him?” I asked.

“Nothing. He’s not here.”

I gave Murphy a grateful smile, then told the phone, “He’s definitely not here…No, I don’t know if his car’s here.”

“I’ll go look,” Murphy said.

A moment later, he was gone. The screen door clapped shut behind him.

I hung up.

Then I flipped up the plastic cover of the answering machine, took out Tony’s tape cassette, shut the cover and gave it a quick wipe with my skirt. I tucked the tiny cassette down the front of my panties.

After that, I picked up the phone and tapped in another set of random numbers.

This time, somebody picked up after the first ring. A man’s voice said, “Hello?”

I didn’t say a thing.

“Hello? Who is this?”

“This is Margaret,” I said, “from Westside Marketing Research…”

“Not interested,” he said and hung up.

I still had the apartment to myself. As I tried a new number, I noticed a calendar beside the answering machine. It was the kind that has a small, separate page for each day of the year. The number showing on the right was yesterday’s date.

The thick stack of pages on the left side of the center rings told me that Tony was in the habit of turning them over, not ripping them out.

From the other end of the line came a busy signal.

With the edge of a fingertip, I flipped the calendar page over so today’s date showed.

Then, hearing a quick approach of footsteps on the outside walkway, I said into the phone, “Maybe so. I sure hope so, anyway.”

As the screen door opened, I turned around and smiled at Murphy.

He came in, shaking his head. “Car’s gone,” he whispered.

“Thanks, Murphy.” Into the phone, I said, “Tony’s car is gone…I have no idea…Well, I’d much rather be stood up for a breakfast date than have Tony in a coma, or something. I’m glad we didn’t find him, you know?…Right, I’ll let you know if I find out anything. Bye-bye.”

I hung up, then said to Murphy, “That was Tony’s sister. She’s even more worried than I am. I made the mistake of calling her from the restaurant…They’re really close. I thought she might know where he was. But I only ended up scaring her half to death.”

“He’s probably fine,” Murphy said.

“I sure hope so.”

“Ready to go?”

No! My fingerprints were all over the phone.

“Yeah,” I murmured. “I guess.”

He frowned slightly, but turned around and started toward the door.

“I don’t…”

He looked back. “What?”

“…feel so good.”

30

MDS

I let out a moan and tried to look nauseated. Bending over, I put my hands on my knees.

“Are you sick?” Murphy asked.

“No, no. I’ll…be fine. Just…I’m a little dizzy, that’s all. I’d better just…I’ll be fine in a minute. I’m sorry.”

“Hey, no problem.”

“I’d better sit down,” I said, and sank to the floor.

Murphy squatted in front of me, looking appalled. “What’s the matter? Do you need an ambulance, or…?”

“No. No. I’m…I get this way. It’s my…condition kicking up.”

“Condition?”

“MDS.”

“I don’t know what that is.”

As far as I knew, neither did anyone else. I’d just then made it up. “Morning Dehydration Syndrome,” I explained.

“Huh?”

“It’s because I missed breakfast, and…” I trailed off and hung my head.

“Dehydration?” he asked.

“Water. I need…water.”

“Okay. Hang on.” Murphy sprang up, dodged past me, and went rushing for the kitchen.

The answering machine was next to my shoulder and slightly behind me. I stood up quickly and turned around. As I listened to cupboards squeak and water run, I picked up the telephone’s handset, wiped it all over with my skirt and returned it to its cradle. Then I gave the phone’s keypad a quick rub. When the kitchen faucet shut off, I sank to one knee. I was struggling to rise as Murphy trotted in with a glass of water.

“Be careful,” he said.

Wobbling, I made it to my feet. But as I reached for the glass, I lost my balance accidentally on purpose and fell toward Murphy, bumping the glass. The whole load of water caught me in the chest. It drenched the top of my blouse, doused my exposed cleavage, soaked through my bra, and poured down between my breasts.

As I sagged and grabbed Murphy by the shoulders, some of the water underneath my blouse even raced down my belly and soaked the top of my skirt.

He wrapped his arms around me and pulled me against him.

“My God,” he gasped. “Are you okay?”

“I…yeah. Just…a little dizzy. Just…I’ll be…fine…In a minute.”

“Are you sure?”

“You won’t let me fall, will you?”

“I don’t think so,” he said, and I felt his arms tighten against my back. He still seemed to be clutching the glass in one hand. His other hand was open and pressing firmly against me.

“I’m not too heavy, am I?” I asked.

“No. No, not at all.”

“I’m starting to feel better.”

He didn’t say anything, but his open hand began to move up and down a little, caressing my back.

“Good thing you’re so strong,” I told him. “I would’ve fallen flat on my face.”

“Sure glad that didn’t happen.”

“I’m really sorry about all this.”

“No need to be sorry about anything.”

“It’s so embarrassing.”

“Nothing to be embarrassed about.”

“Stumbling around like a drunk.”

“These things happen. But we’d better get some water into you.”

“Instead of ‘onto’ me?”

He laughed quietly, his chest shaking against my breasts.

“What I really need is a towel,” I said.

He laughed again. Then he said, “I think you are feeling better.”

“You don’t feel so bad yourself.”

He didn’t laugh at that one. He just made a sound like, “Mm?” and seemed to tighten up slightly. “I’d better get you that water,” he said. “If I let go of you…?”

“I’ll be okay.”

He loosened his hold. Easing backward, he stared at my face. He looked worried. “Okay?”

“So far, so good.”

He backed away from me. The front of his pale blue T-shirt looked wet from where he’d been pressed against me. “You steady?” he asked, looking from my face to my blouse and up to my face again.

“Fine,” I said.

“I’ll just be gone a second.”

“Why don’t you see if Tony has some beer?”

“Beer?”

“Yeah. A good, cold beer. That’d be a lot better than water.”

He grinned. He glanced at my blouse again, and said, “Beer’s always better than water.”

“Especially on a hot day like this.”

“I don’t know about borrowing Tony’s beer, though—if he has any. I hardly know him, and…”

“Yeah, you’re right. And maybe he wouldn’t want me drinking it. Maybe he wouldn’t even want me to be here.” I shrugged. “I mean, the way he stood me up this morning, no telling what’s going on. Maybe he’s decided to hate me, or something.”

“I can’t imagine that.”

“I can. Guys are such…Maybe we’d better get out of here before he shows up and starts trouble.”

Murphy frowned and nodded, then said, “If you’d like a beer, I’ve got plenty of cold ones over at my place.”

BINGO! His place. Exactly where I wanted to go. I planned to seduce him, then act as if I hadn’t really wanted him to do that. Afraid I might charge him with sexual assault, he would make damn sure he never told the cops about me. Brilliant, huh?

“Are you sure?” I asked. “I don’t want to…you know, make a nuisance out of myself.”

“Be glad to have you.”

“That’d be great.”

“Let me put this away,” he said, and headed for the kitchen with the glass.

When Murphy was out of sight, I looked down to check my blouse. The water had drenched me in the middle, but more on the left side than the right. The pink of my skin showed through the yellow fabric. On the left, I could also see the outline and pattern and red color of my bra. And my nipple. Not the color of my nipple, but the way it was sticking out as if it wanted to poke a hole through the thin, wet layers of my bra and blouse.

No wonder Murphy’d had such trouble keeping his eyes away.

As water started running in the kitchen, I bent over and looked at Tony’s floor. There were just a few damp places on the carpet. Most of the water had ended up on me.

Soon after the kitchen faucet shut off, a cupboard squeaked open and I heard the quiet thump of the glass being set on a shelf. Then the cupboard bumped shut.

I took another look at my left breast. My blouse still clung to it, and my nipple still jutted out. My right one was erect, too. I could feel it that way, but it didn’t show so much because that side was fairly dry.

“Still on your feet,” Murphy said. He looked both happy and nervous as he came toward me.

“I’ll be fine now.”

“You still want the beer, don’t you?”

“You bet.”

I walked out ahead of him, going slowly and trying to look a little shaky on my feet. Then I waited in the sunlight while he locked Tony’s main door and eased the screen door shut. Coming over to where I stood, he took hold of my arm and led me carefully across the courtyard.

“My place is sort of a mess,” he warned.

“Is your wife out of town, or something?”

“Who’s married?”

“You’re not?” I tried to sound surprised, but I wasn’t. After all, he didn’t wear a wedding ring.

“Not me,” he said.

“That’s a surprise. I thought all the good guys were taken.”

He shook his head and laughed softly. “I’m not taken. And what makes you think I’m a ‘good guy?’”

“I can tell.”

He held the screen door open for me. His main door wasn’t completely shut, so I pushed it out of my way and stepped into his apartment.

As Murphy came in, he asked, “Want the air conditioning on?”

“It’s up to you.”

“I usually like to leave it off in the mornings. You know, keep the place wide open so the air can get in.”

“That’s fine.”

“But if you’re hot…”

“This is nice.”

“Okay.” Leaving the main door wide open, he stepped around me and spread his arms. “Home, sweet home. Make yourself comfortable and I’ll get us a couple of cold ones.”

“Great.”

Over his shoulder, he said, “I don’t usually drink in the morning.”

“What do you usually do?”

“Read and write.”

“Ah,” I said.

Murphy disappeared into the kitchen.

Unlike Tony’s living room, this one had bookshelves standing against every available wall. They were loaded with hardbounds and paperbacks in a fabulous disarray.

The whole room was in disarray.

Cluttered with books, mostly.

But a lot of other stuff, too.

You couldn’t even see the top of the coffee table. Along with all sorts of mail and magazines and a few pens and pencils, it was cluttered with three Pepsi cans, a couple of wadded napkins, and a paper plate littered with an empty Brie wrapper, a used knife smeared with white cheese, and cracker crumbs.

I moved a couple of pillows aside. As I sat down, I slipped the strap of my purse off my shoulder. I put the purse down between my hip and the end of the couch, where it wouldn’t be in the way.

“What do you write?” I called.

“Crap that nobody wants to publish.”

“That sounds lucrative.”

I heard him laugh.

Then he came walking in with two beer bottles in one hand, two large glass mugs in the other, and a plastic bag of pretzels hanging from his teeth.

He set it all down on the coffee table without moving anything out of the way.

“There we go,” he said. After tossing the pillows aside, he sat on the couch.

Not far away from me, but not very close, either.

He poured beer into the mugs, and handed one of them to me. Then he opened the pretzels and placed the bag on the couch between us.

Turning toward me, he hoisted his mug and said, “Down the hatch.”

We bumped our mugs together.

I took a drink. The beer tasted great.

Murphy drank, too. When he came up for air, he said, “There goes my writing for the day.”

“Not much of a loss, if it’s crap.”

He laughed. “You’re right.”

“Have you had stuff published?”

“Oh, sure. I do all right. Not as well as I’d like, but not too badly.”

“What do you write?”

“Crime novels.”

“Murder mysteries?”

“Sort of.”

“Cool.”

“TRIBUNE!”

The sudden shout made me jump. Beer slopped out of my mug and splashed the middle of my chest—like the water, but not as much. And colder!

A moment later, I heard the slap of a newspaper smacking concrete outside.

Turning my head, I looked out the screen door and across the courtyard. A rolled Tribune lay on the stoop in front of Tony’s door.

Murphy, frowning, leaned forward to see past me. “Well,” he said. “That’s odd.”

31

THE OFFER

“Kind of,” I said, and shrugged and changed the subject. “I’m sure klutzy this morning.” I reached out and took a wadded napkin off the coffee table.

Murphy watched me blot the beer off my chest, but he said, “Tony already had a paper. Why would they bring him another one?”

“Some sort of mix-up?” I suggested, and slid the damp ball of paper down between my breasts. “They usually just do that if you call.”

“But he got his. And he’s not even home.”

I grinned and pulled out the napkin. “It’s a mystery, isn’t it? You’re a mystery writer. What do you think?”

He made a face, narrowing one eye and turning down a corner of his mouth. “Well, let me think. Obviously, someone called the Tribune and asked for a new paper to be delivered. Since Tony is gone, it’d be stretching things to assume that he made the call.”

“Wouldn’t make any sense at all,” I agreed.

“So somebody else must’ve asked for the paper.”

“But why would anyone want another paper delivered to Tony’s place?” I asked.

“Elementary, my dear Fran.”

“Oh?”

“Sure. It was some sort of a mix-up.”

I laughed and drank some more beer.

“It was delivered to Tony’s by mistake!” he pronounced.

“Sent to the wrong address?”

“Exactly!”

“You’re a genius!”

“You bet,” he said, and laughed. “Somewhere along the way, somebody misunderstood the address, or wrote it down wrong, or hit a wrong computer key…something like that.”

“You’re a regular Travis McGee,” I told him.

He beamed. “You know McGee?”

“Sure.”

“Well, now. I’d give you a beer, but you’ve already got one.”

“Well, I’ll take another when this one’s done. Maybe I’ve read some of your stuff. What name do you write under?”

“My own.”

“Murphy Scott?”

Looking pleased that I’d remembered, he said, “That’s it.”

“What are some of your books?”

“There’ve only been two so far. That have gotten published, anyway. Deep Dead Eyes and The Dark Pit.”

“Neat titles,” I said.

“Thanks.”

“How are the books?”

“Brilliant.”

“I thought you said they’re crap.”

“That was before I found out you’re a reader.”

“That makes a difference?”

“Sure. To someone who isn’t a reader, I might as well be writing crap.”

I laughed. “You’re weird, you know that?”

“Maybe a little. How about you?” he asked. “Are you weird?”

“What do you think?” Reaching out, I grabbed a few pretzels out of the bag between us. “You’re the mystery writer. What do you make of me?” I chomped a pretzel and grinned at him.

Taking a long drink, he gazed at me over the upper rim of his mug. Then he set down the mug, turned sideways on the couch so he faced me, and said, “I’ll say this about you. You’re not what you seem.”

It made me feel a little sick to hear him say that.

And it probably showed on my face.

Suddenly, the pretzel in my mouth went so dry I had a hard time swallowing it. I had to wash it down with some beer. Then I asked, “What do you mean?”

“Well,” he said, “you’re not really a redhead. That’s either a dye job or a very good wig, I’m not sure which.”

“What makes you think it isn’t natural?”

“A couple of things. Redheads usually have light skin and freckles, whereas you’ve got a nice dark tan. Also, you have brown eyes and eyebrows.”

“Ah. Okay. You’re right. It’s a wig. Anything else?”

“I guess that’s about it,” he said.

Alarms went off inside me.

I could tell by the look in his eyes that there was something else.

Something a lot bigger than my hair color.

“What is it?” I asked.

He shrugged. “This and that. Why don’t you tell me?”

“Tell you what?”

“Who you really are.”

“I’m just me.”

“And what’s really going on.”

“Nothing’s going on.”

“Hang on,” he said. “I want to show you something.”

“Okay.”

I sat there with my beer while he got up and walked over to a corner of the living room. There, he crouched over a cardboard box and opened its lid.

I thought about bolting.

I also thought about attacking him.

But I had no idea what he knew—or what he thought he knew.

Besides, I sort of liked him.

He took a book out of the box, then came back to the couch and handed it to me. A hardbound copy of Deep Dead Eyes by Murphy Scott.

The front picture showed a dead woman under water. You seemed to be looking down at her from the surface of a lake or river as if you were in a rowboat or something. She was a few feet below the surface, and sort of blurry. She seemed to be naked, but you couldn’t make out the details very well. What you could really make out was the way her eyes were gazing up at you.

“That’s for you,” Murphy said.

“Really? Thanks. Will you autograph it for me?”

“Sure thing. But first, take a look at the back cover.”

I flipped the book over. On the back of the dust jacket was a black-and-white photograph of Murphy standing in front of a tree. In jeans and a plaid shirt, he looked like a hunter or fisherman. The picture, taken at an odd upward angle, looked as if the photographer had been more interested in the tree than in Murphy. The tree sure looked a lot more menacing than the author.

“Do you recognize me?” he asked.

“Sure. Nice picture.”

“Thanks. And it shows that I am who I say I am, right?”

“A writer, you mean?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s either you, or you’ve got a twin.”

“It’s me,” he said.

“I believe you.”

“Want the autograph now?”

“Sure.” I handed the book to him.

Holding it, he bent over and searched the cluttered table until he found a pen. Then he stepped around the table, sat on the couch and opened the book on his lap. He turned to the title page. At the top right corner, he scribbled the date. Then he smiled at me and asked, “Do you want it personally inscribed?”

“Sure.”

“To…?”

“Me.”

“Fran?”

“Sure.”

“Are you sure? Is Fran the name you want on here? Is Fran your real name?”

“Why shouldn’t it be?”

He made a little shrug, then lowered his head and wrote a brief message in the book. Below the message, he scratched his autograph. Then he passed the book to me.

The inscription said:

To Fran,

My mysterious and beautiful guest—

Tell me your story.

Who knows? Maybe my next book will be about you.

Warmest Regards,

Murphy Scott

I lifted my eyes to his. “Thanks,” I said, and shut the book.

“How about it?”

“Tell you my story? What makes you think I have a story?”

“Your red hair.”

“And what else?”

“Your telephone call to Tony’s sister.”

“What about it?”

“It was a fake. You were still on the phone with her when I came back from checking for Tony’s car. Remember?”

“Yeah.”

“And you told her that Tony’s car was gone?”

I nodded.

“Well, I could hear the busy signal.”

“No, you couldn’t.”

“Yes, I could. I was standing right next to you. I heard it coming out of the earpiece. It was very quiet, but…”

“There wasn’t any busy signal. I was talking to Tony’s sister.”

“The question is, why?”

“She was worried about him.”

“You weren’t talking to her. You were talking to a busy signal. But that’s all right. Okay? I just want to know what’s going on. I’m curious. Maybe it is something I can write about. And maybe I can help you.”

“Who says I need any help?”

“You’ve gotta be awfully desperate to put on a disguise and come over here the way you did—make up a story about being stood up for breakfast.”

I shook my head and tried to look stupid.

“And Morning Dehydration Syndrome? You’ve got to be kidding.”

“Just because you’ve never heard of it…”

He smiled and shook his head. “And the second Tribune? You must’ve called in the request for it. My guess is, you needed to get into Tony’s apartment for some reason, but you didn’t know which one it was. So you called for a replacement paper. You wanted to see where it got delivered.”

“You oughta be a writer,” I told him, smiling and shaking my head. “With an imagination like that…”

“Am I wrong?”

“Dead wrong.”

“Oooh. Don’t say things like that, okay? To a writer, that sounds like some sort of ironic foreshadowing. I’m not at all interested in getting myself killed. I’m fascinated by your situation, that’s all.”

“You don’t even know my situation.”

“Tell me about it.”

“What do you think is going on?” I asked him.

“Tony had something in his apartment, and you wanted it. You had to get it. Maybe you figured you just couldn’t wait for the Tribune guy, so you thought up the breakfast story and came to my door, hoping you could trick me into letting you into his place. While I was searching for him, you tried to take care of your problem, whatever it was. And you made the fake call to his sister to add a touch of verisimilitude to your story.”

Laughing, I said, “What a crock.”

“Was he blackmailing you? What?”

“He stood me up for breakfast.”

Murphy raised his right hand and said, “No matter what, I’ll never tell a soul.”

“Nothing to tell.”

“I’ll give you a thousand dollars for your story.”

“Haw!”

“And if it’s something usable, we can work out a deal so you get a percentage of everything.”

“You really are curious.”

“Nothing like this has ever happened to me before,” he said.

“Nothing like what?”

“I’m minding my own business when a gorgeous mystery woman comes to my door and drags me into her intrigue.”

Gorgeous?

“It’s a first,” he said. “This sort of thing just doesn’t happen in real life. Not to me, anyway. At least it never did until this morning.”

“Maybe I’d better leave.”

“No, don’t. Please. You’ve got no idea how great this is. For me. Do you want another beer? Something else? Just name it, I have to know what’s going on. Was Tony blackmailing you? Did he have pictures of you, or…?”

I shook my head.

“What’ll it take for you to tell?” he asked.

“I guess I’ll take another beer,” I told him.

Nodding, he stood up. “You won’t run off, will you?”

“Not a chance.”

He raised his eyebrows as if he wanted to know why.

“I can’t run off,” I explained. “I might have to kill you.”

Which was a joke. I didn’t intend to kill him. There’d be no need for it. Like I already mentioned, I planned to ensure his silence by getting him to screw me.

32

LEVERAGE

Entering from the kitchen with two fresh bottles of beer, Murphy looked eager and excited and not at all worried. He sat down on the couch and filled our mugs with beer.

I took a drink, then said, “Before you get too comfortable, you’d better shut the front door. And get your checkbook.”

“Sure. Okay.”

He got up again, closed the main door, disappeared into another room and came back with it.

I held out my hand.

“You want to see it?”

“You’re curious about my story, I’m curious about yours.”

“Well…” He shrugged, then handed the checkbook to me.

I flipped through his check stubs. He hadn’t been very diligent about keeping track of his balance, but I performed some simple math along the way. By the time I came to the final stub, he seemed to have about twelve thousand dollars, give or take a few hundred. I looked up at him and said, “Not bad.”

“Well, I just got an advance.”

I felt a little giddy. When you don’t have a job and your bank balance is less than two hundred bucks, twelve thousand looks like a fortune.

I gave Murphy a frown. “You could’ve offered me a little more than a thousand.”

“Well…How much do you want?”

“How about ten?”

“Ten thousand? I wouldn’t have anything left to live on. Whatever I’ve got now, it’ll have to last me for months.”

“How many months?”

“I don’t know. It all depends. Six or eight, maybe. And I have an estimated income tax payment coming up in September. That’ll clean me out if I don’t get something else by then. And I probably won’t. The taxes always clean me out.”

“Suppose you give me five thousand?” I suggested.

He grimaced.

“Five thousand in cash, up front, and you can have my story. I’ll sign a paper, giving you all the rights to it. You won’t have to cut me in for a percentage or anything, even if it’s a bestseller or blockbuster movie. How does that sound?”

“I don’t know,” he said.

“If you get low, just don’t pay your estimated tax on time.”

“Easy for you to say.”

“My story could make you a lot of money.”

“I don’t even know if I can use your story. I don’t know, what it is.”

“And you never will unless you cough up the five grand.”

He scowled at me, but with a glint in his eye. He almost seemed to be smiling as he sat down on the couch and reached for his beer. He drank some. Then he said, “Just give me a hint.”

“A hint?”

“Something to whet my appetite. Enough to make me take the risk. I mean, five thousand dollars…That’s a load of money.”

“Suppose I tell you that I killed two people last night—in self-defense—and one of them was probably a serial killer?”

He gaped at me.

“What do you say to that?” I asked.

“If it’s true…”

“It’s true.”

“Do the police know about it?”

“I don’t think so. I sure didn’t tell them. But they’ll find out eventually. Today, probably. But maybe not till tomorrow or the next day. It all depends on when certain things turn up.”

“Bodies?”

“Basically.”

“You should tell the cops. Especially if…you said you killed them in self-defense, right?”

“That’s what I said.”

“Is it true?”

“Pretty much.”

“Pretty much? You mean it wasn’t self-defense?”

“No, it was. Yeah. It’s just…all sort of complicated.”

“You’ve gotta tell the cops.”

“Bullshit. Don’t give me that.”

“Is Tony one of the people you killed?”

“I’m not saying. I’m not telling you anything else. Not till I’ve got the money.”

Scowling, he took off his glasses. He rubbed his eyes as if he were suddenly feeling very tired. Then he muttered, “Man, oh man.”

“How about it?”

He shook his head. “This is a real mess. I had no idea you’d killed anyone.”

“Wouldn’t be much of a story for you if I hadn’t.”

“But how can I write it?”

“You’re a fiction writer. Turn it into fiction. Change all the names—not that you know my real name, anyway.”

“I guess I could do that. But if anyone finds out…”

“I’ll never tell, you can bet on that.”

“What if they catch you?”

“They won’t. I’ve covered my tracks. There’s absolutely no evidence connecting me to anything.”

“There’s me,” he said.

“I know.”

He gave me a weary smile.

“Don’t worry,” I said. “You don’t know enough to do me any harm. What could you tell the cops?”

He shrugged slightly. “Not much.”

“At this point, you don’t know who I killed, or how, or where. For all you know, I’ve been lying about everything. Also, you don’t know who I am. You don’t even really know what I look like.”

With a smile, he said, “So, you don’t think you’ll have to kill me?”

I smiled back. “Only if you don’t pay up.”

“I don’t suppose you’ll take a check?”

“Cash only.”

“I’ll have to pay a visit to the bank.”

“I’ll have to go with you.”

“Sounds good to me,” he said. “But you might want to think twice about going in. They have those security cameras.”

I grimaced. He was right about the cameras. Even with the wig on, I didn’t like the idea of being caught on video tape. But if I didn’t go inside with him…

“How do I know you won’t snitch on me?” I asked.

“I won’t. But I don’t expect you to believe it.” He shook his head. He drank some beer. “There must be a way.”

I drank some beer and frowned and tried to think of something, too.

After a while, he said, “I don’t know.”

“Come on. You’re the writer. Think of something.”

“Well, I’ve got no intention of turning you in. You might just try a flying leap of faith.”

“Yeah, right. You seem like a good guy, Murphy, but I’m not ready to trust you with my life.”

“Suppose you had something on me? If I turn you in, you turn me in.”

That seemed like a pretty good idea. I should’ve thought of it myself. But I saw a big problem with it. “What are you going to do,” I asked. “Kill somebody?”

“Maybe nothing quite that drastic.”

“It’d have to be drastic. Something you’d at least go to prison for. And something that nobody could know about except me, so you’d be completely in my hands.”

He shrugged.

I felt a sudden rush of heat that must’ve turned my face bright red.

Murphy saw.

“What?” he asked.

Feeling all squirmy inside, I said, “Nothing.”

“Come on. Have you got an idea?”

“Well…yeah, but it’s pretty far out.”

“That’s not always a bad thing. Sometimes, far out’s the only way to go. Let’s hear your idea.”

“How would you like to rape me?”

It was his turn to get red. His mouth drooped open. He said, “Uh. What?”

“Told you it was far out.”

“Rape you?”

“Right. Well, more like pretend to rape me.” I tried to smile, but didn’t do a very good job of it. I felt awfully embarrassed and excited. I was trembling like mad. Streams of sweat were dribbling down my sides.

“Geez,” Murphy said. “I don’t know.”

“You’d have to really go through with it, though. We can’t just say you did it. I’d need the physical evidence to prove my case against you.”

Looking flushed and disoriented and a little amused, he said, “And this would be so you’d have leverage to keep me from tipping off the bank teller, or someone, that I’ve got a killer in my car?”

“Basically.”

“Which I have no intention of doing, anyway.”

“So you say.”

“It’s the truth.”

“This’ll be my insurance. I won’t even go with you to the bank. I’ll stay here and wait. If the cops come to arrest me, they’ll find a rape victim in your bed.”

“You’re nuts,” he said, looking terribly nervous but amused.

“Think so?”

“Definitely.”

“How about it?”

“It’s not rape if you consent, so it wouldn’t really be a crime.”

“Nobody’ll ever know I consented. And we’ll make sure it looks like a rape. I’m already pretty banged up from last night, so…”

“I suppose you’d need to bang me up, just to make it look good.”

“Some. Yeah. Good idea.”

“You’re very big on tricky stuff,” he said.

“It seems like a great solution to me. I mean…I’m willing to go through with it if you are. What about you?”

“I’ve got a suggestion.”

“Yeah?”

“Why don’t we hold off on the so-called ‘rape’ till after I get back from the bank? You’ll already have your money, then. There won’t be anything hanging over our heads, so we’ll be able to relax and take our time and…”

“And I won’t have anything to hang over your head when you go into the bank.”

“You’ve gotta have that leverage, huh?”

“Yep.”

“But if we wait till afterwards…”

“I’m starting to think maybe you don’t want to do it at all.”

When I said that, he smirked and set down his beer mug and moved the bag of pretzels out of the way. I put down my mug, too.

He reached over and clutched the front of my blouse with both hands.

“Do you want me to rip it off you?” he asked.

“Gotta make it look good.”

“What’ll you wear later?”

“We’ll think of something.”

“Do you want me to do it right here?”

“We were sitting here having a couple of beers. You invited me in after we came back from Tony’s apartment.”

“And what were we doing there?” Murphy asked, still clutching my blouse.

“He’d stood me up for breakfast.”

“You’re going to stick with that story?”

“Sure. After we’d looked for Tony, I wanted to wait for him in his apartment. But you wouldn’t let me.”

“But you’d killed him.”

“Who, me? For all you know, he isn’t even dead. Anyway, you wouldn’t let me stay in Tony’s place, but you said I could come over here to wait for him. You said we could have a couple of beers and wait for him together.”

“Very good. Maybe you should be the writer.”

“Maybe so,” I said. “Anyway, so I just innocently sat here and had a couple of beers with you while I was waiting for my boyfriend to get home, and all of a sudden you grabbed the front of my blouse and ripped it open.”

As I said, “ripped,” he did it.

33

GETTING DOWN TO BUSINESS

Tore my blouse wide open.

My buttons went pup-pup-pup. The tail came jerking up out of my skirt’s waistband.

Murphy shoved the blouse off my shoulders, then stopped and held it there. “How’s that so far?” he asked. His voice sounded pretty shaky.

“Not bad at all,” I said.

“Thanks.”

“Now, hit me in the face.”

“I can’t hit you.”

“Go ahead.”

“No way.”

So I slapped him, knocking his head sideways and putting a handprint on his face. He looked startled. “Like that,” I told him.

“Maybe this isn’t such a good idea,” he said.

“You don’t think so?”

“Why don’t I just go to the bank and…”