Topping From Below (21 page)

And I wait for him to escalate the game. The sex is good, better than good, but it’s still within the pale. I know this won’t last. I reread Franny’s incomplete diary, looking between the lines for clues of needles or knives, but there are none. If only she had mentioned the couple at Lake Tahoe, and M.’s penchant for cutting, I could take this information to Harris. I read the diary again, for the umpteenth time, not because I need to refresh my memory—I know it almost by heart—but because I can’t leave it alone. I have become an addict; the diary is my heroin. I read what he did to her; I see how he eased her into his twisted version of sexuality, being gentle with her in the beginning, changing as soon as he secured her love. I assume he’s attempting the same with me. I asked him once, while he cooked me breakfast, if that was his plan.

M. laughed softly at my question. He was about to scramble some eggs, but he set the frying pan aside. He poured a glass of orange juice and brought it over to me at the table. I am careful, now, about what I eat and drink with M.—watching him closely to make sure nothing goes in the food that isn’t supposed to be there. He stood behind me and rubbed my shoulders. He bent down and kissed me on the neck, lightly, and said, “No. It’s not going to be the same with you. You’ve never wanted me to be gentle—not in bed. Franny needed that, the gentleness, the terms of endearment, but you like your sex harsher, more graphic, more to the point. In bed, you want a stripped-down civility. Crude … ruttish.” He said this to me in a whisper, the words coming from behind, his hands playing lightly on my neck and shoulders, kneading the tension away. He has fingers like magnets, with the power to attract, always drawing me closer. Who is in control, I wondered once more, he or I? At times, I am unable to distinguish the difference.

“Franny never knew what was coming,” he continued. “If she suspected, when we first met at Putah Creek, what I had planned for her, she never would’ve started up with me. She was much too timid for that. I had to give her what she wanted before I could take whatever I pleased. She was unsuspecting, completely unprepared for what followed. But you were forewarned. You’ve known all along what will happen—not exactly, perhaps, but you have a good idea.”

“Then what are you waiting for?”

He kissed me again, on the neck, and went back to the stove, saying, “For you to be ready.”

I don’t know how his mind works. Why would he take care with me, but not with Franny? Especially since anyone could see she needed more cosseting than I. Since the incident with the Ace bandages, M. hasn’t pushed me at all. A few days ago, he got out his ropes and wanted to tie me up. We were in his bed when he reached over and pulled them out of the nightstand. I shrank back.

“No,” I said firmly. “I won’t let you use any restraints.”

He dangled the rope from his hand. “Are you under the illusion the only way I can harm you is if you’re tied down? Make no mistake, Nora—if I wanted to hurt you, I could. With or without the ropes. You should know that by now.”

I said nothing. I wanted him to sense fear, to believe I was weaker than I actually was; I wanted him to assume I was afraid. It was not an act.

“All right,” M. said. “For now, no ropes. Eventually, however, I will use them on you.” His complete certitude gave me a chill.

A few men, men I’ve trusted, have tied me up before, loosely, and I’ve done the same to them, but it was merely a game. It was fun, it was erotic, and I knew it wouldn’t lead to physical pain. With M., it would have been for real. My ordeal as a mummy was still fresh in my mind.

He edged closer, a coil of rope still in his hand, then rubbed it across my naked body, on my breasts, my stomach, the insides of my thighs. I lay there, motionless, like an animal startled into paralysis.

“People have a natural tendency to pull away from pain,” he said as he fondled me with the rope. “I like to punish my women if they’ve been disobedient, and to do it properly, to discipline them sufficiently, restraints sometimes become necessary. It keeps them down until I’m finished with them. I enjoy seeing women in bondage, seeing them helpless, doing whatever I please, having them at my mercy. But the ropes aren’t for my use alone. Some women like the pain, but they need to feel they’re being forced to submit. They can’t admit, freely, that they like the pain for itself, or that they want to be raped, or whipped, or punished. They need to be tied up so they can enjoy it. I just give them what they want.” He added, “Sometimes I give them more than they want. Your sister always got more than she wanted.”

“Such as?” I asked, using Franny as a diversion.

He paused, thinking, then said, “I haven’t told you anything about her for a few days, have I? I suppose it’s time to fill another blank in her diary. Bondage. Let’s talk about bondage. If I recall, she mentioned in her diary that I tied her up, but little else on the subject. She hated restraints more than anything, more than the pain—so of course I used them on her frequently. One night I tied her to the bed, naked, spread-eagled, and blindfolded her. I told her a few friends, all male, were coming over for a night of poker, and I was going to allow each of them, one by one, to observe her and do whatever they wished. Then I inserted ear plugs so she couldn’t hear and left her there, crying, begging for me to change my mind. There was no poker party, but she didn’t know that—she couldn’t hear or see anything. Over the next four hours, I entered the bedroom and administered various … sensations, some of them gentle, some not, all under the guise of a ‘poker buddy.’ She thought there were five different men in the house.”

“You’re a real bastard,” I said.

M. tossed the ropes across the room. “You’re looking at this the wrong way, Nora. You think I’m the bad guy, but Franny never thought so. No matter what 1 did to her, she stayed with me. If you ever hope to find her murderer, you’ll have to change your perception—and look elsewhere for the killer.”

Then he fucked me—making love is too soft a phrase for what we do—and he took his time about it, talking as he did. “I’m going to give you all my jism and cum,” he said, his voice low and husky. “You’re going to do what I ask, aren’t you?” and he made me agree to his demands. “Oh, yes,” he said, “you’ll do whatever I say. You know why?—because you love it. You go crazy when I lick you and suck on your juices, when I put my tongue in your cunt and stick it in your asshole. And you like to do it to me. I can tell—the way you lick me, the way you take me in your mouth, sucking the cum out of me, the way you take my cock up your ass, and the way—just before you come—you beg to be fucked. In your ass, your cunt, your mouth—you want it all.”

He talks while he fucks, and he knows I like to listen. I’m an aural person, and always have been. I’ve been with men who enjoyed talking dirty—but none with as much aplomb and artistry as M. He’s a master storyteller. He whispers pornographic images in my ear, telling me what he’s going to do, describing carnal scenarios, getting me worked up. He put his hands all over me, fucked me for a while, then stopped when he knew I wanted more. Still talking, with his hand between my legs, he said, “You’re like me, Nora. You like dirty, messy, raunchy sex. You want it raw, you want it primitive, and you don’t know it yet, but you’ll want it rough.”

I’ve searched M.’s house again, looking for a scalpel or other knife similar to the one I saw at the house in Tahoe, but was unsuccessful. Detective Harris told me the lab results of the duct tape, and they were inconclusive. The tape was the same brand that was used on Franny, but whether the roll M. kept in his closet was the actual one or not couldn’t be determined. Harris told me that when a killer used an object in a homicide—a knife, a club, a hammer—it quite often became, for the killer, stigmatized, and although he might keep it as a trophy or memento, he probably wouldn’t use it again. The lab people were hoping that this was the case with the duct tape. If so, they could match up the end fibers to prove that it was the same roll of tape. But that was not the case. If M.’s tape was the one used on Franny, then he had used it again, making it impossible for the police to get a match on the ends of the tape. Harris said he went out and requestioned M., but got nowhere. Once again, he warned me to stay away from him, which makes me wonder if Harris is withholding more information. If he doesn’t believe M. is guilty, as he’s stated, why does he tell me he’s a dangerous man?

M. and I go along as though nothing is amiss. He hasn’t mentioned the duct tape missing from his closet, and neither have I; he hasn’t mentioned that Harris requestioned him. We circle each other cautiously, moving together in a dance of deception.

And the deception becomes, if not easier on the soul, more facile with time. Lying to Ian is not as difficult as I thought it would be. I’ve come to accept my lies, and the concomitant guilt, as an unpleasant part of my life.

I’m meeting Ian at Ding How tonight for Chinese food. I still have three hours before I have to be there, so I decide to write. Needing a break from my story about M., I sit at the computer and work on an article about the increasing violence in Sacramento. Poring over the information I’ve compiled, I become distressed. Los Angeles, New York City, Chicago—you expect to find savagery there, but when did Sacramento become such a dangerous place to live?

I don’t know where to begin. As a science writer, I’m accustomed to dealing with empirical data generated out of a controlled environment, not newspaper clippings and police reports that detail the nightmares of urban life: rape, robbery, assault, murder. Murder—it always comes back to that. I open Franny’s diary on my computer and go through it once more, looking for clues. Then I open the file where I keep the information I received from the coroner and the police. I cannot comprehend the brutality of her murder.

The phone rings, but I don’t get up. After three rings, the answering machine clicks on. It’s Maisie—again—chastising me for never returning her calls. “I’m worried about you,” I hear her tell the machine. “Please call.” I feel a twinge of guilt. I know I should call her, but I can’t deal with other people right now. And I certainly can’t tell her about M.

At six-thirty, I shower and change and drive out to Ding How in the Lucky shopping center. The restaurant is small and dimly lit and moderately busy, with spicy, fried smells floating out from the kitchen. There are mirrors on the walls, and a Chinese screen partially obscures the dining room. I go around it and find Ian sitting in the back room, still wearing a dark blue suit from work, looking at a menu. I kiss him as I sit, and a waiter immediately appears at our table. We order sweet-and-sour chicken, spicy twice-cooked pork, pot stickers, and fried rice. The waiter leaves, then comes back with a pot of tea. While it steeps, we hold hands across the table, our fingers laced together, and we share the comfortable intimacy that comes to people who know each other well. I wish for the simpler days when Ian knew me as well as he thinks he knows me now. His ignorance, in a way, makes me think less of him; how could he not sense that I am having sex with another man? At night I lie awake for hours, distressed over my deception, while beside me, in trusting ignorance, Ian sleeps peacefully.

There’s a persistent, low background rumble of people talking, dishes clanging together, Chinese waiters swishing by. Ian tells me about his day and asks when I’m going back to work. I hedge.

“I don’t know,” I say. “I miss it, some of it, but I’m too busy right now.”

Ian’s brows furrow into a barely perceptible frown. We ’ve had this conversation before. He knows I’m becoming obsessed with tales of death and destruction, and he’s worried about me. He says my preoccupation with Franny’s murder is distorting my judgment, and that I’m fixating on violence, exaggerating its prevalence in Sacramento. He says I sleep fitfully at night, that I wake up with dark smudges under my eyes, that I’m evasive at times and irritable. He thinks it’s time for me to go back to work so I can put Franny’s death behind me. He holds my hand tighter, leaning forward, and says, “There’s nothing more you can do. You have to stop thinking about Franny.”

“How can I do that? She was my sister.”

“The police are still looking for her killer. Let them take care of it.”

“They’re not doing anything.” Ian is gripping my hand so hard it’s beginning to hurt. “Why do you want me to stop thinking about Franny?” I ask him, trying to pull my hand back. “Sometimes I think you don’t care if her killer is found.”

“Of course I care. But this obsession is making you a wreck.” Ian looks down at the table, notices that he’s gripping my hand. He relaxes his hold on me, then looks up. Quietly, he says, “I love you. You need to get on with your life.”

I start to say something, to put him at ease, when I hear M. saying my name. I turn around in my seat, too surprised to utter a word.

“Don’t you remember me?” he says. “Philip Ellis. You did a story on the research I was doing at UCD. Two, no, three years ago.”

I give him a hostile glance, hoping he’ll discern my annoyance—which he does—but he just looks down at me, a small, sly grin on his face. Next to us, a waiter stacks plates and bowls on top of each other, clearing a dirty table. Ian releases my hand and I realize he is waiting for an introduction. “Uh,” I say, not very articulate for a writer, “this is Ian McCarthy.” I told M. this morning, when he asked me out to dinner, that I was meeting Ian here tonight. Glaring at him, I add, “My boyfriend.”

Ian rises and they shake hands, then Ian, always so polite, asks him what article I had written on him. M. turns to me and says, “You can probably sum it up better than I.”

I can feel the heat surfacing on my cheeks. I’m so angry, I can barely speak. He has no right to invade this part of my life. “It’s been a while,” I say tensely. “Refresh me.”

M. smiles. “I suppose you write so many you can’t keep them all straight.” He turns back to Ian. “I’m a biologist, studying animal behavior, specifically the evolutionary effect of female choice in choosing a mate. The story that Nora wrote was on my research with gray tree frogs. I analyzed their responses to different mating calls, and established a correlation of the strength of the call to male desirability.”