Hard Case Crime: Baby Moll

by John Farris

  “Diane’s not upstairs, is that it?”

  She shook her head. “No. She went out when she thought I was ’sleep.”

  “But you weren’t.”

  “No.” She turned around and lifted her bottom to the edge of the bed, sat there, her hands folded. “She went to the garage.”

  “How would you know?”

  She looked at me secretively. “ž’Cause I followed her.”

  “What did she want in the garage?”

  Aimee shook her head again. “She didn’t go in.” She scratched at her nose, thinking about it. “She went to one of those cars. A black one. She took a package out of it.”

  “A package? What kind of package?”

  She held her hands about a foot apart, showing me. “Like this. I didn’t pay much attention. I went back upstairs and went to bed before Diane came back.”

  “Then she went to bed, too,” I said encouragingly.

  “No. She got her swimmin’ suit and put it on. She went downstairs in her swimmin’ suit with the package. I think it was a box or somethin’.”

  “How long ago was that?”

  Aimee shook her head. “I don’t know.” She sat very quietly then, hands folded, not looking at me. I glanced at my watch. It was twenty after twelve.

  “Do you have a girlfriend?” Aimee said suddenly.

  “Yes.”

  Aimee sighed. “If you didn’t have a girlfriend, you could marry Diane, couldn’t you?”

  I frowned inconspicuously. “Well — not quite—”

  “Diane should marry somebody,” Aimee said worriedly. “Don’t you like her?”

  “In a way,” I said.

  “I guess Diane could marry Daddy,” Aimee said. “But she don’t — doesn’t want to. Sometimes I think she doesn’t like Daddy.” She put her legs up on the bed and crossed them. “Diane’s pretty,” she said coaxingly. “I know she likes you, too. She said so. And she’s not really as bad as she acts. I don’t think so, anyway.”

  “You mean when she acts funny sometimes.”

  “No. Diane doesn’t act funny. I mean not crazy. I’m talkin’ about — ” Her eyes seemed to become flat, suddenly blank. “But she said I couldn’t ever say anything about that.”

  “About what?”

  But Aimee wasn’t talking. Her lips pressed tightly together. “Not ever,” she said resolutely.

  “Okay,” I said. “Don’t you think you ought to go back to your own room?”

  “I don’t want to if Diane isn’t there.”

  “If she just went for a swim she’ll be in before long. You could get into bed and leave the light on for her.”

  Aimee’s eyes shied about the room. “Could I stay here a little while?”

  “It wouldn’t be a good idea. I was just going to bed myself.”

  Aimee hesitated a few moments, then slid off the bed.

  “I’ll walk you upstairs,” I said. I took her hand and we went upstairs together. I thought about Aimee. When she was with me in the room, there had been the softest touch of something reaching out from her, a gentle tendril searching for an anchoring place. There was something very fragile about her, obscurely appealing.

  In her room she got primly into bed and thanked me. Then she said, “I didn’t bring teddy.”

  “What?”

  “My teddy,” she said with sleepy patience. “I must have dropped him downstairs in the hall.”

  “I’ll get it,” I said. I went back downstairs and searched until I found the stuffed animal. I picked it up and returned to the room. As I entered I saw that the bathroom light was on and the door open. Aimee was asleep.

  Diane appeared suddenly in the doorway of the bath, drying her breasts with a towel. When she saw me she froze momentarily. Then she said, “Pete?” I couldn’t see the expression in her eyes.

  “Yeah,” I said drily. I couldn’t take my eyes off her. She was even better than I had imagined that first night on the beach. And with the bathroom light behind her there was nothing I couldn’t see.

  She watched me silently for a moment, making no effort to conceal herself with the towel.

  “Why don’t you come closer?” she said. She released the towel and kicked it away with one foot. She hadn’t moved, continued to face me squarely.

  I walked toward her, tossing the teddy bear on her bed. I could see her eyes glistening now, the gleam of teeth behind parted lips.

  As I reached out for her she switched off the light behind her, leaving us in darkness. Her hands caught my wrists, pulling me to her. She made love to me with lips, tongue, hard-tipped breasts, movements of her thighs, driving me to the verge of insanity. When she took her lips away from mine I tasted blood. There was a pressure inside me that had my ears ringing.

  “All right,” I said, thickly, “let’s finish it.”

  “It is finished,” she said almost dreamily. “That’s all, Pete. You can go now.” She released me and stepped back, shutting and locking the bathroom door before I got to her.

  I said something under my breath, wanted to put my shoulder against the door and drag her out of there. But I remembered the sleeping child, and the nasty little scene Diane had made with Owen Barr. I took a deep breath and went back to my room. It was a long time before I could get to sleep.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  The drinking started early next day, and by two o’clock the patio was jammed with those taking after-lunch refreshment. When I came outside Owen Barr was hitting the stuff hard, or so it seemed. Maxine drank nothing. He lounged in the sun in a pair of plaid shorts, wearing the most pleasant expression he had in stock. Things were going smoothly for Stan. The first conference had evidently cleared the way. There would be other conferences with lawyers on each side, some outside help from the hierarchy. But Stan was on his way.

  Gerry sat beside him, wearing a fetching bit of swim suit that wouldn’t have bandaged a sore thumb. She did Stan’s drinking for him and they held hands. Owen Barr kept away from her, but now and then looked bitterly in Maxine’s direction. When his glass was empty he held it out negligently and a houseboy would whisk it away and reinforce the ice with a jolt.

  Charley Rinke and his wife played Canasta at a little table under a canopy of pink umbrella. Neither showed any interest in the game. Their fingers sorted the cards mechanically. Evelyn Rinke wore a big pair of sunglasses that masked any expression, but her complexion was sickly.

  On the little dock that stuck out into the bay, Aimee, Diane and Macy waited while Rudy gassed up a sleek new speedboat. Rudy was wearing swimming trunks and seemed chipper, though he still limped painfully. Macy held tight to Aimee’s hand, probably not pleased at the prospect of bumping along the bay in the speedboat. Aimee was bundled in an orange lifejacket.

  There was little conversation, either on the patio or on the dock. Even Aimee seemed to feel the undercurrent of tension, and chattered very little.

  I shook my head at a tray of highballs offered by one of the help and walked toward the terrace. Taggart leaned against the rock wall surrounding the patio, wearing shorts and a T shirt over an impressive display of muscles. He glanced at me for a long moment when I went by.

  On the patio behind me somebody lurched out of one of the chairs so that it skidded metallically on the paving. I looked back. Owen Barr closed in on me, grinning drunkenly. He had a half empty glass in one hand.

  “Mal’ry,” he said slurringly. “Ol’ Pete Mal’ry. Ain’t you goin’ to have a drink, buddy?” He put a heavy arm around my shoulders as he caught up to me, leaned against me so I had to stop or let him fall.

  “Here,” he said, extending the glass he held. “Y’take mine. Y’have my li’l drinky, Pete, an’ I’ll get another one.” He spoke loudly, breathing in my face. There wasn’t much of an alcoholic smell. I frowned.

  He leaned his reddened face toward my ear, turned his face toward the bay. “I’ll be so terrible off-fended if you don’t have one drink with me, buddy.” In another voice, low an
d quiet, he said urgently, “I’ve got to talk to you, Pete. Later. I can’t say any more. I’m being watched. Come to my room.” He burst into rasping drunken laughter.

  I pushed him away from me. “Watch what you’re doing,” I said. “You spilled some on me. Get the hell out of here. If I want a drink I’ll go get one.”

  He looked injured. He stood holding the glass in a tilted position in the palm of his hand, and his mouth sagged foolishly. I looked quickly at the people on the patio. No one was paying any attention to us.

  “Well, I was — jus’ tryin’ to be helpful. Tha’s all I was doin’, Pete.” He shrugged and weaved back to the patio, slumped in a chair, looked at nobody. I went on down to the dock.

  Rudy had capped the big red gas can and set it on the dock. He climbed into the driver’s seat now, started the motor. Aimee jiggled on one foot and then the other, impatient to go. Diane watched without interest.

  The motor missed a couple of times. Rudy kneaded the accelerator. The flesh on his white back trembled loosely as he turned the wheel experimentally. The motor idled. He looked back over his shoulder at us.

  “Better let me run it out into the bay and get the kinks out,” he said to Macy. “She hasn’t been used for a long time.” Macy waved him away. He seemed preoccupied. Aimee looked up at him unhappily but said nothing.

  Diane glanced at Macy. He told her to let go the lines.

  “You might as well ride along,” she said.

  “I’ll wait till Rudy loosens it up,” Macy said. “Untie him.”

  Diane kneeled and freed the rope, tossed it into the stern of the speedboat. Rudy eased away from the dock, upping speed gradually.

  “I’ll swing around and pick you all up in a minute,” he yelled back over his shoulder. The front of the speedboat bucked out of the water, kicked spray high. Two hundred feet from the dock Rudy began to lop. As he did so the gleaming speedboat blew apart without warning. There was a flat booming noise, a geyser of water mixed with splinters of the hull and the roll of dirty smoke. It happened with the quickness of a magician’s sleight-of-hand trick. While the pieces of boat rained into the water and the echo of the blast rolled across the bay we were shocked still. I thought I saw Rudy hurled from the wreckage but I wasn’t sure. I watched the boil of soapy foam at the spot where the boat had exploded. Then I went into the water, diving off the dock, seeing in passing the shocked sick face of Diane, hearing Aimee’s open-mouthed cry as she realized something had gone wrong but wasn’t quite sure how bad it was.

  I came up swimming hard toward the debris bobbing in the ruffled water. I had little hope of finding Rudy but I didn’t think about it. I tried to save as much strength as I could for the return trip, but I swam badly, hampered by my stiff sore arm. Every stroke made the arm ache fiercely. I didn’t look up until I brushed past a piece of the boat skin. Then I stopped swimming and treaded water, searching for some sign of Rudy. Twenty yards out I caught a glimpse of his head, then his back as he rolled to the surface, hung motionless for an instant in the swell. His lungs must have been almost full of air when he went into the water.

  I struck out quickly, dived when I reached the approximate spot where I had seen him. Ten feet down in the murky water I caught an arm and hauled him up, my lungs weighted and burning. I didn’t pause to see what kind of shape he was in. I put a hand under his chin, towed the bloated leaden body. I couldn’t see well. Salt stung my eyes. I sighted the dock, swam toward it. I went very slowly. The fingers that gripped Rudy’s chin were sticky with something. I didn’t dare waste time and strength looking at him.

  When I thought I was going to have to let him go to save myself, a head bobbed up in front of me, a muscular arm reached for Rudy. It was Taggart.

  “I’ll take him,” he said. I released the burden of Rudy gratefully, went for the dock with slow slapping strokes, my arm muscles trembling. My breath came in little flutters. Hands reached down at the dock to help me from the water. I lay on my back on the rough flooring, chest heaving, muscles jumping in my legs. I was too exhausted to move a finger. Dimly I heard shouted orders. Somebody told the women to get away from there. Somebody else said in an awed voice, “Jesus, will you look at that?” There was a muffled series of tired curses. I rolled over on my stomach, still gasping.

  They were pulling Rudy over the edge of the dock — what was left of him. His mangled, mashed body had washed clean of blood. One arm and part of his head were gone. I saw ribs gleam from a gaping tear in his side, the armless side. The blast had got him along the right side of his body. I looked away from it, sat up on the dock. I glanced down at my hand, the one that had towed Rudy. There were clots of red between the fingers. I washed the hand hurriedly in the bay, leaning over the edge of the dock.

  It was oddly quiet now. There were six men on the dock. Nobody said anything. Taggart sat with his arms around his legs, his face against his knees. He breathed explosively. The wet T shirt clung to him, showed the tanned skin underneath. There were specks of red on his T shirt.

  I stood up, hoping my legs would hold me, staggered a step to remain upright. I saw the women clustered on the patio, looking at us. One of them — it seemed to be Evelyn Rinke — held Aimee in her arms.

  Macy stood near the ruined body of Rudy — the last one, the last of the old gang. His shoulders were bunched. His fingers flexed like snakes maneuvering to strike. He looked at Rudy for a long time, his face frozen. His head edged up and he looked out at the bay. Then he turned on stiff awkward legs. He looked at each of us with bleak angry eyes.

  “I was supposed to be in that boat, wasn’t I?” he said. His voice was little more than a frightened hiss. “Me and Aimee.” A sudden breeze fluttered his hair. There was dead silence for a moment. Macy raised an arm suddenly, threateningly.

  “Get out!” he screamed. His voice was a slow curling lash that probably could be heard on the patio. “I want everybody out of here. Quick! Get off this island! Pack and get out!” His whole body shook from the force of his rage. Charley Rinke shuffled his feet nervously. Maxine’s men looked at Stan questioningly. Stan nodded his head toward the house, his mouth grim. From a quick look at him I thought that Rudy’s sudden death had shaken him as much as anyone. They edged off the dock, plodded toward the house. Owen Barr followed, tottering in the sand.

  Taggart got up from where he had been sitting. His face betrayed no shock. “What do we do with him?” he said, speaking of Rudy.

  “Bury him,” Macy said. “You and Pete and Reavis. Bury him. Then you get out too.” Macy shoved by us and walked off the dock, his eyes watery from grief that may or may not have had something to do with Rudy.

  He hurried up the beach and terrace with thick-bodied haste. The little group of men and women on the patio scattered to let him through. He gestured violently at them. From far away, almost as if it came from a place behind the sun, I heard Aimee’s high cat wail.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Reavis brought an old tarpaulin and two shovels from the garage, dumped them on the dock. There was a faint tremor in his lips as he looked at Rudy. The body didn’t bother him. He had seen bodies before. But he had always left them for someone else to bury.

  Taggart and I folded the tarp once, laid it flat beside the corpse, rolled him onto it. We carried Rudy in the sling, Taggart going first, staggering a little in the sand. Reavis followed with the shovels. Occasionally they clanked together. The sun was gone and the sky was graying.

  In the cove where I had seen Diane and Taggart two nights before, we put the tarp down and began to dig a dozen feet above high-tide line, at the base of a rocky spine of land. There was some wind now and fronds shook in the trees with a dry rustle. Nobody said anything. The only other sound was the chuff of shovels as we dug into loose sandy ground.

  When we had a rough rectangular hole about four feet deep we stopped. Any deeper and it might begin to fill with water. We turned to the lumpy tarp and swung it into the new grave. I made sure the covering was tucked
around Rudy’s remains. It seemed a small courtesy. Taggart leaned on his shovel and watched with flinty narrowed eyes. Reavis ran a hand through his hair and seemed anxious to leave.

  “It don’t make any difference to him whether he’s covered or not,” Taggart said. “Let’s shovel him under and get out of here.”

  “Ain’t we goin’ to say anything?” Reavis said.

  Taggart turned his head. “Like what?”

  “I don’t know. You usually say something when you bury somebody. I don’t know what you say. I ain’t no preacher.”

  Taggart’s lips crooked. “He ain’t no preacher,” he said to me in a dry humorless voice. “You got any words that might save his soul?”

  “If he ever had one,” I said, “I suppose he used it as a down payment on a bottle of whisky a long time ago.”

  Taggart looked again at Reavis. “You got anything to say, go ahead.”

  “I ain’t got nothin’ to say,” Reavis mumbled, as if he were embarrassed for having brought it up.

  Taggart straightened. “Well, I have,” he said. He took up a shovel of dirt, rained it onto the canvas with a turn of his wrist. “So long, Rudy. You must have known it would happen to you some day.” He turned and flipped the shovel at Reavis. “You help Mallory cover him up. I’m goin’ back to the house.”

  “You leavin’ right away?” Reavis said.

  “No. Not right away. I’ll hang around a while.”

  “Soon’s I get packed I’m goin’,” Reavis said. “There’s plenty of cars.”

  “Don’t take the blue one parked by the gatehouse,” Taggart said as he walked up the slight slope. “That’s mine.” I watched him stride through the trees and disappear over the rise toward the house.

  Reavis stepped forward with his shovel, dug it almost viciously into the pile of dirt. We worked hard for another five minutes, shoveling and scraping the fill over Rudy’s body, making a long mound. When we were through we looked at each other, then turned and walked away from the grave site.