by Robert Ward
“Agggghhhhhhhh,” Beefy screamed. “Aghhhhhh.”
He was aware that he sounded like Deputy Dog on TV, but after the scream a curious thing happened. He simply assumed that it was all over. He began to relax. The car rolled forward, faster and faster. Beefy held tight to the wheel and began to hum “Mother Macree.”
“Jesus, look!” Debby said. “There’s been an accident. That man is headed for the gas tank over there … I don’t think he is going to be able to stop …”
“No?” said Peter, rubbing his hand on her thigh.
“No,” said Debby. “Jesus … Oh, Jesus … that feels good … Peter … we shouldn’t … It’s going to be horrible. Oh, Christ.”
The Pinto rolled faster and faster. Beefy Sloan began to scream about ten yards away from the huge Beta Oil sign. He hit the brakes and felt his foot go through the floorboards … Then he shut his eyes and started to cry.
His car hit the chain-link screen and knocked it down as though it were a loose front tooth. Beefy heard the sickening crumble of wire, saw the gas tank come closer, and held on.
One foot away from the tank, the Pinto’s brakes decided to work. The car stopped as neatly as though it were pulling into a Jack-in-the-Box. Beefy could hear the sound of his heartbeat reverberating through the front seat. It was so loud that for a second he thought his radio was on, and he reached down to turn it off. Then he looked up at the Beta Boy, a huge dark blue drop of oil with long curling lashes and a killer grin.
Big red letters hung over Beefy’s brow.
Better Try Beta.
“You bet your ass,” Beefy said. “You bet your ass.”
He got out of the car and looked down at his pants. They were dark, and when he looked back up at the sign, he thought he saw it wink.
26
Dr. Oscar Chung felt as fine as any day in his entire life. He whistled Barry Manilow all the way to the hospital, skipped down the hall like a kid racing down the block to buy Marvel Comics, and changed into his OR greens with the enthusiasm of a first-year man. Things were going right for him … he had a girlfriend named Wanda Latowski, they were going bowling later that night, and he was going to be friends with the mysterious Peter Cross.
He wished he’d done a favor for Cross a long time ago, for he had always been attracted to him. Indeed, among the other anesthesiologists, Cross had attained, without his knowledge of course, something of a star status. He was brilliant, aloof, and sometimes wore capes. By comparison the others were all pikers. Chung knew Cross was interested in philosophy. Perhaps they would read the I Ching together. Chung practiced it regularly but told nobody. Doctors were supposed to be rational. But not Cross. He held his individuality aloft, as if it were a banner. Now Chung walked down the hall, his drugs in his Moroccan bag, and headed for Martha Boston’s room. It was going to be all right. He and Cross would be pals.
He nodded to a nurse and entered the room. The red-haired woman looked at him and seemed disturbed.
“Who are you?” she said.
“I am Chung,” said Chung. “Dr. Chung, your anesthesiologist.”
“Dr. Chung?” the woman said nervously. “But I was supposed to see Dr. Cross.”
“Alas,” Chung said, “he has gone away … with his girlfriend to have a vacation. You don’t have to worry though, you’re in good hands.”
“That’s why she’s worried,” said a voice.
Chung gave a small gasp of surprise as Dr. Robert Beauregard and Detective Lombardi walked out of the adjoining room. Behind them Chung thought he saw another man with a camera.
“Is this some kind of surprise?” Chung said. “I love surprises.”
“Yeah,” Lombardi said. “This is a surprise. Believe that, pal.”
The redhead in the bed sat up and got out of the bed. Chung looked at her long, beautiful legs. When she stepped out to the floor, he half expected her to fall.
“It’s all right, Chung,” she said. “These gams are fine.”
She looked up at Beauregard, who had slumped down in his chair. “Now what?”
This had been an acting job Lynne Carter hadn’t had to audition for.
“I don’t know, Lynne,” Beauregard said. “I really don’t know.”
27
“This is it,” Debby said as she got out of the car. She ran up in the bright beams of the lights and raised her arms as if she were giving thanks. Cross smiled, picked up his sports coat off the seat, and got out of the car.
“Isn’t it terrific,” she said. “God, after what we’ve been through, we really deserve this.”
Cross smiled at her and looked up at the cabin. The screened-in porch looked like something from a New England painting. There were rockers, a card table, and a stuffed owl. The owl’s yellow eyes reflected the car lights.
Debby turned and pointed back behind the car.
“Hear the water?” she said. “Down the steps there, is the Hudson. It’s perfect. In the morning, Doctor, I will let you take the patient on a walk.”
“Why not tonight?” he said, moving forward and slipping his coat over her shoulders. He pulled her to him and kissed her deeply.
“Why not indeed?” she said.
“Come on,” she said, smiling at him and racing up the steps onto the porch, and through it to the front door.
He laughed as he watched her long, shapely legs sticking out from under his old tweed jacket. She looked like a happy young kid.
Inside, he immediately smelled the odor of camphor balls and disinfectant. The sick room smells he associated with Lila Lee’s rooms. He felt dizzy and began to break out in a sweat. She was somewhere in front of him in the darkness, and he tried finding her but tripped over a chair.
“I’m over here,” came the small, disembodied voice.
“Where?”
“Here.”
She lit a gas lamp, and then she appeared before him, her shadow great behind her.
She held onto the sleeves of his coat, a silent movie character, and did a short, comical shadow dance for him.
He smiled and felt a rush of affection for her.
“Come here, Debby,” he said.
“Oh, no, sir,” she said. “You wouldn’t take advantage of a poor sick patient, would you?”
“That’s not so funny, Debby,” he said.
“What?” she laughed. “You’re offended? The sex king of the freeway.”
“Don’t kid me,” he said.
He moved closer, but she dodged out of his way, laughing wildly, and then raced to the steps.
“Come up here,” she said. “I want to show you my thermometers.”
She laughed again and took the steps like a kid, two at a time. He followed her, still confused, suddenly afraid of the dark.
At the top of the steps he smelled it again. Something like the odor of licorice, and he thought of Lila Lee’s face all eaten away, the mouth collapsing like a broken trapdoor.
“God, it’s musty up here,” she said from the dark room.
Then she turned on another lamp and stood in front of him, his oversized coat hanging off her. He looked at her legs and saw she had let her Levis fall to the ground.
“Peter,” she said. “Come here …”
He moved toward her in the flickering light, took her roughly and kissed her hard, his right hand moving to her ass.
“Debby,” he said, “Debby …”
She fell backward on the bed, and he landed on her and kissed her again, and then she rolled over and sat on top of him.
“This is what we’ve both needed,” she said. “Christ, just to get away.”
He smiled at her, and she took off his sports coat, slowly, sensuously.
“I like this coat,” she said. “I like it when you wear it, and I like it on me. It scratches me a little, and I think of you.”
She held it up in front of him, then smiled at him and waved it back and forth like a stripper playing with her G-string.
He started to smile, then he remem
bered something, and the fear came fast, too fast …
“Debby,” he said, “don’t do that.”
She looked confused.
“Don’t do what?” she said.
“Give me the coat,” he said suddenly.
He grasped at it, getting up and knocking her back. Thinking he was joking, she tried to keep it away from him, but as she fell, the coat went sailing out of her hands and landed on the floor behind them. Something fell out of the pocket, and he tried to get down on the floor to retrieve it, but she moved quickly and grabbed it.
“Peter,” she said, “what is it?”
Quickly he tried to regain his composure.
“Nothing,” he said. “I was just joking.”
Then she opened her hand and looked down at the bottle of norepinephrine.
He smiled weakly:
“Debby,” he said, “give it to me.”
“Peter … this bottle … why were you so upset?”
Then it hit her. She gasped a little and looked at him, and from the way he was twitching, the pathetic little smile on his face, she knew.
“Peter,” she said. “Oh, Jesus … Oh, no, no … no … not you.”
He reached down and grabbed her hand, and she opened it slowly, handing him the bottle.
Of course—my coat. I forgot which coat I was wearing. Before I switched all the bottles to my lab coat, I had them in this one and I forgot one.
She fell on her knees in front of him shocked into silence, afraid to look into his face. She felt her fingers, then her whole arm, grow cold, and she wanted to scream but there was no air in the room and she began to gasp. She felt his hand come down, cup her chin, slowly raise her head toward him.
“I love you,” he said.
“And I you,” she said, without hesitation.
Then she reached up and took him around the neck and kissed him hard, and he was amazed. He had assumed she would be mad … that she would want to turn him in, but she was kissing him. More passionately than before. She loved him for it. Oh, God, he was so lucky … so very lucky … and he pulled her up to him … shutting his eyes, thankful for the chance to finally tell someone his wonderful secret … to share it with a woman he loved.
“Oh, Debby,” he said.
Then something terribly hot burned the back of his neck and he screamed, and fell back on the bed. For a few seconds the pain was so terrible that he couldn’t move and he heard her scream and saw her run out of the room. Then he turned and saw what she had done. The oil lamp on the nearby end table. She had brought it down on his head. He picked it up and heaved it against the window, watched it fall and shatter … saw the flames lick at the old gauzy curtains. Then he got up, screamed at her. And went to the top of the stairs. She was already out the front door, before he started down.
“Beefy blew it.” Lombardi said. He dusted off his key-lime Georgio Armani sports jacket, and sighed.
Beauregard looked at him. Then he turned and looked down at Yvonne.
“How the hell did this happen?” he said.
“I don’t know,” she said. “It’s the one thing we didn’t count on … Debby … She called Chung and got him to take Peter’s place.”
“I know,” Beauregard said. “I know all about it.”
Across the room Chung stared at everyone and smiled. Lombardi looked at him and smiled back like someone had put a pin in his stomach.
“What’s all the fuss?” Chung said. “I covered for Peter. Why is everyone upset?”
“Fucking Beefy.” Lombardi shook his head, paced to and fro. ‘If he hadn’ta blown it, we’d have Cross in the crapper right now. He lucked out.”
Beauregard walked over to his desk and sat down in the chair like he was a bag of bowling balls.
“I can’t believe it,” he said. “Where the hell could they have gone? Look, Yvonne, I want you to call Debby’s father for me upstate. Find out if she is up there, and if not, if they have any other place … a summer place. Call any girlfriends she has on the nursing staff …”
Yvonne nodded and walked out of the room.
“What a mess,” Lombardi said. “If he’s taken her somewhere, Jesus … anything could happen …”
He stalked around the room and let his breath out in short, impatient spurts.
“We blew it, Doc … We had him dead if he came in here. Now it’s his move. We can’t do a thing.”
“Debby,” Beauregard said.
“I wouldn’t think about her too much, Doc,” the detective said. “I’d think about whoever comes next …”
Outside he watched as she sat ten yards away from him in the car. The doors were locked, and she looked ludicrous sitting there, naked. He felt embarrassed for her, really.
“You might as well come back in, Debby,” he said laconically. “You can’t go anywhere … I’ve got the keys.”
She started to scream then, and he looked around sheepishly.
“Don’t make a scene,” he said.
He started moving toward the car slowly. If he was careful, acted normal, perhaps she would see … Perhaps he had been wrong about her. No one had come to arrest him, so she hadn’t known. That was a point in her favor. Definitely … Now, if he could just make it clear what he had been up to, she would see … Except his back … his back … it was burning, a charred piece of meat. The fucking cunt. The worthless scumbag cunt …
“Come out of there,” he said. “Come out now. I’m serious.”
She came out then, but not as he wished. She opened the door and ran as fast as she could toward the steps which led down to the shore. Before he could make a move, she had disappeared over the hill.
He moved toward her quickly, stopped by the car, and got out his potassium-filled syringe. He had been planning to use it on Martha Boston, but this was better, this was much better …
Now he took it and headed down the long narrow white steps which gleamed like a row of false teeth … Around him was honeysuckle, and he realized that was what he had been smelling all along.
“Debby,” he said, holding the syringe tightly. “Debby, come back … Debby … We can talk about this …”
But she wasn’t talking. She was nearly at the bottom of the steps.
He ran down the steps quickly … saw her turn right down the beach, and then he became scared. There were lights several hundred yards away. More homes. If she made it to one of them, he would never be able to explain to her. She mustn’t run away from him.
“Debby,” he said, laughing a little, and sounding like he had when he was playing tag in his back alley in Baltimore, “I’m going to catch you … Here I come …”
He began to laugh a little, then a lot. It was funny, really. He was a doctor, a man who helped people, and here he was chasing his crazy girlfriend, and she with just panties on. It was crazy … a burlesque. Why didn’t she see how crazy it was.
She was fifty yards ahead of him, but he was in good condition, and he closed in fast. And she was crying and screaming. That was a mistake too. You couldn’t run well if you were busy screaming. She should know that. He would tell her when he caught her. Then he would help her. She wouldn’t have to scream again. It was going to be fine.
“Debby,” he said, “Debby, come on … Wait.”
As he yelled at her, she turned and tripped, falling on the beach. He stepped up his pace, and in a second stood above her. They were both drenched in sweat, panting…. She was down on all fours in front of him, and he found himself looking at her as if she were his pet.
“Debby,” he said softly, “you ought to get up. I’ve got to talk to you. It’s not like you think.”
She looked up at him, saw the syringe, and then she grabbed a rock, and threw it at him with all her strength. It struck him in the cheek, and he felt a flash of pain, then fell back, rubbing his face.
“All right now … all right,” he said.
He was talking quietly, very quietly, and while he talked he moved forward swiftly, grabbed at her
arm, but she scratched his wrist with her nails and picked up another stone.
“I’ll take that,” he said, holding out his hand. It was like the movies. He was the warden, and she the crazed killer. He’d calm her down.
“Yes, you’ll take it,” she said. She flung it at him and hit him again, this time on the neck, and he screamed and came toward her. She scrambled to her feet and ran backwards, toward the river, and then she was in it … and had been knocked off her feet by the swift current. She started to drift away from him, quickly, too quickly, and he went in after her.
But she had disappeared in a tangle of logs and brush in front of him. He grabbed onto a log and looked to the shore, and for the first time he became really afraid. If she made it back to the shore she might get away. He sucked in his breath, and felt his body becoming numb. The water was cold, very cold. He saw a big rock up ahead, and started for it … then he heard something behind him, and he turned, and saw her behind a log and a huge overhanging fern.
“Debby.”
But she was already half out of the water, and he began half paddling and pulling himself toward her.
He caught her when she fell into deeper water, and he grabbed her arms.
“Debby,” he said, “Debby, you have to listen.”
But she wasn’t listening. She was screaming now. He was afraid someone would hear. He grabbed her arms and pulled her toward him, but she spat at him and wrenched herself free. She tried to move toward the shore, but he grabbed her again and spun her around, and yet once more she got away, and dove underwater. He started to dive with her, but instead he waited…. The water was so cold, she couldn’t stay down there long … and as he had expected, she came up … only a few feet away from him, downstream a bit, and he started toward her.
She was screaming now, “Help me, help me,” and he moved toward her quickly. She was crying and waving, and he grabbed her head and began holding her under … but she was stronger than he had anticipated. She kicked and struggled so that he had to increase his grip on her neck. He hadn’t wanted to do that. Hurt her….