Mary Ann Mitchell - Drawn to the Grave.html

by Drawn to the Grave (lit)

  He never had been so peaceful. Between his legs he could feel Beverly's white nylon stocking. The lacy elastic that banded the top of her hose prickled his skin, arousing him. Her brown, lush hair lay atop his biceps. His left hand reached across his body to touch the silkiness of her locks. Beverly responded by nuzzling her face against his breast. She lightly touched her tongue to his nipple, leaving a spot of saliva, which sent sensuous shivers through his body. Her fingers weaved through the bristly, dark blond hair covering his pubis.

  Carl breathed deeply. There was only the scent of her sex. It smote the air and embedded the sheets, staining the material with the memory of their passion. The white nylon slid across his shin, reaching down to his toes. Beverly's body stiffened against his. Her moans and gyrations signaled her need. She squirmed about until her body covered his. Carl grabbed her arms when she started to rise upon his hips. He liked the contact of the two bodies and didn't want it to end so soon. Her hair covered her features, but he knew she understood when her breasts sagged back down upon his chest. He whispered her name into strands of her hair. In answer, Beverly nibbled and licked at his throat.

  Finally, he pushed her up to a seated position. That was when he saw the marks he had made on her arms. Bluish-black rings circled the flesh above the elbows. It was where he had held her.

  ''Beverly, I'm sorry."

  She flung back her head, carrying waves of hair back and off her face. She looked at the bruises and smiled.

  "It's all right, Carl. They won't last forever," she promised.

  Beverly passed her index finger across his lips, and he reached up to do the same on hers. As his finger moved, the skin underneath began to crack, leaving a caky surface for him to kiss, which he did when she bent forward. Fetid saliva passed from her to him. Quickly, Carl turned his head to spit out the foamy juice.

  When he moved his head back to her, she was seated upon his manhood. Beverly lifted one of his hands to her mouth. She lapped and sucked his fingertips. Almost imperceptibly, her body moved, her hips a metronome for their desire.

  His free hand gripped her waist. Guiding her to his own beat, he shut his eyes and listened to her soft panting and felt the rib cage above his grasp expand and contract. He perceived her struggle for air. He opened his eyes to look at her. Beverly's mouth was wide, and he could hear the rales rattling inside her chest.

  "Beverly, are you all right?"

  Letting go of his hand, she reached down and caressed his jaw.

  "I love you," she whispered.

  As she stroked his face, his grip on her waist tightened. Beverly winced as if in pain, but she did not pull away or slow the pace they both were keeping. Instead, they moved toward their peaks, until Carl pulled Beverly's head down to his mouth, where he bit her lips, taking in her blood as he spilled his own liquid.

  Done, their bodies separated. Carl felt the mattress sag next to him. He rolled to his side toward her. Crisscrossing one side of her waist were broad welts.

  "Did I do that?"

  "Why are you surprised?"

  "I never want to hurt you," he said, dipping down to kiss the irritated skin.

  Her hand skimmed his right shoulder blade.

  "I know that," she assured him.

  Carl stretched back onto his side of the bed, resting his head on the goose-down pillow, and slept next to his love.

  22 - Prowler

  When Carl woke the next morning, he felt refreshed. He might not even have noticed the pain in his back immediately, except for the fact that when he rose a spring broke the material of the couch right where the lower half of his spine had been.

  "Damn," he muttered, rubbing the sore, red skin.

  A pot dropped to the floor in the kitchen, and Carl called out Beverly's name.

  Silence.

  What was he doing? Beverly never came here; she couldn't be here. Instead, she'd be waiting down the river for him. He must have fallen asleep on the couch after reading. He looked around the floor near where he stood, but saw no book or magazine.

  A slight clink from the kitchen whispered into the living room. Someone had to be in the next room. Naked, Carl moved to the bathroom, where he found his jeans lying across the rim of the bathtub. Swiftly he pulled the jeans up over his hips, not bothering to fasten them before going to the study to get his Beretta. Carrying the gun behind his back, Carl moved down the hallway toward the kitchen. He heard the steady clink of a spoon inside a glass. Who the hell would make themselves breakfast in a stranger's house? he wondered. Carl recalled making love with Beverly and staying the night with her. So how did he get here?

  Once he saw Megan moon him from under one of his shirts, as she bent over to remove a tray from the oven, he knew he had been dreaming. Yes, he had made love to Beverly the day before, but not the Beverly he had so clearly visualized in his dream. That Beverly was the one he knew before he had buried her drawing.

  By the time he had reoriented himself, the empty pan Megan had been holding had clattered to the ground and she herself was standing in front of the stove with a mouth opened so wide and round that she looked like an old voodoo doll he had seen used in Haiti. What was wrong with the girl? he wondered as he followed her stare down to the gun dangling loosely between the fingers of his left hand.

  "Sorry, Megan. I woke with a start, and, actually, I didn't remember you were here. I'll put it away." Megan appeared to be in a stupor. "You're making breakfast, I see. Anything special?" Megan's lips closed tightly, and Carl could almost hear her gulp down the air that had been captured inside her mouth. "Are those muffins on the counter behind you? Megan? Megan?" Intrepid she was not, he decided.

  "Didn't mean to drop the pan. It just slipped."

  "I'm not going to shoot you for dropping a pan. The Tupi earthenware, maybe. Megan, at least smile. I thought you were an intruder, and I probably wouldn't even shoot you if you dropped the earthenware."

  Finally he saw a smile brighten the gaunt face.

  "I guess we were both startled. Oh, yes, they're corn muffins. I wanted to surprise you with a big breakfast. Surprise," she said, bouncing in place. Carl watched her red curls spring into the air like golden rusted coils that bounced back onto her forehead and cheeks. He always knew that he didn't have the patience for dealing with children, although many women had tried to tell him otherwise.

  "I'll return this to the study," he said, bringing forth the gun. He caught sight of a slight backward motion of Megan's bare feet. "Have you ever used a gun?"

  She shook her head.

  As Carl turned to leave, Megan called out to him.

  "Carl, where do you keep the gun?"

  "Why?"

  "Maybe I should also know where it is in case of burglars, rapists, or murderers."

  "They're rare around here."

  "Then why did you think I was one?"

  "There's always the exception. I wasn't quite as dramatic as you. I only assumed there was an intruder, perhaps a kid or a tramp. Who else would rob me of my pots and pans?"

  "Well, if that's all you thought, don't you think you were a bit overarmed?"

  "There's always the exception, Megan, always the exception."

  Carl was beginning to feel weary, and it wasn't past nine in the morning yet.

  Through breakfast, Megan chuckled about how silly the morning's escapade had been. Carl was interested in bedding and drawing the girl again; he didn't know how much longer he could take her drivel. He had been intrigued by her naïveté initially, but not now. Beverly had been a much more literate and worldly conversationalist. Carl caught himself on that thought; he had to stop comparing the two. One was lost to him as a companion, and the other would be leaving shortly, and before she did he had to have captured her precise image.

  "I'm going to work in my study today. I hope you don't mind entertaining yourself."

  "Maybe this idea of my staying isn't"

  Carl leaped to a standing position.

  "Please, Megan. I'll be alo
ne through most of the winter. Won't you stay at least for the summer, so I'll have some memories of human company?"

  "Not the summer, Carl, I told you."

  "I'm sorry. Stay the two weeks, please."

  "But you seem so busy."

  "I do work for a living and have to finish a special project, but I promise to make some time for you. Matter of fact, I could skip today and we could"

  "No, I can wander around on my own for a while."

  He watched the young woman shake her head while tapping her short fingernails against the oak table.

  "Perhaps we could go into town tomorrow?" she asked.

  Town! She would drive him crazy.

  "Better still, we'll picnic."

  "The garden where your rental is." Megan brightened with this thought while Carl sagged back down into his chair.

  "Maybe, but there are scenic places more local."

  "Well, the garden must need care, and we could"

  "I took care of things yesterday. Remember? I stopped off there instead of going to town."

  He saw her glance over at the vase full of hyacinths.

  "Has my journal bored you already?"

  "No, but I would like to spend more time with you."

  "Does it matter where?"

  Megan didn't answer right away.

  "It shouldn't," she said without conviction.

  Carl thought briefly about taking Megan into town and passing her off as a niece, but he decided that would be too dangerous. Then he thought of the camera, which had been shoved to the side of the table.

  "We could take photographs later today, if you'd like."

  "I'm a terrible photographer. When I'm lucky enough to get the film in correctly, I always seem to chop off heads and limbs."

  "I'd like you to model for me."

  "Are you professional? Is that what you do for a living?"

  Carl hesitated. "Semiprofessional. I do it for my own interest now."

  "Were you a professional?"

  Doubting that Megan would have heard of him, he admitted to his former line of work.

  "That's why you traveled so much."

  "Partly. What if we make a date, say, for three o'clock?"

  "That's fine. I found the journal on the counter this morning; maybe I'll read outdoors until then."

  Carl rose and gave Megan a paternal kiss on the forehead, then retreated inside his study. He could hear her clearing the table and running the water while he locked the door.

  He sat at the desk and waited for silence.

  When the front door slammed, Carl knew he had the house to himself. He went through the necessary ritual to retrieve the sketch pad. Then spreading the pad open, he leaned forward to see how much he had accomplished. Megan's facial features still needed some work. A few of Beverly's lines had crept onto Megan's forehead.

  I have to block Beverly out of my mind before this waif decides to take off, he contemplated. Perhaps he should work harder at making the girl's life happy here. The last thing he wanted was her departure before he finished her double on paper.

  Many times Carl attempted the girl's pixie face. Half the time he had to erase a wrinkle out of place on the forehead, a dimple in the left cheek, hair that was sketched too darkly. He threw down the pencil. Would another visit to Beverly help, or would it cloud his mind even more? What had Beverly done to him?

  While lifting the pencil again, Carl turned to a clean sheet, renewing his effort. He would stay at his desk for most of the day, bypassing lunch and the three o'clock appointment with Megan.

  23 - Megan and Beverly

  Megan flittered down the porch steps with Carl's first journal clasped in her left hand, her step so light that she barely touched the slatted wooden boards. She had every intention of returning to the area from which the hyacinth fragrance emanated, but by the time she arrived at the turnoff, she had changed her mind. Too full of energy to sleep, Megan had risen earlya mistake, she later had decided when Carl surprised her, weapon in hand. Still, even that episode had invigorated her with adrenaline. No, there was no way she could sit for hours and read by herself.

  When she was a girl, she had taken turns with her father rowing when they went out to the middle of the lake to fish. Megan would borrow Carl's rowboat and go down the river to the real hyacinth garden. She paused only for a second, knowing that she should ask Carl's permission, but earlier she had heard the lock on his den door click into place. The man definitely wanted no disturbances; besides, she would return before three and he wouldn't even know where she had spent the morning.

  Megan's pace quickened to a jog. She was delighted that her injured knee was more flexible and that she could keep busy and not impose herself on her host. A little out of breath, Megan halted in front of the boat and looked around for a clean place on which to lay the journal while she flipped the boat over and hauled it into the water. Finally, she decided on a small, barren boulder, which had somehow escaped the dewy green moss that seemed to cover everything else in the vicinity.

  Once the boat was afloat, Megan hopped in and began rowing, forgetting the journal. In the pleasant breeze, she shook out her curls and stretched her arms forward as far as she could reach. Daddy had always said that the best part of their fishing expeditions was when Megan guided their small boat home, and he could lean back, inhaling the rank smell of the fish, an odor that always made her mother pinch her nose. Mother never went with them. Megan and her father silently appreciated that, because their time together was precious, since he would often have to go off on special duty for a week or two. She closed her eyes, and her memory called up visions of childhood expeditions.

  A teardrop squeezed through Megan's shut eyes. When they opened, the tear fell down onto her jeans. Megan was distracted from her family reverie when she saw the yellow house blocking the view between the trees. She made her way inland and dragged the boat onto shore, leaving it lying lopsided, spilling its puddle on the roots of tall grass.

  Her walk up to the garden was sluggish, since Megan was a bit out of breath from the rowing and hauling. The house didn't look any different than it had the first time she had seen it. Vines still crept up the porch steps, and the slats of the jalousie still had the incredible ability to move when they shouldn't. Must be the way the sun hits them, she thought.

  Megan was tempted to peek into the house. Did Carl leave it unlocked? she wondered. Considering how paranoid he seemed to be that morning, she doubted it. On the porch, the white wicker furniture clustered in a circle as if conferring about this intruder. They could be old women gossiping about the outrageous behavior of today's youth, Megan thought. Each chair had a floral cushion snugly placed in the seat. The table was bare, except for a colorful butterfly that had just landed on its center. Lemonade, that's what was missing, Megan decided. Some cold lemonade to pass the approaching hot afternoon in comfort.

  She climbed the steps and pulled one of the chairs out so that she could sit. Her chair was in front of the jalousie, and from where she sat she could almost see the river through the trees. Megan wondered why Carl had decided not to live here. The view was better, there was a lovely garden, and even the unkempt front lawn was far more lush than the area surrounding his home. But she hadn't seen the inside of this house yet, and perhaps therein was the reason, although she couldn't imagine anything drearier than the faded rugs and ancient, tired furniture in Carl's house. This house seemed brighter, cheerier than the drab blue one she had left.

  Megan's shoulders shivered in the heat of the morning sun. Might she be coming down with a cold? she wondered. Not that she felt chilly or ill; she felt peculiar, like . . . like . . .

  ''Plain and simple, Megan, you are trespassing," she said out loud. "Guilty," she muttered, then set out for the garden in the back of the house.

  The garden gate had been left open, and Megan ambled in as if it were her private retreat. The French doors were closed, the curtains drawn, as they had been the last time she had been there
. Hyacinth perfume tickled her senses, making her feel giddy, but she saddened when she saw how uncared for the garden was.

  "Right, Carl, you took care of the flowers when you were here yesterday." That man had no green thumb, not even a pale imitation of one.

  "I wonder if there aren't some garden supplies around here, so I could spruce you guys up," she said to the cluster of hyacinths and roses.

  Megan turned and was startled to see that the French doors were wide open. A dark figure loomed in the center of the doorway. There was a husky, wheezing sound, but Megan could not make out any words.