‘Please,’ she said, ‘let me get her cleaned up and then I’ll talk with you.’ She turned and wheeled the woman around in the foyer, then said, ‘Oh, why don’t you just come with me while I get her settled and then we can talk?’ A tenseness framed her face. ‘Just come right along with me.’
Whit got the distinct feeling she didn’t want him out of her sight. ‘Actually I need to borrow a rest room.’ He had noticed a men’s room right off the foyer. He didn’t wait for her permission, he turned and ducked into the bathroom. He washed his hands while counting to one hundred, and then came out. Kathy and her incontinent charge were gone. He hurried back to the main room; Gooch was still there, arguing the merits of Victorian poetry with his new friend. No Kathy. Whit wandered back down the hallway, peeking into the rooms. One room was tidy with its lack of occupants. Another held an ancient black woman, napping and snoring loudly.
The third room was occupied. Whit peered into the dimness. An emaciated figure lay in a bed, a rope of drool uncoiling from his slack mouth, his eyes at half-mast. His dark hair was cut in a crisp burr, and an ugly scar split the hairline. His skin was sun-starved, his cheeks sunken, but Whit could see the man was young. Too young.
‘Oh, my Lord,’ Whit said.
It was Corey Hubble.
38
Velvet was awake when he returned. Wriggling carefully, she had worked the blindfold back into place. She kept her head turned to the side to hide any lopsided silk.
‘Did you miss me?’ Corey asked.
‘Why do you hate me so,’ she said, ‘to do this to me?’
‘I don’t hate you. Not at all. I love you.’
She wanted to scream. This isn’t love, you freaking nut bastard. Even as screwed up as I am I know this isn’t love. Instead she said, ‘Are you doing this because you’ve seen my movies?’
A soft laugh. ‘I’ve seen your movies. Am I better than Pete?’
She didn’t answer.
He touched her cheek. Gently. ‘Tell me.’
‘Of course you are,’ she lied. She heard shoes easing off feet and hitting the wooden floor, the soft rustle of clothing sliding down legs, a jingling of keys tossed to the floor.
‘Don’t,’ Velvet said. ‘Please don’t.’
Silence again.
‘Why not?’ Corey finally said, sounding amused. ‘Since I’m so much better.’
‘Because,’ she said, her voice calmed with a mighty effort, ‘you don’t have to. Not this way.’
‘I need to.’
‘Corey?’
Silence again, longer this time. She heard the even rasp of his breathing, near her ear.
‘What?’ he finally said.
‘Corey. Please don’t.’ She put even more fear into her voice than she felt.
‘No talking now.’ He climbed upon her and forced himself on her again. She gritted her teeth, tried to summon memories from faraway sweetness. The tang of lemonade on a summer day, the soft pine-cologne smell of her father’s camel-hair jacket, cinnamon and butter pooling on hot toast. Sitting in the quiet dark of her daddy’s church on a Saturday afternoon, leaning back in a wooden pew while he practiced his sermon, pretending to snore if the sermon got a little dull, him never getting mad. Pete, bedecking her with roses on her birthday. But all the good failed her and she screamed and cried, muscles aching, body sore. She told herself. It will be over soon, over soon, over soon.
It was. He lay atop her when he was done, his skin sweaty and smelling of burgers, her skin clammy. His face was buried in her hair, and she felt him breathing in its scent. Lingering on her, like they were lovers. She so wanted her gun. She would fire a thousand bullets into his guts and brain and what odd lump passed for a heart.
‘Why did you kill Pete?’ she asked.
‘Who says I did?’ His voice was muffled in her hair.
‘Did you kill him to get at me?’
No answer. His seed trickled out of her and she wanted to vomit.
‘Tell me,’ she said. ‘Please.’
‘I didn’t kill him. I wanted to, but I didn’t.’
‘Liar.’ She couldn’t hide her contempt.
He sat up, going on his knees, straddling her, and slapped her hard. Once, twice, three times. Her ears rang. Blood leaked from her nose. He stopped; she felt his erection return, pressed into her breasts.
‘I thought I was your darling,’ she managed.
He made a guttural sound. She could feel his legs shivering against hers.
Velvet wet her lips, tasted her own blood. Pete loved you, Corey. He only wanted to help you.’
Another low laugh.
‘Do you want me to love you, Corey? Maybe I could.’ She heard him laugh but not move. ‘I can’t love you if I don’t know you, though,’ she said.
‘You love Whit Mosley.’ His voice grew distant. ‘I saw you hug him.’
‘I sure as hell don’t love him. I hate his guts.’
‘Don’t hate his guts. I might bring them to you.’
Velvet’s tongue felt stuck. She expected him to rape her again, but instead he clambered off the bed. She heard him gathering his clothes and then the door shutting behind him. In a minute or so the soft hiss of a shower began to run.
He was gone. And he had not shoved the gag back in her mouth. With its tiny lock. Its edged metal lock.
In the end, of course, she called David.
Claudia awoke early Saturday morning and lay on the futon for an hour, her body stiff against the flowered sheets. She had no job. She had rent, she had food to buy, she had a car payment, she would have no health insurance, she had less than two thousand dollars in her checking account and less in a savings account, she owed six hundred on a Visa card with seventeen percent interest. Twice she reached for the phone to call her mother, but even before she dialed her mother’s voice rang in her ear like discordant chimes: Whats wrong with you? You give up a wonderful husband, now you lose your job? What, you want to shrimp with your father? There’s a future. Why did we bother sending you to school? She wasn’t up for her mother’s blunderbuss catechism. Heather Farrell’s face swam before her, dream-edged, and twice Claudia stumbled to the bathroom, surrendering to dry heaves of sick and shock.
So she finally called David, whispering to him about losing her job, about failing Heather. He came over at seven-thirty in the morning, arrived with a bag of breakfast groceries, drew a hot bath for her, made omelets while she bathed and dressed in old nubby pajamas soft as a kiss. She heard him in her kitchen, sliding drawers, chopping vegetables, pouring juice, sizzling butter.
That didn’t take long, did it, Miss Tough? You’re just gonna let him right back in, aren’t you?
She popped open the drain, let the soapy water begin its downward swirl. Yeah. Maybe I am.
They ate their eggs and biscuits and juice, and Claudia, rather than talking, went under a wave of exhaustion. She fell asleep curled on the futon, David lying beside her, stroking her dark hair.
She awoke at 10 a.m. Her blinds were lowered, the room grayish dark. She stumbled to the kitchen. David sat drinking coffee, reading the Corpus Christi paper.
He lowered the paper. ‘Hope I didn’t overstay my welcome. I thought you might want to talk when you woke up.’
‘Thanks. Thanks for the bath and breakfast and everything.’
‘But I want to get something straight, okay?’ New steel in his voice she hadn’t heard before. ‘I’m not trying to take advantage of the… emotional train wreck you’ve just gone through. I’m saying that out loud because I know how your mind works, Claud, and sooner or later you’re gonna think I’m trying to tiptoe back in.’
‘Oh, David, I don’t think that,’ she said, unsure of what she thought.
‘Okay. I just don’t want you to be alone if you don’t want to be.’