“Mark—would you do me a favor?
“Naturally, if I can.”
In the half-light her eyes slid over me, then turned away. I think she was blushing, but it didn’t show. The curve of her cheek and mouth and plaid shirt did, however. Her hand holding the cigarette trembled.
“When you come back to town—would you—take me out, on a date?”
“Lions couldn’t keep me away.”
She was still tense, afraid. The words had been a great effort. I’m sure she was blushing again.
“When did this fear begin, Rita?”
“Fear—?”
“Of men.”
Her eyes swung back. “A long time ago—I was only about eleven. A man did try to—attack me.”
I didn’t rush it. “You could get over it, if you tried.”
“I have—not physically, I mean.” She hesitated.
“Rita, take it easy. You go on back up and go to sleep. I understand.”
“I—believe you do.” She leaned forward suddenly and mashed her mouth on mine—then she was climbing the ladder, fast. I reached up and caught her around the calves. She stopped, didn’t say anything. Slowly, I ran my hands under her denims and felt the warmth of her skin just beneath the knees. She stiffened. I placed my lips on one ankle, ran them slowly, maddeningly upward. Slowly, I felt her relax as I repeated my caress over and over. When she stiffened again, it was from surprise—but this time a surprise she had been waiting for all of her life…
CHAPTER TWENTY
My rowboat was pulled up on the sand bar not forty feet from her classy inboard. The darkness had hidden it from me. I’d come down to the river ahead of her, so she could have some privacy. After tinned fruit, bacon and strong coffee I felt almost human again.
Rita had eaten well, too. She’d been sociable but cool, as though we’d talked of nothing the previous night. I didn’t mention it.
I heard her coming down the trail, I turned and then batted my eyelids several times.
Her short locks were neatly combed, she had on enough makeup, and regardless of what anybody said about her being athletically inclined, her walk was all girl. She smiled.
The sun was out, warming the beach, but the wind reminded you it was still February and could turn icy cold at sundown. And sundown came quickly in the deep river canyon.
Her boat, all canopied over and at least twenty feet long, had cost daddy a lot of money.
She paused beside me, looking out over the river.
“I’m not afraid of you now.”
“Easy does it—”
Another smile, not exactly bewitching, but the best I’d seen yet. She looked real good in broad daylight, too. Some girls don’t.
She put her hand lightly on my jacketed arm. “Mark—I feel better—about everything. I don’t care what you call yourself, or what other people do, either—but you’ve done me a lot of good.”
“Ho-ho! Merely my prescription for unraveling mixed-up city thoughts. It can happen out here, believe me. Good food, sleep and fresh air. No tensions.”
She laughed. It was pleasant and natural.
“Another dictum, fair lass: if you’re going to live a little, you’re going to get hurt. Life is short and bitter and evil enough—so why not take a chance?”
“Oh—I take chances—”
“But not the kind you want to take.”
She flushed a little. “Come on over and maybe you can help me with the boat.”
We strolled through the sand, some of it still frozen. The clean, cold air in my lungs was a tonic.
She climbed up nimbly, opened the hatch over the motor. She stretched out and leaned down inside, leaving her well-filled pants for me to consider. I considered them.
In a minute she squirmed back out, closed the hatch and slipped down into the front seat. She fiddled with stuff on the control panel and the starter cranked. The motor turned over, sputtered and began roaring.
She smiled over at me, let it idle a while and turned it off. “I thought I could spot the trouble…”
I grinned. What I didn’t know about motor boats would fill a book and a half.
“Oh—I’d better call home—”
“What?”
“Call home, silly. I’ve got a short-wave telephone.”
I snorted. “You could have called home last night.”
“Oh, I did. I told Mom I was staying in Austin with a girlfriend. Do you think I’d tell her I got stuck away out here? They’d have had the sheriff’s flotilla and a river full of boats getting me home. Besides, I was curious about your place. And I was tired.”
I shook my head. I was going to have to slip further back in the hills. Things on the river were getting too citified.
She smiled and monkeyed with her phone. I stood on shore, gawking. Then I had a crawling sensation along my spine—a chill as the crawling moved into my guts. Something resembling an idea began perking in my head, and I’d been a damn fool not to have guessed it sooner.
I heard a mutter of disgust. “It’s shorted or something.”
“Listen, Brownie,” I said. “What about a ride back to town?”
She put the phone down and blinked at me. “What came over you?”
I had trouble keeping my voice conversational. “I just remembered something I should have taken care of in Layton.”
“Oh. Well, I’d be delighted. Step aboard!”
The boat was really plush. And she got a big kick out of taking me through some heavy rapids just below my beach. I hung onto the seat like a tenderfoot—and kept thinking about what had happened the last week or so. Even when I got spray in my face I seemed to be half-awake, wrestling with possibilities, events, conversations, and worst of all, certain dangers a few people might be encountering, if they hadn’t already.
“You’re awfully quiet,” she said loudly, above the churn of water and the rush of wind.
“Enjoying the ride. Some boat.”
She smiled cozily. I did a retake, waiting. Her blue eyes seemed to have a new kind of fire in them.
“You could sit a little closer,” she said.
“Hold it! I don’t want to get a backhand.”
“You won’t.”
You just never know about girls. Did the boat affect her the way a convertible does with some of them? I sat closer.
She kept her eyes on the river, handling the boat like an expert. The top button of her plaid shirt, open at the throat, tempted me.
“You’ve—been good to me, Mark…”
I let that pass for the time being. She was still on edge and didn’t ease the speed one bit. Couse Creek eased by on the left. A V-shaped, frothy wake trailed out behind.
I put my left arm around her waist—and what do you know? She melted in against me like a schoolgirl. She trembled. I slid my arm under her jacket. She flushed.
The roar of the motor slacked off and we quit moving so fast. But she kept her eyes on the water, staring ahead as though she were still afraid…
I ran a finger along her chin, the curve of her cheek. She bit her lower lip. Her hands on the wheel gripped so tightly her knuckles turned white. I felt her tense—so I drew my arm back.
“No—” she said harshly. “Please—”
She turned suddenly and softened and her mouth was there, her lips cool and inexperienced, but eager. Now I held her in the crook of my arm, and she relaxed. Her lips were learning fast.
I ran my right hand through her short, curly hair and she shivered. I took it easy.
Finally she whispered into my mouth. “Mark—what’s happening to me?”
“You’re necking—in a boat.”
She sighed and came back for more. The boat was rocking in its own wake. My hands wandered here and there gently. No backhands, no cries of protest…
She stirred, at last. “Mark—I’d better look—we might hit a rock…”
Blushing again, she retreated—looked ahead. I looked too. We were heading for a pile of rocks th
at formed the upstream point of an island.
She revved it up quickly, swung the boat back into the current.
“Wonderful,” I said.
“What—do you mean—?”
“The way you’re responding to Jason’s magic formula.”
She smiled. “We have a date—remember?”
“Naturally.”
* * * *
Before we reached the dock I gave her certain instructions. She looked puzzled, but agreed.
Where she kept her boat was the biggest layout on the Idaho shore, of course. Complete with overhead protection and a floating bar and grill. An attendant spotted her moving into a slot that she evidently rented. He grabbed the prow as she cut the motor.
“Morning, Miss Snell!” he said brightly. He looked at me and merely nodded. I didn’t have a five-figure checking account, or live in a big mansion. Don’t get bitter now, Jason. Be a jolly good fellow.
I limped out of the boat, careful not to hit the left foot I had wrapped so carefully. She helped me, let me lean on her as I hobbled along the dock, pretending to be in pain.
We passed the office, and a lot of early customers gawked out. We climbed a wooden stair that led up the steep bank.
“You’re doing fine,” I said.
“I feel very useful and protective.”
As her arm tightened around my waist, I decided this gal would be a knockout in a dancing frock, a negligee or even a pair of bowling pants. She led me over to a dazzling off-white Corvette hardtop with red leather upholstery. She opened the door and I fell into the bucket seat.
She came around on the other side and climbed in. She had it perking in no time. Then I had a chill. Fear, or the cold leather? Maybe both. She let the motor warm up a while, watching the gauges. The subtle fear resolved into a frightening idea.
“Turn it off and get out—quick!” I snapped.
“What—?”
“Turn it off!”
She did, staring at me as if I’d lost my senses. Maybe I had. I scrambled out, fell on the ground. I motioned for her to follow and limped away as fast as I could.
She came along, frowning. A couple of guys climbing the steps ogled me like I was mad. They shrugged and went on by. Rita walked over and touched my arm. I still watched her car, the fear bubbling inside me.
“Mark—good Lord! What—” Then a light seemed to dawn. “Oh—I understand! Your car was blown up—you nearly got killed…”
I nodded. “Sorry, Rita. Your car’s been here all night—and…”
The Corvette just sat there, looking sleek and trim.
It didn’t come apart. I trembled, running a shaky hand across my face.
“Look, Rita. Why not have one of the mechanics on the dock look it over. Especially underneath.”
She nodded, her eyes showing more concern for me than the car. It was probably insured to the hilt.
* * * *
As far as the mechanic could tell, the sports job was clean. No dynamite fastened to the manifold. No gimmicks under the hood. She didn’t tell him what he was looking for, but I think he got the general trend. He seemed to know who I was, and he’d probably been reading the papers. I breathed easier.
Of course our nut might not have known that Rita was up the river with me. He’d had plenty of opportunity. After one o’clock this parking area would be like a graveyard.
“Being around you is awfully exciting,” she murmured, backing around expertly. The car took off like a shot. Through traffic and up a paved incline and pretty soon we were at Hill level.
“Where’s your luggage?” she asked.
I’d forgotten it. “Take me up to my diggin’s, anyway. The rent’s still paid.”
“You could stay at my place.”
“Ho-ho! Your parents would love that.”
“They’re not snobbish, Mark.”
“Hold it—let’s don’t argue. I appreciate the offer, but I’ve got some plans, as you may have guessed.”
“I wish you weren’t so mysterious.”
“I’ll fill you in later.”
I told her where to go, and she got there in a hurry. The old bungalow looked the same, and so did the dismal Hillview. It had a depressing effect.
“Could I come in a minute?”
“Rita, I’d like nothing better, but—”
She sobered. “You’ll be in danger—that’s it…”
“And you might be, too. So watch yourself. Two young girls are dead already.”
I hadn’t counted Angela, either.
“I—will, Mark. But what about you?”
“I’ve been lucky, so far.”
“Oh, all right, mysterious. You could thank me for bringing you home, and everything.”
I pulled her over and thanked her. She nibbled. Again she was amazingly soft and responsive. This girl was turning into something highly explosive, but not like nitro. Like eager and breathless and daring. “You’re learning fast, Brownie.”
“I—have a good teacher,” she breathed.
* * * *
My rooms looked the same, except a little more bare and forlorn without my books and what junk I’d packed. With one exception. The telephone wire had been repaired, and the black instrument of torture sat there waiting, plugged in the wall, ready for action.
With a definite feeling of revulsion, I dialed the landlord. No, no one had called that I was leaving. Was I? Maybe in a few days. I’d let him know. Sorry, and all that old stuff. He’d hate to see me leave, and et cetera.
I called Henry down at the print shop.
“Mark, old friend—”
“What? I just—you mean you’re back?”
“At the same old stand. I twisted the devil out of my left ankle, and caught a ride down the river.”
“The wilderness was kind of rough, eh?”
“It was. I’ll be around for a few days. Glad you didn’t call the landlord.”
“Oh—I was going to today. Can I get you anything?”
I said no, and he said probably he’d drop up later when he got off work. I tried to call Riley, but he was out somewhere. I left my number and told them it was important. They said he’d be checking in soon. My morning paper was stuck under the door, and I picked it up. I shouldn’t have.
It had seemed like three days since I’d nearly gotten blown apart, but it had only been time enough for some reporter and photographer to get in their licks. A picture of the blown-apart Ford, a heavy black headline. The wire services would pick it up, naturally. Nothing like that had happened around Layton for a long time.
I dropped the paper and called Marie. Foiled again—no answer. I called Ben Cook.
“You came back to town in a hurry,” he said.
“I damn near broke my leg. I’ll have to sweat it out for a while.”
He chuckled. “You’d better watch yourself.”
“I will. What about Cable?”
“I don’t understand, quite.”
“He turned up missing yesterday. Thought you’d heard about it.”
He said no, and I didn’t go into it, and I thanked him for listening. I sat down and had a smoke. The crumpled ones were nearly gone. I’d have to order some chow and cigarettes from my usual grocer. And beer, too.
The phone rang. I glared at it, my spine cooling. It wasn’t the spook, however—just Riley.
“What in hell you doing back here?”
“I nearly broke my leg up at the cabin. I snagged a ride into town.”
He grunted something unpleasant. I think he was glad to find me still alive.
“Could you fill my ear with tidbits?”
“I’d rather stick something in your big mouth.”
“No upgraded news?”
“Look—there’s nothing. No prints on the Ford. No leads. The stuff was fastened near one muffler with coated copper wire, clipped off with nippers of some kind. My man tells me that if you’d had only one exhaust pipe, you wouldn’t be around—you’d be in your primitive happ
y hunting ground. He says two pipes don’t heat up as fast as one.”
“Goody for him. Cable turned up?”
“Uh—no.” He coughed or said something to another party. “But we’ll get a line on him sooner or later.”
“No doubt. When you do I hope he’s alive.”
He growled and cut the connection.
I ordered groceries, took a bath and cleaned the joint out a little. As I had expected, I heard Joe on the ramp. I hadn’t raised the blinds. I slipped the fake bandage on my foot again and sat down. I told him to come on in.
“Mark—I thought you—was gone…and then I heard water runnin’…”
“It’s all right, Joe. I hurt my leg up the river, and had to come back. I’ll be all right in a day or two.”
He nodded.
“Anything going on, Joe?”
He shifted from the short leg to the longer one. “Mr. Cable never come back.”
“I heard that. What do you think, Joe?”
He shook his head sadly. “I’m afraid, Mark. I’m afraid fer you, too.”
I told him I’d be all right; he wasn’t convinced, but finally he went out the door and shuffled away, back to his hideout.
I had a can of beer and something to eat. Time crawled along. The phone didn’t ring. I smoked and exercised and waited. I stretched out and dozed a while, but sleep was impossible. I was too nerved up. I called Marie again. She answered.
“Roses are red, violets are blue—”
She let out a glad yelp. “Mark!”
“Your same old poetic savage.”
“Mmmmm. Where are you?”
“Back at the same old poetic apartment.”
“Kid, I dig that. I’ll come over.”
“Listen, curvy, I’ve got a real bad foot—twisted it up the river. Better wait till I’m on my feet so I can defend myself.”
“Well—heck! That’s too bad. I’m a real good bedside companion.”
“Hold it, please! By tomorrow night I should be feeling much better, and you won’t have to nurse me.”
It went on a while longer and finally she rang off. I rested awhile and went over it again. Still hazy and creaky in a few places, but the pattern was unfolding—ugly and vicious. The pattern of death. And if things didn’t work out, death would strike again.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
The Noir Novel Page 51