"Guess so," I muttered, unable to work up much enthusiasm.
When she stepped back, I crawled away from the edge and stood up.
"Nobody else interested?" she asked, and took off Keith's shirt as she walked over to where she'd left her tomahawk and spear.
"I can live without seeing him," Billie said.
"Let me have your rope," Kimberly said.
Billie frowned. "What for?"
"I'm going down."
"You're kidding," I muttered. "You don't want to do that."
"Sure I do." Kimberly had never seemed so perky. It was scary. "Have to make sure it's him."
"Of course it's him. Who else could it be?"
"Gilligan?" she suggested. "The professor? D.B. Cooper? Who knows? Could be almost anyone."
"It's Wesley," I said.
Connie scowled at her. "You told us it's Wesley."
"I'm sure it is him. I'm just not sure sure. That's why I need to go down and turn him over."
Turn him over?
"Oh jeez," I said. "Don't. You don't want to touch him."
She gave me a strange smile and said, "Sure I do."
"Be my guest," Billie said. Nose wrinkled, she lifted the coils of rope off her shoulder and swung them over her head. She held them out to Kimberly, who took them.
"There's really no reason to go down there," I protested. "Really. I mean, you know and I know that it's Wesley, so . . ."
"Maybe you know, bucko."
"You know, too."
"I know no such thing."
"It's not funny!"
"Am I being funny?"
"You're being strange."
"He's right," Connie said.
"How about we just call it quits and go back to the beach," Billie suggested.
The quirky grin vanished from Kimberly's face. "I'm gonna do what I'm gonna do. What I'm gonna do is go down and pay a visit to our dead friend because if he's not Wesley I wanta know it and if he is Wesley . . ." She shrugged.
"What?" Billie asked.
"Nothing. I just have to know for sure it's him. That's all. You know what? I'm not so sure, anymore. The more I think about it, the more this guy doesn't look big enough to be Wesley."
"That's a crock," I said.
Without another word, Billie walked to the edge and peered down. Then she made a sound. "Uhhh." After about a minute, she turned around and came back to us. She looked ill. "It's gotta be Wesley," she muttered. "Who else could it be? Anyway, I think people are supposed to look smaller when they're dead."
"You think he looks smaller?" Connie blurted.
"Well . . . sort of. Wesley was a pretty big guy . . ."
"The dead guy's big," I pointed out.
"I'm not sure he's as big."
Connie muttered, "Jesus."
"He's got Kimberly's spear hole in his ass," I said. "And his head's caved in, just the way Thelma . . ."
"Making him conveniently difficult to identify," Kimberly said. "And anybody could've poked a hole in someone's butt."
"In whose butt?" I blurted. "Who else is there?"
Kimberly's smile returned. Not her spectacular smile -- her bizarre and gleeful one. "Remains to be seen, Watson."
With that, she twirled around and made her spritely way to the edge of the chasm. Holding one end of the rope, she let the rest of it fall over the edge. Then she faced us and shook her head. "Not long enough. We'll have to add on the tomahawk ropes."
By that time, we were all ready to cooperate. We hadn't had much faith in Kimberly's judgment, but Billie's doubts had turned the trick. She wasn't one hundred per cent sure the body belonged to Wesley, so we really needed to make an absolutely positive ID.
While I stood guard with the ax, the women took apart their tomahawk slings.
Billie tied the knots. The three shorter pieces added at least twelve feet to the length of the rope.
Kimberly held one end and tossed the rest of it over the edge. "Reaches," she announced.
I looked around for a good place to tie off the upper end. A tree trunk, for instance. Or a solid jut of rock. There was nothing of the sort near enough to the edge. "I guess we'll have to lower you," I said.
"Nope. I'll just climb down."
Apparently, she'd already figured out what to do. She took the ax from me, carried it toward the edge, and turned the ax so its haft pointed away from the chasm. Then she squatted and shoved the blade into a crack in the rocks. Standing up, she stomped it deeper.
She tied a loop at her end of the rope and slipped it down the haft until it stopped against the steel head.
"That should do it," she said. "Rupe, how about hanging on to the ax handle? Just keep it pushed down, and try not to let the head pop out of the crack."
I nodded. "Okay, but . . ."
"Or stand on the ax. Whatever."
"Okay." Crouching, I clutched the wooden handle just below the loop of rope. "Got it," I said.
"Good guy," she said. She gave my shoulder a gentle squeeze, then moved around in front of me. Briefly, we were forehead to forehead. Then she crawled backward, the rope on the ground between her knees.
"Be careful," Billie said.
"For Godsake, don't fall," Connie said.
They both moved in closer. Billie stood near my left side, while Connie sank down to one knee on my right. They were ready to help if anything should go wrong.
So far, Kimberly hadn't even taken hold of the rope. Hands pressed against the edge of the chasm, she lowered her legs. Then she stopped. She held herself there, braced up with stiff arms in front of me, the ledge pushing a long dent across both her thighs. Her shoulders and arms, usually so slender and smooth, bulged with curves of muscle. So did her breasts. They swelled, smooth and round, ballooning the pouches of her white bikini. Her dark skin dripped sweat and glistened.
"Rupe," she said.
I met her eyes.
"I'm gonna lose my knife."
I looked at it.
I'd been trying to avoid looking there.
As usual, the Swiss Army knife was tucked in between her bare skin and waistband at the very front of her bikini pants. Its top end stuck up more than usual -- about half an inch. The thickness of the handle held the pants away from her body, and made a bulge all the way down.
I saw her problem right away; if she tried to lower herself any further, the rock ledge would push at the bottom end of the knife, thrusting it up and out.
"Take it," she said.
"Uh . . ."
She sort of rolled her eyes upward. "Just do it. Please."
"I'll get it," Connie said, sounding annoyed. Up on one knee, though, she was too far away. She started to put her other knee down.
"Never mind," I said. Leaning over the ax, I planted my left hand on the ground to hold myself steady while I reached for the knife with my right hand.
I found myself gazing nearly straight down into wedges of open space on either side of the knife handle. Twin triangles formed by red plastic, white spandex, and bare skin. Smooth, flawless, private skin and curls of black hair.
The view sucked my breath out, made my heart start to slam, and sent a quick surge through my groin. I grew hard as I reached down to rescue the knife.
I tried to pinch the tip of the handle where it jutted out above her waistband.
Not enough there to get a firm grip on.
So I slipped my thumb and forefinger down inside. By accident, they brushed ever so softly against her skin. I felt the smoothness, and moaned. I murmured, "Sorry," in a shaky voice.
I was taking too long.
I squeezed the sides of the handle between my thumb and forefinger, and slowly lifted. The knife slid upward. I could feel the tightness of it, trapped like it was. But it came up smoothly. When it was nearly all the way out, I stole a glimpse down deep inside the gaping front of her pants.
Then the elastic snapped back. Her pants shut like a mouth.
"Got it," I murmured.
"Thanks," Kimberly said.
Thank you, I thought. Didn't say it, though.
I raised my head and forced a smile. The look she gave me, she knew what had happened. She'd intended it. Or maybe I just read that into her look, and all she'd really intended was to have me stop the knife from falling out. Who knows?