With my own driver’s license inside.
With my photo on it.
And my true name.
And real address.
“Oh, my Christ,” I murmured.
My hand trembling, I shoved the cassette down deep into the purse.
I felt sick.
Had Murphy looked?
He could’ve. He’d been out here alone before going to the bank, and then again after returning.
But did he?
Maybe he’d turned on the television so the voices would cover any sounds he might make while searching my purse.
But he’d been busy taking off his clothes.
And probably excited by his plans for me.
His blue jeans were draped over the cushion at the other end of the couch. His socks and shoes were on the floor over there.
“Oh, you’re out,” he said.
I turned around to face him. “Dressed, too.”
“Well, sort of.” He glanced at my chest, then quickly raised his eyes to my face.
“I thought maybe I had some chewing gum in my purse, but I guess not.”
“I’m afraid I don’t have any,” he said, “or I’d get you some.” He came toward me holding a glass of water in one hand, a plastic container of Excedrin in the other. “You don’t seem like the chewing gum type,” he said.
“What type is that?”
“Airhead.”
“Keeps my breath minty fresh,” I chirped, and stepped around to the front of the coffee table.
“Nothing wrong with your breath.”
A couple of strides away from me, he stopped.
I reached out for the glass of water, but he pulled it back slightly. “Now, be careful,” he said. “Let’s not spill, this time.”
“If I do, I won’t be getting my blouse wet.”
“Guess not.” Blushing deep crimson, he gave the glass to me.
While I held it, he opened the Excedrin. I put out my left hand. He shook a couple of tablets into my palm. I tossed them into my mouth and washed them down with the water.
He waited until I’d lowered the glass, then asked, “How’s the cut?”
I glanced at it. “Not so bad. See? The bleeding’s stopped.”
“Does it hurt?”
“Nah. It’s just a nick. I’m fine.”
“We’d better put something on it, anyway.”
“How about your lips?”
He laughed and blushed. A real blusher, that Murphy.
“I was thinking of an antiseptic,” he said. He took the glass from me and set it on the table. He put down the Excedrin bottle, too. Then, holding my hand, he led me across the room. “We’ll touch up the rest of you, too, while we’re at it.”
“I can use a little touching up.”
In the bathroom, he poured some hydrogen peroxide onto a cotton ball and patted the cut on my wrist. It felt cold. It fuzzed a little on the slit.
After bandaging my little cut, he took out a fresh ball of cotton. He soaked it with hydrogen peroxide and started dabbing at my other injuries—the scratches and nicks and gouges from last night’s accidents. The liquid touched me with coldness. Here and there, it dribbled down my skin.
When it stung the wound on my belly, I gasped and stiffened.
“Sorry,” he said.
“That’s okay. A little pain is good for the soul.”
“I’m not so sure about that.”
“It feels so good when it stops.”
“Can’t argue with that one,” he said.
“I like how this stuff feels, though. It’s so nice and cool.”
He said, “Hmm.” With a fresh, dripping ball, he gently swabbed my right nipple.
Unaware of any injury there, I looked down. My nipple appeared to be fine. The chilly fluid made it pucker and jut out. “Now you’re treating places that aren’t hurt,” I pointed out.
“Yep,” he said, and moved the cotton ball to my other nipple.
I shivered a little with the good feel of it.
Then I undid my buttons, and my skirt fell to the bathroom floor. “Anywhere else need a touch-up?” I asked.
He squatted down in front of me. “I should say so,” he said. “You’ve gotten yourself banged up pretty good.”
“Do what you can. I’m in your hands.”
Each time he touched me with a wet ball of cotton, I flinched a bit. Not because it hurt, but because it felt so cold on my hot skin.
Down low in front of me, he found a scratch here, a scrape there. He dabbed them. And he dabbed places where I had no injuries at all.
I turned around. He touched chilly balls of cotton to the backs of my thighs and to my buttocks. Then I felt his lips, his tongue. He kissed and licked his way up my back until he was standing.
When he pressed himself against my body, I found out that his trunks were gone. He was smooth and bare all the way down. And I could feel the hard length of him pressing against my lower back.
Nibbling the side of my neck, he reached around me with both hands and took gentle hold of my breasts.
The cotton balls and the bottle of hydrogen peroxide must’ve been down on the bathroom floor with his trunks.
He writhed against my back, sucked my neck and squeezed my breasts. Then one of his hands roamed down my front and slipped between my legs. Moaning, I squirmed against him.
After a while, I managed to turn around so we were facing each other. By then, I was in such a frantic delirium that I hardly knew what was happening.
He slammed me against the door frame.
As he pulled at my buttocks, I climbed his body and wrapped my legs around him.
He thrust into me.
I hugged him with my arms and legs.
He pounded me against the frame as he tried to ram up higher and deeper.
Then suddenly he was throbbing and pumping.
I clung to him, shuddering with my own release.
As our frenzy subsided, we remained clutching each other, my back against the door frame, my feet off the floor, my legs and arms around him. He stayed in me. We both panted for air.
I gasped, “My God, Murphy.”
He gasped, “My God, Alice.”
38
THE SLIP
Every time I remember it, I get the same awful, sick feeling in the pit of my guts.
Murphy saying my name.
My real name.
(Not Alice, by the way. But my real name was on my driver’s license and on a dozen other items in my wallet, and that’s the name that came out of Murphy’s mouth as we clutched each other in the bathroom doorway.)
Alice, not Fran.
He had searched my purse.
He knew who I was and where I lived.
Letting go of his back, I clutched his hair with both hands and jerked his head back, tilting his face toward mine.
“What’d you say?” I asked.
“Huh? When?”
“Just now.”
“Huh?”
“You called me Alice.”
“Huh?”
“Why’d you call me Alice?”
“Did I?”
“You looked in my purse!” I blurted into his face. Then my right hand let go of his hair and I hit him with my fist. Punched him in the cheek so hard it jolted his head sideways.
And then he staggered backward.
Lurched backward, turning as if he wanted to set me down in the middle of the bathroom floor. But he didn’t really have his balance anymore.
He couldn’t stop.
Couldn’t set me down.
It might’ve turned out all right, but too many things went wrong.
For one, Murphy kicked over the bottle of hydrogen peroxide. I heard it go over and roll, and heard its liquid gurgling out, slicking the tiles.
For another, Murphy had me clinging to him. Had me spitted on his cock so I couldn’t jump down, couldn’t get free, couldn’t do anything to stop his sudden backward voyage across the bathroom.
br /> Perched high and able to see over the top of his head, I saw what was coming.
“Watch out!” I yelled.
But he couldn’t.
A moment later, the bathtub kicked his legs out from under him.
I flew face-first toward the tile wall on the other side of the tub. Throwing out my hands, I slapped the wall. My arms folded. I turned my face and my cheek struck one of my forearms.
From lower down came an awful thud like a coconut dropped on a concrete sidewalk. I not only heard it, but I felt it. Felt Murphy jolt between my legs and in me.
Suddenly, I felt a quick, sucking pull inside, and heard a slurp, and he was out.
And I was falling.
I threw my legs apart so Murphy wouldn’t land on them.
My bare feet slapped against the bottom of the tub. For a moment, I seemed to be standing, hunched low over Murphy as if looking for a good way to sit on him. It seemed like a long moment. I saw him down there, looking limp and odd. I sure didn’t want to sit on him. But I probably would’ve done it, anyway, if I’d had a choice.
I didn’t.
Because it was only a moment, and I might’ve seemed to be standing, but I wasn’t.
I was just pausing in mid-fall.
Waving my arms, I tumbled backward. My butt slapped against the edge of the tub—between Murphy’s knees. Then my legs flew up and I dropped to the floor.
My back smacked the tile floor.
Then my head thumped it.
And that, as they say, was “all she wrote.”
At least for a pretty long while.
I don’t know what I dreamed about. Probably something bad. Whatever it might’ve been, though, at least I didn’t wake up choking.
Just with a horrid headache.
I was lying on my back with my legs up, calves resting on the edge of the tub. The way Murphy’s feet were sticking out, I figured he was probably in the reverse of my position, and inside the tub.
“Murph?” I asked.
He didn’t answer.
Then I remembered the sound and feel of his head striking the wall—and my glimpse of him as I fell.
“Murph?” I asked again. “Are you okay?”
Nothing.
“Are you dead?”
Nothing.
“God,” I muttered.
Then I started to cry.
A word of advice: don’t ever cry when you’ve got a splitting headache. The crying does something to the pressure inside your head. Pretty soon, I felt like I had a team of maniacs chewing and clawing through my brain.
It seemed to get worse and worse. I tore off my wig of red hair and flung it aside. I felt a little better without it, but not much.
The pain still raging, I clutched both sides of my head.
Finally, I figured my position on the floor wasn’t helping matters. I needed to get up. So I drew in my legs. They were pretty numb from the calves down because of how they’d been resting on the tub’s edge. But I brought them to my side of the tub, anyway, and shoved with my feet.
My back slid over the tile floor. As I scooted, the top of my head ran into Murphy’s trunks and pushed them along in front of me. I ended up in the puddle of hydrogen peroxide with the plastic bottle against my shoulder.
For a while, I just lay there on my back, sobbing and holding my head, my legs straight out on the floor.
I knew I should be trying to get away.
But I couldn’t.
And didn’t really care.
I felt too miserable to care about anything.
I’d killed Murphy.
I’d damn near busted my own head open.
Maybe I did!
Raising my head slightly, I explored it with my fingers. My hair was wet—maybe with blood. But I found no gaping fissures, no spilling brains. Just a bump high on the back of my head, as if half a golf ball had been stuffed underneath my scalp.
I looked at my fingers. They were wet, but not bloody.
Pretty soon, I rolled over. I crawled out of the bathroom. Off the tiles and onto the carpet of the living room.
As I crawled toward the coffee table, CNN blared at me about some damn ferry boat sinking in some Godforsaken corner of the world.
Like I could give a shit. I had problems of my own.
The voices made my head throb.
So I took a detour to the television. Kneeling in front of it, I had to squint because of the picture’s brightness. But I found the power button and hit it with a knuckle. The TV suddenly went dark and silent.
Much better.
Turning around, I crawled the rest of the way to the table. I grabbed its edge and pushed myself up. On my knees, I studied the clutter for a few seconds.
I was looking for the Excedrin and the water glass, but the first thing I saw was Murphy’s book. The one that he’d autographed for me. Deep Dead Eyes.
It wasn’t something I wanted to be seeing just then.
I looked away from it fast.
When I spotted the plastic bottle of Excedrin, I reached out and grabbed it. I pulled it over to me, then got hold of the glass.
It was half full of water.
I tossed four Excedrin tablets into my mouth. Then, with a shuddering hand, I picked up the glass. I gulped the water and swallowed the tablets.
They went down fine.
I was still awfully thirsty, though. Holding on to the glass, I struggled to my feet. I staggered into the kitchen, turned on the faucet, and filled the glass with cold water. I drank it all. Then I refilled the glass. This time, I sipped it slowly and looked around.
Murphy’s kitchen seemed to double for an office. Its breakfast table held a computer, piles of paper and stacks of books. I could almost see him sitting at the table, rubbing his hair and frowning with thought.
No more books for him.
Starting to feel worse, I turned away and saw a clock above the kitchen’s entryway.
1:25
Early afternoon. A lot earlier than I would’ve thought.
What’ll I do?
I wanted to lie down on a nice bed and sleep. Make my headache go away. Make all this go away. At least for a while.
Lie down in my own bed…
But I couldn’t do that, couldn’t leave, not without taking care of the evidence.
A major clean-up to get rid of every trace of me.
It seemed like a huge, impossible job.
The way I felt…
I filled the glass once more with water, then carried it out of the kitchen and into Murphy’s bedroom.
As I made my way toward the bed, I saw three of the ropes he’d used on me. They lay on the carpet like pale, dead snakes. Each was still tied to a leg of the bed.
I’ll have to take those…
I saw the condom, too. On the floor where I’d dropped it when I took Murphy into my mouth.
The pale white disk looked like a sea creature you might find washed up on a beach, dead.
I’ll have to get rid of it.
But I could do nothing, now.
I set the glass of water on the nightstand, then crawled onto the bed, sprawled myself out on its rumpled sheet, and buried my face in the pillow.
39
SO LONG, MY SWEET
Most of my headache was gone when I woke up.
I was still facedown on Murphy’s bed, as if I hadn’t moved at all during my nap.
I’d drooled all over his pillow.
The sheet underneath me was sodden with my sweat.
I thought how nice it might be to take a shower, but then I remembered that Murphy was in the tub.
Dead.
I’d killed him.
I hadn’t meant to, but that didn’t count for much: he was just as dead, either way.
And here I was, sprawled on his bed like Goldilocks.
What if somebody shows up?
I’ve gotta get out of here.
So I rolled over, twisted sideways until my legs fell off the edge of the mat
tress, and sat up. I groaned. My body felt ruined. I was sore and stiff and achy almost everywhere. But at least my head no longer burned with pain.
I could think again.
I could function.
I could, but didn’t.
Not for a while, anyway.
For a while, I just sat on the edge of the bed, my head hanging, my back bent, my elbows on my thighs, my feet on the floor.
Almost like that statue, The Thinker.
But if anyone did a statue of how I looked then, he’d have to name it, The Wasted.
I knew that I needed to get off my butt and destroy every trace of my presence in Murphy’s apartment and go home. But I couldn’t bring myself to get started.
What’s the point?
I felt as if nothing mattered anymore.
Why not just stay here?
Sooner or later, somebody would show up and find me, find Murphy, call the cops.
Who cares?
Why not go to the phone and call the cops, myself? Tell them everything. Put an end to all this.
But doing even that would’ve taken too much effort.
So I just kept sitting there.
Finally, I had to get up. It was either that, or flood the bedroom. Gritting my teeth, I made it to my feet. But I couldn’t stand up straight. Hunched over slightly, I hurried to the bathroom. I slipped on the wet tile floor, but didn’t fall. With my eyes fixed on the floor just in front of my feet, I found my way to the toilet and sat down without looking at Murphy.
I kept my head low while I went.
Stared at the floor.
But I could see him, anyway. That peripheral vision thing. The tub was a short distance over to my right. Even with my eyes down, I could see its long, white side. And Murphy’s legs sticking out over the edge. And his face. He seemed to be peeking at me from around the side of his left knee.
Finally, I looked at him.
His eyes were open, but he wasn’t seeing me.
He wasn’t exactly Murphy, anymore. Whatever’d been Murphy was gone. The thing in the tub was just a fair likeness, that’s all. Somebody might’ve dropped by while I was asleep, snatched his body and replaced it with a dummy from a wax museum.
A dummy that didn’t quite get it right.
Which was a good thing, I guess. I couldn’t have stood it if my Murphy’d been in the tub.
But he wasn’t.
When I finished on the toilet, I flushed and stood up and walked across the wet tiles to the side of the tub.