“You choose. It’s your night.” She smiled again, putting more into her answer than Payne might be expecting or used to. But if he wasn’t going to make a move, she would.
“You take white.”
She reached out and slid a pawn forward—a conventional opening. Cathy was an indifferent player, Payne discovered, but neither was she a novice. Her moves showed potential skill but she seemed disinterested—perhaps even uninterested—in the game. He put on the pressure a bit, capturing two pieces in consecutive moves.
“How about some crackers or something?” she said suddenly.
“Huh?”
“Snacks? Got anything?”
“Sure.” He pulled himself up and walked into the hall, stretching out his cramped leg muscles.
She watched him carefully until he disappeared into the darkness, nothing with tingling pleasure the subtle movement of muscle in his back, his shoulders, his buttocks. It was time for some major strategy, she decided, since he was apparently willing to sit here and do nothing but play chess all night. Not that she had anything against chess. It beat going to the dentist or having red-hot pokers punched through your skull, but not by much. At least, not tonight.
“Can I help?” she called down the hallway.
“No. Everything’s under control in here,” he answered.
It will be in here, too. Soon. Cathy shifted her position slightly.
Payne reappeared moments later carrying a tray with Wheat Thins, a small half-round of Gouda, and a knife. He had folded a white dish towel into a narrow strip and laid it precisely across his bare arm, maître d’-fashion. Without a tuxedo it looked pretty ridiculous, but the gesture was cute. Cathy liked that about Payne. He was cute, innocent and yet desirable in so many ways.
“This okay?” he said, repeating his grand-lord gesture with his free hand.
“Looks great.”
She took the tray and balanced it on the edge of the chess table, sliding the board over an inch or two to make room. Payne dropped back down onto the carpet and resumed his careful assessment of the game.
Casually—with studied casualness that almost embarrassed her, that would certainly have embarrassed her if she hadn’t felt so passionately drawn to Payne—Cathy cut a thin slice of cheese, laid it on top of a cracker and brought slowly it toward her mouth. At the last moment, hand hovering in midair, she stopped.
“Ever play strip chess?” Her voice as was as flat and unemotional as if she had commented on the weather or on the texture of the carpet. She bit down on the cracker.
Payne looked as if he had swallowed a cracker just like it…whole.
“What?” He half choked.
“Strip chess,” she repeated, this time smiling that same inviting smile replete with suggestions that never quite became words. “Every time you lose a piece—anything over a pawn, that is—you lose a piece of clothing. It makes checkmate more...interesting.”
Payne flushed furiously.
“You just took two of my pieces,” she continued, finishing off the bit of cracker between words, “so I owe you two.” She slid her feet out of her sandals and held them up by the straps. “Will these do?”
Payne stammered, not sure what to say. He had obviously wanted to make love to her that night; she knew intuitively that he had thought again and again during the day how he should approach her, but to have her take the initiative obviously startled and flustered him. She liked that.
She waited for him to answer.
Finally he nodded. “Yeah, fine.”
She handed the sandals across the board. He took possession of them gingerly, as if they were hot. She watched him set them carefully by his side on the carpet, then she reached down and moved her bishop, capturing Payne’s knight.
“Your loss…your turn,” she said.
He sat back heavily on the carpet and fumbled under the chess table. He held up a shoe, dangling it from the lace like it was a prize-winning trophy fish. He grinned, but there was an element of discomfort in his expression.
They played silently for the next few minutes. Cathy was increasingly aggressive; Payne played more conservatively than usual, losing fewer pieces but making no real gain in the game. In the next several interchanges, Cathy lost her necklace and her blouse. Payne gave up his other shoe, both socks, and his shirt. They lay in a tidy pile on the sofa, almost touching Cathy’s thigh.
Payne, for his part, was having increasing difficulty concentrating on chess. As the game progressed, it seemed to him that the room was growing warmer. The white walls glared their own incandescent heat. Twice he shook his head, as if to clear his thoughts. The black pieces lined up along Cathy’s side of the board twice began to blur and expand, black boulders in a sea of white. His ears rang; he felt sweat beading on his forehead and lips. All right, all right, he thought, angry at himself for reacting so badly so this is a little different than I figured, a little more direct, but the result is going to be the same isn’t it, so why the sweats—why the nervous but horny teenager routine. The sensations passed. He forced his attention back to the game.
He took a bishop. She stood and slipped her pants down, exposing the long line of her thighs. She now wore only panties and bra, her tanned skin startlingly brown next to their lacy whiteness. She sat down, still smiling, and moved. She captured his bishop.
“Check,” she said smoothly. “And now you owe me.”
He swallowed hard. He wasn’t overly modest. And he had certainly worn less in the presence of a woman before. But this seemed...seemed fundamentally wrong, almost like a gentle rape, like when he had pulled the bushes away from the house and exposed it to everyone’s eyes, its shadows painfully expunged by unwonted sunlight. It felt as if she were stripping him instead of them removing their clothing as part of a mutual act of closeness and love. He felt an overwhelming impulse to sweep the board clear of black and white pieces and start the evening again, with himself more firmly in control.
He wanted Cathy, that was true—but not like this, not with her taking over so completely. His hand curled around a captured pawn as he stared at her.
“Come on, don’t be shy,” she whispered. “You owe me.”
Right. That was the game. So now it was his turn to stand and loosen the fastenings at the waistband of his shorts and slide the zipper down. The sound echoed from the empty walls, warningly and disapprovingly. He bent and slipped his shorts to his feet. His white bikini briefs were damp at the waistband, tight around the hips.
“Nice,” Cathy said. His ears burned as she continued, just a fraction of a second too late for it to have been what she really meant to say. “Nice legs.”
He sat down as quickly as he could, almost losing his balance. Cathy laughed as he stared at the board, struggling to return to the game. As much as he wanted her, the sight of her frustrated him. He shifted his weight; he must have strained that hip again when he squatted down. And damn now his hand hurt too, like he had sprained it playing tennis or something.
He studied the pieces carefully. He was going to play serious chess now, regardless of what game Cathy had in mind. He only had one ransom left. He wasn’t going to lose it easily. If she won, she was going to have to work damned hard for it.
He studied the board. She watched him.
There. There it was. An opening he would have had to be a blind fool to miss.. His hand darted out and moved a piece
“Check,” he said, glancing up at her from beneath a furrowed brow. “And mate.”
Cathy dropped her eyes from him to the board. “You’re right,” she said after a few seconds. She sighed melodramatically, and in doing so somehow restored the sense of fun that Payne had gradually lost.
He felt embarrassed now, not at his state of dress but at what he had been thinking about Cathy. She wasn’t that kind. She wasn’t manipulative and hard. She was warm and loving and kind and fun and he wanted to love her.
“I lose the game,” she said softly. She twisted her arm around her back,
loosening her bra. It dropped onto the sofa. All the time she watched Payne, stared at him, pinned him with her eyes as he sat on the carpet. Her breasts were white.
“I forgot to mention,” she continued, “that the loser has to forfeit everything left on. I lost so here goes.”
She rose, stepped out of her panties, and knelt down beside Payne.
A few minutes later, she whispered, “why don’t you turn out the lights.”
He stood, his nakedness silhouetted by the surrounding glare. When he returned to her, the living room was heavily shadowed, lit only by reflected light from the kitchen.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
“Want to watch a film or something?” Payne asked nearly an hour later. “To relax?”
“No, I don’t think so. I really have to get going.”
He raised himself up on one elbow as she slipped away from him and walked over to the couch.
“But I thought...weren’t you going to stay here tonight?”
“Oh, Payne, I want to, but I just can’t. I’ve got to be in to work early tomorrow, and it’s just too far from here for me to....”
“I can set the alarm early, make sure you get there in time.”
“Thanks, but I better not. Anyway,” she laughed, a short happy sound, “Where would I sleep? That cot in your room certainly isn’t big enough. And much as I’ve enjoyed this evening, I can’t imagine bunking out on your carpet. No, I have to be going.”
She slipped into her pants, then pulled her blouse on, not bothering with her underwear. Payne stood, aware of his nakedness but helpless to hide it. He couldn’t spot his clothes at the moment. More importantly, Cathy was getting ready to leave. He didn’t want her to.
“Are you sure,” he said, breathless. “Can’t I...?”
“No. Look, just let me say good night now and go. That will be easier. And I really do have to get up early tomorrow. Okay?”
“Well, okay. But how about tomorrow night.”
“Great. I’ll call you.” She kissed him, then broke away and walked toward the door. “Thanks for a wonderful evening. See you tomorrow.”
He stood there as the heavy door swung closed. And for a long time afterward.
He was stunned, unable to think. She had loved him, had virtually seduced him. And then simply walked out. He shook, a sudden chill fingering along his spine.
* * * * * * *
Outside the house, Cathy looked over the top of her car at the darkened windows, the spot of blackness where Payne’s front door hung closed. Her hand rested on the car door handle, ready to open it but as yet exerting no pressure. From out here, the house looked deserted. There wasn’t a glimmer of light, even though she knew that the living room was vibrantly ablaze.
It was odd, discomforting.
So was what she had just done. For a moment, she had imagined she was giving him a taste of what he had given her last night—then she realized that that simply was not true. She cared deeply for Payne. Making love to him had not been a cheap way to get revenge. It had been meaningful and terrifyingly moving. She had never gone to such lengths before. Her face burned in the darkness when she remembered how she had maneuvered and manipulated him, losing pieces in subtly blundering moves until he was convinced that he could win.
Let him chase her until she catches him.
No, in spite of the way it happened, their making love was not a petty act of revenge. She liked him, maybe even loved him. She wanted to stay with him.
But she couldn’t stay there. True, she had to get to work early, but that wasn’t the real reason. For a moment there, lying with her head cradled in his arms, the warmth of his body next to hers, she felt vulnerable, exposed watched. She had raised her head, but of course there was nothing there, just plain white walls, white ceiling, white carpet, and the blank gray screen that seemed slightly iridescent in the reflected light from the kitchen.
Still, she had felt uneasy, and as soon as she remembered her early morning appointment, the conscious part of her mind had fastened on it, embroidered it, and finally used it as a means of...escape
Escape.
The idea was ridiculous.
Escape from what? From a wonderful man who obviously loved her?
She would drop her fingers from the handle and walk around the car and up the steps and through the door and drop her clothing on that damnable white carpet and start all over, again and again, as long as either of them remained conscious. And that would prove that....
Her fingers tightened on the handle and lifted up and she felt her body sliding onto the cool seats and her fingers thrusting the keys into the ignition and turning. Slowly, her headlights not yet on, she steered the car away from the sidewalk and disappeared into the darkness. Half a block later, her taillights blinked on like twin red eyes, glowing evilly in the night.
* * * * * * *
When the sound of Cathy’s car engine died into the distance, Payne wandered naked through the living room, finally spotting his briefs where they had been kicked behind the sofa. He picked them up, staring at them as if they were an alien creature that had landed in his living room.
They didn’t belong to him.
They couldn’t belong to him.
He would never have bought shorts so abbreviated that they could barely contain him. And he would certainly never have worn them on a dinner-date, as if advertising to anyone who cared that he was a sexy swinger and that all along he had assumed he and Cathy would end up in bed.
No, he wore boxers, like those in his drawer, a dozen pair, all alike.
He strode into the bedroom and dropped the briefs onto his dresser. He pulled the top drawer open, then yanked it all the way out and dumped its contents onto the bed.
Bikini briefs in every color imaginable.
For a moment, Payne felt disoriented, then something snapped like static and he smiled. What a dumb thing to do, dumping his things like that all over the bed. He scooped them into the drawer and replaced it, then pulled on the pair he had worn earlier.
He felt flushed and sweaty. He padded into the kitchen barefoot, grabbed a cold drink from the fridge, and sipped at it while he returned to his room. He took a long pull at the soda and dropped onto the bed. It was awfully narrow, certainly uncomfortable for two people to sleep, to say nothing of any other kinds of activities.
Aunt Emilia had never invited anyone in here, he thought, that was sure. For a horrible moment, his mind flashed to the old woman, trying to imagine her naked and in bed with a man—someone young, probably, like the men in those pictures. He choked, remembering the vicious gouges in the photographs. His mind shuddered to a stop. Not her, not here. Never.
He closed his eyes, holding the icy Coke can against his forehead, feeling his muscles release as the coolness penetrated. He shivered, shook his head to clear the after-image from his imagination, tried to replace it with images of Cathy: Cathy smiling at him through dinner, touching him as they worked together in the kitchen, her long fingers reaching out to wrap around a chess piece, her flesh warm and smooth against his.
Something clicked.
He sat up and looked around the room.
Everything was in its place. Everything was silent. Everything was still. The sound was his just his imagination.
Then why was his heart thumping and his blood racing.
Sweat trickled down his sides. He set the half-empty can onto the night table and, clicking off the lamp, lay back down and tried to relax. After relaxation would come sleep. And after tomorrow sleep, and seeing Cathy again.
The darkness in his room lightened as the television screen flickered on, first gray, then silvery, then pearly white, and finally silver banded with rainbows of color.
“What the hell...,” he began, pushing himself onto his elbows.
The screen darkened again, then cleared to show a skyline, a river, and a tug moving across the screen. There was no sound, just static.
“How...,” he began again, suddenly aware of h
is voice against the back-swell of static.
For a moment, his vision blurred and the tug became something dark and threatening against the blue. He tried to sit up, but he felt as if someone—something heavy and hot and dank—had straddled his chest and was holding him down. His muscles locked. His hip froze, the joint unbearably painful and immobile. His hand bit like a claw into the mattress. He broke into a sweat again, forehead and lips and armpits and groin moist and salty. He could smell his own fear. And that frightened him even more.
Still there was no sound except the rushing static that matched the buzzing in his ears. No change of scene, either. Just water and skyline and tugboat.
Then a man elbowed his way through a battered door on the tug and scanned the water, finally pointing at something. Close up. An object in the water, bobbing and swirling. It was dark, almost black, long and smooth like a water-worn rock, like a chess pawn worn against sand. It floated closer and he could finally put a name to the object.
A dismembered human arm.
Rotting and swollen and broken and black and fetid.
Payne could smell the stench of decay. It backed up against his throat and he almost gagged. What the hell is happening!
He tried to move, forced muscle against muscle, but he stayed immobile on the narrow bed. His eyes were fixed on the screen by a fascination that he could not refuse. A morgue now. Pieces of bodies cluttering a table. Sound. Voices. Discussing murders.
Payne pushed again, his upper lip curling on one side like it did when he used to work out in gym classes, like when he tried to lift weights too heavy for him. His body was slick and acrid with sweat. His hip and hand hurt too much for him to keep struggling.
He let go release release release and fell heavily against his pillow. It folded around his neck and cushioned him, propped his head at just the right angle to see the screen, as if it were acting on its own volition and from years of practice. He forced his body to relax, to give in.
The pain lessened.
Someone else was on the screen now. Someone dark, haunting.
It looked like Pacino. Yes, it was. The image tugged at a distant memory. Where had he heard about a film Pacino...and murders, grisly murders....
Static! Page 20