Francis picked up the lighthouse saltshaker, turned it over in his hands. Along the bottom it read ST. AUGUSTINE, FLORIDA. He recalled the posters from Dwayne’s bedroom. “Did Dwayne like to travel?”
Emma shook her head. “My sister. Dwayne just went along with it. Dwayne preferred just hanging around the house, tinkering with an engine or watching baseball on TV. He was an asshole, but he did indulge my sister’s love of travel. I guess I at least need to give him credit for that.”
Francis took the magazine page from his back pocket, unfolded it, and set it on the table between them. Emma looked at it, then looked at him.
“I subscribe to Adventure Travel,” Francis said. “Every month I look at pictures of other people having some amazing good time, an African safari or whatever. I thought white-water rafting would be fun. I’ve been saving up to go.”
Emma’s face remained blank. Maybe Francis was boring her. He pressed on anyway.
“Listen to this one part of the article.” Francis flipped the page over and read, “Your Open Spaces Trek guide will take every precaution to make your wild river ride as safe and as comfortable as possible.”
Emma emptied the rest of the Chianti into her glass. “So?”
“I don’t think I really understood what the word adventure meant,” Francis said. “If it’s so safe and comfortable and prepackaged, does that even count? I’m not saying it wouldn’t be fun; I’m just saying that maybe it wasn’t ever offering what I thought I would be getting.”
Emma set her wineglass on the table without drinking, frowned. “And if you come with me, then what? That’s a real adventure?”
Francis was already shaking his head before she’d finished asking the question. “No. I’m not explaining myself right. I don’t think I ever really wanted an adventure at all. I certainly don’t want people trying to kill me. But I think I was trying to make my life mean something, or that something I did mattered. When those guys grabbed you and I followed in the taxi, I mean, look, I don’t know. I’m not sure what I’m really trying to say. If I’d thought about it for another second, I probably would have come to my senses, but I didn’t. I went after you, and now if something happened, and you got killed, then it would be like I never saved you at all.” Francis blew out a heavy sigh. “I guess I just don’t want to see the only good deed I’ve ever done get fucked up because I wasn’t there to help.”
She looked at him for a long moment. Francis himself hadn’t even known exactly what he was going to say until he started saying it. He was even less sure about how Emma would take it.
She picked up her wineglass, titled it back, and drained it in three long swallows. She stood, circled the table to Francis’s side, and pushed the little kitchen table out of the way.
Francis opened his mouth to say something.
She put two fingers on his lips. “Don’t.”
Right.
She swung one leg over, straddling him, and lowered herself into his lap. Francis thought his heart might beat straight out of his chest, but he made himself breathe steadily and let her do just exactly as she pleased. He didn’t touch. He assumed nothing. He let her take the lead and trusted it would be good.
Emma placed a hand on each side of his face and lowered her lips to his. At first, she just mashed hard, holding him like that as if making some bold statement that she’d decided to do this and it was happening. Then she pulled away slightly, his bottom lip between her teeth. She bit, not hard, just enough to send a sharp thrill through his entire body.
Then she began kissing in earnest, lips parting, tongue sliding into his mouth, her fingers going up into his hair. He kissed back, head spinning. His arms went around her and pulled her tight against him. He went stiff beneath her, and she began to grind.
They went on like that for a bit, Francis hoping she’d start whatever was supposed to happen next because he was too timid.
She pulled open his shirt, the snaps giving away with ease, and rubbed her hand across his chest. His hands slid down to her backside, gripping and pulling her down against him. A small moan from her, barely above a whisper, her head going back, eyes closed. Francis kissed a trail from her chin down her throat.
Emma stood abruptly. “Come on.”
She took his hand and led him down the hall to the bedroom.
Frantically, they pulled at each other’s clothing. Her fingers went to his zipper. He pulled her shirt up over her head, then reached around for the bra clasp, was pleasantly surprised to unclasp it on the first try. One of her slim hands went to the back of his head, grabbed a fistful of hair, and brought him down to a pert breast. He licked the nipple, then sucked it hard enough to make her gasp.
They kicked off their shoes and shucked their pants.
She pushed Francis back on the bed, then took him into her mouth, head bobbing until he was fully hard. Then she climbed on top, lowered herself slowly until he was completely inside, a ragged grunt coming out of her.
Francis thought he might pass out.
He noticed the tattoo of a stylized sun around her navel, heat waves blazing in all directions. He wondered what other tattoos she had, hoped he would find them all.
She rocked back and forth on top of him, throwing her head back, the grunts getting more and more urgent. He filled his hands with her behind, pulling her along with the rhythm she’d set. He didn’t think he could last too much longer.
“Do you have … I mean, do you take a pill or…”
“No,” she said. “You’ll have to pull out, but … not yet. Not … yet.”
She rode him wildly now, the bed threatening to rattle apart. Francis bit the inside of his own lip, hoping to distract himself. Her whole body shuddered, and she groaned and went stiff. She climbed off him, grabbed his length and stroked hard three times, and he cut loose.
Emma scooted up to curl next to him, panting, a lazy hand on his chest. Francis felt like his heart was going to break right through his chest. His whole body hummed, remembering the experience.
“I didn’t mean to go so fast,” she said. “It’s been a while. I think I was overdue.”
Francis hadn’t realized until now how perfunctory sex with Enid had become. He’d forgotten what it could be like when it was all new and exciting. “That was way better than white-water rafting.”
She laughed.
They lay tangled together awhile, not talking, just enjoying each other’s warmth. Then Emma reached under the covers and worked Francis ready again. This time they went slowly, exploring, a less urgent but more earnest effort. He found a tattoo of a dolphin on her ankle.
Another tattoo down at the bottom of her tailbone. A hovering Tinker Bell.
At last they finished, spent and satisfied, and dozed in the dark.
Sometime later, in a quiet voice, she said, “I did that because I wanted to. That’s the only reason. Not because I felt I owed you or that I could get you to do something or anything like that. This was what it was, and it’s not connected to anything else.”
“Okay,” Francis said.
“There’s a train station about an hour from here,” she said. “When we leave in the morning, I’m going to drop you there. You can go wherever you need to, but I’m heading on to California. Without you.”
Francis tried to object, but she hurried on with what she was saying, wanting to get it all out before Francis could derail her.
“I haven’t told you everything. You know that,” she said. “But what I’ve got to do is something very personal. It’s on me. Nobody else. Earlier, you said you didn’t want your good deed messed up. I get that. And it’s why you can’t come. This is my good deed. Keeping you out of the mess I’m about to get myself into. And if I seem like the kind of person that’s not going to let anyone change her mind once she’s made her decision, then you’re right. So really, anything you think you’re going to say, just don’t, because I’m not going to change my mind. I like you, Francis. Maybe another place and another time. But this
isn’t another place or time.”
And then she turned over, her back to him, and scooted all the way to her side of the bed, and that was the end of the conversation.
19
It was maybe 4:00 A.M. when Francis heard Emma get out of bed, slip on her T-shirt and panties, and leave the room. He thought maybe she’d gone to sleep elsewhere, but a moment later he heard the toiled flush down the hall, and then she slipped back into bed again. She burrowed beneath the covers and was breathing steadily again in seconds.
Francis couldn’t get back to sleep, thoughts tumbling in his head. It took him a minute to remember which state he was in.
South Dakota. How the hell did I end up in South Dakota?
There was no Open Spaces Trek guide to tell him what to do.
Over coffee, Francis would change her mind. He’d explain …
What? Emma had every right to want to handle her own business herself. The fact that Francis had just had some of the best sex in his life simply wasn’t pertinent. And he couldn’t say, You’re a weak little girl, and you need a man around to look after you. She’d laugh. Or kick his ass.
But the idea of Emma going out of his life tomorrow made his chest tighten. In a week or a month? Maybe. But not tomorrow. Not before he’d had the chance to see if this could be something good, that maybe the boring doofus who worked in a cubicle and the wild-haired girl with the alligator suitcase could actually mesh.
He mentally rehearsed what he’d say to her, but it all sounded so feeble.
Slowly, a gray, grim light leaked through the blinds. The dawn was still a ways off, but the beginnings of a predawn glow edged the horizon, a bleak and timid preview of the sunrise to come.
Francis rolled out of bed, trying not to make any noise, and gathered up his clothes and shoes. He carried them into the hall and dressed there. In the kitchen, he started a pot of coffee. He looked out the kitchen window over the sink. The landscape had been enveloped by a dense gloom.
He stepped out onto the front porch. The air was pleasantly chilly without being cold. A thick fog had rolled in. From where Francis stood, he could see neither the tree line nor the barn. The row of rusted cars was close enough to appear as a line of dark shapes humping up from the tall grass.
There was something hypnotic about the morning’s utter silence. Everything was so still. He could have been on a soundstage. Odd how the fog transformed everything, made his surroundings seem artificial. He stepped down from the porch, ventured across the wet grass toward the barn.
A form congealed in the mist to his left and startled him. He realized it was the old tractor. He’d forgotten it was there. He paused, looked back at the house. He’d only walked a few dozen yards, but already the house was nothing more than a dark outline, the kitchen light in the window a fuzzy orange beacon.
The snap of a twig. A frantic flutter of bird’s wings.
The sounds were sudden and loud in the silent fog. Francis strained his eyes, trying to catch sight of whatever startled the bird. He knew nothing of South Dakota wildlife. Did they have coyotes?
When Francis saw them, his breath caught.
They came through the fog like ghosts, five of them or maybe six, although he sensed more beyond the range of his sight. They advanced toward the house, stepping lightly and slowly. Most of the men were merely vague silhouettes in the gray soup, but the closest was visible enough to see details. At first, Francis thought it was Cavanaugh, the same general build. But it was a younger guy with an enormous automatic pistol in his fist. Other than the occasional crunch of gravel under a shoe, they were keeping it quiet. If Francis had still been sleeping in bed, he would never have known they were coming.
Emma! Oh, shit, what do I do?
Shouting a warning was obviously a bad idea. It would only draw attention to himself. They’d have him, and then there wouldn’t be a thing he could do to help Emma.
It dawned on Francis that if he could see them, then they could see him. Their attention was fixed on the house, but they had only to turn their heads to see him gawking there like an imbecile.
Francis shrank back against the tractor, slowly lowering himself and scooting around to crouch behind a big tire. He watched, feeling helpless and stupid.
Two of the men climbed the steps to the porch. The others circled around.
Francis forced slower breaths before he hyperventilated. He felt sick and nervous and sweaty behind his ears. This is what Emma had meant, Francis realized, what she’d wanted to spare him. This wasn’t white-water rafting. These were men with guns, and they wouldn’t hesitate to kill him. In fact, he’d made it easy for them. They could dump his body in the woods, and nobody would ever know. All he could do was cower there and watch.
No! Use your brain, dink. Think of something!
He looked over his shoulder back at the barn. Going toward it would put him deeper into the fog and out of sight, but it wouldn’t last forever. As the sun rose, the fog would burn off. Whatever he was going to do, he needed to get on with it.
He turned slowly and quietly, duck-walking toward the barn.
* * *
Cavanaugh paused in front of the front door, Ike and Ernie right behind him. He motioned for the new guys to circle the house. The last thing he wanted was the girl and the kid running out the back. He was in no mood to chase those fuckers around in the fog.
He gave Ike and Ernie the eye. You ready?
They nodded and drew their pistols. Cavanaugh already had his little automatic out. Everyone had been instructed on how to handle this. Shooting Berringer was fine—they’d probably have to dispose of him sooner or later anyway—but the girl had to be taken in one piece. She was their payday. They’d make her talk, make her think it was the only way to save herself.
Of course, she’d probably need to disappear too. Cavanaugh was making up a lot of this as he went along. He was usually the guy carrying out somebody else’s plan, not coming up with the plan himself. Soon those days would be over, and nobody would boss Cavanaugh but Cavanaugh.
He put a hand on the doorknob, paused. Were they sure this was the right house? The map really was crap, and they could have missed a turn in the fog.
Fuck it.
He turned the knob slowly. It was unlocked. He pushed the door inward, wincing at the slight creak of the hinges. They entered, clicked the door closed behind them.
A very small foyer. It opened to a small living room, a threadbare couch, fifteen-year-old TV, rough stone fireplace. It led the other way to a small dining room, round table and four chairs, a doorway beyond which Cavanaugh assumed went to the kitchen. A hallway ahead of them.
Cavanaugh motioned Ike toward the dining room and kitchen, indicated Ernie should follow him into the hallway. They paused at a bathroom, found it empty, and kept moving. The door to the bedroom was already open. Cavanaugh peeked around the corner, saw a lump curled under the covers in the double bed. The other side of the bed looked like maybe it had been slept in also. Cavanaugh raked the rest of the room with his eyes and wondered where Berringer might be.
He went to one knee and looked under the bed. Nobody.
Cavanaugh opened the closet door—
She leaped out at him, swinging something down at him hard. It would have hit him square in the forehead, but he flinched and turned aside and took the strike on the collarbone. He screamed in pain as she pushed past him, making a run for it.
Ernie filled the doorway, blocking her. She swung again—Cavanaugh could see now she was wielding a baseball trophy like a club—but Ernie caught her by the wrist and twisted. She yelped and dropped the trophy.
She punched Ernie in the jaw, but he just grunted and grabbed her. She struggled, trying to wrench loose, and he turned her around, grabbed her around the waist, and lifted. She thrashed, bare feet churning the air.
“She’s like some fucking rabid wolverine!” Ernie shouted.
Cavanaugh rushed forward to help subdue her.
“Motherfucker
s!” She kicked out hard, caught Cavanaugh in the gut with her heel.
Cavanaugh double over and whuffed air. “Damn bitch!”
Ike burst into the room. “What the fuck?”
“Get her legs!” Ernie shouted.
Ike grabbed her legs, taking several kicks to the chest in the process. Eventually, he had her by the ankles, and Ernie held her under the arms. It was tough going as she wriggled and cursed them. She twisted around a couple of times, trying to bite Ernie.
“Get her on the bed,” Ike said. “Then hold her down.”
They tossed her on the bed, and Ernie put a hand on her chest between her breasts, leaned all his weight into it, pinning her against the mattress. She reached up and clawed his cheek, drawing three red welts.
“Jesus!” Ernie shouted. “Do whatever you’re going to do already!”
Ike pulled something from his jacket pocket. “Stand back.”
Ernie stood back just as Ike reached in and touched the object to the girl’s bare thigh. There was a blue flash and a crackle and pop. The girl went rigid a moment, then limp. She tried to lift her head but couldn’t, eyes going glassy and unfocused.
Cavanaugh rubbed his gut. “What the hell was that?”
“Stun gun.” Ike held it up, thumbing the trigger. Blue fire leaped between the two contacts.
“Where’d you get that?” Cavanaugh asked. “I didn’t know you had that.”
Ike shrugged. “Mail order.”
The girl moaned, her limbs making jerky motions as she tried to move.
“I hope you didn’t brain damage her,” Cavanaugh said. “We need her to talk.”
“She’ll come out of it in a few minutes.”
Cavanaugh grabbed a lamp from the bedside table and yanked out the power cord. He used it to tie her wrists. “Get something for her feet.”
Ernie found a belt in one of the dresser drawers and cinched it tight around her ankles. “I’m getting tired of this little girl kicking the crap out of us.” He dabbed at the scratches on his face, and his fingertips came away wet and red. “I need to find Bactine or something.” He left the room, muttering about his various injuries.
No Good Deed Page 13
