Dead Mans Song

by Jonathan Maberry

Page 63

 

  “A nice surprise,” she said as she came up onto the porch. She took a handful of his plaid shirt and pulled him toward her, and he came willingly enough. Their lips met softly, but with heat. After a long and delicious moment, she murmured, “Maybe Connie or Mark can fix us all some supper. ”

  “Nope,” he said. “They’re not home. I convinced them to go to the movies. ”

  “To the movies?”

  “Uh huh. A nice, quiet Bruce Willis picture just opened at the Webster. ” He shrugged. “Hey, the guy’s trying romantic comedy. No guns. No murder, not a drop of blood. Just him and Michelle Pfeiffer. Placid. ”

  “They actually agreed to go? Alone? That must have taken some convincing. ”

  “You stand in the presence of a master of the art, my dear, but truth to tell I bribed Harry O’Donnell and his wife to go with them. You know Harry…he’s with Mark in the Rotary. I had coffee with him today and told him that I needed a couple of chaperones to make sure Mark and Connie actually have a good time together. Harry was actually happy to do it once I guilted him into it by explaining that it was good therapy for Mark and Connie. ”

  “Ah. So we have a couple hours to ourselves?”

  “I made them swear that they wouldn’t come home until at least eleven. ”

  “Must be a long movie. ”

  “I made dinner reservations for the four of them, too. ”

  “Really? Where?”

  “The Vineyard Room at the Dark Hollow Inn. ”

  “So, instead of taking your own gal out for dinner and a movie—”

  “Ah, my duckie, you fail to grasp the subtlety of my scheme. With them out of the way, it leaves this big, old, comfy house to ourselves. ”

  “So?”

  “So, it’s a chilly night, baby, and inside there is a warm fire and some other goodies, all laid out for my lady fair. ”

  Her smiled seemed a little forced. “Look, Crow…if you’re thinking what I think you’re thinking…I don’t think it’s such a good idea. ”

  “And why not? We already know it’s not too soon. ”

  She wasn’t smiling. “It’s more than that. ”

  Crow kissed her forehead. “I know what it is, baby. You think I don’t feel the weight of all this stuff pressing down on me, too? I know what you’re feeling, and I know that living with Mark and Connie is wearing you thin. ”

  Val leaned against him, kissed his chest and then rested her head against his shoulder. “I know…it’s just that…”

  “Besides, my dear,” he said lightly, “you are presuming that you know my plans. I might have in mind a quiet evening of reading the Bible, drinking whole milk, and watching educational television. ”

  “Oh, I’m quite sure,” she laughed.

  “My sweet baby,” he murmured, kissing her hair. “What I have in mind is just a chance for you to turn off your brain and relax. ”

  She snorted. “Relax? Maybe if I was shot with a tranquillizer dart. ”

  “Just happen to have one inside. C’mon, it’s cold out here. ” Taking her good hand, Crow led her inside and nudged the door shut with his foot. He touched her chin and kissed her once, very sweetly. The wind had blown and tangled her dark hair, but she looked wonderful to Crow. He helped her off with her coat and tossed it onto a chair. They stood together just inside the door, in the wide living room, which was lit only by the warm fire crackling in the fireplace. The room was sweet with incense and the darkness was soothing.

  “Come with me,” he whispered, and taking her by the hand, he drew her up the long flight stairs to the second floor. She saw, with wonder, that each stair was scattered with rose petals. The third floor was dark except for the spill of golden candlelight coming from the bathroom. Crow led her inside the spacious bathroom and smiled at her gasp of surprise. There were a dozen candles burning quietly, and wisps of jasmine incense wafted through the humid haze of steam rising from the filled and scented tub. A small CD player was playing serenades by Tchaikovsky.

  “What’s all this…?” Val begin, but he touched his fingers to her lips to quiet her words. He kissed her again, and then began slowly—very slowly—to undress her. He did it with all the deliberate slowness of a sacred ritual, making the unfastening of each button a special act of beauty. He moved slowly, touching her face, her eyes, her lips with many small kisses that were as light as spring raindrops. He removed her bulky sweater and laid it on a chair, and then tugged the . 45 out of her waistband, making sure not to comment on it as he shoved it under the sweater, and then gently tugged the ends of the blouse from the waistband of her jeans.

  Beneath the blouse she was wearing a lacy peach-colored bra. The sensual awareness of the moment had made her nipples hard and they made small tents in the soft cloth of each cup. He set the blouse on the back of a small chair and leaned forward to kiss her bad shoulder, his lips brushing the nearly faded bruises. He knelt in front of her and slowly undid the zipper of her jeans, revealing inch by inch the pale flatness of her stomach, and the edge of panties of the same lacy peach pattern as her bra. Crow slid the pants down her legs, taking long, slow strokes of her legs through the cloth as he gathered them at her ankles. She rested her hands on him for balance as she stepped out of them, and he placed the jeans on the chair on top of the blouse. Reaching up, he unhooked the front closure of her bra and it slid off easily into his hand, he felt the shift of weight as her breasts came free from the material. He rubbed the soft material across his cheek and then lay it over top of her other clothes.

  Val tensed, and he saw it, but didn’t acknowledge it. She was never comfortable with being seen in the nude. Years ago Val had wrecked three motorcycles in as many years and each crash had left its marks. She had a four-inch scar across her stomach, a few minor ones on knees and elbows, and a whole bunch of jagged little ones dotting the curved landscape of her left shoulder, left breast, and the upper ribs. Those scars were linked by a few patches of healed burns. Val hated those scars, but Crow thought they were sexy.

  In the glow of the candlelight her breasts were golden, except for her nipples, which were as dark as autumn roses. He bent forward to kiss her, only once, between her breasts over her heart, hooking his fingers at the same time in the waistband of her panties. He tugged them down and Val stepped out of them. The puff of dark hair between her legs had once been trimmed into a heart but had not been tended to since before the attack ten days ago; even so the heart shape was still visible and the dark hairs caught the light so that it seemed it was sewn with golden threads.

  Crow kissed her stomach. Rising, he took her hand and guided her toward the tub. Val paused, looking uncertain and self-conscious, but Crow gently tugged her hand and she stepped over the rim; he continued to hold her hand as she settled, inch by inch, into the deep, hot water. It was one of the old-fashioned tubs with clawed feet, big enough for Val to stretch out her long, slender legs and immerse all of her body up to the delicate skin of her throat. The water was deliciously hot and a faintness of perfume rose from the mist.

  Once she was submerged, she let out her first relaxed sigh.

  Reaching over to a small table by the sink, Crow took a cut-crystal wineglass of very dark Shiraz and raised it to her lips. She drank gratefully of the fruity red wine, closing her eyes as she did so. She sank back against the tub and let the waters close over her body.

  While she soaked, Crow positioned himself behind her and slowly, deeply began to massage her scalp, feeling where the tension hid and chasing it away with strong, deft fingers. The music soothed her, lulling her into torpor, and Crow gradually slowed the motions of his fingers until they were barely more than a whispery touch. Time drifted past with a dreamy slowness.

  After a while, once her skin had soaked up the richness of the water, Crow slipped one hand into a terrycloth mitten. Wetting it, he fetched a bar of scented wheat-and-lavender soap and worked up a good lather; then he helpe
d her to stand up in the tub. Water sluiced down the lovely length of her, and pausing once in a while to kiss her glistening hide, he used the luxurious soap and the gentle roughness of the mitten to wash every inch of her glorious skin. He was diligent in his thoroughness, and then with a large bath ladle he poured water over her to rinse away the soap. He drained most of the water from the tub as he did so and quickly refilled it so that when he helped her down again, she lay in fresh water and that sloshed around her.

  With the ladle he soaked her black hair and worked a rich shampoo into it, massaging the gel into her scalp until it foamed with a hearty lather. He used a gentle spray attachment to rinse the suds from her hair, and with a fluffy towel patted the excess wetness from her hair. He bent and pulled the plug from the tub, letting it drain away, rinsing her with the shower attachment until every bubble of soap was gone. Finally all the water was gone and she lay reclining, nude and immaculate, on the slatted wood Japanese grille inside the tub. She made no effort to cover herself with her hands, which Crow took as a good sign. He kept running the clean water for a long time. Then, switching it off, he reached for her and helped her up, wrapping her in a huge oversize towel that had patterns of moons and stars and swirling galaxies.

  At first all he did was wrap the towel around her and enfold her in his arms, careful of her shoulder, nuzzling his face in the dampness of her hair. Then he patted her dry, missing no single inch of her skin, and kissing her here and there as he went about his task. When her body was totally dry, he helped her into a silky robe that he’d bought for her that very afternoon. It was a deep electric blue, a perfect color for the paleness of her skin and the deep black of her hair. The thin silk clung to her body in a particularly tantalizing way, and Crow was eminently aware of it.

  He blew out the candles and led her out into the hallway, where he paused for a long and lingering kiss. Neither of them had spoken a single word since they’d come upstairs, and neither spoke now. Words seemed pale and weak, the wrong language for this country of soft touches, sweet kisses, and incense-fragrant air. They went downstairs, following the trail of delicate little rose petals to the large living room. The floor was polished hardwood, and the high ceiling was lost in a swirl of shadows. The fire logs were quietly chuckling.