Читать книгу Unseen - Nancy Bush - Страница 11

The Winslow County Sheriff’s Department was a one-level, cinder-block structure that wasn’t going to win any architectural awards but was more than adequate for the twenty or so personnel who worked there. Sheriff Herbert Nunce occupied a corner office that was filled with untidy, stacked files and fishing paraphernalia. Detective Barbara Gillette shared an office with Will, her desk butted up to his. Her side was obsessively neat while Will’s was genially messy. He wasn’t a slob, but he couldn’t bring himself to have a desk whose surface was uncluttered. His “in” pile always held a couple of pages, and envelopes and notes were tucked to one side of a leather desk pad that was occupied by his coffee mug, some pens and pencils, and a framed picture of himself and Dylan a couple of summers after high school graduation.

Will rarely wore a hat, and as he entered the building he ran his hands through his dark hair, pulling out rainwater. Indian summer had departed as if it were in a hurry to get somewhere else, and they were facing slanting rain, the kind normally reserved for late November and into winter.

The reception desk was behind a wall of glass. Bulletproof glass, ever since one of the crazy meth-heads had come in and threatened with a gun. No more relaxed Mayberry offices after that.

Will waved to Dot, the receptionist, who buzzed open a metal door. Behind it was a utilitarian hallway that led to the offices whose windows were not bulletproof, which only proved that governmental disposition of funds made no real sense and everything was management by crisis only.

The shoulders of Will’s uniform were dark with rain and his shoes were soaked through so that he could feel a clamminess in his toes. Barb was seated at her desk, so her back was to the door; Will’s desk faced the entry. She swiveled when she heard him enter and her dark eyes gave him the once over.

“Umbrellas not manly enough for you, Tanninger?”

“Didn’t have one.”

“Wouldn’t use it anyway,” she observed. “Or a hat.”

“Rain’s gonna stop today,” Jimbo said as he walked by. James Sanchez, lean, mean, and full of swagger, worked Narcotics. His near-black hair was long and scruffy and his uniform was a pair of dirty jeans and a plaid flannel shirt over a black T-shirt. He’d come from Portland on a task force and he’d stayed on. He played by big-city rules. The sheriff didn’t quite know what to do with him, but Jimbo could get the job done that others couldn’t. No one believed he was attached to the sheriff’s department. No one.

Barb ignored him. “You’d rather just get rain running down the back of your neck,” she said to Will.

The slant of her look as he rounded his desk was decidedly sexy. Will inwardly sighed. They’d worked together over a year before they’d gone out on their first of two dates, and it had been pleasant and uneventful. Barb was a flirt, but Will hadn’t really been interested. Then one night she’d walked into a pub where he sometimes stopped after work to grab a beer and a sandwich, and they’d ended up spending several hours together. He’d gotten the impression she wanted them both to head to her house afterward, and as a means to sidestep the problem, he’d invited her out to dinner the next Friday evening. That had been a mistake. From the frying pan to the fire. Barb had dressed for the occasion in a silky dress that showed off every bump and scoop of her trim body, and she’d swayed in her seat at the restaurant to the soft jazz. She’d wanted to dance but there thankfully was no dance floor. Will had extricated himself from the evening somewhat awkwardly. He’d taken her back to her condo and excused himself after one nightcap. She’d wanted him to kiss her and when it was clear he was uncomfortable with that, she’d gotten mad and snarky. He’d left in a hurry and she’d been pissed at him the whole next month. She had only softened up—at least sort of—after he’d told her he just couldn’t go there right now. He hadn’t given her a specific reason; there was none, really. He just wasn’t all that attracted to her. But he’d treated her fairly, and slowly her fury had turned to a low simmer. Now she teased and verbally jabbed him, a play for attention, but it was better than the anger. Some of the other guys shot him looks of amusement or fake sympathy, but so far there hadn’t been any remarks that would have resulted in Barb getting all furious with him again.

“Hey, Burl knows your hit-and-run friend from Quarry,” Barb said. “He lives around that area. Gave us a whole rundown on the LaPorte family. Colorful. Very colorful.”

Will grunted. His interest was piqued but he didn’t want to share that with Barb. She was always fishing, where he was concerned, inordinately interested in how he reacted to any information. And Burlington “Burl” Jernstadt was about the biggest horse’s ass Will had run across in law enforcement. He made Ralph Smithson look like a piker. The fact that Burl was retired and had given up his job reluctantly—which translated loosely to leave or be let go—and that Will had been promoted into Burl’s job, didn’t mean that Burl had given up haunting the department offices. It didn’t matter that he’d been a loud, ineffectual, socially inept buffoon who’d screwed up more cases than he’d aided in, and that he’d been lucky to be eased out of the department rather than fired. Burl couldn’t stay away. That he resented Will for taking his job went without saying. To date no one had had the gumption to tell him to get out and stay out. Will sensed that day was coming. He half-dreaded, half-welcomed it.

Whatever the case. He really didn’t want to talk to Burl. Except that the man knew something about Gemma LaPorte, and Gemma LaPorte was still his number-one guess for the avenger who’d run down Edward Letton.

“Anything on Jean LaPorte’s car?” he asked.

“Still no sign of it.”

As soon as Will had learned Gemma’s name and situation, he’d done a background check on every member of her family. He’d learned a number of things about them, but what had snagged his attention first was that the LaPortes had owned two vehicles: Peter’s white Chevy truck—which he’d seen at the house—and Jean’s silver Camry, which was apparently MIA. Maybe the guy who’d dropped Gemma off at the hospital had it, or maybe Gemma had crashed it into Edward Letton, or maybe it was parked somewhere on the LaPorte property. Whatever the case, to date it hadn’t been found, and Gemma hadn’t called to say differently. There was no vehicle in Gemma’s own name.

“Burl still around?” Will asked Barb.

“Always. Probably by the coffee machine.”

Which was next to the doughnut boxes. “No other silver Camrys with front-end damage discovered?”

“Not in this county. One in Clatsop County but it was a Dodge Durango and the guy who smashed it up is in jail with his second DUI. Dot says your little friend’s been calling. Pellter with two l’s. Check your voice mail.”

Will punched in the numbers of his phone and waited. Carol Pellter, having been saved from assault and probably death at the hands of Letton, had taken her story public, though her parents were clearly uncomfortable with the whole thing. The media had run the girl’s story of a really bad man trying to get her into his van, and had taken pictures of the outside of the impounded van. But it had been nearly a week since the event, and since Carol was alive and well, the prurient interest of the news watchers had moved on to events with more salacious pictures and tragic outcomes.

Carol, however, was hanging onto her fifteen minutes of fame with all ten fingers.

“Hi, Detective Tanninger,” Carol’s recorded voice stated primly. “I want to help in your investigation. I think you might need me. Could you please call me?” She left her number, speaking it clearly in a precise tone, twice.

Will smiled to himself. Looking forward more to talking to Carol than dealing with Burl, he placed a call to the number she’d given him and ended up with Carol’s prim voice suggesting he leave a message on her voice mail. He waited for the beep then told her it was Will Tanninger returning her call.

Kids with cell phones. It was the norm rather than the exception.

Barb was pretending not to be avidly listening to his every syllable. Will had to push aside the distraction of her laser-like interest in him with almost physical force. God, things were getting bad.

He got up from his desk. “Where’re you going?” Barb asked, swiveling around as he circled toward the door.

“Gonna see Nunce,” he said.

“I’m coming with you.” She bustled to catch up to him and fell in step beside him in the outer hall.

Will’s temper was slow to rile, but Barb had been getting on his nerves for quite a while. He held back a sharp remark with an effort.

Sheriff Herbert Nunce was gray-haired, gray-eyed, tanned and weathered like old leather. He was slim and straight and distracted. He’d gotten the job by being the last man standing: his predecessors had all been promoted or left the sheriff’s office. He’d been sheriff for seven years and he’d gradually spent more and more time on the creeks and rivers that ran through the Coast Range, chasing steelhead and salmon and anything with fins. His interest in law enforcement—never strong, Will guessed—had been displaced so thoroughly that it was hard to get him juiced about any investigation, be it robbery/homicide, or narcotics, or anything in between. Will had written a report on Letton’s hit-and-run but he would bet Nunce hadn’t read it yet. This appeared to be borne out when Nunce greeted him with, “Smithson still sitting outside that hospital room?”

Will nodded. He could’ve reminded the sheriff that Letton’s life could still be in danger, but it wasn’t like the sheriff didn’t know. Nunce just reached for the one part of the investigation he was familiar with.

Burl had been nowhere in sight when Will and Barb entered the room, but now he snaked in around the doorway, an eavesdropper hoping not to be noticed. Will turned to gaze at him dead on, which caused Jernstadt to fidget.

“Burl, we’re having a talk here,” Nunce said, almost kindly. Nunce had wanted Burl out as much as the next man, but like everyone else, still tiptoed around the man’s feelings. The humorous part was that Nunce didn’t want the uninvited talk with Will and Barb much, either, and would probably have come up with an excuse to put it off except it was preferable to interacting with Burl.

“About that pedophile hit-and-run. I know. Did she tell you that I know that family? The LaPortes?” Burl jerked his head toward Barb but his gaze was on Will. “A bunch of loonies. The old man was a pussy. Let his wife run roughshod over him, and she was in a wrangle with the Dunleavys something fierce. I’m from Woodbine, right next to Quarry.” He hooked a thumb at his own chest. “I know Kevin Dunleavy. A straight shooter, if I ever saw one. There’s a longstanding fight over property rights between the families. The quarry’s right between their properties and that crazy psycho Jean was always screaming at Kevin and his brother Rome and the rest of the family. But Jean’s a piece of fuckin’ work, pardon my French, and she made some threat that Kevin should keep his family close if he wants ’em to survive, y’know what I mean? Thinks she’s a psychic, or something, and just goes around predicting shit and acts like it’s not her making it up. Like it’s real or something.”

“Jean LaPorte is deceased,” Will broke in when Burl took a breath. “You’re saying she was a psychic.”

“Pretend psychic. Pretend. She didn’t know her ass from a fuckin’ hole in the ground, pardon my French again, but that didn’t stop her. And now her daughter’s a killer. Doesn’t surprise me in the least.”

“We don’t know anything yet,” Will cut in.

“You’re making a ton of assumptions,” Barb said at the same time.

Nunce waved them all off. “Burl, let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”

“I’m giving you background.” Burl glared at Will as if it were all his fault. “Haven’t you talked to her?”

“It’s a police investigation.” And none of your business.

Burl stared at Will as if he were speaking in tongues. “Sounds like she didn’t tell you nothing. That why you let her go home?”

Barb said in a long-suffering tone, “Burl, you know we can’t discuss the case with you. If we had enough to arrest anyone for the hit-and-run, we would have done it.”

“I could get her to talk,” Burl said to Will. “I know the Dunleavys.”

“The Dunleavys aren’t part of this particular crime.” Will felt his jaw tighten despite his efforts to not let Jernstadt get to him. He turned to Nunce. “I’ve got interviews on tap.”

“With who?” Burl demanded.

Will brushed past him, Barb at his heels, and Nunce said to Burl, “Why don’t you give me the names of all the Dunleavys.”

Torn, Burl hesitated, really wanting to follow Will and Barb. But Nunce looked expectant.

“There aren’t that many of ’em.”

“Write their names here.” Nunce pushed a piece of paper in Burl’s direction, distracting him, and Will and Barb completed their escape.

“Jesus,” Barb breathed.

“Think Nunce’ll ever tell him to get the hell out?” Will passed by his office, glancing back as Barb slowed by the door, looking longingly his way. He didn’t invite her along and there was no need for her to join him.

“He’d have to grow bigger balls,” she said.

He’d have to grow any balls, Will decided but, as ever, kept his thoughts to himself. Nunce might sometimes be ineffectual, but he was a decent enough human being. Not something that could be said about Burlington Jernstadt. If Will really wanted to get rid of the prick he could go over Nunce’s head, but that came with its own can of worms.

He walked past Dot in reception and stepped out into weak sunshine. Looked like Jimbo was right. The rain was ending.

The white Chevrolet pickup was a couple of decades old and rattled like it was filled with ball bearings. Gemma had to manhandle it into gear, but the yank and pull was both familiar and comforting. The truck had been her father’s, and it had been sitting outside the large garage with the corrugated metal roof behind the house, as ugly a building as the house was architecturally beautiful. Gemma had found its keys hanging on a hook by the back door—along with keys for the filing cabinet and several locks that she still hadn’t identified. Not exactly the tightest security around the old homestead.

She’d holed up inside for nearly a week, familiarizing herself, letting her bruises heal, letting herself heal. In that time she’d read nearly every scrap of paper she could find that had to do with the family’s finances, the past year’s calendar of events, the information on both her parents’ deaths. She’d gone through the filing cabinet and rifled through boxes in the attic until her eyes burned and her head ached, and she’d slept a great deal. The urgency she’d felt at the hospital—the need to apparently right some wrong—had eased to a simmer now that she was home. Maybe it was knowing that Edward Letton was still in the hospital, still in a coma. If he’d awakened and been released, she believed she would have heard it on the news, and at any rate, she just sensed that he was still there and for now, at least, she was going to trust her feelings.

She had not found her purse, nor did she have any recollection about her mother’s car, which according to Tanninger, who’d phoned to ostensibly keep her informed, was a silver Camry. That had caused shivers of fear to run up and down her spine. Was that what she’d been driving? If, and when, it turned up would it prove that she’d run down Edward Letton?

But what she had found among the papers was her medical insurance information, and she’d called hospital administration right away, happy that maybe she wasn’t going to be made destitute by her stay there. At least that was taken care of.

She’d spent most of the last week dwelling on something else, though: what her day-to-day life had been like before the accident. She had flashes of being in her mother’s office and seeing clients, people who wanted a glimpse into their own futures. But she also remembered working at LuLu’s, though those memories weren’t as clear. Maybe her time at the diner was further in the past. Whatever the case, she was driving there now. She felt ready to see people again, though she wondered what, if anything, they’d heard about her and the Letton hit-and-run. She really had no idea how much, or how little, of the information tying her to that accident had been obtained by the media.

LuLu’s was a nondescript, one-story rectangular building with dark green shingled siding, a transparent attempt to put lipstick on a pig. The empty flower beds on either side of the wooden steps that led to weather-beaten French doors didn’t help. Even the green-and-white striped awning above the doors seemed like an afterthought, and maybe not a very good one. But still, seeing the place brought back wave upon wave of memories. She’d loved LuLu’s. Had filled those flower boxes with red petunias. Had worked as a waitress here, though she couldn’t remember her mother on the premises…hmmm…

Gemma pulled the truck into the side gravel lot, yanked on the emergency brake, cut the engine, then as it coughed and shook itself to silence, she headed up the four front steps and stepped beneath the awning to avoid the surprisingly hot sun. The rain had vanished after a couple of drenched days, and now the ground was as hard and dry as before.

She twisted open the right French door, as she knew the left was fixed in place, entering immediately into the main dining room. Straight ahead was a counter with stools and behind it she could see the stainless-steel appliances and paraphernalia of the kitchen.

The familiarity of the place soaked in, right to her core, and Gemma inhaled deeply, feeling more solidly connected to herself than she had since waking up in the hospital. LuLu’s. Her home away from home.

“Hey, sugar,” a female voice called from behind the counter. Gemma looked over and saw a tall, red-haired woman in a beige uniform with a white collar, the front pockets gaping open to reveal notepads and pens. Her large bust was propped up with a sturdy bra and she wore enough eye makeup to open her own department store. She was grinning with delight at Gemma. “You look like hell, honey. Get over here.”

“Macie,” Gemma said, a rush of pleasure flooding her. Macie was the one who ran the diner. Macie was the one who’d treated Gemma like a daughter when Jean was at a complete loss, never flagging in that role even when she had her own child, Charlotte, now eleven.

And Macie was the one who never rolled her eyes in embarrassment or repressed anger when Gemma’s debilitating headaches and memory losses bewildered the young girl.

It all clicked together. The diner was Macie’s, not Jean’s. The LaPorte family leased the premises to Macie, and had for as long as Gemma could remember. Gemma was now Macie’s landlord but she’d spent many happy hours in her youth working as a waitress.

“Good grief, girl, you look like somebody smacked you silly.” She regarded Gemma with real concern. “What happened?”

“I was in a car accident.”

“Woowee. You okay?”

“My face looks worse than it feels.”

Macie cocked her head. “I could show you a thing or two about makeup. Would take care of all them bruises, I do believe. But you ain’t never let me take a mascara brush to you yet, so I think I’ll just save my breath. Besides, you’ve got it under control. Another couple of days or so and no one’ll be able to tell. Anybody else hurt?”

Gemma thought of Edward Letton. “Not that I know of,” she said carefully. “I gotta get down to the DMV. Lost my purse and now I’m driving without my license.”

“That’ll be the time you get stopped.”

“Don’t I know it.” She glanced around. “Charlotte at school?”

“God, I hope so. That child’ll be the death of me if she gets into more trouble.”

“What’s she done?” Gemma smiled, her mental picture of the skinny, tough girl coming into focus. Charlotte wore her hair in a short bob and the scowl on her face said most adults were idiots.

“Just leaves in the middle of her last class. She’s done it four times already. Just walks out. School’s only about two miles from the diner, so she takes off and shows up here. Meanwhile, I get calls from the administration.” She flapped a hand. “They threaten her with detention and black marks and the whole enchilada, but it doesn’t faze her. She told me the teacher’s a bore.”

Gemma’s smile grew. Charlotte was everything she’d ever wanted to be, at her age. She felt bonded to the child as if they were sisters.

That thought brought her stomach a funny wave of discomfort.

If anything should ever happen to Charlotte…

“Macie!” an impatient male voice called from across the room. A guy in a plaid workshirt, jeans, and workboots was holding up an empty coffee mug.

“Hold on to your knickers, Captain. I’ll be right there.” To Gemma, she murmured in an aside, “Still thinks he’s the only one in the place.” She sauntered toward him, snagging the coffeepot from a plugged-in burner on her way.

Gemma sat at the last booth in the row, which was wedged into an alcove, and ordered a sandwich. Her favorite spot. She’d spent a lot of hours at the diner, either working or seated at this very table, catching a meal in between shifts. This was the epitome of normality. This was the arena of her fondest memories.

“Did you ever find that guy?” Macie asked when she had a spare moment. She set the coffeepot back on the burner and sent Gemma a questioning look.

“Which guy?”

“The one you were chasing? The one you had to stop?”

Gemma stared at Macie as one of the other waitresses, whose name tag read Denise, brought Gemma her turkey on rye. She felt slightly strangled, like she couldn’t get her breath. “The accident knocked things out of my head.”

“The accident?” Macie gave her a oh, come on look. “Since when do you need an excuse for your on/off brain. You know it works better than most.” She shot the man she’d called Captain a searing glance. “A case in point…”

“What guy did I have to stop?”

“You tell me, girl. All I saw was you getting all worked up and tearing outta the diner lot like you’d seen a ghost. I thought it was that guy sitting in the booth by the door ’cause you waited till his vehicle was outta sight before you ran to your momma’s car.”

“My momma’s car…” Gemma repeated, her heart jerking. So, it was true…

“Well, it wasn’t your car, now was it?” Macie declared.

“I guess not.”

“Hon, you told me yours was on its last legs, so you sold it. Don’t you remember?”

“Kind of,” Gemma lied.

“Well, no matter.” She shrugged it off. “You said you were just driving your momma’s temporarily. It’s kind of a wreck, to be perfectly honest. Jean sure didn’t know how to take care of things. Sorry, hon, bless her soul, but your momma was kind of in her own world. Best thing she ever did was adopt you. Really about the only truly selfless thing she did, but then we know how that turned out, don’t we? What are you gonna do about her business, now? Sally Van Kamp was asking if you were ever gonna call her back.”

“Not sure I have her number,” Gemma murmured. She felt bombarded with information, yet Macie was only telling her the kind of information she’d craved to learn. Psychic readings. That’s the business Macie meant. Sally Van Kamp wanted a psychic reading from Gemma. All of Jean’s clients had tenaciously hung in there whether Gemma wanted to tell them their futures or not.

“She said she left it on the machine.”

“Oh.” There were messages on the house voice mail but Gemma hadn’t known how to retrieve them.

And then as soon as that thought crossed her mind, the series of numbers to access them came to her as if they had always been there. Her on-again/off-again brain, according to Macie. This was beginning to feel like normal for Gemma.

I’m a freak. Accept it and move on.

“You gonna come help me out again? I had two high school kids but since school’s started they don’t have any time to give me. Always want summer jobs, but they whine and whine if they have any social activity at all.”

“I’d love to.” Gemma seized on the idea. Working at the diner sounded…good.

“Yeah? Well, you put yourself together for a couple more days. Get rid of the remnants of that eye.” She held Gemma’s chin and moved her face from side to side. “Honey, you just bashed yourself good, didn’t ya?”

Her caring tone caused a ripple of emotion to run through Gemma’s heart, leaving her throat hot. She swallowed hard and said, “I’ll come in for an afternoon just to get started again. Will I see Charlotte?”

“Oh, you know she’ll be around.”

Gemma left her booth and lifted a hand in good-bye, then hesitated at the door. “When was that? When I chased that guy out?”

Macie lifted a shoulder. “’Bout a week ago, or so.”

“You didn’t recognize him?”

“Wasn’t a regular.”

“What did he look like?” Gemma asked.

“Like every other middle-aged man in the world. I kinda thought he was from around here, but I can’t remember why. He had a baseball cap on, I think. Or maybe that was the other guy, the one that left right after you did. I don’t know. It was the morning crowd and they were all hungry. I wasn’t paying all that much attention except that you were kinda wild-eyed.”

“I almost remember,” Gemma said.

“Almost only counts with horseshoes and hand grenades,” Macie responded automatically. One of her favorite expressions.

Gemma smiled faintly. “The guy that left after me. What did he look like?”

“More apish,” Macie said after a moment of thought. “Rounded shoulders like he worked out too much.”

Gemma was heading out when Macie caught her by the arm. “Have you thought about seeing Doc Rainfield?” she asked.

“What?” Gemma asked.

“If you don’t want to, that’s perfectly okay, y’know. But that shrink doctor of yours has helped before. He’s a nice guy.”

Gemma suddenly pictured the older man with the creased, sad face. He was a nice guy. And he had helped her.

“Your momma had her fits with him, but I always thought you and he connected. Do what you want.” She lifted her hands in surrender. “Just, if things are bad…he might be able to help.”

With that she scurried off to deal with another order and Gemma left the diner.

Looking in the mirror, Lucky realized she’d been injured far worse than she’d originally thought. She shrank inside herself at the bonanza of colors: green, purple, brown, that ran down the side of her face and covered one eye. That eye was a problem. Blood had drained into the white part and turned one corner a sickening scarlet, which was slowly fading to magenta-ish pink. She’d had to wait over a week for her face to stop being such a show stopper. She’d waited impatiently, afraid Letton would be released from the hospital before she could take care of him permanently—the bastard had had the nerve to survive!—but apparently she’d hurt him pretty damn bad because he was still languishing there.

Good.

She’d used the time to recover herself. She kinda hurt all over. The seat belt had left a deep bruise and it was a little tricky to take a deep breath.

But with each tick of the clock she’d grown stronger. And now that she’d purchased actual rose-colored glasses, her magenta-filled eye looked damn near normal. If she went to Letton’s room in the early evening, maybe around dinnertime when there was more hustle and bustle and confusion around the hospital, she might not be noticed as much. But she would have to be careful. Find a way to disguise herself.

She cocked her head and considered. One more day? Two?

If Letton were released that would compound her problems. She needed to wrap her hands around the man’s throat and choke the life from him. Or smother him with a hospital pillow. There would be sweet irony in having his place of healing turn into his place of death.

Her temple throbbed and she pressed fingers hard against it, as if pushing the pain back inside.

And then she was hit by a wave of something like lust. Not her own. A sample of what Letton had felt when he was eyeing prepubescent girls. It left Lucky feeling sick, spent and bent over, hacking, on the verge of throwing up. Saliva ran from her mouth; the precursor to vomiting. She wiped it away and drew several breaths, straightening with an effort, staring at her reflection in the mirror. This wasn’t the first time she’d been able to sense—physically sense—what someone felt. It was a kind of psychic ability she neither understood nor wanted, but it was something she’d been born with and it had sent her on this quest. This mission.

She visualized Letton, saw the hot need in his eyes.

“I’m going to kill you, you bastard,” she whispered harshly.

Edward Letton woke with a snort and a gasp. Demons were running around inside his head. They were spinning. Chortling. Poking fingers at him and laughing like hyenas. He was in hell. He was dead. Or dying. Suffocating.

Slowly he opened his eyes. His mouth was slack and desert dry. There was a tube running from his nose. No. Into his nose. Oxygen. He was being given oxygen because he was…in a hospital…and he could feel pain, though he was oddly dissociated from it. Drugs. Demerol, maybe, or something like it.

What happened?

He couldn’t piece it together. It was too much. He’d been at work but that was on Friday. And then there was—

A soccer game.

He drew a quaking breath of fear and tried to look around. Did they know? He’d been in the van. Oh, God. The van.

Fuzziness ruled his head. The damned drugs. He was in a hospital bed but he couldn’t remember why. How long had he been out? Had he said anything? Did they know?

He struggled to move but his body screamed at even the slightest twitch. He was breathing hard, though he’d scarcely done more than squeeze his eyes closed, sucking up the oxygen, in some kind of real mess here.

What had he done? What happened? How had he ended up in a hospital?

Faintly, as if viewing it from a long, long distance, he saw the young girl with the slim legs and blue shorts. She was so beautiful. He wanted to rub against that firm, nubile flesh. But he knew she wouldn’t allow it. That’s why he’d brought the van.

The van. He’d worked so hard on the van. Long hours, away from Mandy. Hiding out in the garage, listening with active ears in case she should enter the garage uninvited, surprising him. The sweet danger of that had given him almost a constant erection. If she caught him fitting out the van, what would he say? Would she believe him? Would he have to take her as his first victim, just to keep her quiet? He despised her. Her big tits and fat, cellulite-filled ass. But she was a necessary part of the equation. His cover. His loving wife.

But she never came in the garage. Couldn’t be torn away from her reality TV shows. That one where a bunch of shrieking women went after the rich guy really turned her on. She about wet her pants when those guys gave the girls roses. If she’d had an ounce of sexuality herself, she might have given herself a rub and tickle, it turned her on so much. Unfortunately, that would never happen. Mandy liked chocolates, and an occasional gift, though he could never afford the diamonds and furs she salivated over. Maybe if he could, she might have tried to at least enjoy their monthly hump and bump, but she pretty much just waited for it to be over. Just closed her eyes and waited while Ed did his thing. One time, by God, she’d started softly snoring. Out cold. That was about the last time he’d been able to even get it up for her.

She was too round.

Too old.

But girls…they were beautiful. Lovely, lovely thighs and ankles and flat chests with skin drum-taut, and narrow little wrists.

It was a sickness; he knew that. He didn’t care. Ed had waited all his life for something for himself. When was it Eddie’s turn, huh? And he wasn’t going to wait anymore. He was going to take what he wanted. What he needed. What he deserved!

But…what had happened? He was in deep shit, here, he could tell, and there was a murky memory of something bad…

Damn drugs. He was sinking under them, but at least that would mean the pain would go away. He was hurt. He needed to heal.

He could see that lovely, lovely girl reaching for the soccer ball…

In his dream he reached back.

Lovely…