Body Rides

by Richard Laymon

  When he saw how sadness filled her eyes, he wished he hadn’t said it.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he told her.

  ‘Don’t be sorry,’ she said. ‘I know you’re hurting.’

  They both drank. Neal’s margarita felt cold and soft in his mouth. It was sweet and tart. As it went down, it spread a soothing warmth through him.

  Marta lowered her glass. She had pale froth on her lips. She wiped it away with the back of her hand. Watching Neal’s eyes, she said, ‘Did you . . . fall in love with her?’

  ‘I don’t know. In a way, maybe.’

  In a big way, he thought.

  ‘I only knew her for a couple of hours,’ he explained. ‘It was all so strange. I mean, I saved her life. She was beautiful and . . . very nice. She was a lot like you, I think. Maybe that’s why . . . I guess I sort of fell in love with her, there for a while.’

  ‘Yeah, that’s what I thought.’

  ‘You would’ve liked her. Really. And you probably would’ve met her, too, if . . . things hadn’t gone bad. She asked us to come over for a barbecue, and to swim in her pool.’

  Marta looked surprised, a little relieved, but wary. ‘You told her about me?’

  ‘Sure. You were the reason I didn’t stay the night with her.’

  ‘She asked you to spend the night?’

  ‘Yeah. But I wouldn’t.’

  ‘Because of me?’

  He nodded.

  She stared at him, frowning slightly, slowly shaking her head. Finally, she spoke again. Softly, almost as if talking to herself. ‘My God,’ she said. ‘Elise might still be alive if you’d stayed. Or you might’ve gotten killed. But you didn’t stay. Because of me?’

  ‘None of it is your fault,’ Neal said.

  ‘But I’m sure part of it.’

  ‘Sort of, I guess. If you want to look at it that way. But . . .’

  ‘Funny. I don’t even know her, but I had a hand in getting her killed.’

  ‘No. Not really. Things just happened.’

  ‘Man, oh man.’ She shook her head, then tilted up her glass and took several swallows. When she lowered the glass, her lips were frothy again. ‘Let’s do that video tape.’

  Fifteen

  Marta refilled their glasses. Then they went into the living room. While Neal waited on the sofa, she brought in the bag of tortilla chips. Then she disappeared for several minutes. She returned with a VCR camcorder in one hand, a tripod in the other.

  ‘I’ll have this set up in a jiffy,’ she said. ‘You’ll need to move, though. We don’t want all that light behind you. Maybe bring in a chair from the dining room.’

  He did as she suggested, and placed the chair off to the side so he wouldn’t have the window to his back.

  When the camcorder was fixed atop its tripod, Marta sat on a chair behind it. ‘The tape’ll show the date and time,’ she said as she leaned toward the viewfinder. ‘So we’ll have proof as to when we did this.’

  ‘We won’t be turning it in, though. Right?’

  ‘You might want to, at some point. You know, if you need to clear yourself.’

  Neal finished his margarita, then peered at the camera’s lens. ‘That isn’t going yet, is it?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘How’s this supposed to clear me of stuff I did?’

  ‘You didn’t kill Elise.’

  ‘No, I know that. Boy, do I know that.’ He tried to laugh. ‘But I carried a concealed weapon. A loaded weapon. Which is a felony, and which is the main reason why Elise and I decided to stay away from the cops in the first place, last night. So I wouldn’t get busted for carrying. Isn’t that a laugh? They do that, you know? You use your gun to save yourself, next thing you know, you’re behind bars.’ He tried to take another drink, but found nothing left except a patch of foam at the bottom of his glass. ‘I mean, I have a Constitutional right to bear arms. Or I had one. Back in the good old days when we had a U.S. Constitution. So I use my gun to save Elise from this asshole, but then we can’t even go to the cops about it . . . suddenly we’re the criminals . . . so we sneak off and he gets up and comes after her and finishes the job. Isn’t that wonderful? Isn’t that beautiful?’

  He started crying.

  ‘Oh, shit,’ he muttered.

  Marta hurried over to him. She took the glass out of his hand. Then she was pulling his head forward, murmuring, ‘It’s all right.’

  He snuggled his face against her belly.

  ‘It’s all right, honey,’ she said, gently stroking his hair. ‘It’s all right.’

  The front of her T-shirt felt soft. Her skin beneath it felt warm and smooth. He wrapped his arms around the backs of her thighs.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said against her T-shirt.

  ‘Don’t be sorry.’

  He tried to stop crying. ‘I thought I’d . . . saved her. That’s what . . . it’s hard.’

  ‘I know. I know.’

  ‘I let her down.’

  ‘No, you didn’t.’

  ‘We . . . should’ve gone to the cops. If only we’d gone to the cops . . . right then and there, right after I got her free. Or phoned them. They would’ve come and taken the guy. Elise, she’d still be alive.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘I didn’t even make sure he was dead. God! If only I’d checked!’

  ‘The if-onlys can kill you,’ Marta said.

  ‘She’d still be alive.’

  ‘She might be. Or maybe not. Maybe her number was up, no matter what you did.’ Marta’s hand moved slowly and gently down the back of his head.

  He nodded, rubbing his face against her belly. ‘Shit happens,’ he muttered.

  ‘And we can’t always duck in time.’

  He laughed and sobbed and almost choked. ‘Shit,’ he said. Then he eased his face away from her soft warmth. ‘I drenched your shirt.’

  ‘It’ll dry,’ Marta said. Her curled hand stroked him over and behind the ears.

  He tilted back his head. She was staring down at him. Her eyes were wet and shiny. ‘Why don’t I fix us something to eat?’ she suggested. ‘Then we’ll try again.’

  He nodded.

  ‘How about tacos?’

  ‘That’d be appropriate.’

  ‘My name is Neal Darden,’ he said, looking into the lens of the camcorder. Then he gave his address and telephone number. He spoke carefully, though he no longer felt particulary high.

  An hour had gone by since his first attempt at the tape – and his breakdown. During that time, he’d consumed a Pepsi, lots of tortilla chips and salsa, and four beef tacos. No beer, and no more margaritas.

  ‘I’m making this video tape,’ he said, ‘as a record of what happened to me on the night of Sunday, July ninth, 1995. And in the early morning of the tenth.

  ‘I left my apartment at about eleven thirty Sunday night to return a couple of tapes to Video City, over on Venice Boulevard. I wanted to get them in before midnight. It was warm out, so my window was down. Otherwise, I probably wouldn’t have heard the screams.’

  He went on, talking at the camera. Though aware that the tape might someday be viewed by strangers, Marta was his true audience. He wanted her to know every detail – almost every detail – because in some ways it was her story, too.

  He wouldn’t have been out last night, returning the videos at such a late hour, if he hadn’t rented them in the first place. He had rented them because he wanted Marta to sit beside him and watch a couple of his favorite films.

  And then, instead of leaving by ten to return to her own place and get ready for work, she had stayed. They had made love right there on his sofa. Then she had gone down to her car and returned with her work clothes in a bag. ‘I brought them along in case things got late,’ she’d explained. After vanishing into the bathroom, she’d come out dressed in her sharp airline outfit, her makeup on, her hair neatly brushed.

  It had been wonderful.

  And it had put Neal exactly where he needed to be at the time of Elise’s s
creams.

  So this was Marta’s story, too. Neal felt as if he were filling her in on part of her own life – an important part that had occurred in her absence.

  He’d always figured he would end up telling her something. After all, she was bound to see his injuries. But he was surprised to find himself telling her so much – giving her details that he’d expected to keep secret.

  He had even told about Elise being tied to the tree naked. He’d intended to leave out the naked part, but he found himself speaking the truth, regardless.

  He did manage to keep silent about his arousal. He’d already admitted to falling in love with Elise; Marta sure didn’t need a history of his erections.

  Or how he’d struggled against the temptation to have sex with Elise.

  The less said about such things, the better.

  He didn’t attempt to hide his feelings of love for Elise (a bit too late for that), but he tried to make it seem like innocent affection. He spoke of her as if she had been his sister or a wonderful, old friend.

  And realized he did feel that way about her.

  Mostly.

  And mostly because of Marta. His loyalty to Marta had kept him out of Elise’s bed, prevented him from becoming her lover.

  Now she’s gone, he thought. Dead and gone, so it will always be innocent between us.

  He found himself weeping again.

  Several times, he wept as he told his story. Each time, he paused for a while to regain control, and Marta kept the camcorder running.

  ‘Can’t you turn it off?’ he’d asked, the first time.

  ‘It’ll be better if we don’t. Let’s keep this a continuous shot so they’ll be able to see we didn’t make any cuts.’

  So she kept it running, no matter what.

  Sometimes, Neal heard sniffles from behind the camera. Sometimes, groans. Rarely did Marta speak. Once in a while, she asked questions when Neal didn’t seem to be making himself clear or when he left out details that she thought might be important. She almost never made comments, though.

  Until he described Elise’s body in the bathtub.

  ‘Oh, dear God,’ she’d said.

  Neal wished he hadn’t told her so much. It would’ve been easy to leave out the worst of it. But he felt that she deserved the truth.

  The truth about almost everything except the bracelet.

  Elise’s private gift to him.

  Telling Marta about the bracelet would be like breaking Elise’s trust, so he kept it to himself.

  He simply omitted it from the story.

  In the story he told, he was never given the bracelet or any other reward for saving Elise’s life. He never tried it out on her, there in the den. Nor did he use it, after leaving her house, to take a quick look at where they’d left the man’s body, or to rush back and try to warn her that the bastard might not be dead, after all – only to find himself helpless inside her body when she was jumped in the hallway.

  For Marta and the video tape, none of those things had ever happened.

  The way Neal told the story, curiosity had gotten the best of him while he was driving home from Elise’s house. Instead of taking the shortest route, he’d chosen a detour that would take him past the place by the freeway where he’d rescued her.

  Only to discover that the van was gone.

  He’d run across the field.

  The man’s body was missing.

  Fearing the worst, he’d dashed back to his car.

  Back to the truth, he’d told of his race to Elise’s house, breaking every traffic rule but never able to speed as fast as he wished – fast enough to save her from torture and death at the hands of the madman who should’ve been dead.

  Finally, he said, ‘That’s about it, I guess.’

  ‘Okay,’ Marta said from behind the camcorder. ‘Now, let me ask a few questions.’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘You already described the guy pretty well, but about how tall do you think he is?’

  ‘Maybe six feet, six-one. An inch or two taller than me.’

  ‘Weight?’

  ‘I don’t know. He was skinny. Skin and bones. Cadaverous. I could see his ribs through his shirt. That’s why I’m so sure he wasn’t wearing a bullet-proof vest.’

  ‘Age?’

  ‘That’s like weight. Who knows? I never got much of a look at his face. All that hair and beard. I didn’t see any gray hair, though. And he was quick and strong. Just a guess, I’d say he was in his twenties or thirties.’

  ‘That’s a real help.’ Her face was mostly hidden behind the camera, but she sounded amused.

  ‘I’m not good on ages,’ Neal explained.

  ‘That’s for sure.’ After a pause, she asked, ‘Could you identify the man if you ever saw him again?’

  He had to think about it. After a few moments, he answered, ‘Probably not. I wouldn’t be able to tell him from any other skinny guy with a big black beard and wild hair. And if he paid a visit to a barber, I wouldn’t know him from Adam.’

  ‘Or if the hair and beard were fake?’ Marta suggested.

  ‘A disguise?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘They might’ve been, huh? Great. I had the impression they were real, but . . . who knows? The thing is, I don’t have the slightest idea what he might look like without the beard and hair.’

  ‘He’d be the skinny guy with the gunshot wounds,’ Marta pointed out.

  ‘That’s about it. At least I’m pretty sure he’s wounded.’

  ‘Okay. Next. Other than giving the police a description of the man and telling that he’s been shot, do you have any information that might help them solve the crime?’

  ‘I don’t think so. And I did what I could last night. Searched for him, disabled his van. I’m surprised he got away. Hell, I’m surprised he didn’t die when I shot him back by the freeway. I know I didn’t miss. I mean, he went down. And he bled in Elise’s house.’

  ‘Anything else you want to add?’ Marta asked.

  ‘That’s about it, I guess. Any other questions?’

  Marta shrugged, shut off the camcorder, and scooted her chair out from behind it.

  ‘Now what?’ Neal asked.

  ‘Should we go ahead and turn the tape over to the police?’

  ‘No. Are you kidding? I confessed stuff that could get me fined and jailed. Not to mention, I’d probably end up with a criminal record. I hadn’t even thought about that, till now. My teaching credentials might get revoked. I could lose my job.’

  ‘Could they fire you over something like this?’

  ‘I’m not sure, but I’d hate to find out the hard way.’

  ‘You ought to be given a medal.’

  ‘They don’t hand out medals for shooting bad guys. Not unless you’re a cop . . . and around here, even a cop is likely to get prosecuted for it.’

  ‘So, we don’t turn over the tape,’ Marta said.

  ‘I don’t see what good it would do, anyway. It’d clear up a bunch of confusion for them, maybe, over things I did at Elise’s house, but it won’t tell who did the killing. And it might give them the idea that I’m the best candidate.’

  ‘Okay,’ Marta said. ‘You’re probably right.’

  ‘If I do get pulled into it, that’s when we’ll think about turning over the tape. It should help get me off the hook for the murder, at least.’

  ‘Fine. That’s what we’ll do.’ She reached over to the camcorder, opened it and removed the tape cassette. She tossed it to Neal. ‘All yours. But I have one suggestion.’

  To: Investigating Officers

  Elise Waters case

  Date: July 10, 1995

  Sirs:

  I have first-hand information regarding the identity of the man who murdered Elise Waters on the night of July 9, 1995.

  He is a male Caucasian, approximately six feet tall, and thin to the point of emaciation. On the night of the crime, he had very long, unruly black hair and a full beard. His age is unknown, but he is prob
ably in the twenty to forty range.

  He was a stranger to the victim.

  On the night of the crime, he may have suffered gunshot wounds to his head and torso. One head wound, one to three body wounds. All inflicted by .380 caliber bullets.

  Fingers still resting on the typewriter keys, Neal looked over his shoulder at Marta. ‘How’s that?’

  ‘Looks fine.’ She smiled. ‘They’ll go ape when they see this. I just hope they believe it.’

  ‘They’ll believe it, all right,’ Neal said. ‘The bastard bled in her house. And I left my brass behind after I shot up the van. It’s .380. They’ll believe.’

  He turned the platen knob of the old, Royal portable.

  Marta, wearing rubber dishwashing gloves, plucked the paper from the roller. She folded it and slipped it into an envelope that they had already stamped and addressed.

  The address was typed:

  LOS ANGELES POLICE DEPARTMENT

  West Los Angeles Station

  1663 Butler Avenue

  Los Angeles, CA 90066

  Marta sealed the note inside the envelope.

  ‘When do you think they’ll get it?’ Neal asked.

  ‘I’ll mail it on my way to the airport. Maybe in Inglewood. So it’ll probably go out tomorrow morning. The cops should have it on Wednesday.’

  ‘Good enough,’ Neal said.

  Sixteen

  Shortly after eleven o’clock that night, Marta left for work with the envelope in her purse.

  After walking her down to her car, Neal returned to her apartment and let himself in with the key she’d given him. He sat down on the sofa. He felt shaky, and his heart beat fast.

  Okay, he told himself. She’s gone.

  What’ll I do?

  He had two choices: either return to his own apartment in the flesh, or go there with the help of the bracelet.

  If he went over in person, he would wait in the darkness, maybe sitting in a corner of the living room, the pistol in his hand. Sometime during the night, the killer might show up.