Vera remembered the first time. She remembered Max's growling threat at the mere suggestion of Dancer's fucking Joyce; But he was doing it now, while Max was out of the room.
Max glanced up suddenly, saw what was happening, and blanched. "That weasel bastard, I'll kill him!" he roared. "He's fucking my daughter!"
Max forgot all about Roger. He balled his fists and ran from the room. Vera stared at the screen, and Roger looked with her. It wasn't fucking. It was out-and-out rape, violent and painful. Joyce's green eyes bulged from her head as the long prick ran in and out of her bald pussy and the hand clamped tightly over her mouth.
Vera noticed something else. The bed was empty. Thorne was loose. Max lurched onto it suddenly, heaving and tossing, swearing thickly, glancing back where the doorway was.
Dancer whipped his head around and sprang to his feet like a cat, his long prick glistening and hard from Joyce's pussy, but everything else about him ready for lethal battle. Joyce wailed with agony, holding her pained pussy.
Vera heard feet pounding down the runway. Max was trying to struggle up from the bed. Dancer didn't give him a chance to. He pounced like a cat.
Rainey suddenly came into the picture, screaming and pulling at Dancer, knowing, perhaps, that if he killed Max, there would be no mercy ever for her at Dancer's hands.
He snarled and tossed the slim girl aside, sending her spinning into the desk. She piled over it and lay on the top, writhing in agony of something broken.
"The son of a bitch!" Roger squeaked. "He's hurt Rainey!"
"Roger, let her go!" Vera cried, trying to hold him back.
He slammed the door open and collided with Thorne. Thorne lost his balance and stumbled backward into the iron railing of the balcony. He teetered dangerously over the edge of it, then summoned enough equilibrium to come upright again.
Vera rushed to him and clung to him. "Oh, God!" she cried. "Roger-he's going in there to fight with Dancer!"
"C'mon," Thorne croaked, gabbing her arm' drunkenly, his legs not working quite right yet, his voice fizzed and thick, his eyes blurred and unfocused still. "Gotta get the tape…"
"We've got to stop Roger!" she cried. "Thorne, Dancer will kill him! He's my son!"
"Not any more, Vera. Not after what I saw."
There was a scream at' agony from the room, high-pitched and throaty, unrecognizable. Ominous silence. Then Dancer leaped through the doorway, landing on braced feet, crouched, facing them.
He wore his thin smile, more evil than ever before. His eyes were so slitted he looked blind. But he straightened and came toward them lithely, easily, with a cat's grace.
"Back in the room, Bundt," he said.
Thorne positioned Vera behind him. He edged backward, towards the stairs, facing Dancer. He stumbled several times. Dancer smirked, yet kept his distance, closing it slowly. "You're not getting the tape, Bundt." "The hell I'm not." "Thorne-let him have it!" Vera cried.
He shook her off his arm and pushed her back, still facing Dancer. "No way, honey."
"Hey, lady-your kid's hurt in there. You better go see to him." The grin was cunning. He moved closer, timing Thorne's movements for the right moment to attack. He was quick, but Thorne was powerful, and Dan Dancer was a man who had respect for physical power. But Thorne was still wobbly, and Dancer knew it.
"Keep back, Dancer. I'll break your head open this time. You snuck up on me this morning before you drugged me. But I'm facing you now. You're going to have to come at me face to face, you slimy bastard."
Dancer grinned constantly, his movements lithe, one step at a time. "He's bleeding something awful, lady. You'd really better see to him. I'll let you by. It's Bundt I'm after anyway, and not even him, if he's smart. Just the tape."
"Thorne.
"Don't move!" Thorne commanded, still edging backward towards the stairs. "He wants the tape to hold over me. He wants to take over from Max. He'll use it, Vera-even after he gets what he wants. Just because he's a slimy bastard."
Thorne glanced at her for just an instant. It was her fault. He'd turned slightly to hold her back. Dancer sprang with a cobra's speed.
Vera shrieked. Dancer's hands moved with lightning speed, chopping and punching at Thorne' s sturdy body viciously, inflicting cruel blows that nearly paralyzed him.
Thorne's arms went wide and came around the slim body. He squeezed tightly. Dancer grunted with pain, and his slitted eyes went round. Thorne pushed, half stumbling, slamming into the wall behind him, sending Dancer's body hard against the low railing.
It caught him in the middle of his back. His arms flailed wildly in the air. His foot slipped. He let out a scream and pinwheeled backward over the railing. The scream stopped with sickening abruptness. Vera held her hand to her mouth, unable to move. Thorne held his stomach and doubled over, going to his knees. He gagged wrenchingly, and his face went chalk-white and sweaty for a moment.
Vera went to him. "Oh, Thorne!"
He waved her feebly away. "Caught me a good one," he gasped. "Be all right in a minute."
He crawled over to the railing and looked down. She looked with him. Dancer's body had an awkward sprawl, the bead tilted strangely on the cement, twisted way too far around on his neck.
Thorne got to his feet. Vera helped him. They went back down the balcony to the room. Joyce was in her chair still. Max's body was draped over her lap. She hugged his head to her stomach and rocked silently. His eyes stared at the corner of the room, sightless and beginning to cloud.
Roger held Rainey to hint Blood had streamed from his mouth and nose, but was clotting. Rainey whimpered with pain.
"He broke her arm, Mom," he said plaintively. "Son of a bitch broke her arm. Bashed me in the face. Just kept on and on, punching Max; even after he screamed. Punching and punching…" He shook his head and looked green enough to be sick.
Thorne hugged her lightly. He turned her around. They went out of the room, down the stairs finally. He headed towards the office, leaning on her far support.
He found the, tape and set it on a counter. He held her and looked into her eyes. He sighed heavily. "I've got to show you something, Vera," he said. "Here's what I'd just found and was leaving from, when Dancer caught me from behind and zapped me and slipped me that needle."
He took her to an alcove in the office. There was a small counter, holding a hotplate, a percolator, dirty coffee cups. There was liquid in one of them, old coffee. Dark-brown rings of evaporation circled the sides of the cup, and green-gray mold covered the surface. In another was a used tea bag, Burmese..
She reached out for it. "Paul…" she whispered.
Thorne stopped her. "Look in the bottom. White crystals, needle-shaped. I'm not a chemist, Vera, but they didn't precipitate from the tea. There was something else in that cup. The fact that there was no water in his lungs makes me sure of it. Honey, he was dead before he went into the ocean." "Murder? My God, Thorne! Paul? My Paul? Why? Why!"
He shook his head. "This motel," he said darkly. "He didn't like it-what they were doing to it. He wanted out, but they wouldn't let him. You've seen how they operated. I think that's why he split his stock and signed it over. No clear majority that way. No one person to hold hostage and force a vote from.
He sighed heavily again and put his arm around her. "Let's get out of here." He cracked a feeble grin and winced with pain. "I think the little bastard cracked a rib."
It was three of them. Thorne lay on his back in her bed with his broad chest wrapped tightly. She took away the bed tray and put it on her dresser. She came back to the bed with a mischievous smile playing at her lips. He looked at her.
"I feel silly as hell lying here like an invalid."
"Shh!" she said softly. "You're not supposed to move around."