Dead and Not So Buried

by James L. Conway

  That was the only good thing to come out of that TV movie where he’d played a cop trying to capture an escaped lion with the help of a beautiful zoo vet. The technical consultant on the movie was a stringy, slightly horse-faced brunette, Dr. Betty Yablans. She was in her mid-thirties and had one of those smart/funny personalities that made her more attractive than she actually looked. So Roy had banged her a couple of times.

  He had to use a dart gun in the movie to capture the lion. Betty brought a real one to the set for everyone to see, along with two real darts filled with Ketamine Hydrochlozide. One day, when no one was looking, Roy stole the gun and darts. But he told himself he wasn’t really stealing them, he was taking them for services rendered. Dr. Betty had multiple orgasms both times he jumped her. The lousy dart gun was the least he deserved.

  Roy picked the blonde up and carried her from the reception area into Kincaid’s office. He deposited her gently on the large leather couch, sat down next to her, and gazed into the angelic face. Normally, the, sweet young things weren’t his type. He preferred the ‘slut-next-door’ to the ‘girl-next-door.’ They were usually better in bed. Understood that sport fucking was just that, not a commitment to cuddle or read poetry to each other.

  Sex had always been important to Roy, but even more so lately. The successful seduction of a woman was an ego boost. A validation. Something he’d needed more and more as his acting career had gotten worse and worse. Every time he parted the naked thighs of another willing woman Roy felt a triumphant rush. It was his own personal Academy Award ceremony and she was handing him the Oscar for Best Actor.

  He’d needed the boost a lot lately. At the Viper Room and Sky Bar, where he was a regular, there was never a shortage of actress/model wannabes to take home. Roy hadn’t had time for sex since the Gravesnatcher thing had started and he was horny as hell.

  Roy stroked the blonde’s cheek. He’d looked up Ketamine Hydrochlozide after he stole the dart gun. It was a powerful tranquilizer, sometimes sold on the street as a recreational drug called ‘Special K.’ It was a muscle relaxant, slowed the psychomotor responses and even caused hallucinations. Not exactly a Roofie, but damn close.

  Hmmmm. He leaned down and kissed her on the lips, no response. Like kissing a corpse. He shook her a little and gently slapped her face. “Hey, wake up ...” Her eyes fluttered open, and she looked at him dully, not really conscious.

  He tried another kiss, pushed opened her lips with his tongue. Nothing at first, then almost instinctively her tongue responded, softly, moving back and forth against his.

  Interesting, Roy thought as he pulled away. Not exactly, mad passionate love, but it was a beginning.

  His eyes traveled the length of her body, down the striped blouse, the light blue skirt to the off-white pumps. About five foot two or three he guessed, fit and trim, all the bumps and curves where they were supposed to be. It was time to see her naked.

  Roy slipped off her shoes. Her toes were painted a delicate pink. He took a foot in each hand. They were soft and warm. He ran his fingers up her feet, past her ankles to her calves, felt the supple skin, the firm muscle tone. He kissed the inside of her left knee. She must’ve liked it; she stirred pleasantly beneath him.

  Now it was time to get rid of the skirt. He rolled her toward him, undid the hook in back and pulled down the zipper. With one hand he elevated her hips, with the other he pulled off the skirt.

  She had long, lovely legs with a generous spray of freckles. As Roy’s fingers brushed against her thighs, goose bumps erupted in their wake. He put his face between her thighs, kissed each one, drinking up her sweet, clean smell. Then he brought his face to her panties and pressed against them. She even smelled good there, just a whiff of musk. He playfully took a little of the fabric in his teeth, pulled on it. Then lifted her hips again and slid off the panties.

  Her pubic hair formed a perfect dark blond triangle. He looked closely and saw she shaved to keep it tidy. Who was she was doing the housekeeping for? Irrationally, he even felt a twang of jealousy.

  Next, the blouse. He unbuttoned it slowly, pulled her arms through the sleeves one by one, and dropped the blouse to the floor. His fingers traced along her forearms and more goose bumps appeared.

  The bra hooked in front. He unhooked it, then after waiting a moment for the drama to build, he pulled off the bra to reveal her breasts.

  Lovely, he thought. Real, to start with. And big. Not so big they’d droop as she got older. Or would stretch with children. Big enough to overflow the hand. Big enough to hold together and bury your face in. Round pink nipples crowned the milky white skin, and no tan lines marred the visual flow.

  They were perfect. This girl had perfect breasts.

  Hillary’s eyelids fluttered open. The world was a blur, and her body felt cold, like there was a draft in the room. Then the air stirred. The blur in front of her suddenly changed. She heard a voice, soft, friendly. “You’re awake, good.” The blur slowly came a little more into focus. She could tell it was a man. “How you feeling?” She tried to answer but nothing came out.

  “Oh, you don’t have to say anything,” The voice cooed, nice as could be. “It was a rhetorical question.”

  The man stood and started doing something she couldn’t figure out. Moving his arms a lot, reaching down like he was ... yes, that was it … he was taking off his clothes. Why would he be taking off his clothes? Then she looked at herself and realized she was naked.

  Why am I naked?

  Thoughts came at Hillary like bright headlights sweeping across a windshield. There for an instant, then gone. She thought of the first man she’d ever seen nude. Carl Fisher, her high school sweetheart.

  She’d made him wait two years, until graduation day, to finally have sex with her. She was amazed how big his penis got, and how sensitive it was. She accidentally scratched the shaft with her fingernails while trying to put on a condom. The way he screamed, you’d have thought she’d slit his throat.

  The sex was only okay. The first time he came in about ten seconds. They reloaded another condom—this time Carl put it on himself—but thirty seconds later it was over. It didn’t hurt as much as she’d feared, but there weren’t any fireworks either.

  Hillary knew all about climaxes. She’d been masturbating since she was fourteen. Her favorite spot was in the bathtub. She slide to the end of the tub, put her vagina under the faucet, and let the water run onto her clitoris. Sometimes, that would be enough, other times she’d help a little with her finger. She was a screamer. She’d clamp a hand over her mouth so no one else in the house would hear her come.

  She dated Carl through sophomore year in college. Never came once with him, but got real good at faking it.

  Then there was Nick Miller, the only other man she’d had sex with. She met him junior year; he was pre-med. Until a year ago, Hillary had lived with him.

  She was working for Gideon by then. Nick was in UCLA Medical School. The relationship had always been a little one-sided. Nick’s passion was medicine, which left little time or emotion for Hillary. She thought her love would be enough for the both of them. She took the job in Gideon’s office thinking it would just be temporary. Once Nick finished his residency and set up his own practice, she planned to quit, get pregnant, and raise a family.

  Hillary never had an orgasm with Nick, either. She’d been honest with him from the start. Told him

  Carl had never made her come. So Nick guaranteed her that he would. Easier said than done. They tried Missionary position, doggy style, Hillary on top, side by side. They bought a Kama Sutra and twisted themselves into all sorts of shapes. His tried his fingers, his tongue, vibrators, Ben Wa balls, pornos. Nothing. “Don’t worry, baby,” Nick said. “I’ll never give up.”

  But of course he did give up. What man wants to make love to a woman again and again, knowing he can’t get her off? Soon the calls started coming, “Honey, I’ve still got a lot of work to do at the library; don’t wait up.” Then the credit car
ds charges to fancy restaurants like Bouchon Bistro and Crustacean. “Just business, sweetie, you know, dinner with my pal Jack Huston.” Then Hillary found a smear of lipstick on his collar. Picked up the aroma of strange perfume on his jacket.

  He was having an affair. It was her own fault, she realized. If she’d just faked her orgasms like every other woman in the world Nick never would’ve strayed. She was still trying to decide what to do when he came home one day, told her he was in love with another woman. Jack Huston turned out to be Janet Huston, and he asked Hillary to move out.

  Hillary had decided that being Nick’s wife and mother of his children was going to be her occupation. So when he dumped her she lost more than a lover, she lost a career.

  That’s when she started thinking seriously about becoming a PI. She spent a lot of time studying Gideon, watching what he did, how he worked. And she felt sorry for him. He had more ghosts than Poltergeist I, II, and III put together. He was also good, not just at what he did but also as a person.

  She wasn’t exactly sure when it was she fell in love with him, but in love she was. And she knew he never thought of her that way. Hell, he probably thought she was nothing but a kid.

  But the age difference wasn’t that bad. He was forty, she was twenty-five. Not May-December, more like May-October. Perfectly acceptable. And that’s why she wanted to be a real PI, not a secretary. She wanted to be in the field with him so he would realize she wasn’t just a kid. So he would realize they belonged together.

  But there was another problem. Stacy. Hillary knew long before Gideon realized it that he was still in love with her. She could tell by the diatribes he’d go into. The horrible stories he’d relate. He might have been complaining, but there was always a hint of affection coming through. And now she was dead. A martyr. How could she ever compete with that?

  She was so confused. Where was she and how’d she get there? Couldn’t remember. What was the last thing she remembered? Couldn’t remember the last thing she remembered. That struck her as funny.

  The smell of the couch was familiar. Gideon’s couch, she realized. She’d napped there a few times, always found it very comfortable. She felt the couch sink, fought her eyes open, and saw the out-of-focus man sitting next to her. Her eyelids, which seemed to weigh a hundred pounds, banged shut again.

  If this was Gideon’s couch, could the man be Gideon? The man kissed her lips. Yes! It must be Gideon. At last, he’s realized I love him. She tried to kiss back but her body wasn’t taking orders. His lips left her lips, moved to her chin, her neck. She felt his tongue dart into her ear. It tickled, felt good.

  Don’t worry, Gideon, I’ll fake an orgasm for you.

  You’ll never feel inferior.

  His hands were on her breasts, kneading, a little harder than she liked. Then his mouth was around her right breast, sucking, his tongue nibbling on her nipple. She felt it harden. A lovely tingling, then ouch! He was biting her.

  Gently, darling Gideon, gently.

  He climbed on her now, spreading her legs with his knees. She’d hoped for more foreplay, wanted this moment to last. What’s the hurry, Gideon?

  She wanted to see his face, watch the ecstasy as they made love. She concentrated all her energy into her eyelids, willing them to open. They did. But Gideon was still out of focus.

  She concentrated her energy again. Focus, damn it, focus!

  She did. Hillary found herself looking into the fiendish face of Roy Cooper. And Hillary screamed.

  Shit, Roy thought, clamping his hand over the blonde’s mouth, stifling the scream. She’d been so wonderfully compliant just a second ago. She must’ve been hallucinating early and had finally returned to earth.

  No matter. The rest of her body was still slack. Her mind may be back but her muscle control wasn’t. She couldn’t fight back. Her legs were spread, and he was rock hard. Just a quick thrust and he’d be home.

  But then he looked into her eyes. Saw the terror. The horror. The plea: Don’t rape me, dear God, please, don’t rape me.

  And he remembered how he felt when he’d been raped. The humiliation. The shame.

  And that’s when he knew he couldn’t do it. His sank back on his haunches, signaling the end of the attack.

  Roy saw the relief in the blonde’s eyes. The look of gratitude. But if she thought she was out of danger, she was woefully wrong. Because as insane as it sounded, even though Roy couldn’t rape her, he was still going to kill her.

  Demons and Dragons

  A close-up of Roy Cooper filled the television screen. Sweat glistened on his tanned face, blood oozed from a cut above his hazel eyes.

  RAMROD

  I’m no saint. Sure I risk my life every day for God and country. Spill my blood for people I don’t know. But that comes with the territory.

  I was watching the TV pilot, Ramrod. The angle switched to a gorgeous Island girl. The trade winds played in her silky, black hair, and her big brown eyes stared adoringly at Ramrod.

  ISLAND GIRL

  But you saved my life. Can’t I do something to thank you?

  RAMROD

  That look in your eyes says it all. That look that says, ‘my hero.’

  The music swelled and Ramrod walked into the sunset.

  Oh, please, I thought, snapping off the TV. Another corny TV hero. No wonder it never got on the air.

  Why did TV heroes always have to be hunks who looked like Roy Cooper? There are tens of thousands of real life heroes, brave men and women who risk life and limb every day as cops, soldiers and firefighters. Folks who are too short, too tall, too skinny, too fat, too ugly, too ethnic, too this and too that to ever get cast by Hollywood. But these real life heroes look death in the eye every day to save total strangers.

  It takes guts. And a few loose screws.

  I know. I used to be one.

  When I was a cop I saved eight lives I knew about. Each time I did it, I hoped that I’d spared someone the crippling grief I felt as a ten-year-old boy.

  I never came right out and said I was a hero. But I knew it inside. And yes, as bad as that scene from Ramrod was, I could often see it in other people’s eyes. And it felt good.

  I miss that. Strapping on a gun every day to fight evil. And that’s what cops do, make no mistake about it. There is evil in the world. It carries knives and guns and bombs. It wants to kill and maim. Rape. Steal. Plunder. It’s real. And it is a thin blue line indeed between us and them.

  Which side was I on now? Prowling around an apartment trying to decide how to kill a man. I thought about the other men I’d killed. Not counting Roy Cooper, the number was ... zero.

  I’d shot at a few and missed—a bank robber fleeing a Chase branch on a Harley, a carjacker who tried to run me over in a stolen Lexus, a gangbanger taking pot shots with an M16 on a Compton street corner. I’d also shot at and wounded a few: I hit a hot prowl burglar in the thigh as he held a woman hostage in a Holiday Inn lobby, I hit a junkie in the shoulder as he threatened a terrified pedestrian with a syringe filled with AIDS-tainted blood, I hit a rapist in the knee as he tried to slash me with a butcher’s knife.

  In each case I was trying to kill them. And I’m a good shot. Moral: it’s a lot harder than it looks to actually shoot someone in high stress situations.

  However, I thought, this was more like an ambush than a shootout, so I didn’t anticipate having too much trouble hitting him.

  I was still bothered by the cold-blooded murder part of it, though. Not very heroic. But whenever my resolve weakened, I thought of Stacy’s scorched, mutilated body.

  I prowled some more, stopped in front of the collection of pictures on the living room wall. Roy’s life, arranged in chronological order from left to right. Baby pictures to Little League team photo, along with a newspaper article announcing Roy Cooper as the team’s MVP, to a grammar school play, Grease. He’d starred as Danny Zuko, of course. To high school productions—Man of La Mancha, Oklahoma, West Side Story—always starring, always at the cen
ter of the cast picture with his arm around the prettiest girl. To his college triumphs—Othello, Amadeus, Jesus Christ Superstar. Just a quick glance at these early years showed the transformation from a cute kid to an attractive adolescent to really handsome man.

  But great looks and a dime still leave you two dollars and fifty cents short of a cup of coffee at Starbucks in Hollywood.

  There are thousands of high schools in this country and each one does a production of Grease; the hunky kid who played Danny Zuko invariably comes to Hollywood figuring he’s going to be the next Matt Damon. So it takes more than great bones to make a living acting. The chronology on Roy’s wall showed that his high hopes had crashed and burned.

  Roy had a promising beginning, with guest shots on CSI:Miami, Grey’s Anatomy, Lost, Nip/Tuck, and there was a picture of him with a lion from something called Claws of Death.

  Then there was a shot from Ramrod—Roy in scuba gear, standing next to a smiling Barry Winslow. I wondered what could have happened on that shoot for Roy to sentence Winslow to death.

  Next were a few more television shows—Cold Case, Dexter, V and Castle. Then came an 8x10 from the movie, Jailbait. That nymphet from the poster stood between Roy and David Hunter. Hunter had his poodle, Jennifer, tucked under his left arm and his right arm wrapped possessively around the nymphet’s shoulder. Roy and Hunter were looking into the camera, smiling. But the girl was looking adoringly at Roy. Interesting. Hunter’s arm is around her but she’s only got eyes for Roy. I didn’t know what put Hunter on Roy’s hit list, but I was willing to bet this doe-eyed waif had something to do with it.

  That’s where the pictures ended. It looked like he never worked again after Jailbait.

  A career gone awry. So far off course that Roy decided that four people had to pay for his failure with their lives. It was a good thing all failed actors didn’t go postal when their careers went bust or this town would be corpse city.