Body Rides (16 page)

The pistol thumped quietly against the wood of his headboard shelf when he set it down beside his clock radio.

The green digital numbers on the clock read 5:42.

Jesus, he thought.

Which reminded him to say a prayer.

A prayer was routine for Neal at bedtime. Usually a quick run-through
of the Lord’s Prayer in his head. Usually without giving it much thought. Just something he’d done since childhood.

God might be out there someplace.

If He was, however, Neal rather doubted that He paid much attention to prayers. And doubted
strongly
that a prayer, if heard, was likely to change God’s mind about anything at all, or alter the course of events.

But you never knew.

Tonight, Neal’s mental recitation didn’t stop at ‘for Thine is the kingdom and the power and the glory forever.’ He went on from there. ‘And dear God, please watch over Elise. I don’t know why you let something like that happen to her. You probably didn’t have much to do with it, I don’t know. Shit. Sorry. Anyway, I guess her number was up, or whatever. Anyway, be good to her in Heaven, if there is such a place, because she sure got fucked down here. Sorry about that. It’s how I feel. And if You’re listening, I’d appreciate it, too, if You’d not let that scumbag sneak in here and nail me while I’m asleep. Thank you. Amen.’

Neal slept fitfully, troubled by nightmares and strange dreams, disturbed every so often by sounds from outside his windows as other tenants started their day. Throughout the morning and afternoon, noises intruded on his sleep: banging doors and gates, voices, footsteps, laughter, splashes in the pool, distant lawnmowers and leaf-blowers and sirens, an occasional faraway bam that might be a gunshot, a backfire, a board being dropped onto concrete, who knows?

The noises lifted him toward consciousness. Few of them woke him completely, though. The times that he did wake up, he was too confused to focus on what had happened last night, and slipped back into his uneasy sleep.

When Neal finally did wake up, he found himself sprawled on his back, naked and sweaty in the afternoon heat, his sheet kicked off.

He used his pillow to mop his face dry. Then he rolled onto his side and looked at his clock radio.

4:23.

He’d slept about ten hours.

He glanced at his pistol on the shelf beside the clock.

With the weight of memory caving down on him, he wished he’d gone on sleeping.

Nice not to wake up at all
.

He wondered if he might be able to fall back asleep.

Impossible. He was wide awake, now. Not just awake, but sick with fear and guilt and revulsion and sorrow.

Move it, he told himself. Won’t be as bad if I’m up and around.

He scurried off his bed. Though he moaned at the stiffness and aches from his injuries, he didn’t pause. He rushed into the bathroom, remembered his pistol, trotted back to his bedroom and grabbed it off the headboard, then returned with it to the bathroom.

He locked the bathroom door, but didn’t take the pistol with him into the shower.

Didn’t want to get it wet.

Besides, taking it into the shower would’ve been going a bit too far.

I’m not
that
paranoid, Neal told himself as he showered. If the bastard hasn’t shown up for the past ten hours, it’s not likely he’ll try to make his kill at four-thirty in the afternoon.

What kept him, anyway?

Maybe he had trouble finding the place. Or trouble finding transportation.

He might still be in Brentwood.

Might be in police custody.

Might even be dead.

Wishful thinking, Neal told himself. A guy doesn’t get up after being shot two or three or four times, then drive all the way to Brentwood, beat up Elise and drag her all the way from the hall to the master bathroom, tie her in the tub and
do
all that to her,
then
go off somewhere and drop dead from his gunshot wounds.

Maybe the bastard’s just resting up
.

That seemed a lot more likely.

All the work on Elise had probably worn him out, so he went to ground.

Not to a hospital. He wouldn’t be that stupid. The cops would nail him for sure if he checked in for a little treatment of his gunshot wounds. They’d put two and two together – blood at the
scene, .380 caliber brass at the scene, and he’s got .380 size holes in his body. They’d be sure to connect him with Elise’s murder.

No, no hospital for Rasputin. He’d go home, patch himself up the best he could, and hit the sack.

He’ll probably come for me tonight, Neal thought. But not until after dark.

This was July, Daylight Savings Time, so darkness wouldn’t come until well after eight o’clock.

Neal figured he was probably safe until then, at least.

Done in the shower, he quickly dried himself, being careful to avoid the abrasions on his knees and elbows. Scabs were starting to form, but the wounds still felt raw and sore. He patted them dry with a tissue. The white tissue came away wet, but not discolored. He tossed it into the wastebasket.

And thought about the tissue in Elise’s wastebasket.

It had been pink with his blood.

Evidence that could put him at the scene of the crime.

He should’ve flushed it down the toilet – then gone around Elise’s house and wiped away every trace of his fingerprints and shoeprints.

He’d been too messed up, at the time.

Too scared and outraged and confused.

It had seemed like too big a job, an overwhelming and impossible task, and not an important thing to do. Finding the killer had been the important thing. Not trying to cover up for himself.

If he had it to do over again, though . . .

You can’t go back, he told himself.

Unless the body hasn’t been found yet
.

He draped his towel over the bar to dry, rolled deodorant onto his armpits, then picked up his pistol and opened the door. After the steamy heat of the bathroom, the hallway felt cool. So did his bedroom.

He took a pair of faded blue gym shorts out of his dresser drawer, and put them on.

He started to shut the drawer. Then stopped and reached inside. He slipped his hand underneath the socks, and touched the bracelet.

Leave it, he told himself. Don’t want to have it on if Marta shows up.

So he shut the drawer, picked up his pistol and walked into the living room. The clock on the VCR showed 4:57. In three minutes, local news should be starting.

He hurried into the kitchen, took a can of Budweiser out of the refrigerator, returned to the living room and picked up the television remote. He thumbed the TV on. Seated on the sofa, he popped open the can. He took a swallow of beer, then made sure he was on one of the three channels that carried local news at five.

Elise was the top story.

They found her
.

Neal had a sudden urge to turn off the TV. He didn’t want to see this, didn’t want to know.

I
need
to watch, he told himself.

A photo of Elise appeared behind the anchor woman. A photograph from the past. She was hardly more than a teenager, and dressed in a swimsuit. Her hair was wet. She looked beautiful. Neal groaned.

‘The affluent west-side community of Brentwood has once again been shocked by a brutal slaying in its midst. Elise Waters, former Olympic diving great and wife of actor Vince Conrad was found murdered in their home on Greenhaven Lane this morning. Jody Bain is live at the scene.’

The reporter seemed to be standing somewhere on the road near the front of Elise’s house. ‘The grim discovery,’ she said, ‘was made at approximately nine o’clock this morning when the victim’s housekeeper, Maria Martinez, arrived for . . .’

Neal flinched as someone knocked on his door.

Then he recognized the quick, light rhythm of the rapping.

Marta.

‘Thank God,’ he muttered, and shut off the television.

‘You in there? It’s me.’

He hid the pistol underneath one of the sofa’s pillows, then stood up. ‘Just a second,’ he said. He considered hurrying to his bedroom and putting on enough clothes to hide his injuries. But she was bound to see them, sooner or later.

So he stepped over to the door, unbolted it and swung it open.
Seeing Marta, he felt some of his pain slide away. She looked so fresh and cheerful and alive.

And familiar.

Nothing about her had changed since last night, except her outfit. When he’d last seen her, she’d been wearing her airline clothes: blue blazer, silk scarf, white blouse, blue slacks and black leather shoes. Now, she wore a big, loose T-shirt, denim shorts, and sandals.

So familiar and so normal.

As if nothing had happened.

Since seeing her last night, Neal had shot a man, saved a woman’s life, fallen suddenly in love, taken trips with a magic bracelet, and let the wonderful new woman get destroyed. But Marta looked as if everything had gone along in a normal, fine fashion, nothing out of the ordinary happening since her last visit.

She was smiling when Neal opened the door. Moments later, however, she frowned. ‘What happened?’ she asked.

‘A long story,’ he said.

‘Are you all right?’

‘Yeah, I’m okay.’

She stepped inside and swung the door shut. ‘Come here,’ she said. ‘I’ll make you feel better.’

When he moved closer, she put out her hands to stop him. She leaned forward, kissed him on the mouth, then worked her way slowly down his body, squatting lower and lower as she gently touched her lips to every scratch and scrape and bruise on his chest and belly.

By the time she faced his shorts, they were jutting out.

‘Glad to see you’re feeling better,’ she said.

Neal pushed his fingers through her thick, soft hair.

She slipped her fingertips under the elastic waistband at the front of his shorts. ‘What’ve we got in here?’ she asked. She drew the band toward her and down. ‘Well, now,’ she said.

The shorts came to rest around Neal’s feet.

Marta kissed the tip of his penis. She licked him. Her tongue was slick. Then her lips were a slick, tight circle sliding down while her hands clutched his buttocks and urged him closer.

Neal was astonished.

She had never done anything like this before.

It was almost as if she’d sensed a need in him – a need to be surprised, shocked, delighted.

Or maybe the need was hers.

For a while, he forgot about everything except Marta and her mouth.

When it was over, she quit sucking and swallowing, but kept him inside, holding him softly with her lips.

Neal felt weak and shaky.

She pulled her mouth away, lifted his shorts to their usual place, then tilted back her head and looked up at him. Her lips were shiny. ‘How was that?’ she asked.

‘Are you kidding?’

She stood and leaned forward against him and put her arms around his back. She was breathing hard. Her breasts pushed at his chest. ‘Did I do it right?’ she asked.

‘It was great.’

‘I wasn’t so sure about the swallowing.’

‘I think it’s optional.’

She laughed. ‘Would’ve made a mess if I hadn’t.’ She kissed him gently on the mouth, then eased her face away so that she could look into his eyes.

Her eyes switched from side to side. After a while, she asked, ‘Something’s the matter, isn’t it?’

‘Everything’s fine,’ Neal said, and saw a change in her eyes. They stayed the same pale blue color, but somehow they seemed to darken. She knew he’d lied.

‘Is it something I did?’ she asked.

‘No. No. Are you kidding?’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Positive.’

‘Then, is there anything I can do to help?’

‘You just did.’

‘Ho ho.’

‘I mean it.’

‘I know. But I hate to see you this way. Do you want to tell me about it?’

‘I don’t know,’ he said.

‘Do you want to get me a beer?’

‘Sure.’

Leaving Marta, he hurried into the kitchen. He took a Budweiser out of the refrigerator, a glass mug out of the cupboard. He had nearly filled the mug when Marta stepped into the eating area.

Neal had never eaten there. The table held his word-processor, printer, scattered pens and note pads and a few stacks of books.

Marta glanced at the blank screen of his monitor, then looked at Neal and raised her eyebrows. ‘Writer’s block?’ she asked.

‘Worse than that.’

‘What could be worse than that?’