"Ow!" she said. "That hurt! For Pete's sake, what's got into you?" She shoved him away with her right hand. The light turned green and she drove down the on-ramp for the Schuylkill Expressway.
"I don't know where I am with you," he complained. "First you kiss me like a nymphomaniac, then you freeze."
And I imagined this boy was mature! "Listen, a girl kisses you because she wants to kiss you. It's not a license for you to do anything the hell you want to her. And you should never hurt." She eased onto the southbound two-lane of the expressway.
"Some girls like to be hurt," he said, putting a hand on her knee.
She moved his hand. "What do you want to show me, anyway?" she said, trying to distract him.
"This," he said, taking her right hand. A moment later she felt his naked penis, stiff and hot.
"Jesus Christ!" She snatched her hand away. Boy, had she misjudged this one! "Put it away, Steve, and stop acting like a goddamned adolescent!"
The next thing she knew, something struck her a mighty blow on the side of the face.
She screamed and jerked sideways. An air horn blared as her car swung across the next lane of the expressway in front of a Mack truck. The bones of her face burned with agony and she tasted blood. Fighting to ignore the pain, she regained control of the car.
She realized with astonishment that he had punched her.
No one had ever done that.
"You son of a bitch!" she screamed.
"Now give me a hand job," he said. "Otherwise I'll beat the shit out of you."
"Fuck you!" she yelled.
Out of the corner of her eye she saw him draw back his fist for another blow.
Without thinking, she stepped on the brake.
He was thrown forward and his punch missed her. His head banged the windshield. Tires screeched in protest as a white stretch limousine swerved to avoid the Mercedes.
As he recovered his balance, she released the brake. The car coasted forward. If she stopped in the fast lane of the expressway for a few seconds, she thought, he would be so terrified he would plead with her to drive on. She stepped on the brake once more, throwing him forward again.
This time he recovered more quickly. The car came to a halt. Cars and trucks swerved around it, horns blaring. Jeannie was terrified; at any moment another vehicle could slam into the back of the Mercedes. But her plan did not work: he seemed to have no fear. He put his hand up her skirt, grasped the waist of her panty hose, and pulled. There was a tearing sound as her tights ripped open.
She tried to push him away, but he was all over her. Surely he would not try to rape her right there on the expressway? In despair she opened her door, but she could not get out because she had her seat belt fastened. She tried to undo it, but she could not get at the buckle because of Steve.
To her left, traffic was joining the expressway from another ramp, coming directly into the fast lane at sixty miles an hour and flashing by. Was there not a single driver who would stop and help a woman who was being attacked?
As she struggled to push him away, her foot came off the brake and the car crept forward. Maybe she could keep him off balance, she thought. She had control of the car; it was her only advantage. In desperation she put her foot on the accelerator pedal and floored it.
The car took off with a lurch. Brakes squealed as a Greyhound bus narrowly missed her fender. Steve was thrown back in his seat and distracted briefly, but a few seconds later his hands were all over her again, pulling her breasts out of her brassiere and thrusting inside her panties as she tried to drive. She was frantic. He did not seem to care if he killed both of them. What the hell could she do to stop him?
She swung the car hard across to the left, throwing him up against the passenger door. She almost hit a garbage truck, and for a cliff-hanging instant she looked into the petrified face of the driver, an elderly man with a gray mustache; then she swung the wheel the other way and the Mercedes lurched out of danger.
Steve grabbed her again. She braked hard, then floored the accelerator, but he laughed as he was thrown around, just as if he were on a joyride at a carnival; and then he came back at her.
She hit him with her right elbow and her fist, but she could not put any power into the blows while she was at the wheel, and she succeeded only in distracting him for a few more seconds.
How long could this go on? Were there no cop cars in this town?
Over his shoulder she saw that she was passing an off-ramp. There was an ancient sky blue Cadillac on her near side a few yards behind her. At the last moment she swung the steering wheel. Her tires screeched, the Mercedes went up on two wheels, and Steve fell against her helplessly. The blue Cadillac swerved to avoid her, there was a fanfare of outraged car horns, then she heard the thud of cars crashing and the xylophone sound of breaking glass. Her near-side wheels came down again and hit the tarmac with a bone-shuddering thump. She was on the ramp. The car fishtailed, threatening to hit the concrete parapet on either side, but she got it straight.
She accelerated down a long off-ramp. As soon as the car was stable, Steve thrust his hand between her legs and attempted to get his fingers inside her panties. She wriggled, trying to stop him. She glanced at his face. He was smiling, his eyes wide, panting and sweating with sexual excitement. He was having fun. This was crazy.
There were no cars ahead or behind her. The ramp ended in a stoplight which was green. To her left was a cemetery. She saw a sign pointing right that read "Civic Center Blvd." and she swung that way, hoping to see a busy town hall with crowds of people on the sidewalk. To her dismay the street was a bleak desert of unused halls and concrete plazas. Ahead of her, a light turned red. If she stopped, she was done for.
Steve got his hand inside her panties and said: "Stop the car!" Like her, he had realized that if he raped her here there was a good chance no one would interfere.
He was hurting her now, pinching and thrusting with his fingers, but worse than the pain was the fear of what was to come. She accelerated wildly toward the red light.
An ambulance came from the left, swinging in front of her. She braked hard and swerved to miss it, thinking crazily, If I crash now, at least help is at hand.
Suddenly Steve withdrew his hands from her body. She had a moment of blessed relief. Then he grabbed the transmission lever and pushed it into neutral. The car suddenly lost momentum. She yanked it back into drive and floored the pedal, passing the ambulance.
How long can this go on? Jeannie thought. She had to get to a neighborhood where there were some people before the car stopped or crashed. But Philadelphia had turned into a moonscape.
He grabbed the steering wheel and tried to pull the car over onto the sidewalk. Jeannie jerked it back quickly. The rear wheels skidded and the ambulance honked indignantly.
He tried again. This time he was cleverer. He knocked the transmission into neutral with his left hand and grabbed the wheel with his right. The car slowed down and mounted the curb.
Jeannie took both hands off the wheel, put them on Steve's chest, and shoved him away with all her might. Her strength surprised him and he was flung backward. She put the car in drive and stamped on the accelerator pedal. The car rocketed forward yet again, but Jeannie knew that she could not fight him off much longer. Any second now he would succeed in stopping the car, and she would be trapped in here with him. He recovered his balance as she turned into a left-hand bend. He got both hands on the steering wheel, and she thought, This is the end, I can't do any more. Then the car rounded the bend and the cityscape changed abruptly.
There was a busy street, a hospital with people standing outside, a line of taxicabs, and a sidewalk stall selling Chinese food. "Yes!" Jeannie shouted triumphantly. She stamped on the brake. Steve jerked the wheel and she pulled it back. Fishtailing, the car screeched to a halt in the middle of the road. A dozen cabdrivers at the food stand turned to look.
Steve opened his door, got out, and ran.
"Thank God," Jeannie breath
ed.
A moment later he had disappeared.
Jeannie sat there, panting. He was gone. The nightmare was over.
One of the drivers came over and put his head inside the passenger door. Hastily Jeannie rearranged her clothing. "Are you okay, lady?" he said.
"I guess so," she replied breathlessly.
"What the heck was that all about?"
She shook her head. "I sure wish I knew," she said.
36
STEVE SAT ON A LOW WALL NEAR JEANNIE'S HOUSE, WAITING for her. It was hot, but he took advantage of the shade of a big maple tree. She lived in an old working-class neighborhood of traditional row houses. Teenagers from a nearby school were walking home, laughing and quarreling and eating candy. It was not long since he had been like that: eight or nine years.
But now he was worried and desperate. This afternoon his lawyer had talked to Sergeant Delaware of the Sex Crimes Unit in Baltimore. She had told him she had the results of the DNA test. The DNA from traces of sperm in Lisa Hoxton's vagina exactly matched the DNA in Steve's blood.
He was devastated. He had been sure the DNA test would end this agony.
He could tell that his lawyer no longer believed in his innocence. Mom and Dad did, but they were baffled; they both knew enough to realize that DNA testing was extremely reliable.
In his worst moments he wondered if he had some kind of split personality. Maybe there was another Steve who took over and raped women and gave him his body back afterward. That way he would not know what he had done. He recalled, ominously, that there were a few seconds of his fight with Tip Hendricks that he had never been able to bring to mind. And he had been ready to drive his fingers into Porky Butcher's brain. Was it his alter ego who did these things? He did not really believe it. There had to be another explanation.
The ray of hope was the mystery surrounding him and Dennis Pinker. Dennis had the same DNA as Steve. Something was wrong here. And the only person who could figure it out was Jeannie Ferrami.
The kids disappeared into their homes, and the sun dipped behind the row of houses on the other side of the street. Toward six o'clock the red Mercedes eased into a parking slot fifty yards away. Jeannie got out. At first she did not see Steve. She opened the trunk and took out a large black plastic garbage bag. Then she locked the car and came along the sidewalk toward him. She was dressed formally, in a black skirted suit, but she looked disheveled, and there was a weariness in her walk that touched his heart. He wondered what had happened to give her this battle-worn look. She was still gorgeous, though, and he watched her with longing in his heart.
As she got near him he stood up, smiling, and took a step toward her.
She glanced at him, met his eye, and recognized him. A look of horror came over her face.
She opened her mouth and screamed.
He stopped dead. Aghast, he said: "Jeannie, what is it?"
"Get away from me!" she yelled. "Don't you touch me! I'm calling the cops right now!"
Nonplussed, Steve held his hands up in a defensive gesture. "Sure, sure, anything you say. I'm not touching you, okay? What the hell has gotten into you?"
A neighbor came out of the front door Jeannie shared. He must be the occupant of the apartment beneath hers, Steve figured. He was an old black man wearing a checked shirt and a tie. "Is everything all right, Jeannie?" he said. "I thought I heard someone cry out."
"It was me, Mr. Oliver," she said in a shaky voice. "This jerk attacked me in my car in Philadelphia this afternoon."
"Attacked you?" Steve said incredulously. "I wouldn't do that!"
"You bastard, you did it two hours ago."
Steve was stung. He was sick of being accused of brutality. "Fuck you, I haven't been to Philadelphia for years."
Mr. Oliver intervened. "This young gentleman been sitting on that wall for nigh on two hours, Jeannie. He ain't been to no Philadelphia this afternoon."
Jeannie looked indignant and seemed ready to accuse her good-natured neighbor of lying.
Steve noticed that she was wearing no stockings; her bare legs looked odd with such a formal outfit. One side of her face was slightly swollen and reddish. His fury evaporated. Someone had attacked her. He yearned to put his arms around her and comfort her. It made her fear of him even more distressing. "He hurt you," he said. "The bastard."
Her face changed. The look of terror went. She spoke to the neighbor. "He got here two hours ago?"
The man shrugged. "Hour and forty, maybe fifty minutes."
"You're sure?"
"Jeannie, if he was in Philadelphia two hours ago he must have come here on the Concorde."
She looked at Steve. "It must have been Dennis."
He walked toward her. She did not step back. He reached out and touched her swollen cheek with his fingertips. "Poor Jeannie," he said.
"I thought it was you," she said, and tears came to her eyes.
He folded her in his arms. Slowly he felt her body lose its stiffness, and she leaned on him trustingly. He stroked her head and twined his fingers in the heavy waves of her dark hair. He closed his eyes, thinking how lean and strong her body was. I'll bet Dennis has some bruises too, he thought. I hope so.
Mr. Oliver coughed. "Would you youngsters like a cup of coffee?"
Jeannie detached herself from Steve. "No, thanks," she said. "I just want to get out of these clothes."
Tension was written on her face, but she looked even more bewitching. I'm falling in love with this woman, he thought. It's not just that I want to sleep with her--though it's that too. I want her to be my friend. I want to watch TV with her, and go to the supermarket with her, and give her NyQuil on a spoon when she has a cold. I want to see how she brushes her teeth and pulls on her jeans and butters her toast. I want her to ask me does the orange lipstick suit her and should she buy razors and what time will I be home.
He wondered if he had the nerve to tell her that.
She crossed the row porch to her door. Steve hesitated. He wanted to follow her, but he needed an invitation.
She turned on the doorstep. "Come on," she said.
He followed her up the stairs and entered the living room behind her. She dropped the black plastic bag on the rug. She went into the kitchen nook and kicked off her shoes, then, to his astonishment, she dropped them in the kitchen bin. "I'll never wear these goddamn clothes again," she said angrily. She took off her jacket and threw that away. Then, as Steve stared in disbelief, she unbuttoned her blouse and took it off and put that in the bin too.
She was wearing a plain black cotton brassiere. Surely, Steve thought, she was not going to take that off right in front of him. But she reached behind her back, unfastened it, and tossed it into the trash. She had firm, shallow breasts with prominent brown nipples. There was a faint red mark on her shoulder where the strap had been too tight. Steve's throat went dry.
She unzipped her skirt and let it fall to the floor. She wore simple black bikini panties. Steve gazed at her openmouthed. Her body was perfect: the strong shoulders, the neat breasts, the flat belly, and the long, sculptured legs. She pushed her panties down, swept them up in a bundle with the skirt, and shoved the bundle into the bin. Her pubic hair was a dense mass of black curls.
She looked blankly at Steve for a moment, almost as if she were not sure what he was doing there. Then she said: "I have to take a shower." Naked, she walked past him. He looked hungrily at her back, drinking in the details of her shoulder blades, her narrow waist, the swelling curves of her hips, and the muscles of her legs. She was so lovely it hurt.
She left the room. A moment later he heard water running.
"Jesus," he breathed. He sat on her black couch. What did it mean? Was that some kind of test? What was she trying to say to him?
He smiled. What a wonderful body, so slim and strong and perfectly proportioned. No matter what else happened, he would never forget the way she looked.
She showered for a long time. He realized that in the drama of her accusation
he had not told her his mystifying news. At last the water stopped. A minute later she returned to the room in a big fuchsia pink terrycloth robe, wet hair plastered to her head. She sat on the couch beside him and said: "Did I dream it, or did I just strip off in front of you?"
"No dream," he said. "You dumped your clothes in the trash."
"My God, I don't know what came over me."
"You don't have anything to apologize for. I'm glad you trust me so much. I can't tell you what that means to me."
"You must think I'm out of my mind."
"No, but I think you're probably shocked after what happened to you in Philadelphia."
"Maybe that's it. I just remember feeling I had to get rid of the clothes I was wearing when it happened."
'This may be the moment to open that bottle of vodka you keep in the freezer."
She shook her head. "What I really want is some jasmine tea."
"Let me make it." He got up and went behind the kitchen counter. "Why are you carrying a garbage bag around?"
"I was fired today. They put all my personal stuff in that bag and locked me out of my room."
"What?" He was incredulous. "How come?"
"There was an article in the New York Times today saying that my use of databases violates people's privacy. But I think Berrington Jones was just using that as an excuse to get rid of me."
He burned with indignation. He wanted to protest, to spring to her defense, to save her from this malicious persecution. "Can they dismiss you just like that?"
"No, there's a hearing tomorrow morning in front of the discipline committee of the university senate."
"You and I are both having an unbelievably bad week." He was going to tell her about the DNA test when she picked up the phone.
"I need the number of Greenwood Penitentiary, it's near Richmond, Virginia." As Steve filled the kettle, she scribbled a number and dialed again. "May I speak to Warden Temoigne? My name is Dr. Ferrami....Yes, I'll hold....Thank you.... Good evening, Warden, how are you? ... I'm fine. This may sound like a silly question, but is Dennis Pinker still in jail? ... You're sure? You saw him with your own eyes? ... Thank You And you take care of yourself, too. Bye." She looked up at Steve. "Dennis is still in jail. The warden spoke to him an hour ago."
Steve put a spoonful of jasmine tea into the pot and found two cups. "Jeannie, the cops have the result of their DNA test."