“Don’t … hurt me … please.”
“You don’t want me to do you like I did those bitches downstairs?”
“No. Please.”
“I’ll do whatever I damn want with you. You know that, don’t you.”
“Yes.”
“And you respect me for that.”
“Yes. Of course.”
“You respect me a whole lot. Don’t you.”
“Yes. A lot.”
“A whole lot,” he corrected.
“A whole lot,” she said obediently.
Longarm wondered if he could put one into the side of Matthews’s head solidly enough—could you keep a dead man’s hand from squeezing a trigger or from reflexively yanking downward with a damned razor? The Colt … Shit, if he fired, he was more apt to kill Clarice than to save her. One movement of a single finger, and the girl would be dead. So would Matthews, but the hell with that.
Longarm had the rest of Herbert Matthews’s life to kill him. The question was how much time Clarice had left to her young life.
“You did all right in prison before,” Longarm said in a calm, conversational tone of voice. It was a lie, of course. The man might or might not have been very tightly strung together before he went behind the wall. For sure he’d come apart while he was in there.
The man was crazy as a june bug on a griddle. Completely round the bend. He looked at Longarm and laughed. And then, incredibly, he went back to screwing Clarice. While Longarm stood there aiming a revolver at him, Herbert Matthews went back to raping his niece.
He couldn’t move that much without the effort of it jostling the hand that held the razor and after a few seconds blood began to spread over Clarice’s neck. Not a lot of it at first. The cuts were small, but nearly every thrust of Matthews’s cock into Clarice resulted in another tiny addition to the growing series of wounds and soon her neck and pillow were a bright, menacing scarlet.
Matthews saw. And laughed. “What do you think, Long? Should I finish the job? One slice. You know? You think I can get her head to drop off with one cut? How many? Do you want to make a bet on it? I say I can take it off with one push. What kind of wager do you want to put up?”
Longarm felt sick.
“Look, we can make a deal here, Matthews. You say you know my reputation. If you do, then you know I keep my word. Even to cons.”
“That’s what they say about you, all right. Everybody says Longarm, he’s one pure son of a bitch. But he’s square. He’ll give a man a break if he can. He won’t shoot unless he has to. And he keeps his word. That’s what they say about you. They do.”
“Then let’s deal, Matthews. You and me. We work this out peaceable. You let Clarice go, and …”
“Dammit, Longarm, I get to finish with her first. I haven’t had a chance to come in her yet. I got to do that first.”
“Fine. But you let her go, Matthews.”
“And then you let me go too, right?”
“I’ll give you a head start, yes.”
“Not good enough. You have to let me go.” The man resumed stroking in and out of Clarice, slowly this time and rather absently while he seemed to concentrate mostly on his conversation with Longarm.
“Trying to catch me in a lie, Matthews? You know as well as I do that I wouldn’t just let you go. I’ll come after you. We both know that. But we can negotiate a head start. I’ll give you that much in exchange for Clarice’s life. You leave her be, and I’ll give you two hours. If you cut her, Matthews, you’re dead before you have time to stand up. You know that’s true. I’ll blow your head off your goddamn shoulders and laugh when I put the rest of the slugs into the corpse. Unless you let Clarice go. Two hours, Matthews. Or I kill you where you lie. Your choice, man. Call it.”
“Twelve hours,” Matthews countered.
“No chance. Two.”
“Six.”
“I might go three. No more.”
“Hell with you, Long. Six.”
“Three.”
“Five, then.”
“Four.”
“Done. Yeah, four hours. But the time don’t start until I’m done with ol’ Clarice here. I get to finish my fun with her.”
“If you hurt her, man, the deal is off. Cross me and I’ll gut-shoot you, Matthews. You’ll take days t’ die an’ wish somebody’d have the Christian charity t’ finish you sooner. But I won’t let them. You hear me, man? Cross me and you’ll die slow, and harder than you’d ever think possible.”
“Four hours. You promised.”
“Four hours. And you leave Clarice alive. You promised that.”
Matthews laughed and used the knife hand to motion Longarm away. The muzzle of the revolver, though, never waved from the girl’s temple. A few ounces of pressure, even accidental pressure, and her brains would be splattered all over the wall. “Go on now, Long. I wanta finish here, and I don’t want you staring at me while I’m having my fun.”
Longarm looked at Clarice and raised an eyebrow. She was scared, but she was brave enough too. She gave him a barely perceptible nod.
Longarm eased back from the door, leaving it ajar.
He hated to do it. But Clarice had only the slimmest of slim chances for life. Her uncle was quite thoroughly mad and anything might set him off beyond reason or rational control.
Within seconds he heard the creaking of the bed springs resume and, a minute or two after, begin to pound with furious rapidity.
He heard Matthews moan and Clarice cry out—in pain, he thought, not a shared pleasure—and then there was the sound of someone standing and moving about in the room.
That and a low, murmured whispering.
“No!” It was Clarice’s voice. “I won’t. You can’t. Please Uncle Herbert. Don’t take me. Don’t make me …”
Longarm shoved the door open and came in, gun first.
Matthews, damn him, once again anticipated what was happening and already had the muzzle of his old-fashioned revolver pressed tight to Clarice’s head just behind and below her ear.
“We have a deal,” Matthews snarled.
“Clarice stays here. That’s part of the deal.”
“I changed my mind.” In a taunting singsong as if they were a couple of small children disagreeing in a sandbox Matthews sang, “Nanny-nanny-woo-woo, I changed my my-ind, my my-ind, my my-ind.” He ended the insane ditty by sticking his tongue out at Longarm and bursting into laughter. Clarice began to tremble violently, to shake and quiver as her uncle held her at the throat with one hand and pressed the gun to her head with the other.
Clarice reached behind her. Longarm thought she was fumbling on the night stand for the razor. And perhaps she was. Matthews had not put it back there, however, and her blindly searching fingers found only bare wood. And then the base of the oil lamp. Longarm thought she would leave be then. Dammit, he could still get Matthews to let her go. He was sure of it. But Clarice … she was not. Or so it seemed.
Her patience had worn out or her faith in Longarm’s ability to free her … whatever other reason there might have been. He would never know. She grabbed. Turned. Lashed out.
The lamp shattered and whale oil spilled onto the bed, the curtains, onto Herbert Matthews and onto Clarice as well.
The oil caught fire, the flame spreading with a whoosh, and within seconds that entire side of the room was engulfed in an inferno.
Buddy Matthews screamed. He jumped up and down, beating at his burning clothes with hands that quickly scorched and blistered. His hair caught fire, and the man began to shriek in agony. Longarm dashed forward. “Help me. For God’s sake help me,” Matthews cried.
Longarm bent. Grabbed. Ignored the pain that shot through his hands and arms.
He grabbed Clarice. Threw her hard onto the floor and pulled up one edge of the heavy oriental rug there to wrap her in and smother the flames that already covered most of her slim, fragile body.
“Save me. You can’t leave me. Help me! God! Help me!”
Longarm stood, Clarice cradled in his arms. He took one last moment to look back at Buddy Matthews sinking in a lake of fire. Then turned and raced for the stairs and the safety of the night air outside.