"Reverend Scrafield, just what are you driving at?"
Scrafield came around the district attorney's desk and stood hulking directly above him. "Hoyt, this Gayle knows only that she's been arrested and is about to be tried as a hooker. She must be trembling in her boots. I bet she'd give anything to be unarrested, cleared, freed. Well, what if I go to her and offer her a proposition? Give her a chance to be free?"
"How would you manage that?"
"By going to see Gayle tonight and presenting her with this proposition: 'You're arrested, about to be put behind bars and your reputation ruined, but there happens to be one way you can save yourself and come out looking like Miss Purity. Turn state's evidence, Gayle join our side and become our leading witness against Freeberg and his surrogate whores. Claim you were misled into living that kind of life, that Freeberg is pandering and the other girls are behaving as prostitutes, and you want no more of it. Turn state's evidence, Gayle, be our witness for the prosecution, and the district attorney will dismiss all charges against you.' What about it, Hoyt? Would you make such a deal with her?"
"I sure would. Having her as a witness would make it for us."
"Okay, tonight," said Scrafield, "I'm going to see our friend Gayle."
"Do you think she'll go for it?" asked Lewis anxiously.
"She'll go for it," Scrafield replied grimly. "I'll see to that."
Chapter XI
It was not quite eight thirty in the evening when the Reverend Josh Scrafield, having discarded his clerical collar for a blue knit tie and white shirt and conservative dark blue suit, reached the front door to Gayle Miller's house. He noted that the overhead porch light was on.
For a moment, Scrafield remained immobilized, considering carefully what approach he would take with Gayle Miller. Getting in to see her was the major hurdle. Once in her living room, he was certain that there would be no problem. His approach, of course, had to be elastic. So much depended on what kind of person this Miller woman proved to be. He had never seen her, and except for the information Hunter's journal and Hoyt Lewis's dossier had given him, he knew not a thing about her personally. There had been some indication, in Hunter's account, that she was attractive and forthright. But then, Scrafield assumed, all women in this line of work must be attractive and forthright—at least attractive, to be sure.
Getting into her house was the main step, and Scrafield began to feel more certain that he had the means to accomplish this.
His hand went to the doorbell, and he pressed it three times and waited.
He thought that he heard someone approaching from behind the door, and then a muffled voice inquired, "Who is it?"
The Reverend Scrafield pressed closer to the door. "I'm here to see Miss Gayle Miller on a business matter. Are you Miss Miller?"
The door opened a crack, just enough to make a portion of Gayle visible.
"I'm Gayle Miller," she said. "What do you want to see me about?"
For an instant, at the sight of her, Scrafield was too taken aback to speak. He had expected someone attractive, true, yet by the nature of her calling and from the fact that she had been arrested for prostitution, he had expected someone whose good looks would be cheapened and coarse. What he saw, instead, through the slit of the doorway, was a fresh and lovely young thing, startlingly lush and beautiful, gowned in some kind of pale green silk robe that indicated her body was a match for her face.
"There's some important business I have to discuss with you, Miss Miller," Scrafield said.
"I can't imagine what . . . But whatever it is, can't it wait until tomorrow? I have an appointment, and I have to get dressed."
"I'm afraid this is something that has to be settled tonight."
Gayle opened the door a little more and peered at Scrafield. She seemed to recognize him but couldn't quite place him.
"Who are you?" she wanted to know. "What kind of business?"
"I'm the Reverend Josh Scrafield."
"The evangelist? I've seen you on television. I thought you looked familiar." She paused. "What do you want to see me about?"
"About your arrest this morning."
She appeared surprised. "How do you know about that? Besides, why is that any business of yours?"
Scrafield felt more confident now. "I've been asked to serve as an intermediary between District Attorney Hoyt Lewis and yourself. It has to do with the district attorney's planned prosecution of you. He sent me over tonight to offer you a proposal concerning your arrest. May I come inside?"
She opened the door wider. "All right, I guess I should listen to what this is all about. Come on in."
With a pleased and grateful smile, Scrafield entered her modest living room.
Gayle waved him toward the sofa, but Scrafield lingered briefly where he stood, unable to take his eyes from her. The delicacy of her features, the ample curves of her youthful figure, utterly belied what he had read about her in Hunter's erotic journal. This girl resembled a vestal virgin, not the shocking and experienced sex surrogate he had envisioned from Hunter's account.
She had tightened her silk robe in front of her, but its soft folds could not hide from Scrafield's stare that she was clad only in a half bra and the tiniest of bikini panties beneath it. "I was about to get dressed. I have an appointment pretty soon," she said. "Please be brief. Sit down and tell me what's going on."
"Thank you, Miss Miller." Scrafield sat on the edge of the sofa cushion, wondering what assignations had taken place here.
He watched while she adjusted a pull-up chair to face him, crossing her shapely legs beneath the silk robe, careful not to let her knees be exposed.
"So the district attorney sent you to see me?" she said. "He has some kind of proposal about my arrest?"
Scrafield cleared his throat. "Exactly."
"Well, do you want to tell me about it?"
"Yes, of course. The district attorney has looked into your background and activities, which you understand is normal procedure. He knows, for one thing, that you performed as a sex surrogate for Dr. Arnold Freeberg in Arizona when it was against the law. You were both forced to leave Arizona."
Gayle bristled. "That's not quite the story, Mr. Scrafield. Dr. Freeberg was given the opportunity to continue practicing sex therapy without the aid of surrogates. He thought that would be ineffective and chose to leave the state. I volunteered to follow him. We came to California, where we thought the attitudes were more liberal." She shrugged her shoulders. "Obviously, we were mistaken." She met Scrafield's gaze. "Anyway, what's that got to do with what?"
"Perhaps it's not precisely relevant to your current case," Scrafield admitted, "but I mention it to give you an idea of the kind of information that the district attorney has been able to obtain about you. What is more relevant is your current status and activities. For example, we know just what you've been doing as a surrogate here in Hillsdale."
"It's hardly a secret," Gayle flared. "Surrogate procedures have been well publicized." She studied the clergyman. "About me, what I've been doing—who told you about me?"
Scrafield shook his head. "That's not a matter for me to disclose. That will be revealed when you stand trial. But there is other information the district attorney has that may be of even more interest to you."
"Like what?"
"You wish to enter graduate school at UCLA. You can't afford it without a scholarship. Recently, you applied for a scholarship."
"Is there anything wrong with that?" said Gayle belligerently.
"Not from the district attorney's point of view. Only from yours. Because once your arrest for prostitution has been disclosed, and once you go on trial so charged, it seems unlikely that you will be a successful candidate for a scholarship." Scrafield paused. "This could hurt your future. District Attorney Lewis made it clear to me he does not wish to hurt your future."
Gayle seemed to slump. "All right, what are you leading up to?"
When Gayle slumped, her breasts moved, and Scrafield was mes
merized. Her breasts were full, ripe, the best he had seen in years. No wonder Hunter had been able to get it up, Scrafield thought, and no wonder Hunter had not wanted to testify against her. He was probably hoping for an encore with this lush creature.
Scrafield had hardly heard what Gayle had been saying. Distracted, Scrafield said, "Uh, Miss Miller, do you have a drink in the house? I find this assignment a bit difficult, and a shot of whiskey might make it easier."
"I have some Scotch, but I don't have much time." Reluctantly, she came to her feet. "Oh, all right, I'll get you a shot."
She started off to her kitchen. Her ass undulated. Scrafield felt the stirring between his legs. This was unseemly, and he tried to ignore his reaction.
"Uh, Miss Miller, make it a double, if you don't mind."
"Okay."
She returned with the double shot, no ice, handed it to him, and sat right down.
As Scrafield swallowed the whiskey in two gulps, Gayle asked steadily, "What are you leading up to? You say the D.A. doesn't want to hurt me. Then what does he expect to do, putting me under arrest?"
Scrafield savored the effects of the Scotch. "That's better. Thank you. What does the district attorney want to do? He arrested you to throw a scare into you, to bring you to your senses. But he has no desire to try you in court, make a public spectacle of you. He would rather make you into a useful member of our community."
"How?" Gayle asked suspiciously.
"By offering you a deal that would enable him to drop the charges against you, not reveal your name, and to offer you freedom from further prosecution."
Gayle's suspicions mounted. "What kind of deal?"
"He has authorized me to inform you that if you will turn state's evidence, all charges against you will immediately be dropped."
Gayle's face displayed an expression of hope. Yet she remained cautious. "Turn state's evidence. What does that mean?"
Through her thin robe, Scrafield could discern the outline of her thighs and the lines of her panties. He tried desperately to concentrate. "State's evidence, a great opportunity, would give you a chance to join the prosecution as a firsthand witness for the district attorney."
Gayle stiffened. "Witness against whom?"
"Why, against the other defendant in the case," Scrafield went on smoothly. "You need only take the witness stand for the prosecution and admit you committed all the acts you did under the direction of the other defendant."
Gayle glared at the clergyman. "The other defendant being Dr. Freeberg?"
"Yes, Dr. Freeberg, of course."
Gayle was on her feet. "You want me to testify against Dr. Freeberg? Are you crazy?"
"I'm simply trying to help you," said Scrafield innocently. "Only trying to get you out of trouble."
"By putting a wonderful, decent man in jail, a man who's done nothing wrong, ever? You want me to turn against the man who's done so much for so many people, myself included?"
Scrafield came to his feet quickly, imploring her. "Miss Miller—Gayle—be reasonable. The district attorney and I are offering you a chance to be free. In court you won't have to accuse Freeberg of anything. Simply, under oath, relate how he paid you to perform sexual acts with strange men."
"You expect me to crucify Dr. Freeberg? Have him found guilty of pimping?"
"Pandering," Scrafield tried to correct her.
"You want to turn me against one of the finest human beings I've known in my life? You're plain out of your mind. I wouldn't do that in a million years. I'd rather go to jail forever than turn against Dr. Freeberg."
"Gayle, he's a panderer," Scrafield repeated evenly. "Don't sacrifice yourself for a—"
"And you, you're a fucking Holy Joe!" she interrupted angrily. "Now, get out of here with your goddamn propositions! I don't want to see you or hear from you ever again! You fucking bastard, get out of here!"
Scrafield trembled with excitement at her sluttish language. Underneath the virginal facade, she was a hooker through and through, a real piece of ass who had handed it out, for pay, even for free, to dozens and dozens of men.
"You heard me!" she shouted at him. "Get out and leave me alone!"
Scrafield walked slowly to the door, with Gayle at his heels.
"Please reconsider," he mumbled.
"Beat it!" she cried out, and as he put his hand on the doorknob, she pivoted angrily away and rushed toward the entrance to her bedroom.
Scrafield opened the door to leave, then looked over his shoulder, and what he saw in the bedroom made him slam the door shut, while he remained inside the living room.
He could see her in the bedroom, pulling off her silk robe and throwing it aside. Between her lace half bra and her abbreviated transparent panties, her body was silkier than her robe had been. As she turned to survey herself in a mirror, he had a full front view of her, and even from this distance, he believed he could make out the long dark triangle of pubic hair at the crotch of her panties.
Scrafield felt his heart beginning to hammer. He'd had women through the years, many of them, often some of his unhappily married parishioners who worshipped his golden voice and obvious virility. He'd also enjoyed the favors of Darlene Young regularly for several years. He accepted Darlene's servicing him, although lately he had begun to think her too fat and just a little too far along in years to provide him any real titillation.
But this sexy slut in the bedroom . . . She was the most desirable female he had ever seen. He could not leave. He had to have her. In the end, it would mean nothing at all to her. She'd had a thousand men before. He'd merely be the thousandth and one.
Blindly, Scrafield moved nearer to the bedroom.
He was inside the bedroom, not many feet from her. She had turned and her bare back was to him. She was moving toward a chair to pick up a skirt.
"Gayle," he called out quietly.
Startled, she froze, then spun around, her eyes wide. "You!" she exclaimed. "What are you doing here?"
"Trying to plead with you one last time. Gayle, please reconsider . . . Agree to work with me."
"I wouldn't help you for anything in the world! Get your ass out of here!"
He was hypnotized by the dark triangle hardly hidden by her bikini briefs. "Gayle." He found it difficult to speak. "Gayle, forget everything I said—this is something else—I've never seen anyone like you . . . I can take care of you right now, the way you've never been taken care of before." He was moving closer to her. "I'll treat you like a queen, Gayle. You'll be a queen. You won't have to be a whore with me . . ."
"I'm not a whore, goddamn you!" she screamed. "You get away from me!"
But Scrafield was upon her, his arms uplifted.
Gayle swung her hand at him, trying to slap his face. But he caught her by the wrists, bringing her hands down to her sides.
He held them tightly against her thighs, breathing against her contorted mouth. "You are a little whore, you know that? You whored with those men your pimp kept handing you. I can prove it. I can prove you handed it out every day. Now I'm going to give you a chance to be with a real man who knows how to treat a whore . . ."
He released her wrists, and before she could fend him off, he had her by the shoulders. He drove her up against the side of the bed and down on it on her back. Desperately, she tried to rise, but he hit her with his fists until she fell back half conscious, moaning.
Never taking his eyes off her, he removed his jacket, let down his trousers, and unbuttoned his shorts. His erection, which she eyed with terror, sprang straight out.
His fingers fumbled for her bra, ripping at it, tearing it off her body. His big hands went down to the elastic band of her bikini briefs.
"Don't . . ." she begged him. "Don't, don't . . ."
She tried to rise and fight him off, but with one fist, he slammed her against the head??? again and down flat on the bed.
She tried to press her thighs together, but it was no use. He had each leg in a powerful grip. She tried to resist, but h
is uncontrolled strength was too much for her.
He'd managed to get her legs wide apart, and for an instant, he savored the length of the dark pubic hair covering her vaginal mound.
He had taken his pole of an erection in one hand, ready to direct it into her—when they both heard a metallic click in the living room behind them.
There was definitely the sound of the front door opening.
"Paul!" Gayle screamed at the top of her lungs. "Paul, help me!"
At the sound of the running footsteps, Scrafield straightened and swung about, just as Brandon burst into the room. In a second, Brandon saw what was happening, and he threw himself at Scrafield.
Brandon had Scrafield by the throat, but Scrafield's strong hands loosened Brandon's hold.
"You dirty bastard!" Brandon bellowed, clutching the clergyman by the shirt, spinning him toward the living room, then swinging a roundhouse punch at him, catching him on the side of the head and driving him to the floor of the living room.
Gayle had rolled over, snatched at her phone, was dialing 911, crying into the mouthpiece, "Emergency! Rape! He's still here! Get the police, get the police!" She was shouting out her address as Brandon disappeared into the living room after Scrafield.
But Scrafield, scrambling to his feet half naked, was waiting for Brandon.
They went at it toe to toe, battering each other across the room, overturning small tables and lamps, grunting and hammering at each other.
Round and round the room they went, swinging at one another wildly, sometimes landing, sometimes missing, but going at it without pause.
Although breathless, Scrafield, better trained, stronger, began to recover his poise.
He saw the younger man come at him once more, ducked, parrying his blow, and then with all his might he hooked an uppercut to the side of Brandon's jaw. Brandon's arms dropped, and he reeled backward, with Scrafield atop him, fists crunching again and again into Brandon's bleeding face.
Brandon went down to his knees, dazed.
The Celestial Bed Page 27
