“Stop her! Goddamn yah! Stop her!”
In a blur, Sarah saw Billy jump out to intercept her. She felt his hand snag the loose flap of her jacket. With a shriek, she turned and swung out, hard, at his hand, but he held on tightly as she lurched forward, dragging him toward the cellar stairway.
“
Don’t let her get away, you son-of-a-bitch!
” the man yelled.
Sarah could hear him stumbling toward her, and all she could think about was that gleaming knife blade slicing cleanly through her throat. Panic whined in her ears like a power drill and fueled her efforts to get away. She was just starting to think all was lost, she wasn’t going to make it, when she heard the harsh whisper of tearing cloth. The backward pulling pressure on her jacket suddenly released, and she stumbled forward. Her shins slammed into the bottom step, but she quickly regained her balance and leaped up the stairs and out into the night. Not waiting to see how close her pursuers were, she clenched her fists into tight balls and ran straight down the dirt road toward home, screaming as loud as she could.
-4-
“Y
ou let her get away, Billy-boy!” the man snarled as he watched Sarah disappear up the stairs and into the night. His eyes were still stinging from the grit she had thrown at him, and he repeatedly wiped at them with his shirt sleeve. He moved over to where Billy was standing by the cellar wall.
“I . . . I’m sorry,” Billy said, helplessly dangling in one hand the piece he had torn from Sarah’s jacket.
“Do you realize how much of a problem this is going to cause me?”
Billy wasn’t able to keep eye contact with the man, so he looked down at his scuffed, dew-soaked sneakers. “I really am sorry,” he muttered. “She was moving too fast.”
The man walked over to the cellar doorway. With a sudden sinking feeling in his gut, Billy realized that he had positioned himself between him and the stairs.
“This blows it all for me as far as
I
can see, Billy-boy,” the man hissed. “We had a nice set-up here, and now, sure as shit, she’s gonna have the cops down on this place in a matter of minutes.”
Billy took a shuddering breath, wishing he could edge his way over to the doorway that led to freedom.
“I’m sorry I didn’t get that food to you,” Billy said. His voice was so tightly constricted, he sounded more like a girl.
“Ohh, I wouldn’t worry ‘bout that,” the man said.
Billy couldn’t help but notice that the man hadn’t put his knife away. Shouldn’t he start gathering his few things so he can make good his escape before the police show up? he wondered.
“I’m just sorry you didn’t get to see what you came for,” the man said. He shook his head sadly. The anger had left his voice; his words now were as smooth as honey. Coming up close to Billy, he placed his hand gently, almost lovingly on Billy’s shoulder. Then the fingertips started to dig into his shoulder . . . at first, just enough to hurt, then unrelentingly.
“‘Course, we can take care of that before I have to take off, now can’t we, Billy-boy?”
With that, he snagged Billy by the wrist and roughly jerked him around so his arm was pinned up between his shoulder blades. A jolt of pain ran up to the base of Billy’s skull, but that was nothing compared to the fear that suddenly surged through his body when he fully realized what was about to happen.
“Now, I know you could see this a damn-site better if we had a mirror or something,” the man whispered. His breath was hot on the back of Billy’s neck. From the corner of his eyes, Billy saw the six-inch blade come from around in front of him.
“But we’ll just have to make do, won’t we? Now, lookey here, Billy-boy,” the man hissed. “This is what you came for . . . this is what it looks like.”
With a quick, tearing slice, the blade tore through Billy’s shirt and drove into his stomach. Surprisingly, Billy felt no pain at first, just numbed shock as he watched the man’s clenched fist push the knife against the rubbery resistance of his stomach muscles. Blood gushed out of the wound and over the man’s hand, and then—at last—Billy’s brain registered the pain, silver splinters that exploded through his body.
When Billy’s legs started to tremble and give way beneath him, the man jerked him roughly back up. The knife was buried to the hilt in Billy’s stomach as the man tugged on it, opening the wound even wider. Guts spilled onto the cellar floor, uncoiling like heavy, wet ropes.
“Now don’t go passin’ out on me, Billy-boy,” the man rasped close to his ear. “I don’t have much time, and you’ve gotta see what you came here to see.”
—for Dick Laymon
“W
hy are you tormenting me like this?” Marianne Wilcox asked. I looked at her, cringing beside me in the soft darkness of my car, her pale, blue eyes illuminated by the faint glow of a distant streetlight. I couldn’t deny the almost overpowering swell of emotion I felt for her at that moment. I wanted to take her right then—that instant! I knew that much, but I couldn’t—not yet . . . no, not quite yet.
“Look, I don’t like having to be the one to break it to you like this,” I replied. “Honest! I mean—Christ, I just met you for the first time—what? Last week. At the Henderson’s party. You hardly even know me, and I’d understand if you didn’t trust me. But sooner or later, you would have learned the truth.”
“Maybe I . . . maybe I didn’t
want
to learn the truth. Not really,” she said. Her chest hitched. Her eyes glistened as tears formed, threatening to spill. “Maybe I just wanted a—wanted a. . . . Oh, Christ! I don’t know what I wanted!”
She beat her small fists on the padded dashboard once, then heaved a deep sigh. Blinking her eyes rapidly, she turned away from me and looked out the side window. We were parked at the far end of the parking lot at the Holiday Inn in Portland, Maine, back where the streetlights didn’t reach so we wouldn’t be noticed. Minutes ago, we had watched Ronald Wilcox—Marianne’s husband—walk into the motel arm in arm with another woman. This wasn’t the first time—nor was it the first “other” woman.
“Look, I’m just telling you this because—well, I’ve known your husband for quite some time—through mutual friends, you know—and frankly, I like you.”
I was struggling hard to keep my voice as soft and sympathetic as possible. Women fall apart when you talk to them like that.
“Something like this hurts me too, you know? But after meeting you, I felt a—I don’t know, an obligation, I guess, to let you know that your husband was having an affair.” I nodded toward the motel entrance. “Now you’ve seen that for yourself. As painful as it is, you asked me to bring you here. I . . . I didn’t want to do this to you.”
“I—I know that,” she said, glancing at me for a moment.
My heart started beating faster when I saw tears filling her eyes. They would spill any second now. A cold, tight tingling filled my belly, and I can’t deny that my erection hardened as I shifted closer to her and placed one hand gently on her shoulder.
“I don’t like seeing you upset like this,” I said. “I’m not enjoying this at all, but you have to remember that I’m not the one who hurt you. It’s him—” I jacked my thumb toward the motel entrance. After a moment of silence, I leaned forward and withdrew a manila envelope from underneath the car seat. “If you’d like, I could show you those photographs I—”
“
No!
”
Her lower lip trembled as she looked at me. Her eyes were two luminous, watery globes. Just seeing the wash of tears building up in her eyes twisted my heart.
I tried to push aside the feelings I had. I wanted to ignore the powerful urge to take her in my arms and caress her. But I couldn’t deny that there was an element of spite in what I was doing. I wanted her to see
everything!
I wanted her to
imagine
it all. And if she couldn’t imagine it, then I was ready to
show
it to her—every instance, every second of her husband’s infidelity. I wanted to—I
needed
to push her until she broke because after she broke—ahh, sweetness!—after she broke, she would be mine!
“No . . . I don’t . . . don’t need to see your—your fucking photographs.” Her voice was tight, constricted. “I don’t want them!”
“No. Of course not,” I whispered, tossing the envelope onto the dashboard and inching closer to her. “I understand completely.”
My heart throbbed painfully in my throat when I saw a single, crystal tear spill from the corner of her eye and run down her cheek It slid in a slow, sinuous, glimmering line that paused for a tantalizing moment on the edge of her chin and then, pushed by the gathering flood of more tears, ran down her neck and inside her coat collar.
Gone. . . .
Lost . . . !
“Please . . . please don’t cry,” I whispered, knowing that it was a lie as I brought my face closer to hers, feeling the heat of my breath rebound from her smooth, white skin. My gaze was fastened on the flow of tears as they coursed from her eyes, streaking in silvery lines down both sides of her face. Her shoulders hunched inward as if she wanted to collapse, to disappear inside herself.
“But
I . . . I—
Her voice choked off as she stared at me, her glazed eyes wide—two lustrous blue orbs swimming in the pristine, salty wash of tears. My hand trembled as I traced the tracks of her tears from her chin up to her cheek. Heated rushes of emotion filled me when I raised my moistened finger up to the light and studied the teardrop suspended from the tip. It shimmered like a diamond in the darkness. Slowly, savoring every delicious instant, I brought it to my lips. The taste was sweet, salty. The instant I swallowed it, I knew that I loved her as deeply as I have ever loved any woman.
“I—I wish I could have spared you all of this pain,” I whispered heatedly as I lowered my face and kissed her lightly on the cheek. The briny taste of her tears exploded in my mouth. The effect was as overpowering as a narcotic. I could no longer hold back. Like a snake, my tongue darted between my lips and, flickering, trembling, caressed her skin. I grew dizzy, intoxicated by the hot, sweet taste of her.
She moaned softly, barely at the edge of hearing. My arm went around her, pulling her closer—comforting, reassuring, like a good friend.
“Go on,” I whispered. “If you have to cry, let it out. Let it all out.”
I could barely hear my own voice above the roaring rush in my ears as my face brushed against hers. Ever so lightly, my tongue worked its way up from her chin, over the soft contours of her cheek until—at last—I reached her eyes. My hand grasped the back of her head and turned her to face me. I pulled her tightly against my greedy, eager mouth. Moving my head from side to side, I kissed and lapped her lower eyelids, savoring the salty explosions of taste on my tongue. With slow, sensuous flicks, I licked the bulging circles of her closed eyes.
“No . . . please!” she whispered, squirming on the seat. “Not now . . . not here!”
But I knew she didn’t mean it. Her body was molded against me like a tight-fitting glove. The passion consuming me filled her, too. I could feel it thrumming through her body like an electric current. Her hands worked around behind my back, clutching, clinging desperately to my coat. She shook with repressed sobs as I moved back and forth, kissing the corners of each eye. While I was busy drinking the flood of tears from one eye, my hand wiped the other until it was slick with moisture. Then I slipped my fingers into my mouth and sucked them clean, not wanting to miss a single, delicious drop.
“Please. . . .” she moaned, and I knew what she was asking for now. This wasn’t denial. It was passion, raw and desperate.
Puckering my lips, I feverishly kissed first one eye, then the other. She gasped for breath as the tears streamed down her face, but my lips were there, eager to savor every pearly drop. Oceans of passions raged in my head. My heart pounded heavily in my chest as I pressed myself against her, crushing her back against the seat of my car. The world outside disappeared in my blind, swirling passion. For a flashing instant, I knew she sensed danger, but it was already too late. I possessed the source of her tears, the twin rivers that fed the raging of my desire.
“White Nile”—I said before kissing her left eye—”and Blue Nile,” before I kissed the other. Then I clamped my mouth over her right eye and, pressing my tongue hard against her eyelid, began to suck—at first gently, then more insistently. I’m sure she thought, at first, anyway, that I was lost in sexual desire. But I knew she would never truly understand.
None of them ever did.
I applied more pressure, sucking harder and harder until her eyeball began to bulge against her closed lid.
Then she began to struggle, making soft, whimpering sounds, but here in the shadowed corner of the parking lot, I knew no one was going to notice us. As my sucking grew stronger, more insistent, she screamed, sharp and shrill. I covered her mouth with one hand and pulled her back, staring into her eyes, glistening and wide with fear.
“Please . . . don’t,” she said, her voice no more than a wet rasp. Her throat was raw from the tortured emotions and the tears she had already shed . . . tears I had so hungrily tasted. Her fists beat helplessly against my back as I leaned forward and began to suck all the harder. Her resistance was futile. She was mine now. I had her!