Baby Moll hcc-46

by John Farris

  She put a hand to her side, her face lined as if she were going to cry. She stretched out her arms, fingers against the metal slats of the Venetian blinds. Her breasts heaved fretfully beneath their frail covering.

  “I’ve thought about it, Pete,” she said. “I’ve had little to do but think about why, why, why I should be like this.” The cigarette wasn’t doing anything for her any more. She turned from the windows to put it in an ashtray, then came back.

  “Charley loved me,” she said softly. “Once. Charley had a brilliant mind. He still does. But there’s something inside him. Something obscene. He takes pleasure in knowing the wrong kind of men, sharing their secrets. We drifted into this kind of life. He stuck fast to it, gave up a good-paying job. It’s too late for him to go back now. All the good is gone now. I smell the evil that seeps through his skin from associating with people like... Macy Barr. There isn’t any way for me to get away. I think he’d kill me if I tried now. Devotion turned to possession; tenderness to lust. It was when I began to realize this that the fist began to pound me.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said inadequately.

  “Pete,” she said with a dry sob, “I can’t even cry any more. I’m just a crazy cardboard cutout of a woman. I loathe the man I can’t get away from. The people who live around me sicken my stomach. My nerves torture me, all the time.” Her mouth was petulant. She put her hands flat against her stomach, smoothed the nightgown close to her skin, pressing the hands as far as her rounded thighs. “I haven’t slept with him in months and months. The thought of him touching me makes me retch.” She was whispering now. “I’ve tried others. They... handled me as though I were a common streetwalker. It was no good — no good at all.”

  She reached out and took my hand, laid it against her side. “Can’t you feel it? It twists and turns and jumps — they’re knots and coils, tight and squirming — ” She let go of my hand. She took the nightgown in both hands, twisted it, tore it, an expression of anguish on her glistening face. The gown was ripped, it hung away from her slim body. She fell against me, kissing me anywhere her lips touched my flesh. Her cheeks were hot and wet. “Make them still,” she said urgently. “Give me rest, Pete. You can do it. Do it — do it.”

  I should have forced her away then but I hesitated an instant, and when the instant had passed it was too late. She was keyed to the point of hysteria. I was afraid of what might happen if I left her then.

  “It won’t be an answer,” I whispered as I put her on the bed. “For a little while, maybe. That’s all.” Then I couldn’t say any more. She moaned once and held me tightly, tightly, with all her strength.

  When I left her, she was sleeping. Even in sleep the tenseness hadn’t left her features. I wished I could help her. But there was nothing I could do. It was a lonely struggle. She would be the only winner, or the only loser.

  I went downstairs and walked toward my room. Beyond the French doors I saw a man standing on the patio. From the size of him I knew it must be Taggart. He stood there without moving for half a minute, smoking slowly. Then he dropped the cigarette, walked down the terrace toward the bay.

  I opened the doors and stepped outside. Taggart had reached the sand. I could see him against the sheen of moonlight on the water. He walked along at the edge of the tide, his head turned toward the bay as if he were searching for something. He carried a large towel over one arm.

  When he passed from sight around a bend in the island, I walked away from the house toward a growth of trees that covered the northern tip of the island. Most of the tangle of scrub had been cleared from among the palms, and hardy grass matted the rocky ridge of land almost to the slap of the waves.

  Through the bent shadowy trunks with their saw-toothed thatching I picked up Taggart again. This time he wasn’t alone. In a sheltered cove he extended the towel to a naked, dripping Diane. Her hair was silver in the moonlight, the lift of her arm liquid. Taggart didn’t take his eyes off her as she dried herself, turning to cape the towel across her back, lifting one foot and then the other to the grasp of it. When she had finished she spread the towel on the wind-decked sand, lay down on it.

  Taggart turned his head to follow her movements as she laid down on the towel. His hands came up unhurriedly and he unbuttoned his shirt, took it off, folded it and put it beside the towel. Then he unbuckled his pants, stepped out of them. When he had finished undressing he lowered himself to her.

  I was about to trudge back to the house when I noticed a movement behind one of the trees not more than ten yards from where Taggart and the blonde Diane embraced. It was a man, shifting his weight very slowly to obtain a better view, taking care not to be heard. I put a hand on the square butt of the .38, then relaxed. The observer had turned his body just enough for me to recognize him. It was Owen Barr. I strained my eyes toward the tree behind which he had concealed himself, but I couldn’t see him any more.

  I was a little surprised at the eagerness with which Diane was receiving the huge, slow-witted gunman. I had a feeling this was only a repetition of other meetings between them. Then I grinned a bit wryly, realizing it didn’t make much difference, and went back to my room.

  Once there I felt I could use a drink and walked to the living room, helped myself to a bottle of good Scotch from the bar there. I took that and a glass of ice with four fingers of soda back to the bedroom, propped myself up on the bed and had a long cold one in the dark.

  I thought about the strange crew assembled in this house. They made my head hurt. Sleep poured down on me like an avalanche. Before I was buried in it there was a warm clear light shining through the murkiness of twisted, pulped lives. Elaine. I reached out to her, forgetting all the rest.

  I don’t know how long I slept. When I awakened I stared into darkness as if I hadn’t been sleeping at all, just dozing. I listened to a ratlike scratching, located the source of the sound near the dresser. I thought I heard someone breathing. Without moving on the bed I took my .38 from the nearby table, transferred it to my left hand. I reached up and found the light switch, turned on the lamp.

  Owen Barr lurched away from the dresser, turned to me with a foolish grin. He took his hand out of the top drawer but kept it pressed against the front of the dresser for support.

  “Well,” he said, his lips loose, his eyes feverishly jovial, “am I in the wrong room? Huh?”

  “It would seem that way.” I kept the automatic pointed at him.

  He gestured stickily with his free hand, listed unsteadily. I wondered if he was as drunk as he was trying to make out.

  “Well, ’scuse me,” Owen said, sniffing wetly. He took a step forward, but had to return to his support. “Y’see, I was looking for whisky. I thought this was my room, ‘r somethin’.”

  “Sure.”

  He pointed. “Y’got some whisky over there.”

  “Don’t you think you’ve had enough?”

  He blinked. Then he leered knowingly. “Never have enough whisky.”

  I put my fingers around the bottle, without looking away from him and heaved it suddenly in his direction. He caught it with surprising deftness.

  “Well,” he said, licking his lips. “Well, thanks.”

  “Suppose you could drink it someplace else?”

  “Oh, sure,” he said airily. He put both hands around the bottle and set a course for the door, pausing once to lean against the wall. Then he was gone and I heard him mumbling in the hall. The door to his room clicked shut.

  I got up and looked into the hall. He was gone, all right. I shut my own door and looked at the drawer Owen had been fumbling through. There was nothing in it but the large envelope containing the newspaper clippings Macy had turned over to me. The envelope had been opened. A couple of the clippings were loose in the bottom of the drawer. I assembled all of them, counted. There were only three stories about the fire left. I wondered what Owen was going to do with the other one. But I didn’t really care.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Clouds boile
d in off the Atlantic early next morning and it rained until after lunch, then cleared off.

  In the afternoon some of us, including Macy and Evelyn Rinke, put on suits and went swimming. Taggart, Diane, and Charley Rinke didn’t participate. They sat together on the terrace and drank Planter’s Punch and Salty Dogs. Diane’s face was as bland as ever. She paid no attention to Taggart. Now and then he would look at her over his lifted glass, a hint of pleasure in his eyes. Rinke was sprawled on a chaise longue, as if his long hours in the hidden room in the garage had depleted him. The lines of his down-turned mouth were still sharp, though. He looked as if he played lightly and skillfully with thoughts. Like juggled steel splinters, they could be potentially dangerous if he wasn’t careful with them. He seemed to be the sort of man who would be careful.

  “I thought you liked swimming,” I said to Diane, on my way to the beach.

  “Too choppy now,” she said with a disinterested smile. “I don’t like the feel of salt water in my throat.” She was wearing shorts and another of those colorful half-sleeve shirts, this one of lime green. I shook my head in answer to her offer of a drink, went on down to the beach.

  Aimee had a pair of swim fins and a face mask and she and Macy were diving for shells about twenty feet from shore. For all his awkward weight, Macy was a good swimmer, but his lungs couldn’t stand all the work. In a few minutes he had to come out to rest, his face looking fatigued. Aimee scooted through the water gracefully, slanting deep with a kick of the wedge-shaped fins.

  Evelyn Rinke sat at the edge of the water, where her feet were covered at each small rise of wave. Her hair was combed and she had put on some lipstick.

  I kneeled beside her. “Feeling all right today?”

  She nodded. “Um-hmm. Reasonably. The sun feels good, doesn’t it?”

  “Have you been in the water yet?”

  “No. It feels sort of cold. I don’t know if I’d like it. I haven’t been swimming in a long time. Most of the time I stay close to the house—”

  I offered a hand to her. “Try it.”

  She smiled faintly. “Well — ” Her hard fingers closed about my hand. “All right. I think I will.” We went into the water together. She gasped in dismay. “Oh, Pete!”

  “Plunge in. You’ll get used to it.” She splashed me as she put her arms together and dived down. I followed her. She swam uncertainly at first, then more strongly. Aimee treaded water nearby, watching us.

  “Not so bad, is it?” I said, gliding up to Evelyn. She smiled broadly, her face streaming. “It’s awfully cold,” she said, “but I like it.” She lunged toward me suddenly, reached out and pushed my head under. I went deeper in the pale green water, grasped her ankles, tugged her toward the bottom. Her hair waved loosely behind her, a bubble or two escaping from her lips. She made a grab for me but I twisted out of the way. She went above water for air.

  “Not fair,” she complained, laughing. “I’m not used to the exercise.” She floated on her back for a few minutes, eyes closed, face relaxed.

  Aimee’s head bobbed up close by. She lifted the face mask. “Want to look for seashells?” she said timidly. So we looked for seashells. After a while Evelyn joined us. We crawled along close to the bottom, fingers searching the sand until it became impossible to see and we had to surface and wait for the water to clear. Once Aimee saw a small fish and sprinted after it, turning quickly in the water as she tried to duplicate the delicate fin-flip of the silvered fish.

  We had been in the water about an hour when Macy bellowed, “Aimee! Diane says you better come in now.” We all went in. Evelyn walked closed beside me as we waded ashore, bumping against me when her feet slipped on the uneven sand bottom. Then she stopped and held my wrist so I would have to stop too.

  “Pete,” she said, “I really had fun. For the first time in a long time. I didn’t know anything could be fun any more.”

  I smiled at her. “Give yourself a chance once in a while.”

  She shuddered, putting her arms across her breasts. There was a stiff breeze and it was chilly after coming out of the water. “Here?” she said, looking toward the house, where her husband loafed on the chaise longue. A little of the old pain seemed to be returning to her. “Anyway, for a little while it was nice. Thanks, Pete. I guess I’ll try to get a nap now.” She walked on a few steps, feet splashing in the shallow water. Then she turned and looked at me again, not saying anything. I caught up with her and we walked to the house together, past the drinking set on the patio.

  It was a quarter of five when I had showered and dressed. I was hungry and since I wouldn’t be around for dinner I went into the kitchen and one of the boys fixed a steak from the freezer for me. After I had eaten I went upstairs, hoping to find Macy in his room. He wasn’t there. I started down the hall, then stopped, hearing a peculiar sound from the Rinkes’s bedroom. I waited for it to be repeated, then walked closer to the opened door. It had sounded like a voiceless person trying to scream.

  I heard Rinke talking softly as I approached. While he talked the sound went on, relentlessly. I looked through the space between the door and frame. The first thing I saw was Evelyn Rinke’s face. It was chalky. She sat as if her bones were glass. Her eyes were squinted almost shut. Her mouth was twisted open, frozen in the scream that was like a sawing of metal from her throat.

  Charley Rinke was holding a cigarette lighter about four inches from her face. He moved it very slowly as he spoke to her in his low calm voice. Her eyes watched the flame, blank with fright.

  “I know you’re afraid of it, Evelyn,” he said smoothly. “I’ll take it away in just a moment. I know how you feel about being burned. This time I won’t burn you. But I want you to understand this. Stay away from Pete Mallory. Hear me? I saw the two of you playing in the water today. You have a good time with him, don’t you? But stay away from him. I know what you’re building up to with Mallory. Just remember who you are. You’re Mrs. Rinke. You’re my wife. You belong in my bed, not anybody else’s you happen to take a shine to.”

  In a moment of explosive anger I wanted to walk into that I room, feel his face smash and spread under my fists. Evelyn Rinke put her hands up, holding them out in front of her in a gesture of supplication.

  “Take... take... take...” she pleaded.

  Rinke thumbed the top down on the lighter and the little torch of flame was gone. He started out so quickly I had time only to retreat and duck into the adjoining room. I heard him walk rapidly away and go down the hall.

  Evelyn Rinke was seated in the same position, hands over her face, when I went into her bedroom. She must have heard me come in.

  “Go away,” she said. “Go away.”

  “It’s me — Pete.”

  Without any apparent movement she began to fall sideways out of the chair. I caught her and lifted her to the bed.

  “Why did he do that?” I said.

  Her teeth were tightly clenched. “He... can’t stand to see me have fun. Not with somebody else.”

  “Why are you so afraid of fire?”

  Her eyes opened wide. “Fire?”

  “You were almost paralyzed looking at that lighter.”

  “I don’t know why. The flame just makes me freeze up. I’ve always been that way.”

  I looked at her for a few moments longer. The terror was still in her eyes. She touched one of my hands. “Stay with me, Pete.”

  “It would be better if I didn’t,” I said. “If he came back I might kill him.”

  I turned and walked from the room. I went downstairs, my chest tight and squeezed with anger. I walked out of the house, toward the trees that capped the north end of the island, not caring where I was going, just needing to walk until the dangerous edge of hatred for Charley Rinke had blunted.

  The sun was fading behind long streaks of clouds in the west. In the grove of palms I found Diane sitting on a couple of thin pillows, her back against the thickened base of one of the trees. There was a book face down in her lap and she looked
steadily across the milky bay.

  I stopped near her, putting out a hand to the tree. She didn’t say anything. She didn’t look up.

  “Where’s Aimee?” I said, to jar her loose from her attitude of concentration.

  “Lying down before dinner,” Diane said without moving. “What’s wrong, Pete?”

  “Why would anything be wrong?”

  “I could tell by the way you were walking. The quick way you breathe.” She looked up then. “Are you going into town?”

  “Soon.”

  Diane sighed. She got up from the pillows stiffly. “Too dark to read,” she said. “I guess I’ll go now.” She looked toward the bay again. “It’s really beautiful here. I like to come here and just sit. Get away from things that aren’t so beautiful.” She looked a bit wistful. “I guess it won’t be long before we leave this house for good.”

  “What makes you think so?” I said.

  “It’s — just a feeling I have.”

  “What will you do then?”

  “I’ll go where Aimee goes, I suppose,” she said carelessly. “It doesn’t really matter.”

  “You like the kind of life you’ve got here?” I asked her. “You like the people you live with?”

  She looked away, bent to pick up the pillows. “I think we are in rats’ alley,” she said almost inaudibly, “where the dead men lost their bones.”

  The odd line jostled memory, and I looked at her thoughtfully. “Where did you get that?”

  She shrugged. “I’ve known it for years. I’ve always liked that poem, because he seemed to write it for me. I’m the girl who looks in the mirror and wonders what difference it made.”

  I wanted to hear her say more, but she was suddenly silent, as if she had revealed too much of the self that she usually kept carefully wrapped and put away from the curiosity of strangers.

  I took the pillows from her, stacked them under my arm. We walked back to the house together, saying nothing. Her jaw was set, and there was a melancholy look in her eyes, as if she were reaching back to another time that had held more promise than now. At the patio I left her and went to the garage, picked out a car for the drive into town.