by A. W. Gray
She had no idea how long she’d lain there with the dead man. Not over ten minutes, surely, but to her it had seemed like hours, while the sweat of terror dried on Frank and the dusky odor of his body filled her nostrils. She remembered wondering, crazily, how long it would be before rigor mortis set in, how long she would have to lie there before Frank was stiff as a board. Then the maniac had returned, had said to her in a chatty tone, “See? Didn’t take long. I pulled your car in the drive behind old Frank’s. He ain’t going noplace, and a cop might ticket that Mustang in the street.”
The maniac had blindfolded and gagged her then. The blindfold had come first, the filthy cloth strip over her eyes, and when he’d tried to stuff the gag into her mouth she’d resisted by clamping her teeth together. He’d only laughed at that, then placed the hinges of her jawbones between his thumb and forefinger and squeezed, The pressure had been so hard she’d felt that her face might cave in, and her mouth had popped open. In had gone the foul-tasting gag, followed by the second strip of cloth. Then, laughing softly and humming an off-key tune, he’d rolled her onto her back.
Not knowing what was coming next had been the worst part for her. As he’d rolled her over, the ropes had cut into her wrists and ankles and she’d whimpered into her gag. He’d stood over her for a few seconds, grinning and looking her over as though he was proud of himself, then he’d reached down to the floor and held up the tarp. The tarp was off-white, with spots of red and blue and green paint dried on its surface in places. He’d thrown the coarse cloth over her body, then wrapped her up like an animal carcass, grasping the ends of the tarp and throwing her over his shoulder, Santa Claus fashion, with no more effort than if she’d been made of foam plastic. He’d carried her out of the duplex that way, with Nancy swinging helpless inside the tarp, across the porch, down to the yard, and across the yard to his car. The tarp and blindfold had shifted a bit when he’d dumped her into the back seat, and she’d caught a glimpse of the Volvo’s padded ceiling. The crazy had tightened the blindfold and adjusted the tarp, and since then Nancy had seen nothing.
They had never left pavement, she was sure of that, there’d been no crunch of gravel or whisper of dirt beneath the tires. And they hadn’t driven on any freeways, either; the entire journey had consisted of a block or so of gentle acceleration followed by a shifting forward of Nancy’s weight as the Volvo had stopped for a traffic light or stop sign. The fading of the light penetrating her blindfold told her that night had fallen. The lunatic had his radio playing, on Country KJIM—one thing the guy’s got in common with Lackey, she thought with a silent hollow laugh, I told Lackey he was crazy for listening to that awful music—and the voices of Willie, Waylon, Merle Haggard, or Jessie Coulter were interspersed with patches of crackling static. KJIM operated from a low-watt tower in the southwest part of the county, and the weakening of the signal told Nancy that the crazy was traveling away from the radio station. So, great, Nancy thought, we’re not in southwest Fort Worth. Might be anyplace else in the county, though.
The Volvo pulled abruptly to the right and stopped. The engine died; the music quit with a final pop from the radio speaker. Well, Nancy thought with a quick tightening sensation in her throat, we’re here. We’re finally here, and now he’s going to . . .
The front driver’s side door swung open; the car rose on its springs as the crazy got out, then the door slammed. In a few seconds there was a metallic rattle near her head followed by a slight rush of air over the surface of the tarp as the rear door swung outward. The coarse cloth tightened about her as the crazy lifted her up and out. He’s strong as an ox, Nancy thought, strong as an ox and crazy as . . . She shut her eyes tightly as he threw her over his shoulder and hauled her away.
Nancy twisted painfully onto her back as she dropped to the bottom of the pouch. The bonds cut into her wrists and the cartilage in her knees stretched to the tearing point as her weight came down on her shins. Her skirt bunched up around her waist. Her pantyhose were torn; the rough tarp brushed the smooth bare skin of her thigh. She pressed her tongue outward against the wad of cloth between her teeth and whimpered.
The crazy carried her across a path of uneven ground and mounted a flight of stairs. His footsteps clunked on metal steps as he climbed. He reached a level place, a landing of some sort, and stopped. The faint jingle of keys reached Nancy’s ears through the tarp. A latch clicked. The man carried her across a threshold and a door thudded closed. Nancy counted his steps as he carried her inside, and after twenty-three paces he halted. There was a sudden weightlessness, an empty sensation in the pit of her stomach, then she fell onto a mattress as the air whooshed from her lungs. He yanked the tarp from beneath her and tossed it away. There was pressure behind her head as thick fingers worked at her blindfold, a quick tightening of the cloth covering her eyes, then a sudden loosening as he stripped off the blindfold. Nancy blinked in the sudden glare.
She was on a double bed with a single bulb glowing overhead. The sheet-covered mattress beneath her was lumpy. The sprayed-on ceiling plaster was cracked in places and there was a cobweb in one corner. Nancy was on her left side, which eased the pressure on her wrists and ankles but increased the throwing in her knee joints. The bedspring creaked as the crazy sat on the mattress and grinned at her. His gaze was on her exposed thighs. God and Jesus, Nancy thought, I can’t even pull down my skirt. He stroked her leg where her pantyhose were ripped. Her flesh crawled, her eyes widened, and she struggled against her bonds. His grin broadened.
It was Nancy’s first good look at his face. He had a narrow face and a big crooked nose. His eyebrows were thick and untrimmed, his forehead wide and sloping. He had thinning brown hair combed straight back. His grin showed crooked, yellowed teeth. Gently, he brushed her bangs away from her forehead. Not me, you freak, Nancy thought. No way are you.
“Now, Nancy,” he said, “you and me, we need to have us a talk. I ain’t wanting to hurt you none, but I got to ask you some questions. I’m going to take that gag off, and I’ll tell you there ain’t nobody here but you and me. If you yell, nobody’s going to hear you, plus you’re going to make me knock you around. Hey, girl, I don’t want to do that. So tell me, you going to yell?”
Yell, she thought. Yell? You bet your filthy boots I’m going to yell, you . . . Her dark eyes wide, Nancy shook her head.
“Well I’m sure hopin’ you don’t,” he said. He lifted her head to untie the knot at the nape of her neck. The strip of cloth fell away, then he pulled the wadded rag from her mouth and dropped it on the bed.
Nancy worked her tongue across her palate, then the insides of her teeth, then licked her lips. Finally she threw her head back and screamed at the top of her lungs. The noise was deafening, Nancy thought, loud enough to wake the dead. Even the walls seemed to vibrate. She stopped to catch her breath while she watched the crazy man through challengingly narrowed eyes. How „bout that, you crazy. . . ?
His grin faded and he shook his head sadly. “I told you, girl,” he said. Then he grabbed the waistband of her skirt and yanked downward. Nancy flinched as cloth ripped and buttons popped. The crazy pulled her cotton sweater up; her abdomen was suddenly cool as air flowed on her bare stomach. His touch like emery cloth, the man dug his fingers into the flesh around her navel and squeezed.
The sudden pain froze Nancy like a statue. His grip was like pliers, digging, bruising. Tears leaped into her eyes and ran down her cheeks. Her arms and legs thrashed against their bonds; more pain razored through her wrists and ankles. She tried to scream, but all she could manage was a whimper.
He released her and stood back. Nancy’s head sagged and her tears dropped on the bed. “How come you don’t listen?” he said. “How come, huh? Now, girl, you going to answer some questions?”
The crazy reached out and touched her midsection. Her gaze averted, her teeth digging into her lower lip, Nancy moved her head up and down.
He sat down on the bed. “Hey, that’s good. That’s real good, Nancy, we’r
e going to get along fine. What I want to know is, your boyfriend’s been looking around for me. I think I’d like to meet him, face to face. I want you to call him in the morning. Think you could do that?”
Nancy thought dully, Lackey? Why would Lackey want to see this creep? Lackey didn’t know any people like this. What Lackey was supposed to be doing was finding out who . . .
It dawned on her. The Volvo. The big blond cop had said something about a man in a Volvo. This guy. God.
Nancy’s head hung as she said, “I have,” then drew a tortured breath and said, “I have to go to the bathroom.”
The crazy man smiled. “I ain’t surprised you do after that.” He glanced at her midsection. “It ain’t my fault, Nancy, I warned you. Now. You think you can behave yourself if I let you up? I’d just as soon not be hauling no bedpans around.” He laughed softly, a man making a joke for an audience of one.
Nancy softly closed her eyes. “Yes.” Her tone was docile, her voice tiny like that of a little girl’s.
He pointed a thick forefinger. “You know what? I believe you. I ain’t no bad person, Nancy. So I’m going to let you loose to use the toilet. But you got to behave, you hear?”
“I have to,” Nancy said. “Please.”
He stood and lumbered around the bed, then quickly undid the knots at her wrists and ankles. “There. See how easy it is?”
Every bone in Nancy’s body ached and her midsection was on fire. She scooted painfully to the edge of the mattress and sat up, rubbing her wrists. There were deep red creases in her skin where the ropes had been. Her fingers tingled with sudden increased circulation. Her gaze on the floor, she said, “Where? Where is it?”
“Right in front of you. See?” He crossed the room, pushed a door open, reached around the jamb and flipped a switch. Sudden illumination revealed a tiled floor and one end of a grimy porcelain tub.
Nancy held the front of her torn skirt together as she limped in stocking feet to brush by the crazy man as she went into the bathroom. Her head was lowered like a slave’s. She went over and looked down at the commode. The seat was streaked with grime and there was a brown ring around the bowl at the waterline. She tore a long strip from the toilet paper roll and separated the individual squares, placing them carefully around the perimeter of the seat. Got to be tidy, she thought, got to be clean and tidy and not sit on any dirty old toilet seats. A voice inside her laughed a hollow laugh. After she’d covered the seat as best she could, she turned to the doorway.
The crazy hadn’t moved. One thick shoulder was pressed against the doorframe and one thumb was hooked inside his pocket. There was an expression on his face as though he was waiting for a show to begin.
Nancy was suddenly mad. Mad as hell. She forgot her aches, forgot the pain in her belly. Forgot everything except this evil sonofabitch who was wanting to watch her sit on the toilet. She took two defiant steps toward him and balled her hands into fists. “I’ll tell you something,” Nancy said. “You may be big and strong, at least strong enough to beat me up. But you’re not going to watch me go to the bathroom, I don’t care what you do to me.” Her resolve faltered slightly and she waited for him to come at her.
His grin faded. His cheeks reddened and his ugly features sagged into an aw-shucks expression. “Well, okay. Listen, I ain’t no leering pervert or nothing. You just take your time, you hear?” As he backed out of the room, his feet shuffled like an embarrassed schoolboy’s. He closed the door.
Nancy was suddenly light-headed. She touched her forehead with her fingertips and shut her eyes tightly. Bile erupted upward into her mouth, and for long seconds she was certain she was going to vomit.
Nancy pressed the lever to flush the toilet. As the water gurgled and swirled in the bowl, she pulled up her white bikini briefs and adjusted the elastic around her hips. Then she bunched the front of her skirt together and let the pleats fall down to cover her thighs. She’d already dropped her torn pantyhose in the waste-basket to rest on wadded Kleenex, disposable razors, and two Hustler magazines. She went to the filthy sink, turned the tap and splashed cold water in her face.
There was no window in the bathroom. Surprise, surprise, she thought, no way for her to see outside or to signal anyone. If there had been a window, Mr. Murderer out there would have never let her stay in the bathroom alone. He would have stood right there and given her the choice of squatting on the toilet in plain sight of him, or holding her urine until her bladder erupted.
She had to be right, the guy outside was Mr. Murderer. There wasn’t any other answer for what was happening. She pictured him with Marissa Hardin as, shuddering, she opened the door. “I’m finished,” she said in a dull monotone.
The crazy was sitting on the bed. He uncrossed thick legs and put both feet on the floor. “Yeah. Yeah, and behaving yourself. You’ll see I ain’t no bad person, Nancy, long as you behave. You climb up on the bed, now, I got to tie you up.”
She rubbed her wrist and said in her best you-can-trust-me tone, “Do you have to?” Fat chance, Nancy thought.
The sloping forehead smoothed into a look of apology. “I got to for now. Maybe not, when we get to know each other.” He stood and picked up the ropes and let them dangle from his fingers.
Once we know each other? Nancy thought. Once we know each other? Why don’t I go ahead and get it over with? He’s going to kill me anyway, maybe I could put one of his eyes out before I’m gone. Maybe I could . . .
Docilely, her head bowed, Nancy crawled up on the mattress. She put her hands behind her back and held her ankles together. As the crazy trussed her, he hummed a tune. When he’d finished, he turned off the lights and stretched out beside Nancy on the bed. He scooted over close to her. God, Nancy thought, is he going to . . . ?
He yawned, assaulting her nostrils with onion breath. “We need some sleep,” he said. “We got a lot to do tomorrow.” He moved his head so that his thinning hair lay against her cheek. “You my baby, Nancy. „Night, now.”
In seconds he was snoring. Nancy strained and wriggled to move away from him. He opened one eye, smiled at her, then put his arms around her and hugged her close. Her ankles and wrists tingling as feeling left them, Nancy Cuellar whimpered in the dark and said a silent prayer.
Everett Wilson lay down beside his baby and went to sleep, glad he could control himself, glad he wasn’t like one of them perverts down in the Texas Department of Corrections, First things first. No way was he going to lay a hand on his baby until the contractor guy came up with the money. Jesus, five minutes earlier and the Hardin woman would have never given the money to the contractor asshole to begin with. But now things were going to work out fine. Everett was going to get the money, then he was going to kill the contractor guy. After that, Everett and his baby would have all the time in the world.
He’d never had a woman of his own, but Nancy was going to change that. He’d buy her nice clothes, take her to all the spots, whatever she wanted. She’d see.
Once long ago, he’d thought his high school art teacher was going to be his baby. Miss Halfern had been her name, and Everett had called her that, never knowing her first name, not even on the day she’d taken him to her apartment. It hadn’t mattered to Everett that she was forty years old, nor that she was short and on the dumpy side. What had mattered was that she was soft and gentle with him, that she never gave him funny looks when she thought he wasn’t looking, and that she hadn’t cared that he was an orphan who rode the bus every day to public school. That Everett had wanted her so badly—and had known she’d wanted him as well—had made the hurt so much deeper inside him on the day at her apartment when she’d showed him that she wasn’t going to be his baby at all.
There in the afternoon cool of her living room, with the shades drawn and the television’s volume turned down low, she’d reached for him on her couch and unzipped his trousers. Everett had closed his eyes and waited for it to happen.
But after a single touch she’d released her hold on his member, an
d Everett had opened his eyes to find her staring at his crotch. Her lips had been parted in shock. She’d uttered a tiny gasp. Then she’d tried a forced smile, but it had been too late. She hadn’t really liked him at all.
Everett didn’t remember everything that had happened after that, just a few fuzzy and fragmented mental images. Miss Halfern on the floor was the one clear picture in Everett’s mind, Miss Halfern on the floor with blood streaming from her mouth and nose, Miss Halfern begging, telling him if he’d only stop she’d do anything that he wanted. She wasn’t no good, Miss Halfern, and she didn’t understand that all Everett had wanted was for her to be his baby.
Now, at last though, Everett had found his baby for sure. Nancy was going to be different.
He dropped off to sleep, and to dream a beautiful dream. In the dream he and Nancy walked hand in hand down a long corridor, and her head was tilted at a saucy angle as she smiled and talked to him. As they rounded a corner there was a bad guy, a guy out to hurt Everett’s baby. Everett took care of the bad guy in seconds, knocked the bad guy cold as a mackerel with a left-right, one-two, then took Nancy by the hand and led her away. Her look at Everett was one of pure worship.
The bad guy had had a mean look about him, thick eyebrows set close together, lip curled in an evil snarl. But his features had been familiar. Aside from the mean look, he’d been the spitting image of Lackey Ferguson, the contractor guy.
20
Lackey left his pickup downtown, sitting at the curb in front of Juanita’s Restaurant, catty-cornered across from the Worthington Hotel, and took a cab to the west side. He’d been bucking long odds for two days, driving his pickup, and he couldn’t believe that a passing squad car hadn’t picked up his license number from the hot sheet. Parking right in front of Percy Hardin’s house would really be asking for it. Besides, with what Lackey had in mind, he wasn’t going to need his own transportation anyway.