by J. D. Barker
Stella pushed her empty glass toward me. “After what happened at the reservoir last night, the hotel this morning, and the lake, I not only want a drink, I need a drink, and possibly a third or a fifth or a sixth after that. I would like to forget our little predicament for tonight, and that bottle plays a significant role in my plan. I am quite happy we found it, actually.”
I smiled and refilled her cup. “I imagine living in a house with Latrese Oliver would drive anyone to the bottle.”
The moment the words slipped from my mouth, I regretted them.
Stella’s face fell slightly at the mention of the name. She reached for her cup, stirred it with her finger, then took a drink. She had removed her gloves. They were folded neatly beside her, next to the three books. “It may be difficult for you to understand, looking in from the outside as you did, but she did treat me well. She cared for me, looked out for me, treated me with respect. Not the kind of respect the others in the house doled out, they were simply afraid of me. Not her, though. If she feared me in the slightest, she never let on. The day I left…I hurt her. I hurt her horribly. That man came, got me out, killed all those people to get me out, and I never thought we’d actually make it to the front door let alone to his car, but somehow we did, and I remember standing there, amazed by this. I saw this documentary once with a lion at a zoo in Germany. One of the lion’s handlers accidentally left the cage door open. Not much, mind you, just an inch or so, but open. About midway through the day, the lion realizes this, you can see it on the video—she’s walking in circles around the interior of her cage, and she pauses at the door, nudges the iron with her nose, then stands there for at least five minutes. Finally, she goes back to pacing and lies down in the corner for a nap. She had been in that cage for so much of her life, the idea of leaving when she could didn’t occur to her. Or possibly it did, and she decided she didn’t wish to go. Her life was inside that cage, not on the other side of the bars. The safety of the known outweighing the unknown. As I stood in the driveway of that house next to his car, I nearly ran back inside. I think I was going to. I killed that day, I didn’t want to, but the people who worked at the house, they kept grabbing me, trying to pull me back in, and I was wearing short sleeves, so the moment they touched me, they…I didn’t mean to hurt any of them. I was so rattled by it all. Then there was all the gunfire and the explosions. This man, he was like an army with all the destruction he brought.”
She paused for a moment and took a sip of her drink, then set the cup down. “He yelled at me to follow him, get in his car—it was parked about halfway down the driveway. That’s when the police man showed up. He came running up behind us, yelling, ‘Pittsburgh PD, drop it! Drop it!’”
“Detective Brier,” I said quietly.
Stella went on. “The man with the GTO turned toward him, prepared to fire, but then didn’t. I thought for sure he’d kill him, but something stopped him. Then Ms. Oliver’s SUV slid up behind both of them. One of the men with her jumped out before the vehicle even stopped moving, and he fired at the detective before the detective could fire at him. I was horrified. I was so busy watching this man die, watching so many die, I didn’t see Ms. Oliver get out of the car and run up to me. I didn’t even recognize her voice when she shouted at me. I just spun around and grabbed her, purely defensive on my part. I wouldn’t have hurt her if I’d known it was her, and I let go of her arm the second I realized, but she was screaming, screaming so loud.” Stella paused and took a deep breath. “The man with the GTO, he grabbed me by the back of my shirt and pulled me away, got me to his car. I could hear her screaming the entire time. I still hear her screaming.”
I nearly reached for Stella’s hand. I wanted to comfort her, but she was wearing a white tank top, her arms bare. No gloves. I couldn’t touch her. I couldn’t console her, I could only sit there.
“He drove me to New York City. Five hours in the car, and he didn’t say a word to me. I was so frightened, I was certain he planned to kill me. I yelled for him to let me out. I nearly touched him, several times. I pulled off my gloves and reached right for his neck. I didn’t care that he was driving or how fast we were going, or what would happen. I only wanted to get out. But he didn’t even flinch. It was like I wasn’t there. When we got to New York, he took me to Grand Central Station and parked out front. He reached into the back seat and handed me a duffle bag—” She nodded at the bag on the floor. “—that duffle bag. And said there were clothes inside, new identification, and ten thousand dollars cash. He told me to get out and pick a train, any train. He didn’t want to know where I was going. I asked him again, ‘who are you?’ and he just pushed the bag toward me and told me to get out, so I did. The second I stepped out, he left. He just sped away and left me standing there, like some big inconvenience to be discarded on the sidewalk.”
“So you have no idea who he is?”
“I didn’t then, but I think I might. Thanks to you.”
“Who?”
She slid her empty cup back to me. “Such information will cost you, Pip.”
I mixed another drink, her third now, and returned the cup to her. “Careful, you’re going to get drunk.”
“I’m well aware of the effects of alcohol,” she said, taking a long gulp.
I was still on my first, about half gone now.
Stella put her cup aside and took the yearbook from the stack beside her. She turned to one of the dog-eared pages, then pointed at the photograph of Jeffery Dalton. “I can’t be sure, but I believe it was him. He’s so much younger here, it’s hard to tell. I didn’t say anything when you first showed me the book, because it seemed too unlikely. I thought maybe my mind just wanted it to be him. But the more I thought about that night, the more certain I became.”
Jeffery Dalton.
“No more of this talk, not tonight.” Stella reached across the table and scooped up the bottle of Patron. She brought it to her lips and drank the tequila straight. Smiling, she placed it back on the table in front of me. “Your turn, Pip.”
“Now you’re trying to get me drunk? A seasoned alcoholic?” I grinned, picked up the bottle, and drank, too, the familiar warmth easing down my throat. I wiped my mouth on the back of my hand.
“We’re going to play a game,” Stella said, a mischievous curl at the edge of her lips. She moved our plates aside. “We need to separate our laundry. Colors will go here.” She slid her gloves to the right side of the table. “Whites over there, near you. The game is called Never have I ever.”
I chuckled. “I’ve played that, in like fifth grade.”
“You’ve never played with me.”
I was beginning to like where this was going. I straightened up in my chair.
Stella placed the bottle of tequila between us. “You’ve played, so you’re familiar with the rules. I’ll start with something like, ‘never have I ever eaten french fries.’ If you have eaten french fries, you’ll have two choices: you can either drink, or deposit an article of clothing on the table.”
Using my foot, I pulled my backpack close.
Stella shook her head. “The clothing in our bags will be off limits for the duration of this game.”
I tried to keep a poker face, but judging by the smile on Stella, I wasn’t doing a very good job.
She folded both hands on the table. “Never have I ever ridden a bicycle.”
“Seriously?”
“I wanted one when I was younger, particularly after seeing yours, but Ms. Oliver was afraid I might fall and hurt myself. Doctors were…problematic…for me. Hospitals were out of the question, so she was very protective of everything I did. If injury was a possibility, the activity was ruled out.”
I couldn’t imagine growing up without a bike as a kid. Not having the freedom those two wheels granted, or the fun of riding.
Stella cleared her throat and nodded at the bottle. “I believe you are required to drink or provide an article of clothing to our laundry pile.”
I smiled, too
k the bottle, and drank.
“Chicken,” she said.
“I’m just trying to catch up. I’ve never had a woman outdrink me before.”
“Prepared to be schooled, good sir. Your turn.”
I thought about my response for a second. “Never have I ever lived in a house with a pool.”
“I liked the pool,” Stella said, before crossing her arms and pulling her white tank top over her head and starting our pile of whites. Then she settled back into her chair, wearing only her shoes, jeans, and a white bra. The flickering candlelight bounced across her toned skin.
I reached for the bottle and took a drink. My God, she was beautiful.
“Eyes front, Pip,” Stella said. “Shall we continue?”
I nodded.
“Never have I ever had real friends my own age to play with.”
“None? What did you do all day?”
“I read, of course. I’ve read so many books. Ms. Oliver and I would sometimes play cards or board games. When I was younger, around five or six, they tried to find me a friend. They brought a girl in to play with me. I remember Ms. Oliver dressed me in long sleeves and my longest pair of gloves. Her name was Rebecca. We played for nearly an hour, with Ms. Oliver and at least four others hovering over us. I didn’t understand what I could do back then, I was too young. They watched us closely at first, but I think minds began to wander. Nobody saw Rebecca reach for my cheek. She only wanted to brush away a piece of lint or something. Things happened so fast. When she cried out, they snatched her away. I don’t know what happened to her after that. They told me she was the daughter of one of our cooks, but I suspect she had been kidnapped.” Stella nodded at the bottle. “I believe you did have friends, so you need to choose.”
I took off my University of Connecticut sweatshirt. I had never been to Connecticut. I picked it up at a thrift store years ago. Dark blue. It went in our colors pile.
It didn’t take long before we were both in our underwear. Stella insisted that because her pair of gloves had started the game, things like shoes and socks had to come off in pairs, too.
My hand inched closer to hers on the table, but we dared not touch.
I knew we couldn’t touch, but I so desperately wanted to. I wanted to scoop her up into my arms and make love to her right there, and I could see that same desire in her eyes. I knew what would happen if I did, and I almost didn’t care. Just touching her for a second would be worth it. There was a heat coming off her fingertips, off her uncovered skin. She lit up the room.
Stella slid the bottle over to me. “Drink.”
“But you didn’t make a statement yet.”
“Drink.”
“And I think it’s my turn.”
“Drink, anyway. And it’s my turn.”
I raised the bottle to my lips and drank. There wasn’t much left. I left about a quarter inch at the bottom.
Stella took up the bottle and finished the tequila the moment I set it down. With a sly grin, she slid the empty aside. “Option two is no longer on the the table, and you are down to your skivvies.” She drummed her fingers. “Hmm. What should I say? What should I say…”
She stood and leaned back against the kitchen island, facing me. Her dark hair rolled down over her shoulders in chestnut waves. She had the longest, sexiest legs I had ever seen. “What to say…” she repeated softly. When she looked up at me, her eyes were glistening in the thin light. “Never have I ever…kissed someone I loved.”
I hesitated for a moment, thinking about this. Then I stood and slipped my thumbs into the waistbands of my underwear. I didn’t take them off, though.
Stella’s grin had returned, but there was a sadness behind it. She didn’t want me to see that, but I did. “Now is not the time to be bashful, Pip.”
“I haven’t, either. I’ve never kissed someone I love.”
She seemed perplexed by this. “You’ve never…?”
“Oh, I’ve done that. But never with someone I love.”
“What about that girl from the diner?”
“Gerdy.”
“What about Gerdy?”
“I loved the idea of Gerdy. I wanted to have someone to love, and she tried to be that for me. I feel horribly guilty for letting her try so hard and not giving back, not really. But I couldn’t love her. Not while knowing you were out there somewhere. Every time she held my hand, I thought of your hand. When she kissed me, I pretended her lips were yours. I think she somehow knew this and didn’t care. I think she made peace with it, and that made her death so much harder to accept. She did so much for me, and I gave her nothing in return.”
“I’m sure she felt loved.”
“I like to think so. I tell myself that.”
“You’re a good guy, John Edward Jack Thatch. She knew that. I’m sure your affection meant more to her than you can possibly realize. She was lucky, to have that closeness, to have shared that intimacy.”
A tear fell from her eye, and I went to her. I couldn’t not go to her. My finger reached out, came within a centimeter, but I didn’t wipe the tear away. Instead, my finger hovered there. I watched as the tear rolled down her cheek, off her chin, and splashed on her bare feet. She whispered, “All I’ll ever be, all I can ever be for you, Jack, my dearest Pip, is a pretty little thing to be looked at but never touched.”
“Close your eyes,” I said softly.
“Why?”
“Close them.”
She did, and another tear slipped free, following the first.
I reached back to the table behind me took an ice cube from my cup, the largest one I could find, and I brought the ice to the side of her neck, pressed the cube against her skin.
Stella gasped but kept her eyes closed. She drew in a deep breath.
I slid the edge of the ice cube down her neck, over her shoulder, down the length of her arm. When I reached her fingers, they splayed out, and she turned her palm to face me. I brought the ice cube back up her arm, over to the small of her neck, then down her chest, to the swell of her breasts.
I leaned in to her ear, as close as I dared. “Take off your bra.”
Her eyes still closed, she reached up behind her back and undid the clasp. Her bra fell to the floor between us. I circled her breasts with the ice cube, drawing closer to her swollen nipples with each pass. Stella arched her back and let out a soft moan. There was a gasp when the ice finally touched her there. Melting now, less than half the size it was when I first started. I reached behind me and took another from the cup. I knelt and ran this one up from her left foot, up her ankle, to her inner thigh. The heat there was unbearable, and it took every ounce of willpower not to drop the ice and use my hand instead. I brought the ice up, over the silky material of her soft, white panties, over her belly, up her chest. Then, standing again, I followed the contours of her neck to her lips. She licked tenderly at the little bit of ice remaining, her tongue so close to my finger, but I didn’t let go, not until she parted her lips and took it in.
Then it was Stella who reached behind her back. She took out a pair of the latex gloves from the box on the counter and handed them to me, then she put on a pair herself. Her eyes opened then, big and bright and full of life as she caressed my cheek, the line of my jaw.
We’d spend the next several hours like that, exploring each other’s bodies with gloved hands. Carefully touching and not touching. A choreographed dance. And it was utterly amazing. When we finally fell asleep, our borrowed sheet between our naked bodies, heads resting just far enough apart, we were both exhausted, and I finally felt complete.
20
Stack wasn’t sure what time he fell asleep, but the pain in his neck told him it had been a while ago. The six empty beer cans on the table at his side seemed to second the thought, and the incredible need to empty his bladder backed up both.
He rocked forward in his chair and looked out the window.
Three white panel vans across the street, right where he left them.
Night gave way to the muted gray light of a Pittsburgh morning.
The vans were still there. He didn’t see anyone inside.
Maybe he was being paranoid. McPherson across the street owned a plumbing company. Maybe he bought some new vans and simply parked them in front of his house. Of course, that didn’t explain why they ran, though. Each time he went outside, all the vans started up and quickly disappeared down the road only to return a short while later. He’d lost track of how many times he went out there.
They might have left because he was waving a gun around. Drunk guy with a gun, he’d leave too. It didn’t explain why they came back. It didn’t explain why nobody called the cops. At this point, he’d probably welcome the boys in blue on an unexpected visit. He’d check the phone again on the way back from emptying his bladder, but he was fairly certain he’d find the line was still dead, as it had been every other time he picked it up.
The magnum sat on his rickety table next to the empty cans of Iron City. Stack scooped up the gun and stood. His body ached, and he tried to steady himself by holding the chair, either the beer or sudden movement causing him to feel a little lightheaded for a moment. His vision went white, then cleared.
Gun in hand, the floorboards creaked under his weight as he crossed the house to the small bathroom under the stairs.
He was midstream when he heard another floorboard creak, this one from above on the second floor.
21
I woke to the sound of scratching.
My mind woke before my body, and in my head I pictured a plump mouse inside one of the walls of the house we had borrowed from Cammie Brotherton, his tiny paws digging away at the backside of the drywall in a frantic attempt at escape, dust bellowing out around him, piling up at his tiny pink feet. Freedom on the other side of that wall, but he had to dig.
My eyes snapped open.
Sunlight streamed in through the windows.
Stella and I had slept in the kitchen, a small space between the counter and the island, protected on both sides by cabinets and counters. She was still sleeping. I could hear her soft breaths beside me.