Maybe we made up, though.
She could see herself on the couch with him. Or was that Ace? No, it was Jack. He slid the straps of her dress down her arms, lowered the bodice, kissed her breasts. “Not here,” she said. “Let’s go in the bedroom.”
Vicki realized, with some relief, that she was no longer Melvin’s captive in the auditorium. Jack was carrying her down the hallway of Ace’s house. He took her into the bedroom. He put her onto the bed. He removed all her clothes, then his own.
She writhed against the smooth bare length of his body, kissing him, moaning as he caressed her all over. Then she was on her back, Jack kneeling between her legs. And she thought, he can’t. Not without a rubber. But if I speak up, he’ll think I don’t want his baby.
I want your baby. I don’t want AIDS.
He won’t believe that.
I can’t tell him. It’ll all be over if I tell him.
Then Jack had a foil pack in his hands. He was tearing it open.
Oh, thank God.
Oh, Jack, I was so wrong about you.
She raised her hands toward him. She took the condom. She slipped its rubber ring over the head of his penis and slowly unrolled it, feeling his heat and hard thickness through the moist sheath.
Trembling, she whispered, “I love you. I love you so much.”
“You should’ve saved yourself for me!”
Melvin rammed his arm in all the way to the elbow, jerked it out, and flung the torn-off leg of an infant at her face. “TELL HIM YOU DIDN’T WANT HIS LITTLE PIGGIE!”
“NO!” she cried out.
Lurched upright and found herself in the bedroom, whimpering, shaking, naked, the sheet bunched at the end of the bed, both her hands clamped tightly between her legs.
Her heart was pounding. Though she panted, she couldn’t seem to get enough air. She crossed her legs Indian-style, arched her back, tilted her face up, pointed her elbows at the ceiling, and interlaced her fingers behind her head. Her hair was dripping wet. So was the rest of her body. She felt runnels of sweat trickle down her face, her back, her sides, her chest. Her eyes stung as if daubed with saltwater.
Trying not to think about the nightmare, she let her mind follow a single drop of sweat as it slid past the front of her ear, down her jaw and neck, over her collarbone, onto her breast. It stopped at the tip of her nipple. It hung there, a tiny trembling weight, turning a little chilly, until another bead of sweat came down and joined it. They fell together as a single dollop, made a cool splash on her thigh, and rolled down the side and under it to be blotted out against the bottom sheet.
Soon, Vicki’s breathing and heartbeat were nearly normal again. She reached behind her back, found her pillow, and used it to mop her face. Then, she let it drop down through the circle of her arms. She pressed it against the wet chilled skin of her breasts and belly. It felt soft and warm. Cozy. She eased herself down onto the bed. Embracing the pillow gently, she sighed.
She could almost fall asleep again.
And dream?
She turned her head. The clock on the nightstand showed 2:08. Three more hours before time to get up. She’d better go ahead and sleep, or she would be wasted tomorrow.
Maybe she’d finished with Melvin for the night. One good dose of the creep, like that, ought to be enough to satisfy whatever damn corner of her mind was so obsessed with him. It had given her the mandatory nightly horror show.
Now, leave me alone, she thought.
The part of her dream about Jack had been a very nice fantasy. Let’s have some more of that—just leave Melvin out of it.
Jack.
He hadn’t phoned. He hadn’t come by.
The hell with him.
The dream-Jack had it all over the real thing. Didn’t give me any grief. Actually had a condom. And I put it on him. Lord. I’ve never done that. Obviously, I’d like to.
Stroking the pillow, she remembered the feel of him.
And flinched at the sudden wail of the fire alert. It climbed to a shriek, and died. A few seconds later, it came again.
All over Ellsworth, the volunteer fireman were being blasted awake.
Along with everyone else.
Including Jack.
Vicki slid her pillow aside, climbed from bed and went to the window. Bending over, she put her hands on the sill. The warm breeze drifted over her skin. The street beyond the yard was deserted except for a few parked cars.
The noise of the fire alert continued, blaring to a high pitch, sinking and dying out, leaving an empty stretch of silence, then rising again.
Jack has to be awake, Vicki thought. Nobody could sleep through this racket.
She wondered if he was thinking about her, wondered if he regretted the way it had gone. Maybe he only felt relief that he had found her out so quickly.
He’s so wrong about me, she thought.
She heard a car engine. Headlights brightened the street. Then a car raced by, a blue light flashing on its dashboard.
One of the volunteer firemen speeding toward the station.
Vicki felt a small pull of guilt.
Here I am, wrapped up in my own petty problem, and someone out there has real troubles. A house might be burning down. A car might’ve crashed. Someone could be injured or dead.
A doctor might be needed.
The ambulance attendants were trained to render first aid at the scene. By the time she could get there, they’d probably be rushing any victims toward the ER at Blayton Memorial.
She wouldn’t know where to go, anyway.
Get directions at the fire station, same as the volunteers.
You might get there in time to help.
The alternative, she knew, was to return to bed and try to sleep and maybe have another nightmare.
Her heart pumped as if the decision were already made.
“I’m Dr. Chandler,” she said through the open window of Ace’s Mustang. “I’d like to help, if I can.”
The man in the driveway of the fire station nodded. “It’s a car fire out on River Road at the Laurel Creek Bridge. You’re welcome to head out there, see what you can do.”
She thanked him, backed onto the street, and sped toward River Road.
A car fire at the bridge. Where Steve Kraft piled up, all those years ago. Where he was burned, where Darlene was decapitated.
Vicki pictured Darlene in the wheelchair, center stage at the Science Fair, all decked out in her cheerleader suit, neck wrapped to keep her head on—Melvin clamping the jumper cables to her thumbs.
She shook her head as if to jar the image loose, and prayed it wasn’t kids in the car.
It probably would be kids. Teenagers. Only kids would be up at such an hour, probably drinking beer and hot-rodding it up River Road. They loved to see how fast they could take those curves. Loved to prove they were Big Men.
Big Men risking Death.
Easy to risk it when you don’t believe in it. And most teenagers don’t. Vicki knew that for a fact. They just didn’t believe in death, Not their own. Not even when they committed suicide. Somehow figured they’d go on living, dead or not. The blessing and curse of youth. They’d be more goddamn careful.
She swung onto River Road.
She hoped, if this was some kid trying to prove himself, he didn’t have his girlfriend along. Or a carload of pals.
Though the road was still empty ahead, Vicki saw red and blue glows flashing through the air, sweeping the pavement, glancing off trees on the far side. She moved her foot to the brake and slowed down. She rounded the bed.
A line of flares crossed the road. Beyond them, both lanes were blocked by cars. In among the cars stood the pump truck. She saw no fire, just a few wisps of smoke, red then blue in the spinning lights of the firetruck and ambulance and police cruisers. Cars and men blocked her view of the wreck.
Striding toward the line of flares was Joey Milbourne. He raised a hand, signaling Vicki to stop. She set her brake. He walked up to her window and bent down.
“Bridge is…Vicki?”
“I thought I’d come out and see if I could be of any help.”
“Pull on ahead,” he told her.
She steered between two of the flares, stopped and climbed out with her medical bag.
“I don’t think you’ll be needing that,” Joey said, nodding at the bag. “Not yet, anyhow. All we’ve got so far’s the car.”
“No driver?”
“Nobody.”
She left her bag on the seat. Walking with Joey through the cluster of cars, she saw men with lights searching the roadside ditches near the bridge, one wandering into the trees. Another man, head down, was on the bridge and seemed to be studying its sidewalk and parapet. Two more were searching the area beyond the bridge.
“The driver’s door was open when we arrived,” Joey said. “Looks as if he just wandered off. Maybe in shock. Doesn’t look like much of an impact, but you never know. He might’ve cracked his head on the steering wheel. Looks like he was on fire, too. We found some charred cloth on the…”
“My God,” Vicki muttered as she saw the burned-out husk of the car. It was all black except for patches of white left by the chemical extinguishers. The tires were flat and smoking. The windows had been blasted out. The hood was up. The trunk lid, torn from its hinges, rested atop the car’s roof.
In spite of the destruction, the car’s size and squared corners were unmistakable to Vicki.
A Mercedes.
After I’m gone.
Tight and sick inside, she rushed toward the rear of the car thinking, it’s not Charlie’s, can’t be, he’s not the only guy in the world with a Mercedes…just maybe the only guy in Ellsworth.
She crouched at the bumper. Heat radiated off the wreck. The stench of burned rubber seared her nostrils. Holding her breath, she squinted at the license plate. The beam of Joey’s flashlight found it. In spite of the raised metal, she couldn’t make out the numerals through the blackness. She reached out to rub the soot off, scorched her fingers, jerked them back, then slipped her hand inside her T-shirt and, leaning forward, used the fabric like a thin glove to wipe the plate.
It read DOC CG. “It’s Charlie’s car,” Vicki said. “Dr. Gaines.”
“Christ,” Joey said.
“Got something here!” a voice called from the distance.
Dazed, Vicki stood and followed Joey. They headed for the man in the middle of the bridge. Was he the one who called?
Charlie killed himself, she thought. My God, he killed himself. That’s why he turned everything over to me. He had it all planned. I was right, he was sick. Found out he had cancer? Something. Should I tell? Let them come to their own conclusions.
Dimly, she realized that the man on the bridge was another cop.
“What is it, chief?” Joey asked.
Chief Raines? Pollock’s replacement?
“Look here,” the chief said, and aimed the beam of his flashlight at the top of the parapet. The concrete was smudged with black. “He must’ve come out burning, took a header off the bridge.”
“Dr. Gaines,” Joey said.
“Charlie Gaines?”
“His car.”
“Shit.”
Both men leaned against the parapet and shined their flashlights into the ravine. Vicki, stepping up beside Joey, gazed down and watched their pale beams slide over the surface of the stream, over the rocks and bushes along its shores.
“Figured he’d land in the water,” the chief said.
“Must’ve been crazy.”
“I guess, you’re on fire, you’ll do most anything.”
Hell, Vicki thought, the fall will probably kill you. What was that? A line from some movie. Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, that was it. This wasn’t a fall like those guys took. Maybe fifty or sixty feet. But she’d been down there many times when she was a kid, and the stream was normally about two feet deep.
“I don’t see him,” the chief said.
“Me neither,” said Joey. “Think he could’ve wandered off?”
“Possible. More likely, the current took him. We’ll probably find him hung up a ways downstream.” The chief backed away from the parapet. Some of the searchers were already on their way over. He called in the rest of them. When everyone was gathered on the bridge, he explained that the driver was Charlie Gaines and must’ve jumped off hoping to douse the flames in the creek. “He might’ve survived and made it ashore. So check around in the trees. My guess, though, we’ll find him downstream.”
“Think he might be alive?” asked a white-shirted ambulance attendant.
“Won’t know that till we find him, will we? Let’s get moving.”
The group split up, men heading for the ends of the bridge.
Vicki stayed with the chief and Joey as they walked back toward the wreck. “I’ll go on down and direct the search,” the chief said. “Milbourne, you stay up here and control the scene. We don’t want a bunch of rubber-neckers showing up and mucking around.” He looked at Vicki. “What’s your business here, young lady?”
“This is Dr. Chandler,” Joey said.
“I’m Dr. Gaines’s partner,” she explained. “I’d like to help in the search.”
His eyes narrowed. “You do get around.”
What does he mean by that? she wondered.
“I heard the fire alert and thought I might be able to help.”
“She’s the one who identified the car as Charlie’s,” Joey pointed out.
“I don’t suppose you were with him tonight?”
“No,” Vicki said. “I saw him at about five-thirty, just before I left the clinic.”
“You weren’t drinking with him at the Riverfront?”
“No, I…”
“You didn’t hear Melvin Dobbs threaten Charlie’s life, did you?”
Vicki felt heat rush to her face. “Oh,” she said, “terrific. I’m some kind of a nut because I reported a threat on Pollock’s life.”
“And now you’re here. What is it, some kind of a hobby with you to butt into police business?”
“I’m a doctor,” she said, pushing her voice out so it sounded firm, so it wouldn’t reveal how timid and bitter she suddenly felt. “I came out here to offer my assistance in case anyone needed medical attention.”
“Well, pack up your Bandaids and go on home, doctor.”
“I’d like to help in the search.”
“I’m sure you would. Thing is, we don’t need you down there gumming up the works. So trot on home.”
“He’s my friend.” This time, she couldn’t stop her voice from trembling.
“Milbourne, get her out of here.”
“Yes, sir.”
With that, the chief stepped past Vicki and strode toward the end of the bridge.
“You’d better leave, now,” Joey said.
“He thinks I’m some kind of a groupie!”
“He’s just upset, that’s all. He’s under a lot of pressure over the Pollock mess, and to have something like this happen right on top of it…”
“Can’t I just wait up here till they find Charlie?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“Well, geez…”
“Go on home, now. There’s nothing for you to do here. I’ll notify you as soon as we find him.”
She stopped at the end of the parapet where the front of Charlie’s car was tight against the concrete. Peering over the side, she saw Chief Raines on the wooded slope. He was nearly down to the bank of the creek. Other men were roaming the shore, others wading through the water. The beams of their lights swept and darted.
She turned to Joey. “Why don’t you just lend me your flashlight, and…”
“Want to get me in trouble with the chief?”
“Damn it, don’t be such a wimp.”
Joey grabbed her arm. Not gently. “Time to move on out, honey.”
He led her toward her car. Lifting on her arm so her feet barely touched the pavement.
“Let go of me!”
> He didn’t.
When they reached Ace’s Mustang, he jerked the door, open, swung her around it and released her arm. It felt hot where his fingers had pressed into her flesh.
Vicki climbed into the car. As she moved her medical bag to the passenger seat, Joey threw the door shut.
“Go,” he said.
She started the car, made a tight U-turn, and sped away. Her heart was thudding. She panted for air. She was trembling with rage and humiliation.
They’d shooed her off like a stray dog.
What’s wrong with those men?
Joey had been okay until the chief took off after her. Why didn’t he stick up for her? That was easy. He’s chicken. What didn’t make sense was the chief’s attitude. He had her all figured out as a nuisance, just on the basis of whatever Joey had told him about their reporting Melvin’s threat against Pollock.
What were we supposed to do, keep it to ourselves?
Even if it didn’t lead anywhere (and Vicki would bet they didn’t bother to check Melvin out), the chief should’ve appreciated getting any kind of information about the killing. Instead, he seemed to look at it as an intrusion.
A couple of broads trying to tell him how to run his investigation.
So I show up and he dumps on me. I could’ve helped look for Charlie. I’m another body, damn it. I’ve got eyes. I’m not blind, even if I am a woman.
That’s the crux of it right there, Vicki realized. I’m a woman.
That’s why I couldn’t help look for Charlie. That’s why they ignored the tip about Melvin’s threat. I’m just a meddling broad who gets her kicks by butting into their business.
Some kind of flake.
What are all the men in this town, woman-haters?
Not Charlie, she thought.
Oh Charlie, what happened to you?
Chapter Twenty-Two
She parked the car in Ace’s driveway, then went into the house. No lights were on. She left them off, and made her way through the darkness to her bedroom.
She knew there was no point trying to sleep. She would just toss and turn, wide awake, worrying about Charlie and reliving all the rotten things that had happened during the past few hours: the fight with Jack; the nightmare; the horrible scene at the bridge and knowing that Charlie, on fire, had leaped for the creek; and on top of all that, the humiliating encounter with the police chief. Enough to keep her awake for days.