Body Rides

  ‘We’ll compromise, then. A friendly kiss. A chaste kiss.’

  ‘Without any hugging,’ he added.

  ‘Gonna leave me kissed but hugless.’

  Neal laughed softly.

  ‘Okay,’ she said. ‘I’ll take what I can get.’ She stepped closer to him, but stopped before their bodies met. Then she turned her head sideways, offering her cheek.

  He leaned forward to kiss it.

  Her head turned quickly.

  An old trick. An ancient trick. He nearly laughed, but his urge to laugh was shut down fast by the feel of her lips.

  As he drove away, he thought about the kiss. He smiled, remembering the trick she’d pulled on him. Then he sighed, remembering the feel of her lips.

  He’d put his hands on her sides, ready to pull her against him, but she’d lifted them away and stepped back, saying, ‘Ah-ah. No hugging allowed.’

  Good thing she stopped me, he thought.

  It had hurt, though. He’d wanted so badly to hold her, to embrace her hard and feel the whole length of her body pressing against him.

  I could go back.

  Yeah, right. And that’d be the end of me and Marta. You don’t dump someone like her just because you run into the most gorgeous gal in the world . . . who also happens to be intelligent and sensitive and funny, who is also rich, who also happens to be eternally grateful to you for saving her life.

  Not even if you’ve fallen in love with her?

  How can I be in love with her? he asked himself. We just met. I hardly even know her.

  But he felt as if he’d known her for a long, long time.

  How does she really feel about me, he wondered. Is it only that she’s so grateful?

  It had seemed like more than that.

  Could it be possible, he wondered, that she might actually love me?

  An easy way to find out.

  Neal’s hands were near the top of the steering wheel. The gold bracelet hung heavily on his right forearm, a couple of inches below his wrist.

  One kiss . . .

  And I crash and burn.

  I’d have to pull over, he thought.

  That’d be real safe. Pull off to the side of the road at this hour.

  Deep in thought, he hadn’t been paying much attention to his route. Now he found that he was heading east on Venice Boulevard.

  He must’ve simply backtracked.

  A mistake. Long before reaching Venice, he should’ve turned onto Pico. This route had taken him two or three miles farther south than he needed to go.

  That’s what I get for daydreaming, he thought.

  He kept on driving.

  I’ll be home in fifteen minutes, he told himself. I can wait that long.

  He knew that he shouldn’t pay Elise a visit, though.

  What good is the bracelet if I don’t use it?

  I shouldn’t use it on her. Anyone but her. She hated it, having me inside knowing everything. Embarrassed the hell out of her.

  Besides, he thought, Brentwood’s awfully far to travel. Especially for my first solo.

  Eight or ten miles?

  It’d be crazy to try that sort of distance right off the bat. What I need is to try a few things closer to home, first. Work my way up.

  But not so I can go to Elise’s house.

  I’ve got to never use the bracelet on her. Never again.

  While I’m busy making pledges, Neal thought, I should promise never to use the bracelet on Marta, either.

  He didn’t feel quite ready for such a pledge; if he made the promise and broke it, he would feel ashamed of himself.

  We’ll see, he thought.

  But it’s definite about Elise. If I want to find out how she feels or thinks, I’ll do it the right way. By going to her, by being with her, by talking to her.

  How about tomorrow?

  No.

  I’ve got to stay away from Elise unless things go wrong with Marta.

  I don’t want things to go wrong with Marta. I love her.

  You can’t love them both.

  What a mess, he thought.

  A nice sort of mess, though. A lot better to be crazy about two women than none at all.

  Probably.

  Neal saw the sign for Video City. Suddenly remembering the man he’d shot, he felt a plunging sensation as if the car had suddenly dropped out from under him.

  Though he’d never completely forgotten about the man, his strange, amazing experiences with Elise and her bracelet had occupied most of his thoughts for the past couple of hours. He’d been given a temporary reprieve.

  But now it all came slamming back through him.

  Memories of the terror. Worries about getting caught.

  What if the cops get me for it?

  How could they? he asked himself.

  Easy. All it would take is one person who saw a bit of what was going on, got suspicious, and wrote down Neal’s license plate number.

  Other than that?

  If nobody got the license number, he was home free.

  Unless he or Elise should make the mistake of telling someone about the incident.

  Not likely.

  If it ever does come out, he told himself, we shouldn’t have much trouble convincing the cops that it was self-defense.

  So why did we cover up?

  ‘Seemed like a good idea at the time,’ he muttered.

  And then he turned left at the first street after Video City. He drove past the parking lot entrance.

  Am I nuts? he wondered.

  Still time to turn around.

  No. He needed to take a look down the next street to see if the area was crawling with cops.

  Suppose it is? he thought. If they stop and search me, they’ll find the gun in my pocket.

  They’d need probable cause for anything like that. Can’t just search a guy for no good reason, and they’ve got no reason to suspect me of anything.

  All I have to do is act normal.

  Besides, Neal would be turning onto the road more than a block past the area where the cops would likely be – if they’d arrived, at all. He could simply hang a left before reaching the crime scene, and return to Venice Boulevard.

  Easy.

  As he approached the dead-end, his headlights pushed twin, pale beams into the field, lighting the old railroad tracks, junk and rocky ground, weeds, and the strip of woods below the freeway embankment.

  He slowed, signalled a left, and made the turn.

  His headlights swept sideways.

  No lights among the trees or on the road. No people wandering about. No street barricade. No police cars.

  And no van.

  The van’s gone!

  Neal felt as if his wind had gotten kicked out.

  ‘Oh, shit,’ he muttered.

  Heart slamming, mouth parched, he drove slowly toward the place where the van had been parked.

  It was gone, all right. No question about it.

  He swung to the side, stopped his car on the dirt shoulder, and killed the headlights.

  What the hell is going on?

  He gazed across the dark field.

  Nothing at all seemed to be going on.

  But where’s the van?

  Neal realized he was gasping for air as if he’d just finished a race.

  Calm down, he told himself. No reason to panic.

  Like hell.

  Somebody drove the bastard’s van away!

  Best case scenario: a thief came along and stole it.

  A possibility.

  But what if the guy had climbed back into his own van and driven off?

  He was dead!

  Maybe not.

  Neal had fired four shots. He’d seen the man go down. But he’d never examined the wounds. Never checked vital signs.

  I hit him. I know I hit him.

  Three in the body and one in the head.

  One or two of the body shots might have been misses, but he doubted it. And he was sure that the head shot ha
d been on target.

  Doing research for various scripts, however, Neal had encountered stories of men surviving multiple gunshot wounds. Cole Younger, the western outlaw, had supposedly caught about twenty rounds from the posse that ambushed him and his gang. He’d recovered.

  And what about Rasputin?

  This jerk even looked like Rasputin.

  That crazy old Russian monk had been damn near impossible to kill. He’d survived being poisoned, stabbed and shot. They’d finally managed to drown him.

  Those were oddities, though.

  This guy didn’t get up and walk all the way over here and drive away.

  Probably.

  If he did come over, there should be lots of blood on the ground.

  Neal put on his headlights, leaped out of the car and hurried to the front. Standing in the brightness of the beams, he scanned the shoulder of the road. He saw tire tracks in the dry dirt – plenty of them. He also saw a few patches of grass and clumps of weed, a smashed beer can, glittery shards of broken glass, candy and cigarette wrappers, an old dark sock, the flattened ruin of a small paper sack.

  No blood.

  I might be in the wrong place.

  The van had been parked near here, but Neal hadn’t made a point of noting its precise location. He might be too far forward, or too far back. He even might’ve parked his own car in the very spot where the van had been.

  What should I do, drive back and forth a few times?

  Nothing conspicuous about that.

  He looked toward the wooded area where he’d left the body.

  Quit screwing around, he told himself. Run over and see if it’s still there.

  He didn’t want to.

  The idea of returning to look for the body gave him a sick, scared feeling in the pit of his stomach.

  Besides, it would take forever to run all the way there and back. And somebody might see him.

  The bracelet!

  Of course!

  A few seconds later, in the driver’s seat, he eased his door shut and killed the headlights. He locked the doors. After taking a quick look around to make sure nobody was nearby, he raised his right wrist toward his mouth.

  Wait a second, he thought. I’d better stop and think about this. What if the creep is there? And I zip into his body?

  Can’t, not if he’s dead.

  Probably can’t, he corrected himself. Elise hadn’t mentioned anything about entering dead people, just that you don’t want to be in someone at the moment of death.

  Which could happen.

  The man might be teetering on the brink, might take the fall while Neal was inside.

  I’ll get out quick, he told himself.

  If the guy’s even there.

  He closed his eyes and kissed the gold bracelet. Even as his lips touched the warm gold, he felt himself rise weightless out of his body. He feared for a moment that the car roof might stop him, but he drifted through it. He hovered above his car.

  Amazing, he thought.

  This really must be a dream.

  Analyze it some other time. Check on Rasputin.

  Eyes on the dark section of trees below the freeway slope, Neal flew over the field. In what seemed like a few seconds, he found himself in the dark clearing. He saw the tree where Elise had been tortured. Veering away from it, he darted to the place where they’d left the body.

  The burial pile of weeds and bushes was thrown apart, scattered.

  Let’s get!

  He sped out of the clearing, across the field and down through the roof of his car. The solid mass of his body seemed to overwhelm him. He felt his weight, his tiredness, his aches and pains.

  Quickly, he glanced about.

  Nobody coming.

  Okay, he thought. Now what? The body’s gone. Rasputin has risen from the grave. I didn’t kill the bastard, after all.

  Unless someone came and got him.

  That didn’t seem very likely, though.

  He imagined the mound of foliage falling away from the rising body, saw the gawky man struggle to his feet and hobble across the field, bleeding and groaning, watched him climb in behind the driver’s seat of the van, crank up the engine and drive away.

  Going where? he wondered.

  Better be on his way to a hospital.

  But what if he headed for Elise’s house?

  Ten

  Neal felt a rush of hot panic.

  The guy could be at her house right now. He might already have her. She might already be his prisoner again – or dead.

  On the other hand, maybe he was still on his way over.

  Or just arriving.

  Or not going to Elise’s house at all.

  Gotta figure he’s after her, Neal told himself.

  What’ll I do?

  Save her. Somehow.

  Okay, how?

  Send the police? They could be at her house in a few minutes – but only if they get a call.

  Neal had no car phone.

  He was at least a five-minute drive from his own apartment. He supposed there must be a public phone closer than that – maybe over near Video City, somewhere.

  The houses across the road probably had telephones.

  He glanced at the dashboard clock: ten till three.

  How do you get someone to answer the door at this hour?

  At best, he figured it’d take him five minutes to reach a phone and put a call through to the police. At best, the cops might reach Elise’s house three to five minutes after that.

  Too long!

  Forget the cops – call Elise. Warn her. Tell her to get out.

  Right, he thought. And waste five mintues getting to a phone?

  He kissed the bracelet.

  Lifted out of his body, left the car below him, and raced northward climbing fast.

  Don’t go too high, he warned himself. Waste of time.

  He crossed the Santa Monica Freeway at an altitude of about fifty feet. Cars and trucks sped along the lanes below him. He was vaguely aware of having an incredible experience, but he couldn’t appreciate it.

  He was too scared for Elise.

  The flight meant only one thing to him: the fastest way to reach Brentwood.

  He hoped.

  It was eerie, though. He could see and hear everything clearly, as if airborne in his own body. He was able to think clearly. He could even feel many things: his fear and hope and maybe an odd sort of excitement.

  He couldn’t feel the speed, though. He felt no momentum or velocity or drag. He felt no rush of wind against his face as he raced through the night.

  His awareness of speed depended entirely on his view of the buildings and streetlights, trees and billboards, parked cars and roads rushing along beneath him.

  He flashed past Pico Boulevard. Considered following it west to Bundy, but found that he was already above Olympic.

  Take Wilshire to Bundy, he told himself.

  Seconds later, he swung left and raced westward through the heart of Beverly Hills, some fifty to sixty feet above the broad pavement of Wilshire Boulevard.

  Not much moving around down there.

  He willed himself to pour on the speed, but didn’t seem to go any faster. Probably already at the maximum, he realized.

  As he passed above the San Diego Freeway, he began to bog down.

  What’s happening?

  You’re slowing down, that’s what.

  Shit!

  He felt almost as if he were attached to an elastic cord – a cord that reached all the way back to his body inside the parked car. Like a rubber band, it had run out of slack. Now, it was stretching, allowing him to continue, but resisting.

  Elise had said there were distance limits.

  Now, Neal knew what she’d meant.

  But she’d made thirty miles, hadn’t she?

  That was after lots of practice, he reminded himself. That was her record distance.

  If she can make thirty, I can make eight or ten.

  Already,
San Vicente was below him; he recognized its wide center island.

  He turned west off Bundy and descended. Speeding just above the pavement of San Vicente, he watched for narrow roads to the right. And spotted Elise’s road, Greenhaven. And shot around the corner. Following the narrow lane, he didn’t spot the van.

  Maybe this is a false alarm, he thought.

  He veered away from the road. Heading for Elise’s house, he passed through bushes and trees – but didn’t feel them. They felt no different from the air.

  What am I, a ghost?

  He sped through the walls of Elise’s house.

  Found her standing at the mirror in a bathroom he hadn’t seen before. The master bathroom, he guessed. Where she’d taken her shower. Now, she was brushing her teeth.

  He entered her.

  Yes!

  Relieved to find her safe, Neal was amused to find her stewed. She must’ve had another vodka and tonic – or more – after he’d left.

  There was a vagueness in her mind. And the pains from her numerous injuries didn’t hurt very much, anymore.

  Mouth full of minty-flavored froth, she worked the brush over her teeth and gums. She seemed to be enjoying herself.

  Do-de-do-do, dum-de-dum. What shall we do with the drunken sailor? Oh boy oh boy oh boy, I’m gonna have me a doozy tomorrow.

  She took the brush out of her mouth, grinned at herself in the mirror, and let the white froth flow over her lip and down her chin. Large dollops of it fell into the sink – splot, splot, splot. Then she spat out the rest, ran her brush under the faucet, and started scrubbing her teeth with the clean, dripping brush.

  Better take me some aspirin. Gonna be headache city in the morning. Should’ve stopped after one or two. Yeah, well, what the hell. Not every night you get yourself kidnapped and tortured and damn near killed. Thank God for Neal.

  How nice, Neal thought.

  Hope he doesn’t get himself jammed up with the bracelet. Maybe I shouldn’t have given him . . . Ah, he’ll be fine. Fine and dandy. Wish he’d stayed. Sweet guy. Ah, well. Win a few, lose a few. Anyway, he’ll be back. He knows a good thing when he sees one.

  Shaking her head, she laughed a bit.

  Yeah, I’m a prize, all right. Drunk out of my gourd. Blotto city.

  Wonder what that Marta’s like.

  Wonder if he’ll try and pull another hitch on me? Never gonna know. Less he tells. Wouldn’t mind if he did, anyhow. Wonder if he’s in here now? ‘Hello, hello, wherever you are. Neal? You in here?’