She toppled forward, her pants around her knees; the strong arm around her chest supported her, lowered her gently. Then she was on her hands and knees and his weight was on top of her, his arms around her. He slid his hands under Mrs. Bill's polyester blouse and pulled up her jogging bra to caress her breasts. She could feel his penis pressed against her panties, her homely white Olga panties. He began humping, rubbing his still soft penis against her buttocks, but making no attempt to lower her panties or enter her. Then he withdrew his hands from her breasts and began slapping her across the shoulders and the back of her head.
It didn't last long, a minute, maybe two. He moaned; his weight came off her. As she crawled on her hands and knees to the edge of the blanket, she heard him swearing under his breath. When he didn't come after her, she stood up, pulled her shorts and slacks up over her panties, rearranged her bra, started to turn around. His face was red; he was wiping his hand on his jeans.
Premature ejaculation, thought Irene, turning away again quickly, before he caught her looking. Frotteurism. Erectile dysfunction. Her inner voice had turned self-protectively clinical.
“I changed my mind,” said Max after another minute had passed. “It'd probably screw up our therapeutic relationship, don't you think?”
And that was that—it was over. Of course it would never really be over. Irene's neck and shoulders still stung from being slapped, and her breasts retained the sense memory of those slippery smooth fingertips. But she'd been preparing herself for far worse, so along with the shame and anger was an enormous sense of relief. And he'd never entered her, never been inside her—for some reason, that made more of a difference than she ever could have imagined.
Another cause for relief: afterward, Irene managed to talk Max into leaving Bernadette behind, arms cuffed behind her and ankles tied, but otherwise unharmed. He'd even helped Irene make the girl as comfortable as possible, gathering armfuls of pine needles to make a bed, and spreading a blanket over them.
“I promise we'll call somebody to come get you as soon as we're done with Maybelline,” Irene promised Bernadette loudly, as Maxwell returned to the car to fetch a second blanket from the trunk. Then, whispering: “You'll be safer here.”
“Don't worry about me—I can get loose, I know I can. I've seen people do it in movies—you work your hands behind your back and under your legs. I can walk back to the county road, somebody'll come along. Plus there's a good chance my mom reported me missing and they're already looking for the car. I'll keep my fingers crossed for you.”
“I'll keep mine crossed for you.”
“Thanks for what you did back there—I'll never forget it.”
“That's all right. I'm just sorry—”
But Maxwell had returned. “Get in the car, Irene. I want to check these cuffs, and give Bernie here a word to the wise.”
This next part would be the trickiest for Max. He knew how the Bucharest thrust worked theoretically—he'd have to get behind Bernadette and slip the blade of the boning knife between her first and second cervical vertebrae—but he'd never actually attempted it himself. None of the alters had. And the timing would have to be perfect—he'd have to do it while Irene's back was turned. Nor could he let Kinch out to handle this one—subtlety was not Kinch's strong suit.
But if Max did pull it off, Irene would never know, and Bernadette would scarcely feel the knife. Of course, even if she did, she'd have neither the time nor the neural connections to enable her to cry out.
“Here, let me help you get settled,” he said, kneeling behind the girl and tilting her head forward to spread the vertebrae.
“Thanks.”
“Don't mention it.”
44
FOR ONCE, TRAVELER'S LUCK was with Pender. Not much Saturday traffic from Monterey to San Jose, oldies on the radio, no trouble returning the Toyota at the airport, plenty of seats left on the Southwest flight, plenty of time to fill out the forms required to bring his weapon onboard. And on the connecting flight to Dallas's Love Field, Pender even had room to stretch out for a much-needed nap—he hadn't slept but two or three hours in the last twenty-four—before the plane touched down.
Love Field. Was it possible for a man of Pender's age to hear the name and not think of Jack Kennedy? Pender had been nineteen at the time of the assassination. His first year at college. He was still living at home, still driving the '53 Plymouth his folks had given him as a graduation present (it was the only car they could afford), struggling to cover his expenses by holding down two jobs ( washing breakfast dishes at Dan's Deluxe Diner, and pumping gas at the Flying A), chronically short of sleep, time, and money—and yet he found himself looking back on those years with considerable nostalgia. The past was like an old whore, he had read someplace— the farther away you got, the better she looked.
At the Enterprise counter, Pender rented another Corolla— about all that was left on a Saturday evening. He asked the gal if she'd ever heard of the Sleep-Tite Motel. She hadn't, but looked it up for him, then gave him directions reluctantly—apparently it wasn't in the best of neighborhoods.
Pender treated himself to a steak dinner at a restaurant with steer horns mounted over the entrance, and located the Sleep-Tite shortly after nine o'clock. A downwardly mobile strip. Twenty shabby units painted a faded pink, two wings of ten rooms each with the office in the middle. ACANCY ACANCY ACANCY blinked the neon sign, a rusting, smartly raked post-Deco affair that looked as if it should have been holding up the canopy of a drive-in restaurant back in the fifties. OOMS were $26 a night. Hourly rates available, no doubt.
Pender parked the Corolla in front of the office window where the desk clerk would be sure to see it. Thanks to the carjacking epidemic that began in the early nineties, rental cars were no longer marked as such, but anybody who paid attention to that sort of thing would know the provenance of a clean, white, late-model Toyota. Single guy in an airport rent-a-car late at night equals traveling salesman—the very identity Pender planned to assume.
Apparently the corny hat and rumpled plaid jacket didn't hurt the disguise any—the middle-aged Asian man behind the desk greeted Pender without interest or suspicion.
“What c'I do fo you dis e-ven-ing, nice room twenty-six dollah, tv, no cable, local call free.” All in one singsongy breath—sounded like a Chinese accent to Pender.
“Here's the deal, friend,” he said, putting his elbows on the high counter and leaning toward the man confidentially. “I have a buddy back home, told me he got the best blow job he ever got in his life from this Veetnamese gal in the Sleep-Tite Motel in Dallas last June—and believe me, this is a man who knows his blow jobs. So I figured, as long as I'm in town . . .”
“One year long time. Big turnover. Whassa name?”
“Not sure. He might have used Max or Christopher or—”
“Not his name, man, her name.” The desk clerk rolled his eyes.
“Ann Tran, something like that.”
“Dunno. I'll ask da girls, see wh'I can do. Twenty-six bucks for the room. In a'vance.”
“I'll pay cash—just make sure it's the same girl who did my friend—otherwise you're wasting her time.”
“Yeah sure, same girl,” said the man carelessly. But there was a watchfulness in his eyes that hadn't been there before.
Anh Tranh, five feet two inches tall, eighty-five, ninety pounds tops, heavily made-up and wearing a peach-colored halter top and a short, tight, lime-green, vinyl-looking skirt, came waltzing into room 17 of the Sleep-Tite Motel chattering away like a Saigon street whore.
“Hey, G.I., any frien' your frien', frien' a mine. I give you extra special numbah one suckee suckee, same like him, fitty dollah, long time, hunn'ed dollah boom-boom, whaddaya say, G.I.?”
Pender closed the door behind her, reached for his wallet, flipped down his badge.
“Have a seat,” he said, nodding toward the bed.
“Oh, bite me,” the girl replied, in an unaccented Texas twang. “What's the problem, Wong forget to pay off
Vice this month? Or you just lookin' for a freebie?”
“I'm not Vice, I'm FBI, and I need your help.” He had a copy of Casey's mug shot in his wallet; he showed it to her.
“Christy,” she said without hesitation, though she hadn't seen him in over a year. She sat down on the bed. “Wha'd he do, kill somebody?” More intrigued than resentful.
“Lots of somebodys.” It had suddenly become obvious that Anh Tranh was wearing transparent panties under the short skirt. Pender, who hadn't had sex in months, forced his eyes upward, past her bare midriff and tiny haltered breasts to her face, which was sweet and round as a lollipop. Pretty little thing, if you scraped about half that gunk off her face. “What's with the fuckee-suckee talk?”
“Pretty good, hunh? I ain't even 'Mese—I'm Cambodian. But we get a lot of guys your age, you know, 'Nam vets, they eat that shit up, come back for more. It's like, nostalgic. Hey, did you know your head was bleeding?”
Pender reached up—he'd removed his hat upon entering the room—and touched the bandage gingerly. It was wet, and when he looked at his fingertips, there was blood on them. “Son of a bitch,” he said.
“Did Christy do that to you?”
“With a pair of handcuffs.” Pender mimed a stiff-armed stabbing motion.
“God-dayyum,” said Anh Tranh—she seemed to be impressed.
45
THE POWDER-BLUE Coupe de Ville scraped its exhaust pipe a few times on the high crown of the dirt logging trail as Maxwell drove back down the mountain, and the next stretch of narrow, twisting county roads definitely cramped Maybelline's style, but when she reached Interstate 5, she was in her element. She ate up the miles and crossed the forty-second parallel into Oregon shortly after seven P.M.
Not that Irene knew anything about parallels or borders— Maxwell had ordered her into the trunk just before they joined up with the interstate at Redding. He allowed her out to pee only once, at a gas station near Weed with sufficiently isolated restrooms. The rest of the time she lay in a darkness broken only by the intermittent white flashing of the brake lights, and later, after dark, by the hellish red glow of the taillights.
Oddly enough, Irene found herself almost welcoming the worst stretches of road, the steepest climbs and drops, the sharpest turns. At least the constant vigilance and sheer physical effort required in order to prevent herself from being tossed around the trunk like loose luggage helped keep her mind from dwelling obsessively on the horrors and indignities of the recent past or, even more terrifying, the foreseeable future.
After a few hours on the interstate, another forty-five minutes of gently winding highway, then one more bumpy stretch of nauseating serpentine loops, S curves, and switchbacks negotiated at minimal speed, Maybelline finally came to a full stop. Maxwell climbed out, leaving the motor running. Irene heard the sound of a gate creaking open, and understood with a sense of relief mingled with dread that the end of the journey was at hand.
But there was one last hill for Maybelline to climb, a hill so steep that Irene had to brace herself with both hands to avoid being slammed against the back of the trunk. Then the car stopped again, and the trunk lid opened. Maxwell stood over Irene, his face lit eerily from below by the taillights. He asked her if she were all right. She couldn't think of an answer—words would not come.
Max reached in and helped Irene out of the trunk. She was weak, sore, and queasy, but the fresh air was a revelation, delicious, intoxicating; greedily she filled her lungs, leaning against the car until she felt able to stand on her own.
When she tried to walk, though, Irene's legs gave way beneath her. Max put his arm around her and half carried her around to the front seat of the car, helped her in, then closed the door behind her. She stared dazedly through the windshield, saw Maybelline's headlights illuminating a mysterious looking tunnel fifteen feet high and twenty feet long, made of chain-link fencing overgrown with vines and briars, with locked gates at either end. On either side of this sally port, a high, electrified chain-link fence extended on into the darkness as far as she could see.
“Wait there,” called Max, stepping into the glare of the headlights. “And whatever you do, don't open your door or roll down your window.” Then he unlocked the gate and was immediately swarmed over by a pack of stocky, savage-looking black-and-brindle dogs. Irene shrieked and closed her eyes, certain that Maxwell was about to be torn to pieces.
When she opened her eyes again, Maxwell was on the ground and the dogs were worrying at him, nipping and darting and growling in their throats. Then she heard Max laughing at the bottom of the pile, and realized it was only play.
After roughhousing with the pack for a few minutes, Max shooed them back into the kennel, unlocked the inner gate, returned to the car, drove straight through the sally port, and relocked both gates behind him.
“In case you ever wanted to leave here in a hurry, this would be a real bad way to go out,” he informed Irene diplomatically as they started off again.
The blacktop forked on the other side of the fence. Maxwell took the left fork, a short spur that petered out at the edge of the woods, overlooking a vast expanse of meadow sloping downward toward a dark ravine.
“Oh my,” said Irene, when Max switched off the headlights. Beyond the meadow, across the ravine, a jagged, two-horned mountain peak broke the horizon. Above it was the most spectacular night sky Irene had ever seen, a dust storm of silver stars splashed against a backdrop of incomprehensible blackness. When her eyes focused on the blackness, the stars glittered and pulsed like a living sea. When she focused on the stars, the blackness seemed to drop away dizzyingly, leaving her teetering on the edge of the universe.
Maxwell turned off the engine, and he and Irene sat together for a few moments in a deep silence that was somehow enhanced rather than broken by the clicking of the cooling manifold, the scraping of the cicadas in the meadow. Then he started up the engine again, switched on the lights, threw Maybelline into reverse, backed her up slowly until they reached the fork in the road, and this time took the right fork, which wound north along the crest of the forested ridge.
“Here we are,” he announced, as the headlights picked out a long, narrow, three-story house at the edge of the forest.“Welcome to your new home, Irene.”
Home. The word chilled Irene something awful. What a permanent sound it had. How she wished he'd used some other word. House, room —anything but home.
46
ANH TRANH INSISTED ON examining Pender's wound. She had him sit on the edge of the bed. He could feel the heat of her as she leaned over him and gently tugged the adhesive tape away from his scalp, then dabbed the wound clean with a damp washcloth.
“Not too bad,” she reported. “One of the stitches pulled loose, but it don't look infected. Wait here, I'll be right back.”
She returned with the first aid kit from the office, applied what he thought was an antibiotic ointment, fastened a small butterfly strip where the stitch had given way, then rebandaged it expertly. It wasn't until she was patting the adhesive tape into place that Pender noticed the small round tin container with oriental writing on the bedside table.
“What is that, what did you put on there?” he asked nervously.
“Calm down—it's this amazin' Chinese shit Wong gets. Take it with you, put it on every day.”
“You sure it's safe?”
“My girlfriend got herse'f sliced to shit by a trick last year. Wong made her put this stuff on it every day—six months later you could hardly even tell she got cut.”
Anh stepped back to admire her handiwork, then began taking off her skirt.
“Whoa there,” said Pender.
“It makes my ass sweat. You want me to be comfortable, doncha?”
He did indeed. What they were about to go through would be not unlike a therapy session: without the aid of hypnosis he would try to get her to relive that evening a little over a year ago. But while Pender wanted her to be comfortable, he also wanted to be able to focus on
the job at hand, so he suggested a compromise and she agreed.
Which is how Special Agent E. L. Pender found himself sitting up in bed in a cheap Dallas motel/whorehouse conducting an affective interview with a prostitute who was wearing one of his long-sleeved white shirts over a halter top and transparent panties. Having conducted an interview in bed in his underwear the night before, he was less bemused than he might have been.
At least he was dressed this time, in polyester Sansabelt slacks and a brown Banlon shirt. He had removed only his hat, bloodstained now, his jacket, and his Hush Puppies. He had his pocket notebook in one hand and a pen in the other. “Comfy now?” he asked Anh.
“I guess.”
“All right, I want to take you back to that night with Case—I mean Christy.”
“Man, what a creep. He was one of those johns, he didn't just wanna fuck me, it was like he wanted me to fall in love with him, too, you know what I mean? He—”
“Hold on there, Annie. When I say take you back, that's what I mean. See, the part of your brain that sums things up, and makes judgments, and compares things to other things, that's an entirely different part of your brain from the part that stores the memories themselves. And that's the part we need to get at tonight—that's where the details are. And you know what they say, the devil's in the details. I'll start you off. What room was it—this one?”
“Unh-unh. Nope. Twenty. Other wing, far end.”
“Okay, you walk up to the door. It's closed. It's right in front of you. Picture the numbers on the door. A two and a zero. You knock. He says . . .”
“It's open. He says, ‘It's open. . . .’ ”
“Sometimes you see a trick, you think what the fuck's he doing, payin' for it. This one's cute, he's young, he smells good, fresh, like limes when you just cut 'em open. And I can tell he's already hard, even before he forks over the cash. Some guys're twitchy about the money part, but this guy, it's like it's part of the fun.
The Girls He Adored Page 17