by Farris, John
"What about fingerprints, Babs? What about my handwriting?"
"Fingerprints didn't matter, since neither of you is on file with the FBI. Handwriting? She spent a couple of days learning to forge your signature to sign statements and such."
"I suppose she's been driving my car," Carol said petulantly.
"Sure. Lone's a crack driver, don't worry."
"How did she learn the roads around Fox Village?"
"She had two weeks to go over the whole territory before she changed into you. She drove by your house dozens of times."
"What about people I've known all my life? She couldn't possibly have a file on everybody."
"Well," Babs said guardedly, "she was prepared to finesse any accidental meetings. Old school chums and so forth. But the plan called for her to stick close to the house and not socialize."
"But Lone must have made slips. I can think of a hundred things Kevin or my mother might ask her that she couldn't possibly answer."
"She's clever. Don't underestimate Lone."
"I don't," Carol said grimly. "I just hope we meet again someday. I want five minutes to tell her what I think of her." She continued to brush her hair: short, fierce strokes. A hard-shell beetle soared in through an open window and landed in Babs's lap. Babs flung it away moodily.
"The General's not well known," Carol said. "He's always been publicity shy. How did you—I mean, how did Rich and Jim happen to choose him?"
"Rich heard about General Morse and was curious. He has his sources and the money to pay for information. He found out everything there was to know about the General before they decided to—to go ahead. And of course you were handy at Berkeley, which gave the boys an idea of how to work it, you know, so they'd be sure to get both men at the same time. Otherwise they wouldn't be stopping anything, the arms trade would go on like before." Babs stirred in the chair as if she wanted to be free of it, but she couldn't budge without Carol's help, and Carol didn't make a move. Sweat appeared on Babs's forehead. "It's almost eleven. Why don't we go downstairs and watch a movie. Sayonara, with Brando? Did you see that one? Gosh, I cried all the way through it the first time."
A shadow intruded at the foot of the bed, startling them. Jim Hendersholt, in his superquiet way, in dust-whitened Hush Puppies, had come up the stairs and was regarding them with a faint, sardonic grin. There was marble on his face and forearms; he looked quaint and crusty except for the red-traced eyes, a cool, dark omniscience impacted there.
"What are you talking about, girls?" he asked.
"Oh, clothes and movies," Babs said uneasily. Carol wondered how long he'd been in progress on the stairs, listening all the while. After her initial reaction she didn't look at him again. "Are you all through for the night?" Babs asked.
Big Jim yawned. "I've done enough. How about fixing me a hamburger?"
"Sure! Right away. I just mentioned to Carol about coming down to watch a movie—"
Jim said with a sympathetic grimace in Carol's direction, "She looks tired to me. She might want to go to bed."
"Well, yeah, I didn't think about that. Do you want to go to bed now, Carol?"
Carol lowered her hairbrush and stared with a touch of hostility at Big Jim. "If he says I do."
Instead of replying, Jim crossed to Babs, held out his hands, leaned back tautly as she pulled herself from the chair. "Upsy-daisy," he said genially. Babs giggled and tugged her clothing into place, looking flustered and adoring.
"You go on down," he said. "I'll get Carol squared away for the night."
It took Babs three or four minutes to descend. Big Jim stood by the windows looking out, hands clasped behind his back.
"My uncle is an early-to-bed, early-to-rise type," he said. "That's why he never installed shades or curtains in his bedroom. He likes to paint early in the morning, first light."
"Where is your uncle now?" Carol asked.
"Greece. Hydra, I think. The light is supposed to be exceptional there."
"Is he a good painter?"
He turned and shrugged too elaborately, lips upturned in a good-humored acceptance of mediocrity. "He has a following. He sells."
"I don't suppose he knows what you're using his house for this summer."
Big Jim chuckled. "No, he doesn't. He'll be surprised. But I expect he can turn the publicity to good advantage." He came back to the bed. He walked like a duck and his arms were too long, Carol thought, bristling at the pincer of his eyes, afraid as always of a lethal nature prudently concealed, of megalomania.
"You'll never be a good sculptor," she said, wanting to wound him. "You'll never have a following and you'll never sell a damned one of your blobs."
His expression was saintly soft, indulgent. "I don't crave recognition," he said.
Big Jim's imperviousness angered her even more. "What do you want," she asked, almost sobbing, "besides blood on your hands? I never liked Rich, I knew there was something wrong with him, but you're worse, because you're dragging poor Babs down with you." She had said too much, and was dimly shocked by her betrayal. She closed her eyes in despair, unable to look at him.
After a while she heard his knees pop when he hunkered down, felt his fingers firm on her ankle as he unlocked the manacle there, releasing her. "Go brush your teeth," he said. Carol got up trembling and stepped down from the bed platform, linked hands low in front of her, and went to the bathroom. When she returned, Big Jim was turning down the covers on the bed. Carol had a last hurried smoke before he confiscated cigarettes and matches; she was aware of his eyes on her back. When she finished he passed the long chain through the steel loop on the belt she wore and, as she stretched out in the bed, he locked the chain to the frame.
He turned out the light but Carol didn't hear him go. After a minute or two she rolled onto her left side and perceived him against the background of the windows, which in contrast to the room held light now, like a ghosting of silver on a photographic negative. Her vision blurred quickly and tears spilled over; the wrist chain was as cold as a serpent across her throat. His presence continued to diminish her.
"So our subterfuge is discovered," he said mockingly from the dark. "Thanks to dear Blabs. Notice I've called her Blabs. A little humor there."
"Amusing," Carol said, as if she had lockjaw. She lay on her back, bisected by the other chain, knees drawn up, hands pressed against her mouth—inevitably she had the hiccups.
Big Jim sat down beside her. On the surface he smelled dry and powdery. But his breath was rank, like a marsh, as if the manifold excitements of murder had now begun, in their pitted locus, to turn blackly against his system.
"Go away," Carol said harshly, regretting the intrusion. It meant a marked change in procedure, in his previously sterile and professional approach to her.
"Now that you know we're not kidnappers for fun and profit, that we have a serious motive, I expect that puts ideas in your head, lots and lots of brilliant ideas."
"Hic!"
"Do you want a, drink of water?"
"No!" Carol moaned. "Just get out of here."
"One idea you may have, since you've discovered how to turn Babs's mouth on and off like a faucet, is the idea that her heart is just a big, baked marshmallow. But it's no use appealing to her to unlock the chains that bind so you can sneak away from here sometime when I'm not around. Soft and squishy as it is, Babs's heart belongs to me. A disloyal Babs is a sorry Babs indeed."
"I—hic! —don't have any ideas like that."
"That's not very truthful. It may not be a big bad lie, but it isn't altogether a truthful statement. Of course you think about getting away. Particularly with all the freedom you've had lately, the run of the house. But Babs and I knew you weren't strong enough to run a dozen yards without fainting, so we didn't worry." He picked up the chain between her wrists, lifting her hands. "Maybe some idea about saving the life of the Great Old Soldier might give you the extra strength for an escape," he mused. "What should I do, double the chains? Stand vigilan
t all day and all night? What do you think?" He let go of the chain and with one hand companionably fondled a breast. Carol writhed, cold with loathing.
"Cut that out!" She suffered a new spasm of hiccups, which caused the blood to pound in her temples until she felt giddy.
Big Jim took his hand away. She lay panting. "Or would you prefer something from Babs's little black bag instead? Babs has all kinds of treats in her bag. I'll bet there's something that'll make it next to impossible for you to have any more original ideas."
"No," Carol said. "I'll be good. I won't—try anything."
He leaned over her, and she felt that she would suffocate. "Is that a definite promise? Can I really count on you?"
"Yes. Now get off the—hic!—bed. It's my bed."
He sat upright. "In a minute," he said. He reached out, fumbling in the dark, and loosened the side zipper of her slacks.
"What do you think you're—hic! —doing? Do you want me to holler rape?"
"I don't want you to holler anything," Big Jim said severely, peeling the slacks down to her thighs. "If you do, I'll just have to come back up here with a needle full of treats for you. And believe me, after a liberal dose of treats you'll be living with the squirrels and liking it." He hooked his callused fingers inside her panties and yanked them down to her knees. "Now be still. I'm going to cop a feel."
Carol resisted until the pressure of blood in her brain almost knocked her out. She caught the wrist chain between her teeth as his violations of her became increasingly gross and seductive and ground the chain. If her teeth had not been strong she would have broken several. She learned it was easier not to resist. Big Jim was at her, inventively, for a long time. "Groovy," he mumbled, time and time again. And, "Oh, man." Her throat felt scalded from swallowed tears.
When he had finished he dressed her and she felt his hands trembling like those of an impotent old rogue. She spat out the chain with a bloodied tongue and cursed him as he lifted himself from the bed. She knew exactly what names applied to Big Jim.
He said wanly, not offended, "But it cured your hiccups," and left. She lay burning, humiliated, hating. She heard Babs laugh downstairs, and imagined she was the inspiration for this laughter. Ultimately she arrived at a fine passionless urge to murder them both, and slept on it.
Chapter Nineteen
Saturday, July 13
Toward dusk with dinner out of the way she had gone alone to the sedgy perimeter of the pond, driven from the house by the General's huge laughter, by Rich's nonchalance and the brazen death's-head merriment of Miss Lone Kels. She felt poisoned; the crimson air, sluggish from the day-long heat and rot at the water's edge, was scarcely an antidote. She threw up into the weeds. It was no relief to her. Tears ran freely down her cheeks but she continued to feel gorged and glumly horrified, committed to returning and committed to betraying her father as long as it was demanded of her.
Sam found her there, staring at the darkened pond. "How are we ever going to tell his family?" Felice said, choking on her remorse.
"I don't think it'll be up to us. Let's go in now."
"Oh, no, Sam, I can't go back to the house."
"It's all right. Rich and Lone took off with the General."
"Where did they go?" she asked, frightened.
He put an arm around her shoulders. "To buy booze, I think. It's inexcusable, but we ran out of Southern Comfort."
"Sam, there has to be a way to stop them!"
"We'll talk about it."
Turo was playing the piano in the living room, making the best of some difficult Chopin although the piano was long out of tune. They paused in the kitchen to listen.
"He's very good," Felice said with a reluctant fascination. "I mean, it's obvious he's studied."
"Yes," Sam said.
"I don't want to stay downstairs. Is there brandy or anything?"
"A full bottle of Martell."
"Would you bring it?"
She sat by the small, cold fireplace in her bedroom while Sam opened the cognac. Turo continued to play for several more minutes, his passion for the music overcoming the deficiencies of the instrument. As she drank, Felice found herself thinking of him, and when he quit she said, "Turo isn't like the others, Sam."
"I've seen that."
"I don't know how he got mixed up with Rich and that girl. He's not a thrill seeker or a bogus intellectual. No, and he's not pathological. I don't think he really understood what he was getting into until Dev was murdered. I watched him today. Turo is as terrified as I am. I think we can change his mind."
"Maybe."
The liquor gave her a fiery confidence. "Go and get him, Sam. Ask him to come up. He must know where Carol is. This may be the only chance we'll have, with those other two out of the way for a little while."
Sam winced, skeptically, polished off his cognac, gave her a smile and went to find Turo.
While he was gone Felice refilled her glass. She was restless, in her mind already meeting with Turo, appealing to him, swaying him—she liked Turo, had liked him from the first minute. Lone was evil, a bloodied succubus, and Rich was artfully mad; in Turo's presence they seemed slightly less murderous because there was a distinction about him, if nothing else a lack of eccentricity. The cognac, which she was sipping almost as fast as a soft drink, warmed her affection for Arturo Regalo. At the same time she felt less aggressive, she felt a loss of fire, a diffusion of purpose. Her throat constricted. "Just let me have Carol back," she whispered to herself. It was Carol for whom she was most afraid, and she recognized this without a qualm. After all, she thought, temporizing, the General was a brave man, an experienced soldier. Were Rich and Turo a match for him, despite his age? Think about that, Turo. Save yourself while you can. Save us all. The room swarmed before her eyes. She bumped against the porcelain eagle at the foot of her bed, stared at it wearily as if trying to recall the mood which had prompted her to buy it. She emptied her second glass of cognac.
Sam didn't come back. Someone had left the television on downstairs. Frantic laughter. She stretched out on the bed with the glass in her hand, feeling humid, sustained, a little dizzy. Think what to say to Turo. Manliness there. Sense of honor. The General respected him. In your hands, Turo; Carol helpless. You can't let anything happen to Carol, no matter what you believe. Dear God, this house. Always wanted it. Old and elegant. Two-hundred-year-old trees. Sanctuary. After all this time it has to become haunted. An ordeal to go into the kitchen now, Dev lying there on the floor. You're staying with us, Dev. Wouldn't put a knight out on a dog like this.
"Felice?"
She opened her eyes, feeling thick and stupid, and abrasively guilty. Sam was standing beside the bed; he looked thwarted. His eyes were chrome. "I couldn't find him," he said. "I guess he went out for a walk or something."
"Oh, no."
"Still, it's a good idea. We'll have to talk to him. Lean on him—What did you do with the cognac?" She pointed out the bottle and Sam poured a shot for each of them, carried his own glass into the bathroom. He took off his tie and shirt, put his glass aside, bathed his face for several minutes. Felice watched him, drinking more slowly, craving the full power of the cognac, not wanting to sicken herself as she had done before. After a while, with her eyes on her husband, she felt mildly, agreeably erotic. Sam was well muscled for a man whose occupation was basically sedentary, reflective: tension and a finely adjusted metabolism kept him trim. She thought of how his hands would feel on her face and body and smiled eagerly at him when he came, as she hoped he would, to sit on the bed beside her. His hair was wet around the ears. He wore glasses well but without them his face had a certain masculine bleakness Felice admired. She sat up and kissed his cool forehead.
"I'm going to get undressed," she said adventurously, a trifle uncertainly; she took off her clothes on the bed while he drank and mutely considered the provocation.
"Are you too tired?" she asked.
He shook his head. "Do I still make you want me, Sam?"
She looked at his face, saddened, disturbed. There was a look of ordeal in his eyes, an expression of shock and infinite concern.
"Why?" she asked, letting go. He lay back and turned on his side, making fists. "Did I do that to you?"
"It wasn't your fault, Felice."
"But that's the third time in the last couple of months. Isn't it?"
"I'll get it back. Don't press me."
He spoke matter-of-factly but she felt a chill. She got up for a robe and a cigarette. He went to his own room and closed the door partway. Felice felt uninvited but she followed after a couple of minutes. Sam looked up thoughtfully when she came in.
"Didn't mean to rush off."
"Oh, Sam." She leaned against him, brushing a kiss against his ear. He held her tentatively.
"Unless I'm just coming unstuck in some obscure way," he said, "the only answer I can think of is Patsy."
"Patsy?"
"Uncle Hat's girl. My cousin."
"You've mentioned her. She was a sexpot."
"At a tender age. When she was about sixteen and I was thirteen she began to develop an interest in me. Until then she'd either ignored me or made my life miserable. There was no lock on the door to the bathroom we shared. She got into the habit of coming in while I was taking a bath, to brush her teeth or use the john. She'd managed to expose herself in a casual way. But it was all very calculated. She'd come to my room at night in her underwear to borrow a pencil or something. I wasn't too intrigued. I just didn't like Patsy."
"What was the little bum trying to do, seduce you?"
"It was just a pastime for her, another game to play when she was in the mood. I was normally curious, I looked at what I was supposed to look at, but I don't think I was greatly aroused. She gradually got bolder. One night on some pretext she dashed in completely naked. That upset me; I told her to wear pajamas or stay in her own room. She didn't bother me for a while. Then one night when I was half asleep she snuck into bed with me. She said she'd had a nightmare that scared her. She jabbered about a dozen things, but it was impossible for her to talk five minutes without getting onto sex. Dirty talk disgusted me. It still does. I told her I wanted to get some sleep. Patsy said that she'd go back to her room if I kissed her. She turned it into a dare, a challenge. I kissed her to get rid of her. She was all worked up and she was—damned proficient at sex play. I found out I liked it. I halfway forgot it was Patsy I was kissing. In a way I was paralyzed with fright but she kept stimulating me—I think I came sexually of age in about five minutes. It was traumatic and unforgettable. But we were both so excited and nervous it didn't work. Strangely enough she was a virgin.
