by Jane Toombs
Damn it, no. Fog or not, he needed to walk on the beach, get the stale smell of the damn apartment out of his head. He opened the car door, took a deep breath of the briny, damp air and heard Alma scream.
He ran to the cottage door and hesitated with his hand on the knob. What if she and the guy were horsing around, playing games. He'd look a damn fool barging in.
Still—it hadn't sounded like a playful yell.
The knob turned under his fingers and the door swung open.
* * *
Charlie jerked the MG around the corner, brakes screeching. Damn woman, more trouble than she was worth. His bad luck she was the only one he'd never been able to get out of his head. The rest of them didn't mean a shit to him. Alma was the one he wanted.
Never thought he'd go crawling to any woman. Not that he'd agree to her crazy plan. What they'd do is pay some chick to come in and clean, do the wash, stuff like that.
He slammed on the brakes when he saw the wedge of light cutting into the fog—her door was open. And there was a car, two cars. What the hell?
Charlie leaped out and raced toward the cottage.
* * *
Luba stumbled along in the mist. She'd almost lost Barry time and again in this stupid fog but she was sure this was the road where he'd turned in and parked. She'd backed up quickly and parked back a ways so he wouldn't see her.
What a dumb idea to follow him. Was she going to knock on the door like some outraged hausfrau? Luba shook her head. Okay, so she might not know exactly what she meant to do but she'd come this far. She damn well didn't mean to turn back now.
She almost walked into his Porsche before she saw it. He'd left the door open for some strange reason. The cottage across the street had its door open, too, and there didn't seem to be any other house around. She heard men shouting and hurried over there.
When she entered, she saw two black men and a black woman and thought she was in the wrong place, after all. Then she caught sight of Barry on the floor and screamed.
Luba dropped to her knees beside him. "He's bleeding!" she cried.
Alma tried again to get off the lounge where Willie had flung her after Barry burst in. She'd cracked her head on the wall and the room spun as she sat up. She blinked, trying to clear her vision, hearing a woman scream.
"I'll get you, too," Willie snarled, facing Charlie, the knife with a bloody blade in his hand. "Do for you like I did for her fancy doctor, nothing but the best for Momma A."
"Take it easy," Charlie said, "Don't mean you no harm, man."
Willie laughed. "Cousin Roach ain't gonna lay no contract on me."
"What's with Cousin Roach?" Charlie said, keeping out of range. "Never met the man. Why don't you split? We'll tend to the dude on the floor. I got no quarrel with you."
"Help him!" Luba begged. "Do something before he bleeds to death."
Barry watched the two men above him through slitted eyes. After the first leap of surprise when he saw Luba bending over him, he'd ignored her, focusing on the men. If they moved to the left a tad he could grab that bastard with the knife, maybe topple him off balance. His right side throbbed with pain but he could use his left arm.
Barry lunged upward. Luba screamed and Willie stepped aside, turning to slash at Barry, giving Charlie the chance to chop Willie's arm with the edge of his hand. The knife flew onto the floor. Barry was just able to cover it with his body before he passed out.
"You want to fight or get out?" Charlie said.
"I can take you," Willie snarled. "You ain't nothing but chicken shit."
"Don't bet on it."
Alma brought the two men into focus as they circled one another. "Kill him, Charlie," she croaked from her aching throat. "Kill him."
Luba stared from her bloody hands to Barry. "Talk to me," she begged, touching his face with the back of her hand. "Please talk to me." His eyes stayed closed. He didn't move. Spotting the blade of the knife beneath his thigh, Luba eased it out, staring from the knife to the men pummeling each other. That one had the knife, she told herself. He tried to kill Barry. Maybe he had.
She eased to her feet, knife in hand, a roaring in her ears. It seemed she floated rather than stepped toward the men, edging behind them. She watched her hand rise and fall and saw with amazement the knife hilt pull free of her fingers, the blade embedded in the killer's back. He half- turned, sank to his knees and fell forward, all in slow motion.
Luba dropped to the floor beside Barry, her mind blank.
"Don't!" Alma gasped at Charlie. "Don't take the knife out. If he's still alive that might kill him. Leave it alone." She got up from the lounge and staggered to Charlie, who put his arm around her.
"Take it easy, sugar. We got one hell of a mess here."
"Let me look at Barry." Trying to ignore the throbbing in her head, Alma eased away from Charlie and knelt beside Luba.
"Get me a towel," she ordered.
Luba stared at her mindlessly.
"I'll help," Charlie said.
"No, you got to take the car to a pay phone, got to call an ambulance for Barry, for them both. Try that all-night gas station down about seven blocks on Opal Street." She gestured. "Tell them to come there and you wait till they do so you can show the way here. Don't tell them anything except two men are bleeding."
Charlie hurried out, closing the door behind him.
Alma pinched Luba's arm hard, making her wince.
"Listen up, girl," she said. "You get me some towels for Barry, you hear? I'm a nurse and I'll help him. Get the towels and a sheet."
Luba blinked, her eyes focusing. "Where?" she faltered. Alma told her, grabbing the towels and sheet from her when she returned. "We're going to bind his chest and arm," she said. "Do as I say. We need to stop the bleeding."
Barry moaned as they worked on him.
"He's watching us," Luba whispered.
"What?" Alma glanced at Barry's face. "No, he's still out of it."
"I mean—the other one." Luba jerked her head toward Willie.
Alma saw she was right. Willie's eyes were open, his fingers scrabbling at the floor.
"Don't move, Willie," she warned him. "Got help coming, don't move."
He didn't seem to hear her, kept on scrabbling at the wood. Mean mother deserved to die. Too bad she couldn't let him do just that.
"Will Barry be all right?" Luba asked. "There's so much blood."
"I don't think he got cut deep," Alma told her. "Willie's another story."
Barry opened his eyes and turned his head toward Luba. "What're you doing here?"
She burst into tears.
"Are you clear?" Alma asked him. "I mean, can you think okay?"
He started to shift position.
"No, don't move. Listen, she knifed Willie and I left the knife in his back. Could be in the heart or a lung or both. Left the knife in—that's right, isn't it?"
Barry swallowed. "'S right. Don't take it out. Dangerous. Hemorrhage. Cardiac tamponade." He swiveled his head until he could see Willie. "Jesus. Luba did it?"
"He tried to kill you," Luba sobbed. "He tried to kill you."
"Charlie's off calling an ambulance," Alma said. "They'll have the fuzz on us. We got to think, got to all be telling the same story."
* * *
Sally washed the day's accumulation of dishes, then curled up in the living room to read the paperback she'd bought in town. It had been a dark, damp, discouraging Sunday. It was too early to go to bed, it wasn't yet nine—or twenty-one hundred hours, the way they figured time here.
In the book, the heroine, a headstrong girl, had just slashed an arrogant rogue with her riding whip when someone knocked on Sally's door.
She got up and said through the wood, "Who is it?
"Frank."
Sally tensed.
"It's cold out here," he complained.
She really didn't want to let him in, but he was right—it was cold out. Besides, it wasn't all that late. She unlocked the door.
&
nbsp; "I've been standing down there for over an hour," he said once he was inside.
She moved away from him. "Why? It seems like a senseless thing to do."
"Yeah. But I didn't know if you'd let me in."
"Maybe I shouldn't have," she said uneasily.
He didn't reply and they stood confronting one another in silence. She noticed he looked tired and somehow older. "Are you all right?" she asked.
"No."
Sally retreated into the kitchen. "Would you like some coffee?"
"Okay, thanks."
"You didn't work this weekend either, did you?" she asked as she fixed the coffee.
"No."
"I went into town," she began, determined to keep a handle on the conversation. "I wanted to—"
"I couldn't wait till tomorrow," he interrupted.
She frowned. "For what?"
"To see you."
To control her leap of alarm, she busied herself setting two mugs, a small plate of Oreos and paper napkins on the table. Frank sat down in normal fashion, not backwards on the chair. Somehow he wasn't so frightening this way.
As he reached for a cookie, she noticed a tremor of his hand. Maybe he really was ill.
"How'd you know I liked Oreos?" he said.
"I bought them for me. Your hand's shaking—are you sick?"
"Haven't been sleeping."
She'd been about to pour coffee into his mug but now she held. "This isn't decaf," she warned.
"Doesn't matter." When his mug was full, he wrapped both hands around it as though to warm himself.
"Is it still foggy out?" she asked, unhappy with silence.
"Beginning to get worse."
"I don't like this weather—it's depressing. Then I found something out today that made it worse. I coaxed Richard's full name from the Duchess and tried to track him down by calling information in L.A. His last name's unusual enough so I thought I had a chance."
"And?"
"He's dead—has been for almost two years. The sister keeps the phone listed in his name. She'd never heard of a Margaret Flowers."
"Too bad."
"I hate to tell the Duchess," Sally said.
"I don't think you should."
She stared at him. "If I don't, she'll go on believing he'll come for her one day."
"Is that so bad?"
"But he's dead. He won't ever come."
"Let her keep her dream. Not many of us get to."
"Her dream can't come true—isn't that what's important?"
"Not necessarily to the Duchess." He took a long swallow of coffee. "Why did you open your door to me?" he asked.
"I—you asked to come in. You said you were cold."
"You didn't have to open the door. If you're afraid of me, why take a chance?"
"I thought—I expect you to behave."
"But I won't. You know that, don't you, Sally? It's taken a while but it finally occurred to me that, though you shrink away, you keep giving me access, so to speak."
Fear and another emotion she couldn't identify, bubbled inside her. "I don't know what you're talking about. I've never invited you here, I don't want—"
"Don't you?" Frank rose from the chair, grabbed her arm and pulled her up. Before she had time to think, he'd wrapped his arms around her, lifting her off her feet, carrying her into the bedroom.
"Put me down!" she cried. "No!"
He threw her on the bed, yanking her shirt over her head but not all the way off. While she was flailing and struggling with this, he pulled off her jeans and panties. When she tried to scream, her own shirt muffled the sound. Half-suffocated, she writhed and moaned as he spread her legs and thrust himself on top of her. In her. She gasped for air, somehow the pain not as important as breathing. But it hurt. It hurt. She couldn't stand it. Why didn't somebody come. Why didn't her mother come to help her?
"No, no, no," she sobbed. "Don't, don't, I'll be good, Daddy Keith. Don't hurt me anymore."
He was huge as a bear, a monster. She'd be crushed, smashed. Where was Mama? Her head whirled dizzily. She was going to die....
When she became aware again, she heard someone chanting. Em? No, Em was dead.
"Jesus, Jesus, Jesus..."
A man. The pain and terror rushed back and she cringed away from the sound. Daddy Keith, he was here in her room. No, he couldn't be, Daddy Keith was dead, too, drowned dead a long time ago.
Frank!
Sally gasped and sat up. Her shirt was around her neck and she slipped her arms in, pulling it down over her breasts. She stared fearfully at Frank's bulk, a dark outline hunched on the end of the bed.
"I didn't mean—" he began, but the words trailed off. He didn't move.
Sally, still half-naked, shivered.
"It was like the other time with Doris," he said. "The same damn thing. I swore it wouldn't happen again."
She heard a slapping sound and realized after a moment he was pounding one fist into the palm of his other hand.
"Go away," she quavered.
"I'm sorry you got in the way, Sally," he said without turning.
"Get out," she said.
"She was only fourteen. I didn't mean to. I was twenty and knew better."
Why didn't he go? What was he talking about?
"We were cousins. She used to like to kiss me. That's how it all started. Only I knew better."
Sally edged past Frank, stood up and groped in the closet for her robe. She slid in on. "I don't want you here," she said, the words hissing out. "I never want to see you again."
"Doris cried and cried and she told her mother and everyone knew. I didn't mean to hurt her."
"I don't care about your cousin Doris," Sally cried. "Just get out of here." She flipped on the bedroom light. Frank blinked and looked up at her. His face was wet with tears.
"I hate you," she said. "I wish you were dead."
He got up and she shrank away. But he paid her no mind, shambling out of the bedroom. She followed and, if she hadn't thrust his jacket at him, he would have left it.
Once she'd attached the chain behind him, Sally leaned her forehead against the door. Rape. That happened to other people, girls who weren't careful with strangers, who walked alone at night. His words rang in her ears, "Why did you open your door to me?"
Why had she? It was almost as though she'd been compelled to. She fled into the bathroom, took a shower, then huddled in bed with the light on, unable to sleep.
I should have called the police, she told herself. He ought to be put in jail. I hate him. He's an animal.
Except the police would have a doctor examine her. She'd have to tell all sorts of people what happened, tell more than once. They'd stare at her and think that, after all, she'd let him in.
Sally was sure she'd never go to sleep but she drifted off, only to jerk awake, heart pounding. He was outside her bedroom door, another moment and he'd be inside, standing over her, a huge bear of a man, an ugly ogre...
She pressed her hands to her face. Daddy Keith, she must have dreamed about him. He was dead, dead.
How she'd hated and feared him. When her mother married him, Sally had insisted he wasn't really her daddy so he made her call him Daddy Keith. Strange she hadn't thought of him in years and years. How he'd come into her bedroom when he didn't like something she'd done during the day. Never punished her when it happened but made her wait, afraid and trembling in bed.
"Do you know what happens to bad little girls?"
Sally would shake her head, too scared to answer.
"They get dropped out the window." Then he'd grab her from her bed and hold her by her ankles out the apartment window, four stories up. Paralyzed with fright, sure he intended to drop her, she'd pass out and find herself alone and in bed when she came to.
Sometimes he'd say, "They get dunked in cold water," and he'd shove her into the shower, pajamas and all and hold her there until she nearly froze to death.
The worst was when he tell her, "Bad girls get squashe
d like nasty little spiders." Those times he'd climb onto the bed and lay on top of her, his hateful bulk squishing her into the mattress, his chest pressing into her face so she couldn't breathe. Then part of him would start pushing at her, scaring her into a dark world of escape. He was always gone when she came back to herself but sometimes there was nasty stuff on her pajamas.
Her mother never came to her rescue. Why had she never stopped him? Sally gave a sob of laughter. Why ask? Her mother had been completely cowed by Daddy Keith, like she was by Randall, her current husband. At least Randall had always completely ignored Sally.
No wonder she'd blocked Daddy Keith almost completely from her mind—all those nightmare memories needed repressing. He must have been borderline psychotic, the mature Sally told herself, but the child inside her projected the old horror, making Sally cower under the covers, her frightened stare fixed to the bedroom door.
He's not out there. He's dead.
Something slithered from the back of her mind, a horror connected with his death but she shoved it back, unable to process any more.
A sentence from Dr. Kovel's book on madness came to her. "...forms of terror that sit around our campfires..."
Like red-eyed monsters in the dark, waiting.
And she'd let in one of them with Frank.
* * *
In the parking lot, Frank sat in his red Corvette, staring unseeing into the fog. Though he shivered in the chill damp, he made no move to start the car.
He felt light and insubstantial, as though his body had been drained of all weight and could drift away. Maybe that was because he didn't feel part of his body any more. Inside and out was the gray blankness of fog. No sound, no lights. No tomorrow.
His teeth chattered and the slight click startled him into awareness. Cold, he'd never be warm again, the chill was in his marrow. He noticed his jacket on the seat next to him and shrugged into it. Glancing at the lighted dial of his watch, he saw it was after eleven. The evening shift would soon be getting off work. Tomorrow he had to work.
He reached and flicked on the key. How long had he been in the car? Long enough for Sally to have called the cops if she intended to do that. He wished they'd come, arrest him, punish him. His mother had died without forgiving him.
