I know all about this sort of stuff.
When you’re built “like a brick shithouse,” you learn plenty.
I’m what you might call an expert.
Anyway, never mind.
After I’d shoved up Judy’s skirt, I spread open her legs about as wide as they would go, so her feet hung over the sides of the table.
Next, I had to rip her panties off. A guy who wants to rape you will hardly ever just pull them down. He has to do it with violence. If he has a knife, he’ll cut them off you and maybe cut you a little bit in the process. Some guys will tear them off with their teeth. That can hurt, too. Accidently on purpose, they’ll bite more than your panties. Usually, though, they rip them off you with their hands. That’s how I decided to do it.
On my knees between Judy’s legs, I slipped a hand inside the crotch of her panties. The flimsy fabric was moist. I jerked it sideways hard and fast. Half the crotch panel ripped away from her waistband. One more tug, and it tore completely off. I let go, and the tattered flap fell against the table top. She still wore the narrow strip of elastic low across her belly, but there was nothing in the way.
Then I went to work on her.
Coming to my senses afterward, I found myself sprawled on top of her. I was completely naked. She was slippery underneath me, and still alive. I felt the slight rise and fall of her chest, the thump of her heartbeat.
Suddenly, a hot sickness rushed through me.
What have I done?
Blown everything.
All I’d wanted to do from the start was clean up after myself, make it impossible for anyone to suspect me of killing Tony—destroy every link to me, wipe out every trace.
What’ll I do?
For starters, I pushed myself up. Our bodies came apart with quiet, wet sounds. I climbed off her, got down from the top of the table, and sat on the bench. Leaning forward, I put my elbows on my knees and tried to figure a solution.
I must’ve looked like that statue, The Thinker.
The famous one by the sculptor, Godzilla.
Just kidding. Rodin, right?
The Thinker, but a female version and built like a brick shithouse.
Thinking, How the hell do I get out of this?
What a mess.
If only I’d kept things simple! But no! I had to get clever and tricky. Make them think she was murdered by a rapist. Brilliant idea!
In the process, I’d turned her into a petri dish of Alice samples.
So clean her up!
Sure thing, I thought. What about the marks. I’d put on her body?
The Thinker returned to thought.
Suddenly, I sat up straight and blurted, “Yes!”
First, I had to find my clothes. I slipped into my shoes—Tony’s loafers. Then I hunted for my cut-offs. I found them on the ground where I’d thrown them during the frenzy with Judy. I put them on the bench so they wouldn’t get lost again.
Carrying Tony’s shirt, I went to the creek. Though I could hear the quiet gurgle and see bits of moonlight glinting on the water, the embankment took me by surprise. It was like stepping off a stair in the darkness. I gasped and fell and hoped like hell I wouldn’t go down on a sharp rock.
Luckily, I hit nothing but water. It was about a foot deep. It splashed up cool against my face and underside as my hands and knees punched through the surface. The rocky bottom hurt my knees a little, but not much. The shirt protected my hands.
I eased myself all the way down into the water so it covered me and glided gently over me. It felt wonderful. It probably wasn’t very clean, though. Not like the swimming pool.
Thinking of the pool, I couldn’t help but remember the prowler. I pictured him floating on his back, and how he’d gleamed with moonlight. So beautiful and dangerous. Then he was out of the pool and squirming against the glass door, throbbing and spurting.
If they find some of that stuff on Judy…
That’ll cinch it for sure.
My brilliant idea was suddenly more brilliant than ever.
But it would require a trip to Serena and Charlie’s house.
It’ll be worth it.
Not wasting another moment, I pushed myself out of the water. With the sodden shirt in my hands, I climbed the bank and hurried to the table.
Judy was sprawled on top, the same way I’d left her.
Sitting on the bench, I dumped the water out of my shoes. Then I put them on again, climbed the bench and bent over her. Starting at her face, I washed her with the shirt. Water spilled off her, running onto the table, dribbling through the cracks between its boards and hitting the ground under the table with quiet splattery sounds.
I thought the water might wake her up, but it didn’t. She stayed limp.
I mopped her neck, her shoulders and breasts, then decided I needed more water. So I hurried back to the creek. This time, I didn’t fall in. With the shirt sopping again, I returned to Judy and worked my way lower down her body.
I made two more trips to the creek for water.
By the time I was done cleaning Judy, I’d drenched her from head to ankles and scrubbed every inch of her with the shirt.
Every inch of her front, anyway.
I didn’t turn her over, or see any reason to.
She gave me no trouble at all, just stayed limp except for a few times when she squirmed. Now and then, she made soft moaning sounds.
I washed the shirt out a final time and put it on the bench with my cut-offs.
It took a while, in the darkness, to find a good stick. There were plenty to choose from, though. I finally came up with a piece of branch about four feet long. At one end, it was just about the right thickness to wrap my fingers around. From there, it tapered down to about half that size. It had a few small limbs along the way, but I snapped them off.
Then I knelt on the table and went back to work on Judy.
Right away, she flinched and cried out and tried to sit up.
I clubbed her down with the heavy end of the stick. Four or five blows to the head and face, and she was limp again. After that, I focused on the places where I might’ve left bruises with my teeth and hands.
Really laid into her.
The heavy end made thunking sounds when it struck her. The other end whistled each time I swung it down, and whapped her skin like a switch.
She never flinched or cried out. Those early blows to the head had done her in.
At least for now.
Exhausted and drenched with sweat, I went down to the creek. I rolled in the cool water, then lay on my back for a while with only my face in the air. It felt great. But work still needed to be done.
Not quite ready to get going, I stayed in the water and made a list in my head:
1. Make sure Judy is dead.
2. Wipe my fingerprints off her car.
3. Run back to Serena and Charlie’s house.
4. Collect the sample off the glass door.
5. Run back here.
6. Add the sample to Judy’s body.
7. Go home.
It all had to be finished before sunrise. How much time did that give me? Two or three hours, probably.
Plenty of time.
But not if I spent the rest of the night relaxing in the creek.
So I climbed out and returned to the table. Kneeling on the bench, I put my ear close to Judy’s mouth. She didn’t seem to be breathing. Nor could I find a pulse at her neck or wrist.
She seemed to be dead.
But I’m no expert on that sort of thing.
I had to be completely sure.
The best way, I decided, was to cave in her head with a rock. Why use a rock? Because I didn’t want to fire my pistol again, I had no knife or saber, strangling or suffocating her seemed iffy, and drowning her in the creek would’ve been too much work. With a good, heavy rock, I could crack open her skull and spill her brains out and know she was dead.
To get one, I returned to the creek.
Standing in the
water, I reached down between my feet and plucked out a rough-edged rock the size of a baseball.
It should do the job fine.
With the rock clutched in my right hand, I climbed onto the bank and took a couple of strides toward the picnic table.
And stopped.
The top of the table was speckled with moonlight.
A flat, empty surface.
Judy was gone.
17
GONE
No!
She wasn’t on the table, but she couldn’t be gone. Maybe she’d rolled off and fallen.
I ran to the table.
Without enough light to see if she was on the ground, I searched for her with my feet. I circled the entire table, sweeping my feet this way and that, hoping to kick her.
No Judy.
I tossed the rock away, dropped to my hands and knees, and crawled under the table. The ground was soggy.
No Judy.
I crawled backward. Clear of the table, I scrambled on my knees to the bench where I’d left my clothes. My shirt and cut-offs were still there.
So was the pistol.
My panic faded a little.
I stood up, quickly put on the shorts, and pulled the pistol out of my pocket. Turning slowly, I scanned the area. Judy couldn’t have gone far. In her shape, she was lucky she’d been able to move at all, much less get down from the table and sneak into the trees.
Unless she had help.
The prowler, for instance.
The idea sickened me with dread, but only for a moment.
Nobody had come to Judy’s rescue. I was almost certain of that. I can’t explain exactly why, but I’d sensed from the start that we were alone in our clearing by the creek. I’d felt the solitude, the privacy. I’d never doubted it.
“Judy?” I asked. I didn’t call it out, but spoke in a normal voice. And knew she was near enough to hear me.
Probably hiding in the bushes or trees just beyond the table, not daring to move because she knows I’ll hear her.
“Where are you, Judy? It’s me. Alice. Are you all right? I’m sorry I ran off and left you, but…I thought you were dead. Somebody ambushed us. Do you remember that?” (I figured her memory might be fuzzy about a lot of stuff, because of being shot in the head, etc.) “You got shot and went down, and I ran for my life.”
I saw no movement in the darkness of the woods. I didn’t hear anyone, either.
“Then I came sneaking back and saw this awful woman. She had you on top of the table. She was beating you with something. I wanted to help you, but…I wouldn’t have stood a chance, you know? I mean, she had a gun. She would’ve shot me, just like she shot you.”
I stopped telling the story, and listened.
Nothing.
“She finally quit beating you and went away,” I said. “She ran into the woods. I followed her for a couple of minutes to make sure she was really leaving, then I came back to help you, but…Where are you?”
No answer.
I wondered whether she was already out of earshot, or unconscious again—or just didn’t believe me.
“It’s safe for now,” I told her. “But that woman might come back pretty soon. You’d better come out. I know you must be scared and confused—and in terrible pain—but if she comes back…Please, Judy! I’m scared. Let’s get out of here! I’ll drive you to the emergency room.”
Drive?
What if Judy wasn’t cowering in the darkness beyond the table or unconscious or sneaking deeper into the woods?
What if she was circling around me?
Going for her car!
I snatched my shirt off the bench, then whirled around and raced to the slope. I chugged my way up it, pumping hard with my arms, the pistol in one hand, the shirt in the other. The wet shirt slapped my side. My breasts leaped about wildly. Halfway up the slope, one of my loafers flew off. I didn’t dare stop for it.
At any moment, Judy might reach her car, climb in and drive away.
I knew it would happen.
It WON’T happen! Look what I did to her! How can she make it to the car? She can’t.
But she will.
I was doomed. I’d been doomed from the start of all this, and I’d known it, but I’d resisted.
In my mind, I heard the engine start. I heard it kick over again and again, roaring defeat at me.
But I didn’t hear it for real.
Not yet.
Dashing over the crest of the hill, I saw the vague shape of the car in the darkness ahead.
No sign of Judy.
Of course not. She was already behind the wheel, concealed in darkness behind the windshield, reaching for the ignition.
I dodged a picnic table and sprinted toward the car.
With every stride, I expected the headbeams to shoot out and blind me.
But they didn’t.
The engine didn’t turn over.
The headlights stayed dark.
Nothing happened.
Staggering to a halt, I ducked down a little and peered through the open window of the driver’s door.
Nobody there.
Nobody in the back seat, either.
With the last of my energy, I jogged in a circle around the car to make sure it was safe. Then I slipped the .22 into my pocket and pulled open the driver’s door. The car filled with light. Squinting, I dropped into the seat. The key was in the ignition. Judy must’ve left it there when we set out to search for Tony. I jerked the door shut and the light went out.
For a while, I just sat there streaming sweat and gasping for breath.
I could barely put my thoughts together, I was so pooped.
But I knew I’d lucked out. I’d gotten to the car first. Judy had lost her chance to drive away.
My skin itched from the heat and sweat. When I couldn’t stand it any longer, I rubbed myself with the shirt. It was still wet. It felt cool and wonderful.
I started feeling better about things.
Nobody ever said it would be easy, I told myself. It’s a tricky business, trying to get away with this sort of thing. There are bound to be setbacks.
By and large, I’d handled matters fairly well so far. I would’ve met with complete success if I hadn’t gone to Judy’s apartment by mistake.
Pretty big damn mistake.
Bigger for her than me. She’d be dying because of it.
I rubbed my face and chest again, then leaned sideways and used the shirt to wipe off the interior handle of the passenger door. I also did the window sill and dashboard. Then I sat up straight and wiped the steering wheel.
As I did that, I realized that one of my shoes was gone.
Gotta go find it.
Time’s a-wasting.
I pulled out the ignition key. With the key case in one hand and my shirt in the other, I climbed out of the car. Again, the light came on. In its glow, I saw the strap of Judy’s purse on the floor. She’d apparently shoved her purse underneath the driver’s seat.
I started to reach for the strap, then stopped myself.
What do I need her purse for? Just have to get rid of it later, like Tony’s wallet.
I would’ve been better off if I’d never touched Tony’s wallet.
That’s what got me into this.
Finding that paper with the wrong address.
So I decided to leave Judy’s purse untouched.
Standing in the V of the open door, I did some more mop-up with my shirt. Then I shut the door and wiped its outside handle.
I dropped Judy’s keys into a pocket of my cut-offs, then went around the car to take care of fingerprints I might’ve left on the outside of the passenger door.
The surface of the parking area was pavement littered by old leaves and twigs. I doubted that my bare foot was leaving any tracks. To make sure, though, I opened the passenger door. The interior light came back on, and spilled a yellow glow onto the pavement. I did a couple of tests with my bare foot. Nothing showed, so I shut the door and wiped it again
and took off.
I headed back to the scene of Judy’s escape.
She’ll be down there, somewhere. Maybe trying to crawl away, or hiding in the bushes.
Maybe watching me.
About halfway down the slope, I found my shoe. I slid my foot into it. Then I put the shirt on. It stuck to my skin. I left it unbuttoned so air could get in.
About the next step I took, my shoe slipped on the wet grass. I started to drop backward, but caught my balance in time and stayed on my feet.
Close call, I thought. What if I’d fallen and really hurt myself? Bumped my head on a rock, or something, and got knocked out cold? Then I’d be the one in big trouble. Judy could come up here and finish me off. Or take her car keys and escape. Lucky thing…
Would she?
What if she saw me fall, tumble down the slope, and not get up? Would she come out of hiding?
She might.
Or she might figure it’s a trick.
I took a few more strides, then pretended to trip over a rock or something. Yelling, “AHHH!” as loud as I could, I windmilled my arms, stumbled a couple of times as if trying to regain my footing, then plunged headlong.
I wanted it to look real.
It suddenly was real.
I slammed against the ground. It knocked my wind out and seemed to kick me into the air. I flipped over. The ground kept battering me, shoving me along. I twisted and rolled and flopped, arms and legs flying, all the way to the bottom.
Like Judy after her fall down the same slope, I came to rest on my back.
History repeats itself.
At least I hadn’t been shot in the head.
I felt plenty bruised and scratched and battered, though. And I’d lost both shoes.
Plus the pistol.
I should’ve been able to feel its weight against my right thigh, but the pocket had an awful lightness.
So much, I thought, for another brilliant idea.
Now what?
I had two choices. Either forget the trick and go looking for the pistol, or stay on my back and pretend to be unconscious.
I felt vulnerable without the gun. But I could get along without it for a while. I didn’t need artillery for handling Judy.
Just stick with the plan for ten or fifteen minutes, I told myself. See what happens.
It might be a waste of time.
On the other hand, searching for her in the dark woods would probably be a waste of time, too. If she’d found herself a good hiding place, and didn’t make any noise, I’d hardly stand a chance of finding her. Unless I tripped over her, or something.
After Midnight Page 11