Prime Suspect

by A. W. Gray

  And the perverts? Why the lying slimy bastards had gone and spread the word that the real reason Everett had gone to the hole was that he’d been giving it to a guy up the ass, had gone berserk and had nearly killed the guy. What a bunch of bullshit. Hell, the guy had wanted to get roughed up a little. Had practically begged for it.

  Everett made the block slowly, like a guy who might be interested in buying a house, or maybe a hick from the sticks who’d heard about these Fort Worth westside mansions and was getting an eyeful. He was hoping he didn’t run into another dumb bastard like the guy in the pickup who’d make him lose his cool; he had to do the job in a hurry and get away from the neighborhood. He took the final turn and parked in front of the gothic house with the twin spires guarding the fountain. The automatic sprinkler system had come on. Fine sprays shot upward at intervals; the droplets glistened and made rainbows.

  Everett’s hands trembled slightly as he pictured the woman. Jesus, but that broad was put together. He’d watched her twice on the country club tennis court, running, serving, her legs moving like supple pistons, and once he’d watched her from the top of the wall behind her pool as she’d sunned herself. He couldn’t decide which way he liked her best, in flying action on the tennis court or stretched out on the bank in her maroon bikini. Either way she’d make a man’s balls ache. You’re really lucky, girl, Everett thought. Really lucky that it’s old Everett coming by and not one of those lousy perverts from the Texas Department of Corrections. One of those sex perverts would do something awful to a woman with your shape. Not old Everett, though. Everett Thomas Wilson knows how to treat a woman.

  A dozen yellow roses wrapped in waxpaper lay on the seat, and now he picked them up and sniffed. He flashed a crooked-toothed grin. Roses for the sweet, he thought. Not a woman in this world doesn’t like roses.

  His grin fading only slightly, Everett climbed out of the Volvo and went up the stone pathway in an odd, side-canted gait, a man with heavy stooped shoulders and arms the length of an orangutan’s, his swinging fingertips on a level with his kneecaps. The guards at TDC had called him Monkey Man, the lousy bastards. One bad motherfucker like Everett Wilson locked up in a solitary cage and all these spick and nigger guards calling him Monkey Man. “Hey, Monkey Man, want a banana? We having oranges today, I’ll give you one if you don’t throw it at me.” One of these days he was going back down to Palestine, Texas, and catch one of those Eastham Unit guards off duty. Show the bastard a fucking Monkey Man.

  Everett wore a dark blue shirt with sleeves that quit a good six inches above his wrists, and khaki work pants whose cuffs were rolled up. His thick legs were as short as his arms were long, and he’d never found a pair of pants in his life whose waist fit him—size 36—unless the pants legs dragged the ground. It was a joke that God had played, and Everett hated God just as much as he hated the dirty bastards who called him Monkey Man.

  He ignored the mist thrown by the sprinklers as he went up the pathway, passed between the spires, and skirted the fountain. He could have made the trip with his eyes closed. The last time he’d come up the path had been at two o’clock the previous morning, and he’d sat down on the steps leading to the porch and had smoked a cigarette. He had a pretty good idea of the house’s interior layout as well, having been on all four sides and having peeked through every downstairs window and once even having perched on top of the wall behind the pool in broad daylight, sweeping the upstairs windows with a pair of binoculars. He’d seen the woman through the binoculars as she’d passed a window. She’d been wearing shorts and a halter, and there had been an instant tightening in Everett’s crotch. He’d resisted the urge to unzip his fly and play with himself, more proof, to his way of thinking, that Everett Thomas Wilson was no lousy stinking pervert from the Texas Department of Corrections. One of those fucking guys would have pulled it out right there on top of the wall.

  Everett whistled softly as he ascended the steps with a little hop-and-skip, then paused before the door. After a final quick glance behind him, he clenched the flowers between his teeth through the waxpaper. Then he fished a pair of thin latex surgeon’s gloves from his hip pocket. He hated the fucking gloves, absolutely despised anything that interfered with his sense of touch. Like putting on a rubber, though the gloves kept a man out of trouble. He worked his fingers in one at a time, then stretched the ends of the gloves above his wrists and released them with sharp elastic pops. The .44 Bulldog was heavy in his right hip pocket; he touched the gun through the fabric of his pants and adjusted the handle upward. He smoothed his thinning hair back with his palm, then took the roses in his left hand and ran his tongue over his crooked front teeth. Smiling, feeling the bulge growing in his crotch, Everett Wilson stepped forward and rang the doorbell. Get ready for the time of your life, girl, Everett thought. Your man is coming to call.

  Marissa Hardin was switching the receiver from one ear to the other, wanting to interrupt Edna Rafferty’s lie with one of her own. The chiming of the doorbell gave Marissa the chance. “Hey, someone’s here,” she said. “I think he’s coming back for more.”

  “Well, don’t forget we’re playing tennis.” Edna’s voice was nasal, her tone just a little bit jealous.

  Finally got one-up on her, Marissa thought. “I won’t,” she said. “We’ve got over an hour. “Bye now.” As she hung up, Marissa wondered how many other women in the neighborhood spun yarns about their own affairs while their husbands were out doing the real thing. She left the kitchen and headed for the front of the house.

  It was probably a salesman at the door, and Marissa felt a twinge of irritation with Percy for letting the maid off. Or if he was going to let the maid have a free day, he should have at least given the gardener inside duty. Answering one’s own doorbell was something a westside person never did. A lack of servants was the first sign of a dwindling bankroll, and a westside wife coming to her door in person was sure to set the tongues awagging. Guess what, I went by Marissa Hardin’s to talk about the Fort Worth Symphony Fundraiser, and she let me in her ownself. You don’t reckon they‘re in trouble, do you? Be a rotten shame. Marissa detoured through the den and crept into the parlor and peeked through the drapes. If the person on the porch was someone she knew, Marissa was going to pretend that she wasn’t home.

  A delivery guy or a handyman looking for work, that’s what the man had to be. Slope-shouldered and powerfully built, a man with a big nose and a weak chin, standing on the porch holding what looked to be a bouquet of flowers wrapped in waxpaper. So he was making a delivery. Well, if the contractor won’t come across, Marissa thought with a fierce giggle, what’s wrong with the deliveryman? Jesus Christ, Marissa, have you completely lost your mind? She went quickly through the entry hall to the door, pressed the intercom button and said, “Yes?” Then released the button, pressed it once more and said, “Just speak normally, you don’t have to yell.”

  “Got roses here for Mrs. Hardin.” The voice was deep and hoarse, with an uneducated manner of speech, but sounded friendly.

  Marissa might have been thinking of her tennis game, might have had Percy’s suspected screwing around on her mind. For whatever reason, she didn’t act normally, didn’t check the man out with a phone call before letting him in. She quickly undid the locks, tugged on the handle, felt the rush of warm outside air. “Flowers from who? Whoever would . . . ?”

  The man’s face was a foot from her own. The odor of cheap after-shave—Old Spice or Mennen, one drugstore brand or the other—assaulted her nostrils. He had a sloping forehead and thinning hair, and under his big crooked nose his lips were parted. There were gaps between his teeth. There was something . . . sinister? Yes, something sinister about him; his gaze bored into her like twin drills. Marissa gasped and started to close the door.

  He stepped quickly forward. “For you, ma’am. They’re for you, nobody else.” His gaze lowered. “Man, you got them legs. You damn sure do.”

  Panic clogged her throat. She grasped the edge of the door
in both hands and tried to force it closed. She was wasting her time; the man’s shoulder hit the door like a battering ram and it crashed open. Marissa stumbled backward on the stone tile, righted herself, lowered into a half-crouch, her gaze darting from side to side. The man grabbed the door handle and shut out the world with a solid thunk of oak wood. He dropped the roses, dug in his back pocket, came up with a pistol whose bore was the size of an archery bullseye. He leveled the gun at her midsection.

  Stay calm, Marissa had heard. If it happens, above all stay calm. She covered her windpipe with the palm of her hand. “Take what you want. Just don’t hurt me.” Her voice sounded to her like a thin croak.

  “I ain’t here to hurt nobody, girl. I ain’t no pervert. Just come over here and get down on your knees.”

  “What? What do you want me to . . . ?”

  “On your knees. Over here in front of me. Yeah, come on, that’s what I’m saying.” He gestured with the pistol, pointing first at the floor near his feet and then again at her stomach.

  Like just about every other woman in this world, Marissa had thought of moments like this. She’d discussed her fantasies with other women in the safety of the Colonial Country Club. I’d let him kill me first, she’d say, or, I’d scream so loud it would scare him to death. Not two months ago she’d attended a seminar given by the Fort Worth Police Department, and she recalled the detective’s get-tough advice. These guys are just as nervous as their victims. Keep the upper hand on him.

  But this wasn’t fantasy, and the wild-eyed man who was holding the gun didn’t appear nervous at all. Sheepishly, her eyes downcast, her limbs tingling with growing numbness, Marissa Hardin crossed the entry hall and sank to her knees like a sinner before the altar.

  “Look at me,” he said.

  She obeyed. A single drop of spittle bled from the corner of his mouth and clung to the flesh beneath his lower lip.

  Gently, lovingly, he caressed her cheek with the barrel of the pistol, moved the gun slowly down the side of her neck, and placed the barrel against the point of her breastbone. Her throat constricted and there was no feeling in her legs. What she’d told the ladies at Colonial was wrong; she wouldn’t rather die first and she wasn’t going to scream. Whatever he wanted. Whatever he wanted, if only he wouldn’t . . .

  “We’re going to get along, girl,” he said. “And you’re going to like me. You going to like me? Huh?”

  Mutely, she nodded.

  “That’s good. That’s real good you’re going to. Now take me to your room. It’s on the second floor, so don’t try going noplace else. I know my way around here, case you don’t know it.”

  She rose, hesitated—Was she doing it right? Sweet Jesus, she thought, don’t let me do anything wrong—then turned and led the way through the den to the staircase. At every other step he prodded her between the shoulder blades with the pistol. His ragged breathing was deafening in the stillness, the scent of his aftershave strong in her nose. “High ceiling,” he said. “Great big high ceiling you rich people got.”

  “Thank you,” she said in a monotone. Great God in heaven, just like giving a tour.

  As they noiselessly ascended the carpeted stairs, there was a sudden churning in Marissa’s stomach, and an uncontrollable retching welled up in her throat. God, was she going to be sick? She was sure that she was. Right there on the magnificent staircase of her home, with this crazy man as an audience, Marissa Monroe Hardin—late of Stephens College and currently of Fort Worth’s Upper West Side—was going to puke. She staggered sideways and gripped the banister as vomit rushed into her mouth.

  There was suddenly a callused hand on her arm, a painful grip around her bicep as he spun her around to face him. He shoved. Her nausea subsided in an instant as she sprawled upward on the steps. The padded carpet jarred her backside. Air whooshed from her lungs.

  He put the gun against her forehead and aired back the hammer with two sharp clicks. “None of that, none of that shit, girl. I don’t like that shit, you understand?” His voice was guttural and his words slurred.

  She nodded—Anything, I’ll do anything, just don’t let me die—then struggled to her feet and led him up to the landing, then along the rail toward the master bedroom. There was a suit of sixteenth-century armor on the landing holding an antique battle-ax pointed upward between folded arms. She’d had the piece shipped over during a trip to England, and there was a spot of tarnish near the tip of the ax blade. Strange she’d never noticed the tarnish before. She moved like a robot past the armor and entered the bedroom. For an instant she considered slamming the door in his face and making a dash for the bedside phone; both the moment and the thought passed as he came inside and closed the door with his foot.

  His dull gaze swept the bedroom, lingered on the canopied four-postered kingsize bed, the twin dressing tables, the side-by-side oils, Marissa in a strapless evening gown, Percy in jeans and boots leaning on a ranch-style wooden fence with thoroughbred horses in the background. “Nice,” the crazy man said softly. Then, his tone a sharp command, “Get out of that laundry.”

  Her own voice sounded to her like someone else’s voice, someone small, weak, and faraway. “I beg your pardon? Get out of that . . . ?”

  “That laundry. Them fucking clothes, girl, take them off.”

  Oh. Her clothes. Sure, her clothes. She sat on the edge of the bed; the tassels on the snow-white spread dug softly into her fanny. Her gaze never leaving the pistol, she removed first one shoe, one sock, and then the other. His face was a caricature, a humorless cartoon of an ugly man. She stood docilely, raised the hem of her tennis dress, and started to take it off over her head.

  “Not like that,” he said. “Not like that, girl. Turn around. I want to watch you from behind.”

  Sure. Sure, of course. From behind. She turned her back and stripped, not certain how he wanted it, not certain whether to take her clothes off slowly or in a hurried frenzy. However he wanted. Naked, she dropped her dress and lacy pants off to one side. The air-conditioning cooled her flesh and hardened her nipples. She was conscious of the odor of incense burning on the dresser.

  Behind her he murmured, “Christ. Let me see you, girl.”

  She turned. Oh, sweet God, he’d taken his pants off. There he stood, still in his blue work shirt, black socks, and shoes, but naked from ankle to waist. He was still holding the pistol. His thick hairy legs were spread; his penis—she couldn’t help it, she did look— and, oh, Jesus, sweet savior, his cock was . . .

  Her nudity forgotten, she stared at the hideous thing. He had an erection, but midway down the shaft his hardness ended in a mass of bone-white scar tissue. In front of the scar the head dangled limp and flaccid. An accident? God, did he have an accident? She struggled to take her gaze away from it. She couldn’t.

  “The fuck you lookin’ at, girl?” he said. “Goddammit, what you lookin’ at?”

  She opened her mouth. She couldn’t speak.

  He came forward and slapped her with the back of his hand. Neckbones crunched as her head rocked. Her front tooth dug into her lower lip and there was an instant wetness. She touched her lip, stared numbly at smeared redness on her fingertip.

  “On the bed.” He gestured with the gun. “Get up on the bed.”

  Marissa obeyed. God, yes, she obeyed, she would have obeyed anything, would have . . . She put her knee on the bed, then her hand, and her buttocks quivered as she rolled onto her back. Like this? God, did he want her like this? She raised her head in an unspoken request for approval. Like this?

  He bounded onto the bed beside her and straddled her ribcage. The hard portion of his cock lay on her breastbone, its head flopped loosely between her breasts. His breathing quickened. “Do me,” he said. “Do me with your hands.” The barrel of the pistol waved unsteadily over her nose. Overhead, the quilted underside of the canopy was off-white silk.

  Anything, Marissa thought. “Yes,” she said. “Yes, just please don’t . . .”

  She closed both han
ds around the hard portion of his cock and pumped. If only he wouldn’t make her touch the end of the thing. God, if only he wouldn’t.

  “Harder. Faster, goddammit.” He placed the gun against her forehead, at the same time reaching with his free hand to one side, grabbing, then raising a pillow aloft. “Just do it, girl, you don’t have to look at me.” The pillow covered her face.

  The linen on the pillow was soft and smelled of lemon. Yes, she thought, that’s better. I’m doing what he wants. Her hands moved faster. I’m doing it for him, and once I’ve finished he’ll go away and—

  The muffled gunshot sounded like a faraway Chinese firecracker, a strange noise that Marissa didn’t comprehend. In fact, she was wondering what that strange noise could be even as the safety slug tore its way through her skull, exploded its copper Teflon-filled jacket, and sent its payload of number-twelve shot blasting through her brain.

  As the .44 Bulldog jerked in his hand, Everett Wilson came. The dead woman’s hands tightened convulsively around his erection and her solid body tensed beneath him as semen spurted onto her breasts like liquid paste. It was good. Christ, it was good. He shuddered, closed his eyes, and rocked with climax. As her body relaxed, he let the pistol rest on his thigh and stared dumbly at the burnt edges of the hole in the pillow. He smelled singed gunpowder.

  You’re really lucky, girl, he thought. If one of them perverts had gotten ahold of you, no telling what they would have done.

  To Joe Eddie Moore’s way of thinking, J. Percival Hardin III qualified as Prick Number One of all the pushy members at Colonial Country Club. Prick Number Two was Hardin’s playing partner for the day, the paunchy silver-haired guy who stood beside Hardin as the two of them hovered over the starter’s table and acted like the pricks that they were. All part of being an assistant pro, Joe Eddie supposed, right in there with parking lot attendants and department store clerks, putting up with a bunch of pricks all the time.