Shreave awoke in a sweat. He remembered where he was, though it gave him no comfort. His wristwatch showed 3:46 a.m. He called out Genie’s name but didn’t get a response. With larval contortions he shed his sleeping bag.
The stars were gold and the temperature was falling and the campfire was dead. In such a setting it seemed reasonable for a man to seek a snuggle with his girlfriend. Through the shadows Shreave crawled toward the tent that held Eugenie, only to find it empty.
“She hit the bricks,” Honey Santana said, startling him.
“Not funny.”
Honey’s head popped out of the other tent. “She ran off with an Indian. I peeked.”
“You can do better than that,” said Shreave.
“Some big Indian with a gun. I know what I saw.”
“Just tell me where she is.”
Honey said, “This is hopeless,” and closed the flap.
Shreave shouted for Genie again and again. He grabbed his flashlight and went stomping into the trees, a decision quickly reconsidered and reversed. Angrily he stood outside Honey’s tent and commanded her to reveal what had really happened.
“I told you already,” she said.
Shreave foolishly reached inside, snatched the end of the sleeping bag and attempted to shake her out. Honey’s second kick landed flush on his chin, causing him to buckle. Through a starburst of pain he fumbled to realign his lower jaw with the rest of his face.
She said, “I’m nominating you for the Dickhead Hall of Fame. Seriously.”
Once again, assertiveness had brought pain and indignity to Shreave. It seemed doubtful that he’d ever transform himself into the sort of physical beast that aroused women such as Eugenie Fonda. His only consolation was that she hadn’t been there to witness him getting kicked in the kisser.
“This is all on you,” he whined at Honey, “for scamming us into this trip. It’s your fault she got kidnapped.”
“Kidnapped? That Indian was ripping off our supplies when your girlfriend begged to sneak away with him. She practically offered to ball him on the spot.”
“Liar!”
“She moves fast, Boyd.” Honey emerged from her tent and started to build a new fire. “I pretended to snore so he’d think I was sleeping.”
“Why the hell didn’t you do something?”
“Gosh, I don’t know. Because he was holding a rifle?” She set a match to the tinder and watched it flare. “Anyway, we’re alone now, so let’s have a talk.”
“What about?”
“You,” Honey said.
The subject appealed immensely to Shreave.
“Tell me an enthralling life story,” she said, “so I can understand you better.”
“Not a problem.” Shreave misread her interest in the predictable way. His jaw was throbbing but if she wanted to talk, he’d talk. Whatever floated her boat.
Honey said, “First, you should get up off your knees-no, never mind. That’ll work.”
Turning away, she opened the remaining duffel and removed some items out of Shreave’s sight. She asked him to shut his eyes and, idiotically, he complied. His dismay over Eugenie’s defection was rapidly evaporating at the prospect of intimacy with another handsome woman, even if she happened to be wacko.
The campfire was blazing again. The heat felt good on Shreave’s face. He heard Honey stepping across the broken oyster shells and then moving about the bushes. He hoped that she’d snuck off to get undressed.
Moments later she was standing behind him, whispering: “Give me your hands, Boyd.”
He was delighted to oblige. She smelled wonderful, and he noticed he was getting hard-a marvelous development in the wake of the stun-gun accident. Not even the sound of duct tape being ripped from a roll crimped Shreave’s rising anticipation.
When he turned to peek, Honey thumped him smartly on the head. Thinking only of his erection and the daring ways it might be gratified, he obediently remained motionless while she taped his wrists and ankles behind him. Then something as light as a lei, though more coarsely textured, settled around his neck.
“Don’t dare move,” Honey said.
Again she slipped away. Soon there was a slight noise behind him.
“What’re you up to now?” Those were Shreave’s final words before the rope drew snug around his throat.
His eyes popped open and Honey reappeared, divinely backlit by the fire glow. Shreave was disappointed to observe that she was fully clothed. She informed him that he was attached to a noose looped over a poinciana bough. If he attempted to pull free, she said, the slipknot at the base of his neck would come tight and possibly strangle him.
Shreave believed her, although he clung like an ape to his carnal ambitions. He’d watched a cable documentary about asphyxiating sexual practices, and he speculated that Honey was seeking to initiate him. Spurred by Eugenie’s drop-of-a-hat betrayal, he’d decided to let himself be seduced no matter what the dangers might be.
Honey said, “Sorry about this contraption, but you already assaulted me twice.”
Shreave grunted an objection but said nothing. He feared that even the smallest muscle twitch required for speech might cause the rope to cinch down a crucial millimeter or two.
“Go ahead and talk. It’s really not that tight,” Honey said.
Kneeling ramrod-straight, he wheezed, “I didn’t ‘assault’ you, I just tackled you.”
“You’d be in jail if you tried that on Biscayne Boulevard.”
“And that business with the sleeping bag, I’m the one who got hurt!”
“The veins in your neck are bulging.”
“Whatever. Can we hurry up and get on with this?”
“Certainly, Boyd.”
“Well…? You gonna strip me or spank me, or what?”
Honey looked perplexed. “It hadn’t crossed my mind.”
“Oh, come on.”
She shrugged. Gloomily Shreave realized she was telling the truth.
“Goddammit,” he said. It was impossible to envision a brute like Van Bonneville being tricked and tied up by a deranged single mom.
Honey sat cross-legged by the fire and brushed her hair; short, emphatic strokes. “What’d you do before you became a telephone solicitor?” she asked.
“Sales.”
“What did you sell?”
“My knees hurt.”
For padding, Honey folded a woolen blanket and scrunched it beneath him.
“So, what did you sell?” she asked again.
“The usual shit,” he muttered.
“Tell me all about it.”
“Genie’s in on this, isn’t she? You and her cooked up this sick little scene just for giggles.”
Honey laughed. “You think very highly of yourself, Boyd. I’m sure Genie’s got bigger fish to fry.”
He felt his ears get hot.
“Ever sell cars?” she asked.
“Sure. Buicks and Saabs.”
“What else?”
“TV sets,” he said. “Pet supplies. Orthotics.”
“Oh my God, that’s a riot!”
She has a great smile, Shreave thought bitterly, for a psycho. “I’m glad one of us is having fun,” he said.
Honey scooted closer. She repositioned the rope above his Adam’s apple and smoothed the collar of his ripening Tommy Bahama shirt.
“Don’t worry, there’s a point to all this,” she told him.
“I can’t wait.”
What are the odds? he wondered. One sales call out of thousands-and some crazed bitch freaks out, tracks me down, lures me into a swamp and makes me her prisoner.
“You have kids?” Honey asked.
“Not me. Not for all the gold in Fort Knox.”
“Being a parent is no picnic, that’s for sure. Good luck trying to raise a kid with a positive outlook. Face it, we live in a stinking shit-wash of cruelty and greed and rotten manners. Look at you, Boyd. You’re a classic specimen.”
“Not this again,” he sighed.
“Yes, this again! My one and only son is growing up in a culture where the values are so warped that a creep like yourself can masquerade as a respectable citizen.”
Shreave bridled and said, “I never hurt anybody.”
“So, talk to me. Help me figure out what makes your engine run,” Honey said.