One rainy night, p.12
One Rainy Night, page 12
‘Maybe not. Not if it’s dark.’
A look of alarm filled the girl’s eyes. ‘Oh, I don’t think I like that idea. Not even one little bit. He might just sneak right up on us.’
‘I know it’d be scary, Kara. But it’d be just like we’re invisible. If we don’t make a sound, we might be able to creep right past him, and he’d never even know we were there. Do you know where the fuse box is?’ ‘Sure, but I don’t think . . .’ She shut her mouth, probably recalling her father’s command to obey Denise. ‘It’s right over there,’ she said. She turned from the doorway and nodded toward a closed door just beyond the stove.
‘It’s not outside, is it?’
‘Huh-uh.’
‘Where are those flashlights and candles you talked about right after we heard the thunder?’
Kara looked relieved. ‘Everywhere. Well, not everywhere. I’ve got a couple of flashlights in my bedroom and Dad has a big red thing by his bed. It’s real bright.’
‘Is there one here in the kitchen?’
‘Yeah, right where I got the hammer from.’
Why hadn’t she mentioned that in the first place? Come on, Denise told herself. She’s just a kid.
‘OK, what about candles?’
‘You mean just in the kitchen? Because we’ve got candles in a lot of . . .’
‘Just here in the kitchen.’
‘Yeah. Mom keeps some in her junk drawer.’
‘Matches?’
Without saying a word, Kara turned around and reached high. She snagged a wicker basket off the top of the refrigerator and pulled it down. The basket was filled with matchbooks. ‘Mom collects them. Wherever she goes, she gets matches. They’re souvenirs. These are extras, though. She won’t mind if we use them.’
Denise switched the butcher knife to her left hand.
She reached into the basket. She lifted out a handful of matchbooks and dumped them into the breast pocket of her shirt. She took out a second handful. The right front pocket of her corduroys held the hammer, stuffed in headfirst. With her knife hand, she swept the hanging front of her shirt out of the way. She thrust the second bunch of matchbooks into the pocket on her left.
‘That should do it,’ she said. Kara set the basket onto the refrigerator. ‘OK. I’ll keep watch here. You hurry and round up the flashlight and candles.’
While the girl was away, Denise stared through the dining room, into the living room beyond its entryway.
She felt tight and sick inside. Though she hoped Tom had left the house, she couldn’t bring herself to believe it. By now, he’d had plenty of time to work his hands free of the rope. He would be waiting for them. Even in a house that was pitch black, their chances of sneaking past him to the bathroom were slim.
Tom, why are you doing this to us?
She was terrified of him. At the same time, she hated the idea of being forced to hurt him. If he attacked, she would have to defend herself and Kara.
What if I kill him?
But I can’t let him kill us.
Just make it to the bathroom, she thought, and we’ll be safe. He can’t get us there, and we won’t have to fight him off.
Kara returned with the flashlight and four long, pink candles.
Denise took two of the candles and slid them into a seat pocket of her cords. ‘You keep those,’ she said. ‘Take some matches, too, just in case we get separated.’ She removed a couple of matchbooks from her shirt, and gave them to the girl. ‘Do you want to keep the flashlight, too?’
Kara nodded.
‘OK, turn it on and come with me.’ Denise stepped past the stove. She opened the door and entered a small room. It contained a water heater, a mop, a couple of brooms, a dust pan, a yard stick, a rag bag and a collection of neatly folded grocery sacks. On the far side was a door. She pointed at it. ‘What’s through there?’
‘The weather.’
‘Not a porch or anything?’ she asked.
‘No. That stuff’d get us all wet if we went out.’
‘Guess we don’t want to do that, huh?’
‘I don’t think so.’ Kara pointed the flashlight beam at a gray metal panel on the wall. ‘There’s the fuse box,’ she whispered.
Denise stepped up to it. She clamped the knife between her knees so she could use both hands, slipped her fingertips under the edge of the thin overlapping door, and tugged. The door popped open with a squawk. She yanked the other open. Within the panel were two main switches and rows of clear glass circuit breakers. ‘Ready?’ she asked.
‘I guess so.’
She flicked both switches down. The light from the kitchen vanished. The refrigerator ceased its quiet hum. ‘Turn off the flashlight,’ she whispered.
Kara shut off its beam.
Reaching down, Denise slipped the knife from between her knees. She pressed the flat of its blade against her belly. She decided to leave the hammer in her pocket so her right hand would remain free.
‘OK,’ she whispered. ‘Now, stay behind me. Maybe hold onto my shirt tail.’ She stepped past Kara and felt a small tug as the girl clutched her shirt.
They left the small room and slowly crossed the kitchen. Their sneakers made quiet squeaky sounds on the tile. Denise couldn’t see a thing in front of her. She reached out, hand exploring the area ahead. After a few steps, her fingertips brushed the refrigerator. Keeping to its side, she moved straight forward.
The dining room carpet silenced their shoes. Denise heard nothing except rain pounding the roof, her own thudding heart and shaky breathing, and Kara’s trembling breaths behind her.
She touched the back of a chair, pictured the layout of the dining room, and turned in the direction of the entryway. She half expected Tom to be waiting just inside the living room. Any second, he would jump them.
He can’t see us, she told herself.
But he might be able to hear us.
She had a sudden, strong urge to whirl around and race for the kitchen.
She kept moving forward, sweeping the area ahead with her open hand.
We must be in the living room by now, she thought. So far, so good. Maybe we’ve already snuck past him. Hell, he might be anywhere. He might be right in front of me. One more step, and I’ll touch him.
Denise took that one more step. Felt nothing. Took another. And another.
And gasped as her fingertips prodded something that felt like fabric. She lurched backward, jerking her arm away from it, and Kara bumped against her. A second later came a quiet crashing noise. A pop of glass.
The sounds of a lamp striking the carpeted floor, its bulb bursting.
You hit its shade, she thought. You knocked it over. And Tom knows right where we are.
No more point in sneaking.
She shoved the knife handle between her teeth. She fumbled a matchbook out of her shirt pocket. She flipped it open, tore out a match and struck it. A blinding bright flare, then the fire settled to an orange bloom. In its glow, she saw the lamp on the floor at her feet. She saw the sofa and much of the room beyond it. No Tom.
Thank God.
She spun around. He wasn’t rushing at them from the rear.
‘Turn on your flashlight,’ she whispered. ‘We’ll make a run for it.’
The flashlight shot its beam against Denise’s belly, then swung away. She shook out her match. She pulled off her shirt. Matchbooks spilled from the pocket as she wadded it. She wrapped the sleeves around the clump of fabric to hold the bundle together, knotted the sleeves once, and clamped shirt between her knees. Then she struck another match.
She lit her shirt on fire.
‘You’re gonna burn yourself.’
‘Probably,’ she muttered.
As flames climbed around the fabric, she grabbed the knot, pulled the shirt from between her knees, and turned away from Kara. She took the knife from her teeth. ‘Go first,’ she said. ‘Run for the john. Don’t stop for anything.’
The girl rushed past her.
Knife in her left hand, the blazing wad of shirt in her right, Denise dashed through the living room. She kept her arm high, carrying the fireball overhead like a torch.
Kara, a few strides in front of her, cut to the right at the foyer and dashed for the hallway.
No Tom. So far.
Where is he?
Denise’s shoes slapped the tiles. She turned. Raced after Kara. The pale beam of the girl’s flashlight skittered over the hallway carpet, the walls and dark doorways. Then the carpet was under Denise. Her torch cast orange light into the gloom ahead, fluttered against the walls and carpet. She felt heat surrounding her hand. So far, she didn’t think she was being burnt.
So your hand gets burnt, she thought. You can live with it.
Just get to the john.
And a dark shape lunged out through a doorway and blocked the hall and whipped the fireplace poker at Kara’s face. The girl ducked under it. Her head rammed Tom in the belly. Instead of knocking him down, the blow sent Kara stumbling backward. She landed on her rump. Denise leaped over the girl. Tom swung the poker. Its brass bar whapped against her side. She shoved the blazing shirt at his face.
Dropping the poker, he lurched to the side and slammed a wall as he flung up both arms to shield his face. Denise thrust the torch against his arms. She knew his midsection was unprotected, knew she could drive the knife straight into him with her left hand. But she refused.
‘KARA!’ she shouted. ‘GO! GO!’
The flames flapped against her face, curled hot around her fist and forearm. But she didn’t stab Tom. She just kept jamming the fireball against his crossed arms.
Kara rushed by.
Made it into the bathroom.
Denise pumped her knee into Tom’s groin. His breath exploded out. He spasmed against the wall. Denise lurched away from him, dashed to the bathroom, hurled the flaming remains of her shirt into the sink, swung around and drove her shoulder against the door, slamming it shut. Her thumb jabbed the lock button down.
She slumped back against the door. As she gasped, coughing on the smoky air, Kara turned on a faucet. Water splashed down. The burning shirt hissed. Its glow faded. In seconds, the bathroom was dark except for the beam of the flashlight.
Denise’s right hand and forearm felt as if they were still burning. She stepped to the sink, and set down her knife, and splashed cool water against her skin.
‘Are you hurt bad?’ Kara whispered.
‘I don’t think so. How about you?’
‘I’m OK. Did you stab him?’
‘No.’
‘How’d you get away?’
‘Kneed him in the nuts.’
‘Huh?’
‘Never mind. Why don’t you light a couple of the . . .’ Denise jumped as something crashed against the door. From the sound, she guessed Tom must’ve struck it with the poker. She pulled her arm out from under the water, hurried to the door, and pressed her back against it.
The next blow jolted her.
That was a kick, she thought.
While she braced the door, Kara lit a candle, dripped some paraffin onto the side of the sink, then stood the candle upright in the small puddle.
Tom struck the door again.
Kara said, ‘Somebody better keep that gizmo in.’ She stepped up close to Denise and clutched the doorknob. Her small thumb pushed against the lock button. ‘It can get popped out real easy,’ she whispered. ‘It doesn’t even take a key.’
She held the button in.
Denise curled a hand around the back of the girl’s head. As she caressed the soft hair, Kara leaned forward, slumped a little against her, and rested a cheek against her chest.
8
‘What are they doing up there?’ Cyndi said. She studied the kitchen ceiling as if it might give her a clue.
‘I don’t want to know,’ Sheila said.
‘Maybe I oughta go up and check on ’em,’ Doug offered.
Cyndi glowered at him. ‘Oh, you’d like that.’
Lou sipped his vodka and tonic, then squatted down and peered through the glass of the oven’s door. The frozen, fried chicken pieces spread out on the cookie sheet looked as if they might be done pretty soon. The crust, getting darker, was shiny with juice or oil that bubbled. He could hear faint sounds of sizzling and crackling.
The sounds reminded him of last night. Chidi tied to the goalpost, wrapped in flame. That kid’s skin had sizzled and crackled.
The memory gave Lou a heavy, sick feeling.
I didn’t do it, he told himself. I didn’t do any of it.
He knew that wasn’t quite true. He hadn’t done the bad stuff, though. He hadn’t cut on the kid or burnt him. He hadn’t killed him.
All I did, he told himself, was help snatch the bastard and strip him and tie him up. I trashed him just a little, maybe, but nothing serious. Nothing that even would’ve put him in the hospital for godsake.
Buddy never should’ve done that stuff.
Now I’m in just as much trouble as him, and I didn’t do a damn thing. Lisa’s gonna spill the beans on us. We’ll be fucked.
We oughta be shutting up Lisa, not having a goddamn party.
And Buddy’s upstairs with the pizza gal as if he doesn’t have a worry in the world.
The whole thing’s crazy.
And it’s storming black shit outside and the crazy bitch tried to kill Buddy, and we’re all acting like nothing’s wrong. The whole damn world’s gone nuts.
‘How’s the chicken doing?’ Sheila asked. She crouched beside Lou and looked into the oven. ‘A while longer, huh? I like it good and crispy.’
You should’ve seen Chidi. He was good and crispy.
Sheila leaned against him. She caressed his back. He felt her breast pressing his upper arm. Breath tickling his ear, she whispered, ‘Do you think we can get out of here?’
‘Not while it’s raining,’ Lou whispered. ‘Or whatever it’s doing out there.’
She kissed his ear. Lou knew she was doing this so Doug and Cyndi would think they were making out, whispering endearments or something. ‘I don’t like this. We oughta get away. I just know Buddy’s raping that woman.’
‘Probably.’ The feel of Sheila and images of Buddy putting it to the pizza gal started to make Lou horny. He slipped a hand under the back of Sheila’s sweatshirt. Normally, she wouldn’t have allowed that with people around. But she didn’t protest. Her skin was warm and smooth. ‘It’s not like we’re accomplices or anything,’ he whispered. ‘We’re down here, you know? He’s up there. They might just be talking.’
‘Oh, sure.’
‘Besides, she tried to knock his head off.’
‘That’s no excuse to . . . violate her.’
‘I know,’ Lou whispered. He moved his hand over the cross-strap of Sheila’s bra. He knew she would go ape if he tried to unhook it.
The lucky son-of-a-bitch, Buddy. Up there with the pizza gal. Bet he got the bra off her. Everything else, too. The bitch was in no position to argue.
Bet he violated her but good.
‘Maybe Buddy’s got some raincoats and umbrellas around,’ Sheila whispered. ‘If we covered up really good . . .’
‘It’s too risky.’ Then Lou came up with an idea that he knew should please her. ‘Besides, there’s no telling what Buddy might do to the gal.’
‘That’s what scares me. I don’t want to be around . . .’
‘If we stay, we might be able to keep him in line, you know? Stop him from . . .’
‘Nobody stopped him upstairs.’
You didn’t, either, Lou thought. But he didn’t want to say anything that might turn Sheila against him. He rubbed her shoulder, sliding the bra strap out of his way.
‘I won’t let Buddy do anything really bad,’ he said.
‘Oh, raping someone isn’t really bad? What do you call really bad?’
‘I don’t know. Like if he wants to get rid of her or something.’
‘That’s what I thought you meant. ’Cause I’m thinking the same thing. How’s he planning to keep her from going to the cops about this if he doesn’t. . . like waste her?’
‘Well, she is the one who started it.’
‘I’m not gonna be here for something like that.’
‘We won’t let it happen.’
‘Yeah, sure.’
‘I mean it. I’ll stop him.’
‘Will you?’
‘Damn right.’ Just like I stopped him last night, Lou thought. ‘I’m not gonna let him kill someone in front of us.’
‘How’s the chick-chick coming?’ Doug asked, stepping up behind them.
‘A few more minutes,’ Sheila said. She patted Lou’s back, then stood up. Lou stood up, too, keeping his hand on her shoulder.
‘I wish Buddy’d get down here,’ Cyndi said.
‘He’s probably already eaten, anyway.’
‘Very funny. Maybe one of us should go up and . . .’
‘Help him,’ Doug said.
‘You’re really asking for it.’
‘Think I’ll get it?’
‘Not. . .’
‘Hi ho, everyone,’ Buddy said, stepping into the kitchen with the pizza gal beside him. ‘What’s cooking?’
‘We found some chicken in the freezer,’ Cyndi told him. ‘It’s about ready.’
‘Well, we’re just in time.’ He smiled at the pizza gal and patted her rump. ‘Friends, this is Maureen.’
Lou’s hand dropped out from under Sheila’s sweatshirt.
Incredible, he thought.
‘Turned out to be a white girl,’ Buddy said.
‘Holy shit,’ Doug muttered.
Holy shit is right, Lou thought. She’s a fucking knockout.
She was taller than Buddy, but slender. Even from across the kitchen, Lou could see the brilliant emerald of her eyes. Her hair must’ve been blow-dried. It seemed to float around her face, a rich curtain of brown and rust and gold. Lou couldn’t recall ever seeing such a beautiful face. Not in the flesh, at least. Maybe on movie screens, in magazines, never in the same room with him.
She wore a white T-shirt. One of Buddy’s undershirts? It was much too large for her. It hung down so low that it covered all but the bottom inch of her red gym shorts. It seemed to drape from her shoulders, hardly touching her body anywhere except her breasts. There, the shirt was pushed outward, smooth over the soft mounds, peaked at the very front by the thrust of her nipples. Her skin showed through the thin fabric. Pink except for the darker disks at the tips of her breasts.
A look of alarm filled the girl’s eyes. ‘Oh, I don’t think I like that idea. Not even one little bit. He might just sneak right up on us.’
‘I know it’d be scary, Kara. But it’d be just like we’re invisible. If we don’t make a sound, we might be able to creep right past him, and he’d never even know we were there. Do you know where the fuse box is?’ ‘Sure, but I don’t think . . .’ She shut her mouth, probably recalling her father’s command to obey Denise. ‘It’s right over there,’ she said. She turned from the doorway and nodded toward a closed door just beyond the stove.
‘It’s not outside, is it?’
‘Huh-uh.’
‘Where are those flashlights and candles you talked about right after we heard the thunder?’
Kara looked relieved. ‘Everywhere. Well, not everywhere. I’ve got a couple of flashlights in my bedroom and Dad has a big red thing by his bed. It’s real bright.’
‘Is there one here in the kitchen?’
‘Yeah, right where I got the hammer from.’
Why hadn’t she mentioned that in the first place? Come on, Denise told herself. She’s just a kid.
‘OK, what about candles?’
‘You mean just in the kitchen? Because we’ve got candles in a lot of . . .’
‘Just here in the kitchen.’
‘Yeah. Mom keeps some in her junk drawer.’
‘Matches?’
Without saying a word, Kara turned around and reached high. She snagged a wicker basket off the top of the refrigerator and pulled it down. The basket was filled with matchbooks. ‘Mom collects them. Wherever she goes, she gets matches. They’re souvenirs. These are extras, though. She won’t mind if we use them.’
Denise switched the butcher knife to her left hand.
She reached into the basket. She lifted out a handful of matchbooks and dumped them into the breast pocket of her shirt. She took out a second handful. The right front pocket of her corduroys held the hammer, stuffed in headfirst. With her knife hand, she swept the hanging front of her shirt out of the way. She thrust the second bunch of matchbooks into the pocket on her left.
‘That should do it,’ she said. Kara set the basket onto the refrigerator. ‘OK. I’ll keep watch here. You hurry and round up the flashlight and candles.’
While the girl was away, Denise stared through the dining room, into the living room beyond its entryway.
She felt tight and sick inside. Though she hoped Tom had left the house, she couldn’t bring herself to believe it. By now, he’d had plenty of time to work his hands free of the rope. He would be waiting for them. Even in a house that was pitch black, their chances of sneaking past him to the bathroom were slim.
Tom, why are you doing this to us?
She was terrified of him. At the same time, she hated the idea of being forced to hurt him. If he attacked, she would have to defend herself and Kara.
What if I kill him?
But I can’t let him kill us.
Just make it to the bathroom, she thought, and we’ll be safe. He can’t get us there, and we won’t have to fight him off.
Kara returned with the flashlight and four long, pink candles.
Denise took two of the candles and slid them into a seat pocket of her cords. ‘You keep those,’ she said. ‘Take some matches, too, just in case we get separated.’ She removed a couple of matchbooks from her shirt, and gave them to the girl. ‘Do you want to keep the flashlight, too?’
Kara nodded.
‘OK, turn it on and come with me.’ Denise stepped past the stove. She opened the door and entered a small room. It contained a water heater, a mop, a couple of brooms, a dust pan, a yard stick, a rag bag and a collection of neatly folded grocery sacks. On the far side was a door. She pointed at it. ‘What’s through there?’
‘The weather.’
‘Not a porch or anything?’ she asked.
‘No. That stuff’d get us all wet if we went out.’
‘Guess we don’t want to do that, huh?’
‘I don’t think so.’ Kara pointed the flashlight beam at a gray metal panel on the wall. ‘There’s the fuse box,’ she whispered.
Denise stepped up to it. She clamped the knife between her knees so she could use both hands, slipped her fingertips under the edge of the thin overlapping door, and tugged. The door popped open with a squawk. She yanked the other open. Within the panel were two main switches and rows of clear glass circuit breakers. ‘Ready?’ she asked.
‘I guess so.’
She flicked both switches down. The light from the kitchen vanished. The refrigerator ceased its quiet hum. ‘Turn off the flashlight,’ she whispered.
Kara shut off its beam.
Reaching down, Denise slipped the knife from between her knees. She pressed the flat of its blade against her belly. She decided to leave the hammer in her pocket so her right hand would remain free.
‘OK,’ she whispered. ‘Now, stay behind me. Maybe hold onto my shirt tail.’ She stepped past Kara and felt a small tug as the girl clutched her shirt.
They left the small room and slowly crossed the kitchen. Their sneakers made quiet squeaky sounds on the tile. Denise couldn’t see a thing in front of her. She reached out, hand exploring the area ahead. After a few steps, her fingertips brushed the refrigerator. Keeping to its side, she moved straight forward.
The dining room carpet silenced their shoes. Denise heard nothing except rain pounding the roof, her own thudding heart and shaky breathing, and Kara’s trembling breaths behind her.
She touched the back of a chair, pictured the layout of the dining room, and turned in the direction of the entryway. She half expected Tom to be waiting just inside the living room. Any second, he would jump them.
He can’t see us, she told herself.
But he might be able to hear us.
She had a sudden, strong urge to whirl around and race for the kitchen.
She kept moving forward, sweeping the area ahead with her open hand.
We must be in the living room by now, she thought. So far, so good. Maybe we’ve already snuck past him. Hell, he might be anywhere. He might be right in front of me. One more step, and I’ll touch him.
Denise took that one more step. Felt nothing. Took another. And another.
And gasped as her fingertips prodded something that felt like fabric. She lurched backward, jerking her arm away from it, and Kara bumped against her. A second later came a quiet crashing noise. A pop of glass.
The sounds of a lamp striking the carpeted floor, its bulb bursting.
You hit its shade, she thought. You knocked it over. And Tom knows right where we are.
No more point in sneaking.
She shoved the knife handle between her teeth. She fumbled a matchbook out of her shirt pocket. She flipped it open, tore out a match and struck it. A blinding bright flare, then the fire settled to an orange bloom. In its glow, she saw the lamp on the floor at her feet. She saw the sofa and much of the room beyond it. No Tom.
Thank God.
She spun around. He wasn’t rushing at them from the rear.
‘Turn on your flashlight,’ she whispered. ‘We’ll make a run for it.’
The flashlight shot its beam against Denise’s belly, then swung away. She shook out her match. She pulled off her shirt. Matchbooks spilled from the pocket as she wadded it. She wrapped the sleeves around the clump of fabric to hold the bundle together, knotted the sleeves once, and clamped shirt between her knees. Then she struck another match.
She lit her shirt on fire.
‘You’re gonna burn yourself.’
‘Probably,’ she muttered.
As flames climbed around the fabric, she grabbed the knot, pulled the shirt from between her knees, and turned away from Kara. She took the knife from her teeth. ‘Go first,’ she said. ‘Run for the john. Don’t stop for anything.’
The girl rushed past her.
Knife in her left hand, the blazing wad of shirt in her right, Denise dashed through the living room. She kept her arm high, carrying the fireball overhead like a torch.
Kara, a few strides in front of her, cut to the right at the foyer and dashed for the hallway.
No Tom. So far.
Where is he?
Denise’s shoes slapped the tiles. She turned. Raced after Kara. The pale beam of the girl’s flashlight skittered over the hallway carpet, the walls and dark doorways. Then the carpet was under Denise. Her torch cast orange light into the gloom ahead, fluttered against the walls and carpet. She felt heat surrounding her hand. So far, she didn’t think she was being burnt.
So your hand gets burnt, she thought. You can live with it.
Just get to the john.
And a dark shape lunged out through a doorway and blocked the hall and whipped the fireplace poker at Kara’s face. The girl ducked under it. Her head rammed Tom in the belly. Instead of knocking him down, the blow sent Kara stumbling backward. She landed on her rump. Denise leaped over the girl. Tom swung the poker. Its brass bar whapped against her side. She shoved the blazing shirt at his face.
Dropping the poker, he lurched to the side and slammed a wall as he flung up both arms to shield his face. Denise thrust the torch against his arms. She knew his midsection was unprotected, knew she could drive the knife straight into him with her left hand. But she refused.
‘KARA!’ she shouted. ‘GO! GO!’
The flames flapped against her face, curled hot around her fist and forearm. But she didn’t stab Tom. She just kept jamming the fireball against his crossed arms.
Kara rushed by.
Made it into the bathroom.
Denise pumped her knee into Tom’s groin. His breath exploded out. He spasmed against the wall. Denise lurched away from him, dashed to the bathroom, hurled the flaming remains of her shirt into the sink, swung around and drove her shoulder against the door, slamming it shut. Her thumb jabbed the lock button down.
She slumped back against the door. As she gasped, coughing on the smoky air, Kara turned on a faucet. Water splashed down. The burning shirt hissed. Its glow faded. In seconds, the bathroom was dark except for the beam of the flashlight.
Denise’s right hand and forearm felt as if they were still burning. She stepped to the sink, and set down her knife, and splashed cool water against her skin.
‘Are you hurt bad?’ Kara whispered.
‘I don’t think so. How about you?’
‘I’m OK. Did you stab him?’
‘No.’
‘How’d you get away?’
‘Kneed him in the nuts.’
‘Huh?’
‘Never mind. Why don’t you light a couple of the . . .’ Denise jumped as something crashed against the door. From the sound, she guessed Tom must’ve struck it with the poker. She pulled her arm out from under the water, hurried to the door, and pressed her back against it.
The next blow jolted her.
That was a kick, she thought.
While she braced the door, Kara lit a candle, dripped some paraffin onto the side of the sink, then stood the candle upright in the small puddle.
Tom struck the door again.
Kara said, ‘Somebody better keep that gizmo in.’ She stepped up close to Denise and clutched the doorknob. Her small thumb pushed against the lock button. ‘It can get popped out real easy,’ she whispered. ‘It doesn’t even take a key.’
She held the button in.
Denise curled a hand around the back of the girl’s head. As she caressed the soft hair, Kara leaned forward, slumped a little against her, and rested a cheek against her chest.
8
‘What are they doing up there?’ Cyndi said. She studied the kitchen ceiling as if it might give her a clue.
‘I don’t want to know,’ Sheila said.
‘Maybe I oughta go up and check on ’em,’ Doug offered.
Cyndi glowered at him. ‘Oh, you’d like that.’
Lou sipped his vodka and tonic, then squatted down and peered through the glass of the oven’s door. The frozen, fried chicken pieces spread out on the cookie sheet looked as if they might be done pretty soon. The crust, getting darker, was shiny with juice or oil that bubbled. He could hear faint sounds of sizzling and crackling.
The sounds reminded him of last night. Chidi tied to the goalpost, wrapped in flame. That kid’s skin had sizzled and crackled.
The memory gave Lou a heavy, sick feeling.
I didn’t do it, he told himself. I didn’t do any of it.
He knew that wasn’t quite true. He hadn’t done the bad stuff, though. He hadn’t cut on the kid or burnt him. He hadn’t killed him.
All I did, he told himself, was help snatch the bastard and strip him and tie him up. I trashed him just a little, maybe, but nothing serious. Nothing that even would’ve put him in the hospital for godsake.
Buddy never should’ve done that stuff.
Now I’m in just as much trouble as him, and I didn’t do a damn thing. Lisa’s gonna spill the beans on us. We’ll be fucked.
We oughta be shutting up Lisa, not having a goddamn party.
And Buddy’s upstairs with the pizza gal as if he doesn’t have a worry in the world.
The whole thing’s crazy.
And it’s storming black shit outside and the crazy bitch tried to kill Buddy, and we’re all acting like nothing’s wrong. The whole damn world’s gone nuts.
‘How’s the chicken doing?’ Sheila asked. She crouched beside Lou and looked into the oven. ‘A while longer, huh? I like it good and crispy.’
You should’ve seen Chidi. He was good and crispy.
Sheila leaned against him. She caressed his back. He felt her breast pressing his upper arm. Breath tickling his ear, she whispered, ‘Do you think we can get out of here?’
‘Not while it’s raining,’ Lou whispered. ‘Or whatever it’s doing out there.’
She kissed his ear. Lou knew she was doing this so Doug and Cyndi would think they were making out, whispering endearments or something. ‘I don’t like this. We oughta get away. I just know Buddy’s raping that woman.’
‘Probably.’ The feel of Sheila and images of Buddy putting it to the pizza gal started to make Lou horny. He slipped a hand under the back of Sheila’s sweatshirt. Normally, she wouldn’t have allowed that with people around. But she didn’t protest. Her skin was warm and smooth. ‘It’s not like we’re accomplices or anything,’ he whispered. ‘We’re down here, you know? He’s up there. They might just be talking.’
‘Oh, sure.’
‘Besides, she tried to knock his head off.’
‘That’s no excuse to . . . violate her.’
‘I know,’ Lou whispered. He moved his hand over the cross-strap of Sheila’s bra. He knew she would go ape if he tried to unhook it.
The lucky son-of-a-bitch, Buddy. Up there with the pizza gal. Bet he got the bra off her. Everything else, too. The bitch was in no position to argue.
Bet he violated her but good.
‘Maybe Buddy’s got some raincoats and umbrellas around,’ Sheila whispered. ‘If we covered up really good . . .’
‘It’s too risky.’ Then Lou came up with an idea that he knew should please her. ‘Besides, there’s no telling what Buddy might do to the gal.’
‘That’s what scares me. I don’t want to be around . . .’
‘If we stay, we might be able to keep him in line, you know? Stop him from . . .’
‘Nobody stopped him upstairs.’
You didn’t, either, Lou thought. But he didn’t want to say anything that might turn Sheila against him. He rubbed her shoulder, sliding the bra strap out of his way.
‘I won’t let Buddy do anything really bad,’ he said.
‘Oh, raping someone isn’t really bad? What do you call really bad?’
‘I don’t know. Like if he wants to get rid of her or something.’
‘That’s what I thought you meant. ’Cause I’m thinking the same thing. How’s he planning to keep her from going to the cops about this if he doesn’t. . . like waste her?’
‘Well, she is the one who started it.’
‘I’m not gonna be here for something like that.’
‘We won’t let it happen.’
‘Yeah, sure.’
‘I mean it. I’ll stop him.’
‘Will you?’
‘Damn right.’ Just like I stopped him last night, Lou thought. ‘I’m not gonna let him kill someone in front of us.’
‘How’s the chick-chick coming?’ Doug asked, stepping up behind them.
‘A few more minutes,’ Sheila said. She patted Lou’s back, then stood up. Lou stood up, too, keeping his hand on her shoulder.
‘I wish Buddy’d get down here,’ Cyndi said.
‘He’s probably already eaten, anyway.’
‘Very funny. Maybe one of us should go up and . . .’
‘Help him,’ Doug said.
‘You’re really asking for it.’
‘Think I’ll get it?’
‘Not. . .’
‘Hi ho, everyone,’ Buddy said, stepping into the kitchen with the pizza gal beside him. ‘What’s cooking?’
‘We found some chicken in the freezer,’ Cyndi told him. ‘It’s about ready.’
‘Well, we’re just in time.’ He smiled at the pizza gal and patted her rump. ‘Friends, this is Maureen.’
Lou’s hand dropped out from under Sheila’s sweatshirt.
Incredible, he thought.
‘Turned out to be a white girl,’ Buddy said.
‘Holy shit,’ Doug muttered.
Holy shit is right, Lou thought. She’s a fucking knockout.
She was taller than Buddy, but slender. Even from across the kitchen, Lou could see the brilliant emerald of her eyes. Her hair must’ve been blow-dried. It seemed to float around her face, a rich curtain of brown and rust and gold. Lou couldn’t recall ever seeing such a beautiful face. Not in the flesh, at least. Maybe on movie screens, in magazines, never in the same room with him.
She wore a white T-shirt. One of Buddy’s undershirts? It was much too large for her. It hung down so low that it covered all but the bottom inch of her red gym shorts. It seemed to drape from her shoulders, hardly touching her body anywhere except her breasts. There, the shirt was pushed outward, smooth over the soft mounds, peaked at the very front by the thrust of her nipples. Her skin showed through the thin fabric. Pink except for the darker disks at the tips of her breasts.
