He stared down at her. He was breathing hard. He rubbed his lips again with his forearm.
Then he stomped.
Pain blasted through Gillian.
Wheezing and dazed, she was only vaguely aware of Holden picking up the rope, of how he pulled it and how she crawled, and how he picked her up and braced her against a tree trunk. By the time her mind cleared, it was too late.
Holden no longer held the rope. She couldn’t see where it was, but she felt it around her neck, against her right ear, against the side of her head. Its other end, she knew, must be tied to a branch above her.
She tried to grab for it.
Something stopped her.
She looked down. She was wearing a black leather belt. It was cinched tight around her waist. Her bound hands were lashed to it with rope—probably some of the rope that Holden had cut off her feet.
When did he do that? she wondered.
I must’ve been out for a while.
She looked around. The car was a few yards away, its trunk and driver’s door still open. But she didn’t see Holden anywhere.
Soon, she heard him tramping through the woods.
He came into the clearing. His arms were loaded with twigs and sticks. He gazed at Gillian and walked toward her.
Jesus, be’s gonna burn me at the stake like a witch!
But he dropped the bundle a safe distance away from her. He cleared an area surrounding it. He gathered up all the newspapers from the trunk of his car and stuffed them into the heap of wood. He found the paper that had come out of the trunk on Gillian’s rump. The breeze had tossed it into a bush, where it waited for him, snagged.
He touched a match to the pile.
I knew he’d do this, Gillian thought.
The papers had been spread in the trunk like papers at the bottom of a bird cage—to catch her debris so the cops would have nothing to find if they ever searched. Now, the papers were being burnt.
He won’t be putting me back in the trunk.
I’ll be left here.
Panic blew through Gillian like a frigid wind.
“You can’t do this!” she cried out. “Please!”
“Shut up or I’ll cut your tongue out.”
She snapped her mouth shut. She sucked air through her nostrils. The air was acrid with smoke.
Holden walked slowly to the car. He opened a rear door and pulled out Gillian’s suitcase. He carried it to the fire, set it flat on the ground, and opened it.
On top were the white shorts and plaid blouse she had worn to Jerry’s. Holden held the blouse over the fire until flames started crawling up its tails. Then he dropped it into the blaze. He picked up her shorts and tossed them onto the flames. As the white fabric curled and blackened, he looked over at Gillian. “What were you doing in my house?” he asked.
“You told me not to talk.”
“I changed my mind. Talk. What were you doing there?”
“I just break into houses,” Gillian said. “I stay in them when people are away.”
“What for?”
“It’s exciting.”
He laughed. “Real exciting, this time. You must be crazy or something.”
“Look who’s talking.”
“You think I’m crazy?” He looked amused by the idea. “I’m not crazy. I just do what any guy’d do if he had the guts.
“Bullshit.”
“Yeah, you’d be surprised.” He lifted out her tank-top and gym shorts and tossed them into the fire. “Isn’t a man alive doesn’t take one look at a piece like you and want to rip her clothes off and fuck her brains out. They just don’t have the guts or they’d do it. Me, I do it.”
“Then you kill them,” Gillian said.
“Dead girls tell no tales. How long you think I’d last if I let them live?”
“You enjoy killing people—and hurting them?”
He grinned and threw her skirt into the fire. “Just part of the game. Have to break some eggs if you’re gonna make an omelet.”
“You could get any woman you want. You don’t have to do it this way. You’re handsome and rich.”
“Rich, huh? You’re a little snoop, aren’t you?” He tossed her heels into the fire.
My sandals are still at Jerry’s, Gillian thought. So are my panties and bra. All that he’ll find of me when he wakes up.
“You know what they say,” Holden told her. “Money can’t buy happiness.”
“It’ll buy a lot of women.”
“Whores. Riddled with disease. Who wants that? I’m real particular who I touch.” He took a plastic bag out of the suitcase, opened it, and pulled out Gillian’s bikini. The bag shrank on the fire and burst into flames. “What’d you do, use my hot tub?”
Gillian nodded. She couldn’t let him know that she’d been in Jerry’s pool.
“Wore a bikini in the hot tub. That’s a laugh. You’re a very modest young lady.”
“That’s me,” she muttered.
Holden dangled the bikini top over the flames. Steam rose off its damp fabric. He dropped it, then rubbed the pants on his face. “Mmmm, delicious.”
“You’re a pig.”
“Oink oink,” he said, and laughed. The pants fluttered down into the blaze. He took her camera out of the suitcase and held it toward her. “What’s this for?”
“Dental floss.”
“You babes are such a riot. If you aren’t screaming and weeping and pleading, you turn into wise-asses. There oughta be a bounty on you.” He opened the back of the camera and removed the film cartridge. “You got pictures of my place in here?”
“Develop them and find out for yourself.”
“You’re a real prize, you know that? Where do you get off, breaking into a man’s private domain and taking fucking snapshots?”
“Where do you get off, killing people?”
“Right between my legs, hon.” He dropped the film into the fire. “Seriously, you took pictures of my place?”
“I take pictures of all the places I stay. I have albums full of them.”
“No kidding. And you think I’m crazy.”
“Yeah, a madman.”
“Mad is right. But not crazy. If I was crazy, you think I could’ve done thirty-two babes without ever even getting questioned by the cops, much less busted? You think a crazy man would do that?”
“If he’s smart.”
Black, greasy smoke curled off the film.
“At least you’re right about that,” Holden said. “I am smart. Take you, for instance. They find your body out here, if they find it, they aren’t gonna know who the fuck you are, much less where you came from. I mean, they won’t even think of looking in the goddamn San Fernando Valley. Hon, we’re more than three hundred miles away. If they do find you, they’ll think you’re from San Francisco or Sacramento or some damn place. We’re so far away you won’t even turn up in the LA papers.”
“That’ll make it tough to keep your scrapbook current,” Gillian muttered.
He laughed. “Oh, I’ll manage. There’s this news-stand in Hollywood, carries papers from everywhere. What were you gonna do, give my scrapbook to the cops?”
“If you’re so smart, you shouldn’t have kept it around.”
“Shit, it’s not evidence. It sure would’ve made them look at me, though, wouldn’t it? I’m lucky I got back when I did.”
“Who’d you kill this time out?”
“Oh, a real sweetie. Linda Ryan.” He had lifted a handful of socks and panties out of Gillian’s suitcase, but he held onto them and stared past the fire. “A real beauty. Sixteen years old. Spotted her leaving a 7-Eleven and followed her home. That was what, Thursday? Friday night, her folks left her alone. She was a fighter, too. Like you.” He turned his head and smiled at Gillian. “But she cried and pleaded at the end. You will, too.”
He tossed the clothes into the fire, then gazed at Gillian for a long time. He rubbed his forearm across his mouth. “I’m gonna have real fun with you.”
> He got off his knees, picked up the suitcase, and dumped the rest of its contents into the fire. For a few seconds, the flames were covered by clothing and her leather toilet kit and handbag. Then they broke through, crackling and blazing high.
He kicked the camera into the fire.
He turned the suitcase in his hand, inspecting it, apparently undecided about its fate. Then he carried it to his car, leaving his knife on the ground by the fire. Gillian quickly jerked up her knees. The rope stopped her, squeezed her throat. She swung, keeping her neck muscles tensed. Blood seemed trapped inside her head. She felt as if her face were swelling up, as if her eyes might pop from their sockets. Shooting her legs down, Gillian stood up straight and gasped for breath. She looked toward the car. Her vision was dark as if clouds had covered the sun.
Holden was swinging her suitcase into the backseat.
He came back to the fire, apparently unaware of Gillian’s attempt.
Squatting, he picked up the enormous knife. He poked the fire with it, shoving some unburnt rags into the leaping flames. Then he used the blade to separate some fiery brands from the main pile. They formed a smaller pyre at his feet. He eased the broad blade into the midst of the flames and rested the handle on the ground.
He left it there.
Oh, Jesus.
Standing up, he faced Gillian.
“Hey,” she gasped. “Come on.”
Grinning, he pulled off his shirt. His torso was lean and tanned and muscular. He tossed his shirt to the ground.
He wore no belt. His belt was strapped around Gillian’s waist.
He unbuttoned his slacks and lowered the zipper and his rigid penis sprang out and someone not very far away yelled, “Pick it up, man. What’s the matter, you got lead in your ass?”
The livid color drained out of Holden’s face. He tucked his penis in. He zipped his pants and buttoned them and whirled around. He grabbed his knife out of the small fire. He snatched up his shirt.
The shirt fluttered, clamped in his teeth, as he ran at Gillian.
He swung the heavy blade. It thunked the branch above her head. The rope dropped in front of her like a dead snake. Holden grabbed it, then let it go. His shoulder rammed Gillian’s belly. She folded over him.
He ran with her.
His shoulder pounded her guts, keeping her breathless and unable to yell for help.
Her face was against his bare back.
She saw the brown wooden grips of a revolver above the waistband of his slacks.
She reached for it with her bound hands.
And almost got it.
Please!
Holden flung her into the trunk of his car and slammed the lid shut.
Chapter Twenty-four
“Let’s take a breather,” Bert said, and sat down on a rock shelf beside the trail.
Rick sat down beside her. When he leaned back, the sloping rock took the weight of the pack off his shoulders.
“Whatever happened to your cigars?” Bert asked.
“Want one?”
“Maybe a puff of yours.”
Rick slipped free of the straps. He stood up, turned around, and opened a side pocket of his pack. The pocket was partly open where he’d kept his revolver. He found matches and the pack of cigars. Sitting down, he unwrapped a cigar and lit it. He took a few puffs, savoring the sweet aroma of the smoke.
Then he passed it to Bert.
She poked it into her mouth and wiggled her eyebrows.
“Hooray for Captain Spalding,” Rick said.
She blew smoke in his face and handed the cigar back.
“Funny,” he said. “You don’t look worn out, weary, exhausted and pooped.”
“I’ve picked up some of your tricks.”
“Isn’t necessary, though. I don’t want to run into the girls anymore than you do.”
“It’s been nice without them.”
“It was even nicer by the stream,” he said.
“Yeah. Can’t win. I feel like we’re getting dumped on right and left.” She leaned back. The rear brim of her Aussie hat bumped her pack. The hat slid down her face. She caught it, held it on her thigh, tilted her face into the sunlight and closed her eyes. “It would’ve been so wonderful.”
“It was for a while.”
“Yeah,” she muttered. “Before a bunch of assorted goons put in their appearance.”
That morning, after dressing, they had left the tent. The girls weren’t up yet. And they still weren’t up when they returned from the stream where they’d washed and brushed their teeth. Back in camp, they built up the fire, made coffee and a fine breakfast of scrambled eggs with chunks whittled off the bacon bar. As they finished eating, Bonnie came out of her tent.
“Andrea’s zonked,” she said. “Didn’t get much sleep last night.”
Rick felt himself blush. I didn’t do anything, he told himself. He wondered if Bonnie had still been awake when Andrea returned to the tent after making her offer. Had Andrea told her about it?
“Just woke up long enough to say goodbye to our friends?” Bert asked.
“That’s about it. I’ll get her up, though. We don’t want to keep you waiting.”
“That’s all right,” Rick said.
“We’re going to head over to a place we found on the other side of the lake,” Bert explained, “and spend the day there.”
“I thought we were going to take the trail that bypasses the mountain.”
“We’ll be staying behind,” Bert said.
Bonnie nodded. Rick thought he caught a brief look of relief on her face. “Well,” she said, “I guess we’ll go on. Andrea might not be too happy about it, but... you two didn’t come out here to have us in your hair.”
“We’ve enjoyed traveling with you,” Bert said.
“Yeah,” Rick said.
“It’s certainly been an adventure,” Bonnie said.
“Sorry about that,” Rick told her.
“Well, I think if you hadn’t been with us, those guys really might’ve started trouble. So thanks.”
They were folding their tent and Bonnie was sipping coffee by the fire when Andrea appeared. She got to her feet in front of her tent and stretched in the sunlight. She wore her faded blue shorts and her gray T-shirt. “You guys look like you’re about ready to hit the trail,” she said.
“They’re not going with us,” Bonnie told her.
Frowning, she walked over to them. “What’s the deal?” she asked.
“Bert and I are planning to camp at a place we found on the other side of the lake,” Rick said.
Andrea looked hurt. “What’s the problem?”
“No problem,” Bert assured her. “The guys are out of the way, and...”
“I thought we’d all stick together. I mean, we’re even parked in the same place.”
“Well,” Rick said, “we want to have some time to ourselves.”
She stared at him.
In the moment that their eyes met, Rick felt as if she were asking if he really wanted to leave her, was this Bert’s idea, did he have to go, did he understand what he would be missing?
“So, it’s adios, huh?” she asked.
“Not for a while,” Bert said.
Andrea returned to the fire. She sat there with Bonnie, sipping coffee and talking quietly while Rick and Bert finished packing.
Shouldering their packs, they went to the girls. “Guess we’ll be on our way,” Bert said.
Bonnie stood up and shook hands with her, then with Rick. “It’s been nice traveling with you.”
“Same here,” Rick said.
Andrea stood up. “We don’t even know each other’s full names,” she said. “I’m Andrea Winston, this is Bonnie Jones.”
“I’m Bert Lindsey,” she said, and shook hands.
Andrea offered her hand to Rick. He held it briefly as he introduced himself. “Richard Wainwright.”
“If either of you ever get down to LA,” Bert said, “make sure to look us up. We
could get together for dinner or something.”
“We’re in the San Fernando valley,” Rick said.
“And you’re in the phone book?”
“Yep.”
“Well,” Andrea said, “who knows? Maybe we’ll see each other again some time.”
Rick followed Bert to the lakeside trail. There, he looked back and waved. Andrea had a strange look on her face. A knowing smile.
My Christ, Rick thought, she’s going to show up at my door. Maybe next week, maybe next month.
His heart raced with the prospect.
Maybe she’ll forget my name, he told himself.
She won’t.
I’ll just treat her as a friend, and ...
What if it’s over with Bert by then? What if we’ve broken up?
What if we break up and Andrea doesn’t come along?
Her name is Winston. I can always find her through the university at Santa Cruz.
Why am I thinking this nonsense? Everything’s great with Bert.
But you never know.
Bert, ahead of him, looked to the left. Rick saw that they were passing the clearing where Jase, Luke and Wally had camped.
Won’t ever see them again, he thought.
“We forgot to give our names to The Three Thugateers,” he said.
Bert smiled back at him. “What an oversight! How will they ever manage to look us up?”
When she faced away again, Rick looked over at the lake. He pictured himself diving for his revolver. Probably wouldn’t find it, anyway, he told himself. And Bert wouldn’t be too pleased if he tried. He kept walking.
Soon, they rounded the end of the lake and climbed to the top of the rock slope overlooking the stream. “Do you feel like a dip?” Bert asked.
“Do I look like one?”
She laughed. They crossed the stream, hopping from rock to rock, then made their way down to the clearing by the inlet. There, they put down their packs. “This time,” Bert said, “we’ll have towels.”
“And let’s take a sleeping bag with us,” Rick suggested. “That was hard on my elbows and knees yesterday.”
They found their towels and placed them on top of Rick’s sleeping bag roll. Sitting on a rock, Bert took off her boots and socks. She stood up and stepped out of her shorts and panties. She left her shirt on, and Rick stayed in his jockey shorts.
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