CRIME THRILLERS-A Box Set

by Billie Sue Mosiman

  Hell, look at the pictures of missing kids on the sides of milk cartons. It was an epidemic; no one knew what to do. He must go forward and hope Molly headed for California the way she'd told her Florida friends. If she'd lied, if she'd changed her mind, he was shit out of luck. It might be years before he found her. Dammit.

  He washed, shampooed his short, crew-cut hair, rinsed, and stepped from the shower stall. After drying off, shaving, brushing his teeth, donning the bottoms of a pair of plain white pajamas, he threw back the covers on one of the two double beds and flopped onto his back. He had a wake-up call for five-thirty. He should do a few sit-ups--it was harder to stay in shape since his retirement--but sleep pulled him into its silky depths.

  He slept with the table lamp on, his mouth open, his hands straight at his sides. He never moved a limb all night. And if he dreamed, the dreams fell over the precipice of his subconscious and were lost the way the waterfall in the lobby fell from its great height and disappeared in the foaming aquamarine pond at its sculpted base.

  THE THIRD NIGHT

  Molly floated in a flushing pink dream of sex. Hormone typhoon, she thought at the edge of waking. Stop it, she thought, dream something else. But the dream was too exciting and blessedly real for her to stop it. She felt every inch of her body ripe and full to the bursting point with lustful feelings. Her muscles clenched and unclenched creating a wave of yearning that washed down through to her core.

  She fantasized a lover with long, silky hair that swung on each side of his face as he moved above her, his weight familiar, his warmth increasing her own. The hair of his legs slid along her own bare calves and inner thighs and she sighed in her sleep, twisting a little to better position herself to open and receive him.

  Then a car door banged shut nearby and Molly came up from the reclining seat of the Chrysler like a shot. She was trembling, the heat that had been spreading outward from

  her thighs now creeping into her cheeks. She looked over quickly to where Cruise lay peacefully sleeping. She sucked in a breath and rubbed her eyes against the afternoon sun beating through the windshield. It felt like midsummer here in Texas. Hot as a griddle.

  Her heart beat fast and strong in her chest. She felt as if she'd used up as much energy as she might have running laps around a football field. She'd been dreaming of making it with Cruise. A whole truckload of shame suffused her. Guilt at the betrayal of her body made her bring her arms in close to her sides and squirm in the car seat. She sometimes had these disturbing sexual dreams. She'd never had the nerve to ask other girls if they too sometimes woke from naps or in the night after experiencing vividly detailed romps with men. She was afraid they'd tell her no, and then she'd know for sure she was abnormal, her sexual appetite too large for so young a girl, so inexperienced a girl.

  Before losing her virginity--or rather, before giving it away--she had these same dreams, but they were what she called "baby" sex dreams once she knew better. She fantasized being touched, kissing, fondling in the dark. She would wake to find herself rocking belly down, massaging herself against the mattress. She didn't know what it felt like to make love.

  After having sex the dreams changed completely. They had little to do with foreplay, with kissing or snuggling or touching. They got right down to the crux of the matter where she dreamed of penetration, of the slick thrust and pump of the act itself. She dreamed of being filled. Of reaching for orgasm and nearly missing each time she woke dripping sweat, her small breasts tingling, nipples swollen, a fire burning down below. Sometimes when she was too excited to forestall it, she masturbated, gently with her finger, probing, then furiously until she came, her breath caught in her throat, her hand lodged between her legs, back arched.

  She wished fervently to be rid of these kinds of fantasies that plagued her, that brought along with them guilt and sometimes shame at a runaway subconscious. Yet about once a month or so they returned like bold demons sharing her bed, driving her crazy with unfulfilled longing.

  She'd die if Cruise knew she'd dreamed of him that way. She peeked a look at his body. Let her gaze travel from heavy black lashes lying on his cheeks, down to his lips hiding beneath mustache and beard, over his muscular chest stretching at the material of his shirt, down to the belt in his slacks, the bulge in his crotch. Lingered there before traveling on down his legs to his feet.

  A trembling thrill rolled down her. Again she sucked in a breath and held it.

  Crazy. She had to get out of the car before she did something incredibly stupid like reaching for him. She could already feel his big hands on her. She began to burn again, to squirm uncomfortably in the seat. She grabbed the door handle and jerked open the door, scrambled out into the fresh air. She shut the door quietly, just until it clicked, leaning down to stare through the window at Cruise's sleeping face to be sure he hadn't wakened. She smoothed her hair as well as she could. She composed herself, trying to quiet the hidden hunger. She would go into the truck stop and wash in the ladies' room. She'd drink some coffee and get over this mad rush of maniacal lust.

  What was wrong with her? Is this what it was to be an adult, to feel this uncontrollable, aching fire take you even as you slept innocent and pure?

  She noticed most of the day was gone. The sun was falling down the sky, sinking fast to the flat horizon. It was a shock to think she'd slept most of the daylight hours away. Getting just like Cruise. But what could she expect with him telling her stories all through the night, keeping her captive with his melodic voice. She suspected that's what he wanted-to rearrange her sleeping rhythms. Well, he was the boss on this particular joyride.

  She looked up at the sign perched on the edge of the roof of the restaurant and read the name. The White Elephant Cafe. A fat dirty white elephant sat back on his haunches and trumpeted at the sky. Hah. Out here in the middle of God knew where, that's all they could think to call it, she guessed. It was a low-slung job in mud-red brick. The trim was painted brown and white. It could be torn down and no one would lose money.

  She went through a glass door and found herself in a small store. Refrigerated cases of beer and soft drinks, milk, cheeses, luncheon meats. Aisles of trucker stuff. CB mikes and connections, logbooks, envelopes, every over-the-counter medicine ever put on the market.

  A dull, wrung-out rag of a woman manned the cash register. She filed her nails, not bothering to look up as Molly entered.

  To the left was a hallway with rest rooms. Molly headed for the ladies and held open the door for a big woman dressed in tight jeans and a blue workman's jacket. She must be a trucker, Molly assumed. Looked the part anyway. Didn't look like anybody's momma.

  After relieving herself, washing her face, hands, neck, and upper arms with soap and water, she tried to get a brush through her red frowsy hair. Giving up trying to get it to lie down and behave, she scooped water into her hands and smoothed it over her head. The natural curl coiled into even tighter ringlets that fell around her pale face like corkscrewed ribbons. She patted them into place with a brown paper towel. Satisfied she was presentable, she left the rest room to find the cafe.

  It was at the end of the hallway past four video games lined on one wall. A trucker in greasy jeans played Tetris, the Russian game of falling shapes one had to fit together into lines. Molly noted in passing he wasn't too damn good at it either. She could beat him with one hand tied and her eyes blindfolded.

  She wandered into the jumbo room of the cafe. She took a trucker's booth where a black phone hung on the wall at table level. She sat staring at it a full minute. Nah. She

  couldn't call him, her dad. He'd want to know where she was, why'd she leave, would she come back? She couldn't stand the pain of it. To be truthful she missed him already, but she'd get over it, she knew. She had to. She could not live with him, could not, could not.

  She watched the young waitress. Her hair was short and lacquered stiffly. She wore a teddy bear sweatshirt and faded jeans that fit her all too well. While she waited to be served, Molly
cataloged the stuff this joint had on the puke-pink Formica table. The jumble sat on every table.

  Mcllhenny Co. Tabasco sauce, Cajun Chef hot sauce, ketchup, sugar shaker, salt and pepper shakers, napkin holder, margarine and jelly tubs (apple and mixed fruit), low-cal sugar packets, creamer packets, and a generic black plastic ashtray. Good God. Did they provide for the customers or what?

  The little waitress wore a short red change apron with black stitching across the front. Molly read it when she approached. "My name is Stinky."

  Molly suppressed a giggle threatening to get up and out.

  "Stinky?" she asked when the girl stood over her.

  The waitress looked down at the apron. "Uh, no, this ain't my apron. My name's Lynette."

  Molly thought that was pretty fortunate for the girl. "Just coffee right now. I'll look at a menu."

  Lynette bounced away and came back with a tan plastic mug of steamy java and a plastic-encased menu. There were black thumbprints on the front edges.

  Molly decided on the huevos rancheros. Two eggs served on a corn tortilla with beans, rice, and their own special sauce. $2.95. Sounded like a regular bargain if the heartburn didn't kill her.

  While she waited for the meal, Molly kept looking the place over. She didn't know what it was about truck stops that Cruise might like. The floor was black and white tiles. None too clean. The tables out in the center of the room had chairs with vinyl backs and seats of sick mustard-yellow. Bad color to have around food, she'd think. On white vinyl-covered walls hung wooden pictures of sunsets and Indians, a picture-frame clock of a semi-trailer truck parked in autumn leaves.

  In the booth facing Molly she saw the back of a driver's head. Leaning slightly to the left or right she could see around him to get a view of his partner's billed cap. It was black with a red-and-white eagle on the front. Beneath the eagle was the legend RIDE To LIVE, LIVE To RIDE. At least it didn't say BORN To LOSE.

  There was a salad and ice cream bar. Another waitress took care of the trade at the center tables. She was fiftyish, gray hair, blue pants uniform, and a light gray fleece-lined sweater jacket. She looked tired. Compared to the bouncy Lynette of the red apron, she looked dead.

  The huevos rancheros arrived and looked every bit as inviting as a roadkill. Molly's stomach did a flip-flop looking at how the fragile eggs were buried under the heaps of beans and rice.

  Lynette said, '"There's Tabasco sauce there if you want it."

  Molly nodded dumbly. She'd have to drink her coffee before she'd ever get up the courage to tackle this thing.

  While she sipped the black brew, two truckers entered trailed by a woman, dressed as they were, in jeans and sweatshirts and jackets. They passed Molly's booth. The woman had long blond hair. Bleached, but pretty. On the back of her black jacket was an American flag. Below the flag it read STONE MOUNTAIN. Molly knew where that was. In Georgia. A big ring of keys jingled and clanked on the woman's sturdy hips as she moved past. Molly thought she smelled the scorched scent of a hot radiator as they wove through tables to the back.

  Travelers. Just like her. Driving those big rigs and eating in dumps like this one.

  And Cruise liked them. She'd have to get him to confide in her just exactly what it was about bad art, scrubby jeans, and greasy food that he found intriguing.

  Then again, come to think of it, it was really highly amusing. She never saw Tabasco sauce on the cafe tables in South Florida. She'd never in her life seen a female truck driver. And thank God, she'd never known a girl named Stinky--and wouldn't, she guessed.

  The eggs were quite good despite their caked and drowned appearance. The beans were hot, the rice spicy. Molly ate every bite and burped politely behind a napkin. Damn gas bothered her like crazy when she ate spicy foods.

  Lynette didn't say anything to her about sitting at a table reserved for truckers. Probably because the place wasn't exactly packed to the rafters. Molly let her cup be refilled four times before she made any move to leave. She lingered, savoring the place, the sounds, the way the truckers moved beneath their thick jackets and their cowboy and gimmee hats. One fellow at the counter had great buns--tight and small and cute as the cheeks of a panda bear--and just about the longest legs Molly had ever seen. Dwight Yoakum, the country singer who sang songs through his nose, had legs like that. Went on forever. The trucker wore gray lizard-skin cowboy boots, the pointy-toed ones, and his shirt had pearl snaps instead of buttons. He sat drinking coffee and kidding pretty Lynette about her silly apron.

  All of a sudden Molly felt loneliness descend, a black curtain settling just behind her eyes. She wished the cowboy would talk to her, kid her about something. She wished the damn sun would set, goddammit, so Cruise would wake up and keep her company. She might as well be invisible, sitting nursing a cup of coffee, trailing a finger through a puddle of water condensed off her yellow plastic glass of iced water.

  Just how was she going to make it in this world? When she got to California, that golden West, that Pacific paradise, just how was she going to keep herself off the street? She expected she was going to get hungry, learn all about how it felt to have your stomach shrink and your clothes fall off your hips. Learn all about staying out of the way of drug addicts, pimps, pushers, and muggers. Learn how to sleep standing up, leaning on a wall, arms folded. She'd seen people do that in downtown Miami. Stand there like a leaning pole, propped against the side of a wall, chin on chest, arms crossed, asleep. She guessed they locked their knees to keep from falling on their faces.

  It had to be hard.

  Life. It was a tough deal.

  Tears swarmed in her eyes and she angrily brushed them away by pretending to wipe her face with a napkin. Shit. Self-pitying asshole. She lurched up from the table and turned her back on the cute cowboy and his doll of a waitress. She paid at the cashier's counter and hurried out the door. The coolness of evening braced and refreshed her.

  She eyed the sky, measuring how far the sun had to go to hit sundown. An hour. Forty-five minutes.

  She glanced around the parking lot for a place to wait it out. She picked the parking curb near the Chrysler. She lay her head on crossed arms against her knees, face turned so she could see the western sky. She could count the colors of sunset, gift the layers with all new names. Clam white. Pussy pink. Well. She had to have some fun. Then there was larva lavender. Jazz blue. Bruise purple. Scalding red. Tabby-cat orange. Bone ivory. Summer squash yellow.

  Daydream. She could daydream about sex with Cruise. Or the cowboy with the lizard boots and pearl snap buttons. He was younger, though not quite as attractive. It was all right when she was awake and could control the images, not let it get too out of hand where her body started feeling all hot and achy and thrumming for a touch, any touch.

  Slowly a masculine hand pulled down the zipper of her jeans. Another hand, unattached to body, to face, slipped up under her blouse and tugged the padded bra aside.

  Tweaked one tiny pink-brown nipple. Covered her breast softly. Moved gently down over her abdomen past the elastic waist of her bikini panties...

  Hell and damnation.

  That wasn't all that much fun either. Made her start panting like a bitch in heat so anybody would know what she was thinking if they walked by her.

  Raging fucking hormones.

  And they said only guys got horny. Boy, were they wrong! If she didn't get this stuff out of her brain, she'd wind up trying to throw herself all over poor Cruise, and what would that look like, huh?

  He probably didn't even like her. She was too young. Looked thirteen, fourteen, he said. Probably too skinny. No boobs. Hardly any hips. She was just a hitchhiker he was taking along to keep him awake while he drove nights. He wouldn't touch her if she begged for it.

  The sun dipped through low-lying clouds. The colors over the land smeared unevenly and darkened.

  Molly watched the car door on the Chrysler for Cruise.

  Wake up.

  The cowboy of the long legs sauntered out the cafe d
oor chewing a toothpick. He never even glanced her way. Molly watched his tight little butt as he circled the building to the back lot where his rig was parked. She sighed to see him go. He'd had thick black curly hair and dark eyes. She would have to dream of him tonight. It was as close as she was going to get to heaven this century.

  #

  Mark Killany thought he'd lost Molly's trail for good. He had overslept in Beaumont, cradling the phone receiver on his chest after the wake-up call. Cursing himself upon waking, he hurried from the Holiday Inn to his car, his shirt trailing out the back of his pants. He had needed to shave again, but there hadn't been time. He ran a hand over his grizzled chin now, frowning at how he was slowly losing all control over events in his life. He wasn't exercising, he wasn't shaving enough, his clothes needed an iron run over them.

  He crossed the Old and Lost Rivers and thought how apt the name was to his state of mind. If his mind wasn't old and lost, he didn't know what was.

  He stopped along the way between Beaumont and Houston, showing Molly's picture. No one had seen her.

  He kept losing time exiting the freeway, parking, walking around to question service station employees. He had known he was handicapped from the outset, that she'd be ahead of him and gaining ground west each time he chose to stop. But he'd optimistically thought he could find a clearer trail.

  Trail! He had a wisp. A promise. Not a trail.

  Now it was late afternoon, the sun setting in a blaze at his back. He was somewhere between San Antonio and El Paso on Interstate 10, out in the center of the tumbleweed desert, and he hadn't once found a person who had seen his daughter.