Dead and Not So Buried

by James L. Conway

  “Della, meanwhile, was starved for affection. She wasn’t getting it at home, so she started to flirt with me in school. Remember, I’d always had a thing for this girl. And even though she was wearing a gold band on one hand and was four months pregnant, my heart did the rumba whenever I saw her. She passed me a note, asking if I’d meet her at the lake after school.”

  I looked up to find Lisa watching me, fascinated. I was suddenly afraid she’d judge me by this story. I got self-conscious—not an emotion I was familiar with. “So,” I said, finishing quickly. “I met her, and we did it. End of story.”

  “You fucked your friend’s wife while she was pregnant and you expect to get off that easy? No way, Gideon. I want all the gory details.”

  “But—”

  “No ‘buts.’ I prostrated myself naked before you. I expect nothing less. Now, bare your soul.”

  Reluctantly, I did. “It was the end of September, but still hot. Humid, too. She was the only one at the lake, sitting on the hood of the ’74 Chevy wagon her parents got them for a wedding present, her back against the windshield, looking at the water.”

  “I want details, Gideon.”

  “She was barefoot, wearing a yellow cotton sun dress. But all I saw was skin. Legs, thighs, arms, neck. The sun was setting behind her and she practically glowed.”

  “What’d she look like?”

  “Long brown hair, brown eyes, too. Bedroom eyes. And these fabulous bee-stung lips. She knew how to manipulate a guy. She’d tilt her head just so, and do this pout thing ... That’s what she gave me, right off. She told me how unhappy she was, how Bobby had been ignoring her, how having a baby inside her made her horny all the time. But Bobby was my friend, and even though I was dying to get laid, I’d promised myself Della wouldn’t be the one. Then she asked if I wanted to feel the baby, and before I could answer she took my hand and put it on her stomach.”

  “Show me,” Lisa said, taking my hand. “Where did she put it?” Had she just said what I thought she said? I looked at her, my face a question mark.

  “Please, Gideon. Show me.”

  I took my hand and placed it on Lisa’s stomach. “Right there.”

  “Then what?” Lisa’s voice was softer now, throaty.

  “Della took my hand and moved it between her legs.”

  Lisa took my hand and put it between her legs. “Like this?”

  “Exactly.”

  “And then?”

  “She started rubbing herself against my hand.” Lisa started grinding beneath my fingers. “I just let her at first, not wanting to start something I couldn’t finish. But before I knew it my middle finger had gone to work, poking into her yellow sun dress, rubbing back.”

  “Do it,” Lisa said, her voice downright husky.

  I looked into her eyes; the emeralds were on fire. My finger dug into the fabric and went to work. She moaned, closed her eyes, “Then what?”

  “Della said I was making her wet.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “Said she wanted to kiss me.”

  “And?”

  “We did.”

  “Thank God.” Lisa’s lips found mine, and our tongues introduced themselves. “More,” she said when we finally came up for air. “Tell me more.”

  “Her hand started rubbing my crotch.”

  Lisa’s hand was on my crotch, her fingers stroking me. “Like this?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “And ...?”

  “She told me to take off her panties.”

  “Take off mine.”

  I reached under her dress. She raised her hips to help and slipped off a pair of light pink underwear. I hope she kissed you about now, because I have to kiss you.” She almost inhaled my tongue. “And then—”

  “She undid my pants.” Lisa went to work—first the belt, then the pants. Her hands dug inside, freeing my erect penis. “And then we made love.”

  “Thank God,” Lisa said as she climbed into my lap and gently guided me into her. God, she felt good. I put my hands on her waist but let her control the speed and depth of my thrusts with her hips. Slow and steady at first, but soon I felt myself cresting, ready to come. She felt it, too, and slowed our dance until she caught up with me. As soon as I sensed the first rumbling of her orgasm I raised my hips to meet hers, driving deeper and deeper until she screamed, “Yes!” With an exultant groan, I came, too.

  “You want another beer?” Lisa called from the kitchen.

  “Yeah, sure,” I said, not really sure why what had just happened, happened. Not that I was complaining.

  “So let me ask you this,” she said, padding unabashedly naked back into the living room, tossing me my beer and popping open hers, “How many more times did you diddle dear Della?”

  “Oh, a few ...”

  She leaned against the couch. “Details, please.”

  And each detail led to another erotic adventure. My giving Della head in the back of the Chevy led to a romp on the dining room table. After I described taking Della from behind in her tiny studio apartment, Lisa and I ended up on the bed, doggy style. It was like that, just moments from another orgasm, when a voice from the doorway changed my life forever.

  “You slimy, cock-sucking bastard!”

  Lisa and I flew apart like lightning had hit us. Lisa dived for cover beneath the sheets. I sat up in bed, looked at Stacy standing in the bedroom doorway and said the first thing that came to mind: “It’s not what it looks like.”

  “It looks like you’re fucking little miss helpless stalking victim.”

  “Okay, it is what it looks like.”

  From beneath the sheets a terrified Lisa mumbled, “She’s not going to shoot us, is she?”

  Stacy ripped the sheet off the bed. Lisa curled into a fetal ball.

  “I should shoot you, you little bitch. And to think I actually felt sorry for you.”

  “It was an accident.”

  “Backing into a mailbox is an accident. Backing into my husband’s cock isn’t.”

  “What are you doing home, anyway?” I asked, instinctively trying to mount a defense.

  “There was another embassy bombing and the FBI had to cancel ...” She trailed off as she realized she didn’t have to justify her presence. “Oh, that’s right. This is all my fault. If I’d stayed in D.C. you two could have finished your little screwfest without me ever finding out.”

  “Now that you mention it.”

  “Well, how about I mention this ...” Stacy pulled her Glock out of her purse, started waving it in front of Lisa and me. “If you two shitbags aren’t out of my house in thirty seconds, I’ll turn this sorry little soap opera into the lead story on the eleven o’clock news.”

  We scrambled into our clothes, out of the house and into my car. There was an uncomfortable silence as I drove us to Lisa’s house. Finally she said: “You never told me what happened to her.”

  “Stacy?”

  “Della.”

  “Oh. Well, one day she passed me a note to meet her at the lake. What she didn’t tell me was that she’d also left a note for her husband, Bobby. Telling him to meet her at the lake a half hour later.”

  “So he would catch you two together? The bitch.”

  “She’d probably concocted the whole thing as a way to save her marriage. You know, get Bobby jealous, make him realize how much he loved her … It didn’t work out that way. Instead of beating the shit out of me and falling into her ever-loving arms, Bobby pulled out a .45 automatic and put three shots into her chest.”

  “Oh, my God.”

  “Then he fired two shots at me. I screamed and rolled over. Somehow they both missed, but my scream and body language must’ve convinced him I as hit, too. He turned the gun on himself, stuck it in his mouth and pulled the trigger.”

  “Get out of here!”

  “Blood and brains everywhere.”

  “What’d you do?”

  “Ran like hell back to my uncle’s house and hid out in my room, wa
iting for the cops to come knocking. They never came. On the morning news I heard reports about a murder suicide at the lake, with no mention of a missing third party. Then I realized no one knew I was there. No one knew Della and I had had a relationship. No one was or ever would be looking for me.”

  “You lug a whole suitcase full of guilt around, don’t you?

  “Tonight just stuffed another shirt inside it. But let’s look at the bright side. I may have lost Stacy, but I’ve found you.”

  “About that ... Look, Gideon, don’t take this wrong, but what happened tonight was just sex, nothing more.”

  My heart sank. I don’t know what I really expected to come out of our relationship—if that’s what it was—but I also hadn’t expected her to dump me quite so quickly.

  “My shrink calls it sublimation. I substitute sex for love, sex for gratitude, sex for boredom. He says sex lost all emotional context for me after that bastard Roy Cooper stole my virginity. Besides, you and I could never have a serious relationship. I mean, you’re a cop slash detective. I’m an actress. Think about it. We’ve got nothing in common. What would we talk about? Plus there’s the age thing. You’re so much older.”

  Ouch. My life sucked enough at that moment without throwing a midlife crisis into the mix. But I knew Lisa hadn’t said it to hurt me, and we’d had a couple hours of fabulous sex, so I said, “You’re absolutely right. From now on we’re back to a strictly professional relationship.”

  “I am sorry about your marriage, though.”

  “Yeah, well, it was taking on water anyway.”

  I pulled into Lisa’s driveway. She started to get out, when I grabbed her arm, stopping her. “Wait.”

  She followed my gaze to the living room window. We could see the shadow of a man on the back wall. I took out my gun, asked for her house keys, told her to stay put, and got out of the car.

  I unlocked the door as quietly as I could and slipped inside. It was dead quiet, and I was afraid the intruder had heard me and was waiting for me to make the first move. But then I heard the rustle of clothes and a drawer slide open. It sounded like it came from Lisa’s bedroom, so I slowly made my way down the hall. The best way to walk silently is toe first, then heel. Toe, heel. Toe, heel.

  I reached the bedroom door, pressed my back against the hallway wall and listened. More rustling of clothes, a muttered “Oh, yeah...” then the squeak of springs as he sat on the bed. I decided, now or never.

  I spun into the doorway, pistol leveled. He sat on the bed, the same ponytailed guy from last night wearing the same work boots, jeans and leather jacket. He had a pair of Lisa’s panties in one hand, his cock in the other. I’d caught this freak mid-stroke.

  “Freeze,” I said.

  This guy had a real problem with authority, because instead of freezing he rolled off the back of the bed, onto the floor, and out of sight.

  Shit, I thought. “Stand up,” I said. “With your dick in your pants and your hands on your head.”

  “You know how stupid that sounds,” he said from behind the bed.

  Yes, I thought. “No,” I said. “Now come out before I shoot.”

  “You’re not going to shoot an unarmed man.”

  He was right, but I wasn’t about to admit it.

  “But I have good news for you,” he said. Suddenly his hand appeared over the side of the bed, wrapped around a snub nose .38. He fired twice.

  I heard the first shot whiz past my ear and I was airborne—diving back out the doorway into the hall—as the second bullet buried itself in the wall next to me. I landed on my shoulder, rolled, and slammed my already tender head into the wall.

  CRASH. I heard the sound of breaking glass. I had a mental picture of Lisa’s bedroom and the large window leading to the street. A mental picture of the stalker throwing a chair through the window and then fleeing.

  I did a combat roll into the bedroom, came up pistol ready, but he was gone. No doubt escaped through the gaping hole in the shattered window.

  My head hurt, my pride ached, and I wanted revenge. I plunged through the window, slashing my forehead on the jagged glass. The stalker was scampering around a hedge and into the street. Propelled by rage, I hurtled across the lawn, leaped over the hedge and tackled the son of a bitch. He tried to pistol whip me. I blocked the blow, ripping the .38 out of his hand.

  His defiance disappeared as he looked into my face. Blood poured from the cut on my forehead, hatred sizzled in my eyes.

  “All right,” he said, breathless. “I give up.”

  “Not yet you don’t.”

  I hit him in the face with his pistol. Blood erupted from his pulped nose. Then I stood up and kicked him in the stomach. Again and again. Toe, heel. Toe, heel.

  It was wrong, okay. I know it. But I was half crazy. I’d been thrown off the police department, been dumped by my wife and dismissed as too old by Lisa. There was a lump on my skull and a gash on my face. Right now it was all this fucker’s fault.

  I kicked him again as Lisa came running up, screaming for me to stop. But I didn’t, I couldn’t. Lisa grabbed me by the back of the shirt, pulled me back. I spun around, my arm cocked, ready to punch her, when the plea in those emerald eyes finally burned through my mania. I dropped my arm, slowly returning to my senses.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m sorry ...”

  The stalker was an unemployed actor named Jason Tucker. He wasn’t a first time wacko. The year before he’d stalked an old girlfriend. He was sentenced to twelve years, most of it for shooting at me.

  He tried to sue me for beating him up, but that was thrown out of court by a judge who decided Tucker was a bigger scumbag than I was. But not by much.

  Lisa was grateful, sort of. She paid the bill immediately but asked me not to call her again. She’d seen the look in my eye when I almost hit her. She’d witnessed the merciless beating I gave Tucker, the beating I’d tried to give that actor at Universal. She was afraid a monster was crawling around under my skin somewhere and she didn’t want to be anywhere near him if he managed to sneak out again.

  Simply put, I had scared the shit out of her.

  Back To Now

  “Gideon, hi! So nice to see you.” Lisa glided across the tile floor in flip-flops and a bathing suit covered by a short, terry cloth robe. Her hair, still wet from her swim, was swept back from her forehead. Her voice still had a hint of the South; her emerald eyes twinkled at me above an open, friendly smile. A professional smile, though. One she might give Jimmy Kimmel or David Letterman. She took my hand, gave it a firm, confident shake. “Can it really be five years?”

  “Five years, a Golden Globe and two Oscar nominations, if I’m not mistaken.”

  A coy dip of the head. “I’ve been lucky.”

  “Luck had nothing to do with it,” the manager, Ms. Hagler, said. “I read hundreds of scripts to find the right vehicles to shape your career.”

  Lisa ignored her, gesturing toward the couch. “Please, Gideon, sit. Can I get you anything—coffee, soda, ransom note?”

  I was glad to see she hadn’t lost her sense of humor. “A ransom note would be nice.”

  She took a plastic bag containing the note out of a pocket of her robe and handed it over. Almost apologetically, she added, “I put it in the baggie, like on TV. Figured you’d want to dust for fingerprints and stuff.”

  “You’re right, thanks.” Then I looked at the note:

  IF YOU WANT TO SEE YOUR LITTLE DARLINGS AGAIN, YOU AND GIDEON BRING $2,000,000 IN USED $100 BILLS TO THE HOLLYWOOD BOWL AT NOON

  TOMORROW OR YOUR LITTLE DARLINGS WILL BE SWIMMING WITH THE FISHES.

  As usual, my business card was paper-clipped to the paper.

  “It’s him,” Lisa said, the first hint of fear creeping into her voice. “The Gravesnatcher, isn’t it?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “Shit,” Joan Hagler said.

  “Do you know who he is?” Lisa asked.

  “Someone with a grudge against a writer,
a producer, a movie star and a private detective.”

  “Jason Tucker?”

  “Your stalker. He was my first thought, too. Last I heard he was still in jail, so we’re checking to see if he’s still behind bars. As a failed actor, he fits. Especially if he worked or tried to work with Winslow and David Hunter.”

  “But if he’s still in jail?”

  “Then it’s someone else who hates us all.”

  Hagler squared her shoulders. “No one hates Lisa; she’s a beloved American icon.”

  “How about another actress Lisa beat out for a movie role? A director she turned down? A grip she snapped at for talking during a take? A reporter she wouldn’t make time for? A freak in the audience who thinks all Lisa’s smoldering looks are meant just for him? You never know who you piss off in this business, and you never know who’s going to go postal on you.”

  “I guess we all have enemies,” Lisa conceded.

  “This is all your fault,” Hagler snapped at me. “If you hadn’t beat up that stalker this wouldn’t be happening.”

  “We don’t even know if the Gravesnatcher is Jason Tucker,” I snapped back. “And what would my pounding that piece of garbage have to do with Winslow and Hunter?”

  “I don’t know and I don’t care.” Hagler turned to Lisa. “It’s not too late to call the police.”

  “But the note said no cops.”

  “Blackmail notes always say that, it doesn’t mean anything. I know, let’s call the FBI.”

  “The FBI would probably fall under the Gravesnatcher’s definition of cops,” I said.

  “I didn’t ask you. Lisa, I met the Deputy Director of the FBI at a party and—”

  Lisa interrupted. “Joan, no offense, but shut up. Gideon helped me before. He can help me again.”

  “Thank you, Lisa. And just so you know, the police do know I got a call from you. I plan to keep them apprised of the situation without letting them jeopardize the ransom exchange. So, what did the Gravesnatcher take from you? What does ‘little darlings’ refer to? Jewelry?”