Shadow Games

by Ed Gorman

  He raised his hand and brought it down in a chopping motion against the side of her face, brought it down with an obscene grace and power, brought it down hard enough to send her slamming backwards into the spindly coffee table, and falling over it, her thin arms windmilling, her face sweet and vulnerable and terrified. And he tried to grab her, oh, God, he tried so hard, but it was too late, her head banging against the hard corner of the couch arm, her torso folding in half as her bottom slid between the coffee table and the couch.

  He was next to her in seconds, helping her up, crying out crazily I'msorryPmsorrylimsorrylimsorry and kissing her face and wailing some insane animal wail and seeing in nightmare truth what booze did to him every time he touched a single flicking drop. And then she ran to the bathroom and started throwing up and he came in and got down on his knees next to her at the bowl and said, "Is the baby all right? Is the baby all right?" with that same loony repetition panic always induced in him.

  She looked at him and said, "I don't know. I don't feel very well and I'm scared. You hurt our baby! You hurt our baby!"

  And then he got her in on the bed and she began sobbing so hard the mattress squeaked with the rhythms of lovemaking. He went in and sat down next to her and gently touched a hand to her tear-soft, tear-warm cheek.

  By now the rain was coming down hard outside. He lay down next to her in the dark bedroom, the small lamp out in the living room the only light in the entire farmhouse and she cried softly for an entire hour. He said nothing. He just smelled the damp, cold rain and smelled the dark consuming night and smelled the tart whiskey on his breath. Then he went to sleep.

  He heard her, several hours later, screaming in the shadowy bedroom, standing over him and looking down at him. At first, coming up from the depths of sleep, he was disoriented and unable to tell what she was pointing at and screaming about. But then he rolled over and felt the sticky, bloody mess beneath him on the bed and knew instantly that she'd had a miscarriage.

  She kept screaming and pointing and screaming and pointing until all he could think of to do was get her in the shower and run the water so cold that it brought her back to at least a semblance of sanity...

  Four nights after this, she packed her bags and left in the middle of the night. He didn't hear from her for a week and he started drinking again. He managed to get his hands on twenty Halcyon pills and considered downing them along with a pint of Old Crow. Good-fucking-bye and good-fucking-riddance. But the night he considered this, his phone rang near midnight and she said, "Sparks, Nevada, if you're interested," and then hung up.

  Late the next dusty afternoon, Cobey stood on the runway in Sparks. By nightfall, at his paternal and adamant insistence, they were living in a nice, middle-class apartment where hubbies ran to accountants and ad men and wifies ran to school teachers and travel agents.

  For fifteen days and nights Cobey told her how sorry he was, how devoutly he begged for her forgiveness.

  For fifteen days and nights Anne told him that she knew he was sorry and that she had indeed forgiven him and that there was no point in talking about it further.

  Her eyes and some inexplicable turmoil in the cool Nevada air said otherwise. But, finally, he began to believe her. For six days and nights he believed her completely. She had forgiven him and everything was fine and they would try again to have a child and things would be even better than they had been before.

  On the seventh night, Cobey was watching some old Road Runner cartoons when she came up behind him and stabbed him deep in the shoulder and he cried out in fear and pain so loud that one of the hubby accountants or one of the wifey school teachers called the law and when they came they insisted that Cobey press charges but he insisted otherwise.

  By one AM, he was on a plane to L.A.

  By then, and for the first time, he understood the full consequences of his actions.

  He had killed their baby.

  Not until she'd walked into his dressing room several days ago had he seen or heard from her again.

  Now she was picking him up in a cab.

  Now she was going to save him, at least temporarily, from the night and the police cars that seemed to be prowling every other block. The thought of being alone with her made him uncomfortable. What if she started shrieking at him? But he was exhausted and completely empty of ideas. He felt as young as a child, and long, long deserted...

  A Yellow cab, made spectral by the misty rain, pulled up to the corner and stopped. At first, Cobey wasn't sure if the cab was waiting for him or if the cabbie was just taking a break and parking. The cab seemed to glow eerily in the gloom.

  He moved out from behind the Picasso statue, turning his collar up and hunkering inside his jacket in case a cop suddenly appeared.

  He was a lone, dark figure moving across the plaza at an angle to the taxi. His body language told you that he was ready at any moment to start running. When he walked through puddles, his shoes made a whapping noise.

  The back door of the taxi opened.

  Country and western music whined from the dark opening.

  From here, Cobey couldn't see anybody inside. He had a Twilight Zone kind of thought, born of paranoia and exhaustion. What if he reached the cab and found it empty? That would sure scare the shit out of him, wouldn't it?

  He kept walking. He didn't know what else to do. The music got louder. Faintly, he made out the shape of somebody in the back seat.

  Cars splashed by in the street. He wanted to hail one and say Please take me. There's trouble for me in that taxi. I can feel it. Man, I really can.

  Anne leaned out of the back seat darkness and smiled. "C'mon, you can walk faster than that. We don't want to make the cab driver rich, do we?"

  The impulse to turn and run was now almost overwhelming. He was filled with this dread, the same kind of oxygen-robbing panic he used to feel on the sitcom set when he had an anxiety attack.

  He wanted to puke.

  Anne leaned out even further into the light of the plaza. Her looks never let him down. The vulnerability, maybe even the craziness, was as erotic to him as anything he'd ever known.

  He smelled her now, her perfume, and the scent of her flesh, and it steadied him.

  A long, slender hand came out of the shadowy back seat. He reached out and took it, soft and warm to the touch, reassuring.

  Cobey got inside the cab and closed the door.

  He glanced in the rearview mirror where he met the hungry brown eyes of the driver. No doubt what this man was thinking: some shambling piece of shit like this kid gets this kind of pussy, and what do I get? I get to drive around fucking Chicago all night long and risk my ass on niggers for a couple bucks an hour.

  The cabbie ground the gears as he pulled away.

  Cobey was jerked back in his seat.

  Then Anne moved over.

  She gave the cabbie plenty more reason to be envious.

  Her mouth found Cobey's, and her hand found his cock.

  4

  It seemed like hours before the phone rang.

  "Mr. Puckett?"

  "This is Richard at the desk. Marty just pulled in."

  "Thank you."

  "I hope everything turns out all right, Mr. Puckett."

  "So do I, Richard. Thanks again."

  "You're most welcome, Mr. Puckett. Enjoy your stay."

  He knew he had to hurry. Had to.

  He took the lobby in long strides, Richard the desk clerk waving at him just as Puckett reached the glass front doors. To the right of the impressive, impassive doorman, all gussied up to be in a Sigmund Romburg musical about merry old Vienna, were three Yellow cabs. Drivers sat behind the wheels reading newspapers. Given the shadowy interior of the cabs, the drivers must have been reading by some kind of radar.

  "Marty?"

  The driver glanced up. Puckett's voice had a frantic edge to it now. "'fraid not, pal. Marty's back two cabs."

  "Thanks."

  Out here, the night smelled of rain and cold and
exhaust fumes.

  Puckett half-jogged to the last cab in line, then knocked quickly on the rolled-up driver's window.

  "Hop in," Marty said, putting down his paper in a quick rustle.

  "You're Marty?"

  "Yeah." Suspicion colored his tone. "Anything wrong with that?"

  "I need to know where you took a red-haired woman about an hour ago."

  Now the suspicion was in Marty's gaze. He was a squat, thirtyish man in a red-gold cap and a vinyl bombardier jacket. His taxi smelled of cigar smoke.

  "She your wife?"

  "My lady friend."

  Marty sighed and stared straight out his windshield. "I hate getting' involved in stuff like this."

  "It's very important, Marty."

  Marty sighed. His eyes, turned toward Puckett again, looked sad.

  "She picked up some guy."

  "Some guy?"

  "Some young guy over to the Daley Plaza."

  "Then where did you take them?"

  "The harbor."

  Wade Preston's yacht. Of course, he remembered Anne telling him that Preston had been pursuing her so desperately that he'd even given her the key to his yacht.

  "That's where I need to go," Puckett said, and opened the back door.

  When he was seated inside, and closing the door, Marty looked at him in the rearview and said, "I hope you don't do nothin' crazy, pal. I sure wouldn't want to be involved in anything like that."

  Marty here was under the impression that they were dealing with adultery.

  If only it were that simple, Puckett thought.

  Marty ground the cab into gear and pulled out from the towering, luxury hotel, a battered yellow vehicle among fine, shiny Rolls-Royces and Jaguars.

  Chapter Nineteen

  1

  He just had a sense of something being wrong. There was no other way to explain it.

  As he moved a few steps behind her onto the yacht, the pitch and sway of the craft making him vaguely nauseous already, Cobey once again felt the impulse to simply flee.

  But where would he go? He had no energy left for running. He needed time to gather himself, and then time to talk to Puckett, before turning himself in.

  The mist and shadow of the night reminded Cobey of the Conan books he enjoyed so much, ancient sailing craft leaving strange ports in the middle of stormy nights. The entire harbor was dark, the burglar lights of boats shining like the red, malevolent eyes of hungry beasts. He shuddered from the cold, and the fine, chilly spray of water as waves continued to hurl themselves against the boat. In the distance, the skyline of Chicago glowed with a radioactive glee behind a veil of fog. Tug boats hooted like hoarse dinosaurs, plying the wintry black waters.

  "Hurry up, Cobey. You must be freezing."

  Anne's voice was disembodied again, the way it had been earlier in the cab.

  For some reason he could not quite explain, an image of the night she miscarried flashed across his mind. He raised his hand and half-clubbed her with it, sending her sprawling back across the coffee table—

  "Hurry up, Cobey."

  Voice only from the dark pit of cabin below; fine, cold spittle of spray across his face; needing to piss and piss badly; and weariness, so much fucking, pure, overwhelming weariness.

  Now he no longer thought of running.

  He was too tired.

  He'd go below to the cabin, maybe even get a little sleep. Just stay there in the darkness, listening to the waves slap the yacht, feeling the pitch and pull of the dark, eternal waters.

  "Cobey."

  He started across the yacht, toward the waiting cabin door.

  Hell, maybe he'd even score with her. He knew it was wrong to think this way—Veronica was such a true-blue girl, and here he was licking everybody who gave him half a chance; and for sure it would not be fair to Puckett—but who would know if, in the shadows of the cabin below, they just kind of snuggled up against the cold wet night and, just naturally, he slipped himself into her and—

  From the darkness, he saw the faint shape of her hand.

  She slid her fingers over his and he was startled by the frozen quality of her flesh. All he could think of was one of the reissues of the old DC Comics where the Cryptkeeper held out his hand to the little girl and the little girl screamed because the hand was so cold...

  She led him down the four stairs to the cabin, never letting go of his hand.

  Faintly, he could make out the contours of furniture and a bar. Nice place. Of course, you wouldn't expect less from Wade Preston. He was such a status-conscious sonofabitch.

  And then he was in her arms. Without a word. And then her tongue, was in his mouth and he felt her crotch pressing urgently against his crotch.

  And then she was easing off his jacket. And pushing him slowly back toward the couch.

  By this time, he had slid his hand inside her blouse. She wasn't wearing a bra and he'd always loved her breasts.

  Her mouth tasted sweet, of gum.

  She had a sweet-tasting pussy, too. He remembered that going down on her had always been one of the abiding pleasures of their sex life.

  It all started fading away then. Beth Swallows being dead. Being wanted by the police. Running; running. Veronica's soft green gaze. Puckett's friendship.

  None of it mattered now.

  There was just the two of them here on this yacht, the pitch and pull of the waters, the faint scent of scotch whiskey from the bar—

  Ohshit ohsweetChrist ohgogogogo—

  She'd unzipped his pants and gotten his cock out.

  He looked down, watched as she got the big, urgent rod in her mouth and started working on it with her moist, masterful tongue.

  Ohshit. He was going to go blind from pure pleasure.

  He'd forgotten just how good she really was.

  He was so far gone, in fact, that at first he didn't recognize the instrument that she'd brought up from the floor.

  By the time it registered on his brain, it was far too late.

  She pulled her head up and brought down the long, shining blade of the butcher knife.

  And lobbed his cock off right at the root, the hole that was left splashing blood over both of them.

  He screamed; he was aware of the sound he made.

  But by then she was already stabbing the knife again and again and again into his chest...

  2

  The parking lot adjacent to the harbor was empty as the Yellow cab emerged from the fog and mist and stopped just below the high, wooden stairs leading to the water. The mercury vapor lights, enshrouded in swirling silver clouds, resembled the glowing heads of aliens.

  The rear door opened and Puckett emerged, throwing a fifty dollar bill at the driver, slamming the door shut behind him.

  As the cab backed away, its reverse gear whined as if under a terrible strain.

  Puckett ran through the fog, his footsteps making flat, slapping sounds against the wet asphalt.

  When he reached the hill, he paused to glance down along the harbor. He smelled the polluted lake and his own heat and sweat. He was trembling.

  No lights shone on Wade Preston's yacht.

  Puckett drew his service revolver and began running for the pier, slipping once and nearly pitching forward.

  He ran along the slippery pier, the ghost boats lining it little more than vague shapes in the fog, the hoot of tugs faint.

  He jumped from the pier to the Preston yacht without slowing down.

  Only then did he stop, his breath coming in hot, lung-aching gasps. He listened for any human sounds below deck, but all he could hear was his own heartbeat pounding in his ears.

  He approached the cabin, revolver ready, and stopped.

  He put his ear to the door. Heard nothing below.

  He put the weapon in his left hand and tried the door handle with his right. Unlocked.

  He opened the door, pushed his head in a few inches. With the curtains drawn, the cabin was pitch dark.

  He went down the f
our steps and stood in the open room, his feet spread wide to absorb the pitch of the yacht.

  Gradually, his eyes began to define certain shapes: couch, bar, small refrigerator. Gradually, his nose began to define the terrible odor filling it.

  A terrible thought came to him, then, just standing there, just trying to give his body time to calm down, just trying to understand the revelations of the past hour-and-a-half.

  He tried to dismiss the thought, tried to persuade himself that he was only being ghoulish or silly, tried to fix his mind on something else.

  But the thought would not go away. He knew that there was only one way to dispel it. He had to prove to himself that the thought was nonsense.

  Feet crossing the dark carpeting, knees giving a little to accommodate the sway of the craft, he went directly to the small, kitchenette-style refrigerator and opened the door.

  The interior light was very, very bright.

  Staring up at him were the blue, blue eyes of Cobey Daniels...

  Somebody had sawn Cobey's head from his shoulders and then placed the head in the refrigerator, just as Beth Swallows' head had been placed in a refrigerator.

  That had been the stench, of course, the way Cobey had been butchered so as to fit his head into the refrigerator. The white bottom of the refrigerator was a mess of blood. The white walls were badly splattered, too. A bottle of 7-Up was painted a dark red with the stuff.

  There was no mistaking the sensation he next felt. Even bending over, even unable to see the instrument, he knew what it was and he knew who wielded it.

  "Put the gun on the refrigerator, Puckett," Anne said behind him.

  She had pushed the butcher knife so hard into his back that it had cut through his London Fog and his sport coat and his shirt.

  He put the gun on the refrigerator.

  "Did you know he killed our child?" she said.

  He didn't know what she was talking about. In fact, there was only one thing at this moment that he knew at all. He knew that Anne was insane.

  "Those nine months he was missing?" she said. "He was with me."

  "I want to help you, Anne," he said quietly. "I want to help you."