After Midnight (41 page)
Clutching the saber where I’d first grabbed it—high on the blade—I pounded the top of Steve’s head with the hilt. The blade hurt my hand. That close to the hilt, though, it wasn’t very sharp. I didn’t think it had cut me.
But the hilt
clobbered
Steve.
I got him with the metal part that curves over to protect your hand during a sword fight.
He grunted and flinched. Then he jerked his arms out from under my ass and I was afraid of what he might do, so instead of worrying about my hand, I hammered him with the hilt about five more times hard and fast. My hand hurt with each blow, but I bashed the crap out of Steve’s head and knocked him out cold.
He lay on top of me as if he’d suddenly fallen asleep.
Blood poured out of his torn scalp, soaked his hair, spilled all over my chest.
Bucking and twisting, I threw him off me.
He landed on his back, and I got to my feet. My right hand hurt like mad. I switched the saber to my left, then checked the damage. Not much. The blade had pressed several deep dents across my hand and fingers, but there were no cuts.
I’d gotten off lucky.
In more ways than one.
In
plenty
of ways.
I stared down at Steve. He still seemed to be unconscious. His head was lying in a nice puddle of blood.
I was all bloody, myself. I looked as if a small animal had died a messy death between my breasts.
Steve could’ve had a jolly time licking me clean.
I thought about waking him up and
making
him do it.
But he might bite me again. Or worse.
Over at the counter, I tore some paper towels off a roll and wiped the worst of the blood off me. I would’ve liked to take a shower.
But—as usual—I had too many other things to do.
Steve wouldn’t stay unconscious forever.
Probably.
Right now, I had a choice to make: either kill him, or not.
No, that’s wrong. Letting him live wasn’t a real option.
For one thing, he knew too much. He knew my name and where I lived. He’d seen me kill Tony and Milo. He’d seen me abuse Judy, and had probably made her talk before killing her. If the cops got him alive, he would likely “turn over” on me to get a deal.
For another thing, the guy had murdered Elroy and Judy and maybe Marilyn (the dead woman in Milo’s tent). God only knows how many other people he and Milo had murdered as a team. He’d called himself a “thrill-killer” and he was probably a cannibal, to boot.
Besides, given the chance, he would try to murder me.
So the real choices were between killing Steve here and now, or killing him somewhere else, later.
I was very tempted to do it here and now. Immediately, he would stop being a threat. (Dead men not only tell no tales, they
get
no tails. They don’t rape, torture, or murder anyone ever again.)
But I would be stuck with Steve’s body on the kitchen floor. And Elroy’s headless body in the guest bathroom. And Elroy’s head in the swimming pool. And various other, more manageable messes.
Quite frankly, I’d had enough of that shit.
He made the messes, let him clean them up!
YEAH!
It would be risky. But I had the saber, now.
While I waited for him to regain consciousness, I wondered about tying him up. Some manner of restraint seemed necessary. But how could he pick up Elroy, and so on, if his hands were tied? How could he carry the body away from the house with his feet bound together?
Pretty soon, I came up with a good solution.
I hurried into the laundry room. Serena had a fifteen-foot electrical extension cord that she mostly used for her iron. I unplugged it, gathered it up, and hurried back into the kitchen with it. Steve looked as if he hadn’t moved.
I set my saber on top of a counter, then took a small knife out of the butcher block knife holder. In Serena’s “junk drawer,” I found some heavy-duty strapping tape. The sort that has threads running through it, so it’s almost unbreakable.
Kneeling by Steve’s bare feet, I tied one end of the electrical cord around his left ankle. I knotted it as well as I could, but cords make lousy knots. You just can’t pull them tight enough. So then I unspooled about a yard of tape and cut it off with the knife. I used the tape to wrap his ankle
and
the cord. Then used another length of tape, just to make sure.
When I was done, the cord seemed completely secure.
I had fashioned a “foot-leash” for Steve.
I retrieved the saber. Then I put all the sharp kitchen knives into a drawer so they wouldn’t be handy for Steve. When that was done, I picked up my end of the extension cord and gave it a couple of tugs.
“Hey, Steve!” I yelled. “Wake up! We’ve got work to do!”
Perhaps I’d bashed him
too
hard.
Though I yelled at him and gave him nudges with my foot, he refused to stir.
To make sure he wasn’t faking, I gave the crotch of his shorts a couple of prods with the tip of my saber. He didn’t react, so I was convinced.
Now what?
In his present condition, he was useless. Worse than useless. Not only could
he
not do any chores for me, but
I
couldn’t leave his side.
Well, I could leave his side, but not the kitchen.
At any moment, he might come to. I needed to be nearby when that happened, not off somewhere bringing in the margarita pitcher or gathering up my clothes or cleaning Elroy’s assorted fluids off the bathroom floor.
Standing over him, I tried to think…plan my moves.
Top priority was keeping control of Steve, so I crouched down and slid his right leg over against his left, then wrapped the cord around both his ankles. Just a simple precaution to keep him from making any quick attacks.
As an added precaution, I placed a kitchen chair on top of him. The chair didn’t touch him. With its front legs under his armpits and its rear legs beside his thighs, its job was to keep him from getting up fast and silently.
Now that I seemed to be safe from a surprise attack, I went over to the counter and picked up the steaks. They were still frozen, but seemed to have a slight springiness. Maybe my body heat
had
quickened the thawing process.
I thought about giving Steve the treatment.
But that might wake him up. True, I wanted to get things over with as soon as possible. But if Steve would do me the favor of staying out cold for a while, I could take care of a few matters on my own.
I placed the steaks in the platter of teryaki sauce, turned them over, then washed my hands at the sink.
I wanted to wash my whole body. Even though I’d already done a quick job with some paper towels, I felt incredibly filthy—itchy and sticky from such items as sweat and teryaki sauce and Steve’s spittle and blood.
A bath or shower would have to wait.
But now that I had some free time, I went to the kitchen sink, set the saber down on the counter within easy reach, and held a dish towel under the faucet. When the towel was heavy with cold water, I turned around to watch Steve, and mopped myself with the sopping cloth. The water just seemed to flood me. It felt heavenly. It ran all down my body and made a puddle around my feet.
With a fresh dish towel, I dried myself and wiped up the puddle.
I felt so much better!
I felt like celebrating with a drink. Of course, the pitcher of margarita was on the table out by the pool, and I didn’t dare go after it. The makings were still on the kitchen counter, though. So I took down a clean glass, tossed in a couple of ice cubes, and poured myself some tequila.
I hopped up and sat on the counter. I was wearing nothing, of course, except my thong panties. The tiles were cool and smooth under my rump.
I took a sip of the gold tequila. It felt cool in my mouth, then seemed to scald my throat and stomach.
I said, “Ahhh.”
It is astonishing—and maybe one of life’s quiet miracles—how much better every situation becomes as soon as you find a chance to clean up, have a good drink and relax. You might still be in an awful pickle, but you
feel
so much better, regardless.
It also helps if you’re alone. With Elroy dead and Steve unconscious, I was alone for all intents and purposes. There was nobody to contend with, nobody who needed to be lied to, tricked or fought. It was such a relief.
I just sat there on the counter with my feet dangling, kept a general eye on Steve, and enjoyed my drink. I’d already knocked down a couple of margaritas. They hadn’t been nearly as soothing, though, as the tequila.
Soon, I was feeling fine and lazy.
I wished I could lie down for a nap, but that was out of the question.
I needed activity to keep from drowsing off, so I hopped down from the counter. I set aside my empty glass, picked up the saber and both the dish towels, and went over to Steve. Crouching by his head, I set down the saber. Then I used the wet towel to clean him up. As I wiped the blood off him, I kept a sharp watch for any sign that he might be coming awake.
There was none.
With the same wet towel, I mopped the blood off the floor. This required several trips to the sink and back, but didn’t take terribly long. Anyway, it was something to do while I waited.
Next, I folded the other dish towel into a square pad, and placed it against the wounds on top of Steve’s head. With long strips of strapping tape (which I cut with the saber), I fastened down its corners to his ears and the sides of his face. It made him look stupid. Which was fine with me.
Pigs deserve to look stupid.
With the mess cleaned up and Steve bandaged, I felt free to relax again. But I was hungrier than ever.
Over at the counter, I checked the steaks. Nearly thawed out, they felt springy and firm, but stiff in the center.
Why wait any longer? I thought. You can’t barbecue them on the grill, anyway. Not unless Steve comes to about now.
Well, I could drag him outside.
Right. No way.
I tossed some more ice cubes into my glass, added more gold tequila, took a sip, and sighed.
Squatting and duck-walking, I searched one cupboard after another until I found Serena’s wok. I took it to the stove and set it on a burner. Then I hunted out her vegetable oil. I poured some into the wok, turned the burner on, and spent the next couple of minutes cutting the two steaks into bitesized chunks.
Naturally, I took time out, every half a minute or so, to make sure Steve hadn’t moved.
I tossed the two bones into the waste basket beside the stove.
By the time I managed to find Serena’s wooden stirring spoon, the oil in the wok seemed good and hot.
I poured in the meat and teryaki sauce.
Hiss, sizzle, spit, spatter!
“Shit!” I yelped and leaped away, my belly and breasts stinging with a thousand pin-pricks of fire. My skin glittered with specks of oil.
Here’s a cooking tip: never stir-fry topless.
Except for a few moments of amazing pain, no real damage was done.
The wok no longer seemed to be erupting, so after a glance at Steve, I picked up the wooden spoon and started to stir the mixture of oil, teryaki sauce, and chunks of steak.
If they cooked too long, they’d be tough. So I counted to sixty in my head a couple of times while I continued to stir. Then I shut off the burner, hurried over to a cupboard and snatched down a couple of dinner plates.
I piled about the same amount of steak teryaki onto each plate. Which seemed pretty generous, considering Steve’s treatment of me. Also considering it would probably be cold and ruined by the time he might get around to eating it.
I set aside Steve’s dinner, then found myself a fork and hopped up onto the counter. The counter made a fine seat. Not only did it feel cool and smooth under me, but I liked having the elevation. Perched up there, I had an excellent view of Steve. And I could jump down and run over to him in about a second if I had to.
With the plate resting on my lap, I sipped my tequila and ate the tasty chunks of steak. There should’ve been a bed of those crispy, squiggly Chinese noodles underneath the meat and sauce. That would’ve been great, but I hadn’t thought of it. At this point, I didn’t want to bother hunting for the noodles.
I wished I hadn’t thought of them, though. It’s a lousy thing, when you’re eating fabulous steak teryaki, to ruin it by worrying about the noodles that might’ve been.
Forget about the noodles! Relish the meal you’ve got!
Words to live by.
Hey, have you ever noticed how much
better
food tastes when you’re a little tipsy? For some reason, aromas and flavors seem so much more wonderful than when you’re completely sober. If you’re not a drinker, you’re really missing a treat.
Of course, you’re also missing the aftermath, where you feel crummy and may vomit.
I guess it’s a toss-up.
Done with my meal, I hopped off the counter. I rinsed my plate and fork at the sink, and stowed them away in Serena’s dishwasher. Then I had a little dab more tequila. When the glass was empty, I filled it with cold water and took a good, long drink.
Now what?
Steve was still out cold, and I’d run out of things to keep me busy.
Try to wake him up?
I refilled my glass with water, then added a few ice cubes. Taking the saber along, I walked over to the chair that I’d placed over Steve’s torso. I sat down on it, my feet on the floor just above his shoulders, and rested the saber across my lap. Then I leaned forward and peered down between my knees.
He looked asleep.
“Steve?” I asked.
He didn’t move.
I gave his shoulder a nudge with my foot. Still no response.
If he’s going to
stay
out cold…
Instead of dumping the glassful of water onto his face, I drank it. When nothing was left except for a few ice cubes, I bent way down and set the empty glass on Steve’s forehead.