And wondered. Where was she now? On a plane, two thousand miles off? Or just an elevator ride away?
* * *
The cab stopped across the street. Weaver saw them get out of it, the tall brunette and the short blonde. He had never seen the brunette before. But he recognized the blonde instantly. She was the one who had roomed next to him at Cappy’s, the one he had wanted to kill there in the rundown hotel. He had missed his chance.
Now his chance had come back to him. It was fate, if ever anything was. Fate had brought him to this spot, at this moment. Fate had brought this woman back to him. She was meant to be his.
He whipped out the razor, flicked it open. They were crossing the street now and he was ready for them. It would have to be fast. He was taking a big chance, trying anything under conditions like these. But he had to take the chance, had to get the blonde—had to get both of them. He had no choice.
He waited as long as he dared. He waited, silent and still in the shadows, while they moved closer and closer to him. The brunette had her arm around the blonde and her hand was brushing the blonde’s chunky breast. Weaver barely noticed this. He was too intent on Death to care about a brunette’s hand on a blonde’s breast.
He watched them slowly walk down the street, each tap of their heels bringing the two closer to him.
Weaver did not pay attention to the clicking sounds their heels made. He could only stare at their throats that shone white in the dim light of the coming dawn.
The two throats came closer and closer and he thought he could see the blood pulsing through their jugular veins. But it was only the throbbing within his own body.
How could he do it?
He could suddenly leap out and with one broad sweep of his arm run the razor across both their throats. Then he could attack both of their bodies. He would slice off their clothes and then attack their breasts with the blade.
Weaver saw pink nipples turn bright red and then he saw the red, like molten lava from a volcano, gushing over soft white mounds.
One more step now would bring them to him. Only one more step.
He waited. And he sprang.
The blonde was nearer, and she died first, silently, without a scream. Weaver fell on her like a tree and his razor went for her throat. In a second she was on the ground with blood gushing from her slashed neck. The brunette leaped back in terror and screamed into the night.
But Weaver was too fast for her. He went after her and he caught her, and once again the razor went up and came down.
He did not stop when she died. He went on, using the razor like a club. He slashed again and again at the corpse of the brunette and he did not even stop when the man rushed out of the hotel and piled into him.
* * *
Marty hit the guy with everything he had. He had heard the screams while he was in the lobby and he came out on the run. He saw the blonde girl, dead, and he saw a little guy working on another woman. He went into action, hauling the guy away from her, sending a right crashing into the punk’s face. He hit him five times and knocked him sprawling. Only when he got up and looked back did he see who it was the man had been attacking.
* * *
In the police station, they told Marty he was a hero. They said the guy had killed two other women, one in Juarez and one in Paso, plus a little girl in Tulsa. They asked Marty if he knew either of the women who had been murdered in front of the hotel. He thought for a moment, about Meg, and told them no, that they were both strangers.
The newspaper boys took his name and his picture, and they told him he was a hero. They asked him if he knew about the fiend before. He told them he never read newspapers.
They let him go finally. He got into the blue Olds and started the motor. His whole mind was blank now. He thought of Meg, briefly, and then decided not to think of her anymore. She was dead. There was no point in thinking about her. A gambler doesn’t look back. And he was a gambler. A professional.
He pulled the Olds onto the road and drove.
Away from the border. Away.
THE BURNING FURY
Originally published in the
February, 1959 issue of
OFF BEAT DETECTIVE STORIES
CHAPTER ONE
He was a big man with a rugged chin and the kind of eyes that could look right through a person, the piercing eyes that said, “I know who you are and I know your angle and I’m not buying it, so get out.”
All of him said that—the solid frame without fat on it, the muscles in his arms, and even the way he was dressed. He wore a plaid flannel shirt open at the neck, a pair of tight blue jeans, and heavy logger’s boots. Once the boots had been polished to a bright shine, but that was a long time ago. Now they were a dingy brown, scuffed and battered from plenty of hard wear.
He tossed off the shot of rotgut rye and sipped the beer chaser slowly, wondering how much of the slop he would pour down his gullet tonight. Christ, he was drinking too much. At this rate he’d drink himself broke by the time the season was up and he’d have to go bumming a ride to the next camp. And then it would just start in all over again—breaking your back over the big trees in the daytime and pouring down the rye and beer every night.
The days off were different. On those days it was cheap wine, half-a-buck-a-bottle Sneaky Pete, down the hatch the first thing in the morning and you kept right on with it until you passed out. That was on your day off, and you needed a day off like you needed a hole in your head.
When he worked he stayed sober until work was through for the day. He didn’t need a drink while he was working, not with the full flavor of the open air racing through him and the joy of swinging that double-bit axe and working the big saw, not then. Not when he was up on top, trimming her down and watching the axe bite through branches.
When he was working there was nothing to forget, no memories to grab him around the neck, no hungers to make him want to reach out and swing at somebody. Not when he had an axe in his hand.
But afterwards, then it was bad. Then the memories came, the Bad Things, and there had to be a way to forget them. The hunger came, stronger each time, and he couldn’t sleep unless his gut was filled with whiskey or beer or wine or all three.
If only a man could work twenty-four hours a day…
He knew it would be bad the minute she came through the door. He saw her at once, saw the shape of her body and the color of her hair and the look in her eyes, and he knew right away that it was going to be one hell of a night. He took hold of the beer glass so hard he almost snapped it in two and tossed off the rest of the beer, calling for another shot with his next breath. The bartender came so slowly, and all the time he could see her out of the corner of his eye and feel the hunger come on like a sunset.
It was just like a sunset, the way his mind started going red and yellow and purple all at once and the way the hunger sat there like a big ball of fire nestling on the horizon. He closed his eyes and tried to black out the picture but it stayed with him, glowing and burning and sending hot shivers through his heavy body.
He told the bartender to make it a double, and he threw the double straight down and went to work on the beer chaser, hoping that the boilermakers would work tonight. Enough liquor would kill the sunset and put out the fire. It worked before. It had to work this time.
He watched her out of the corner of his eye, not wanting to but not able to help himself. She was small—a good head shorter than he was, and she couldn’t weigh half of what he did. But the weight she had was all placed just right, just the way he liked a woman to be put together.
Her hair was blonde—soft and fluffy and curling around her face like smoke. Her yellow sweater was just a shade deeper and brighter than her hair, and it showed off her body nicely, hugging and emphasizing the gentle curves.
The dark green skirt was tight, and it did things to the other half of her body.
He looked at her, and the ball of fire in his mind burned hotter and brighter every second.
> Twenty or twenty-one, he guessed. Young, and with that innocent look that would stay with her no matter what she did or with whom or how often. He knew instinctively that the innocence was an illusion, and he would have known this if he saw her kneeling in a church instead of looking over the men in a logger’s bar. But he knew at the same time that this was the only word for what she had: innocence. It was in the eyes, the way she moved, the half-smile on her full lips.
That was what did it: the youth, the innocence, the shape, and the knowledge that she was about as innocent as a Bowery fleabag. That did it every time, those four things all together, and he thought once again that this was going to be one hell of a night.
Another double followed the beer. It was beginning to take hold now, he noticed with a short sigh of relief. He rubbed a calloused finger over his right cheek and noted a sensation of numbness in his cheek, the first sign that the alcohol was reaching him. With his constant drinking it took a little more alcohol every night, but he was getting there now, getting to the point where the girl wouldn’t affect him at all.
If only she’d give him time. Just a few more drinks and there would be nothing to worry about, a few more drinks and the numbness would spread slowly from his cheeks to the rest of his body and finally to his brain, quenching the yellow fire and letting him rest.
If only…
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her eyes upon him, singling him out from the crowd at the bar. She took a hesitant step toward him and he wanted to shout “Go away!” at her. She kept on coming, and he wished that the stool on his right weren’t empty, that with no place for her to sit she might leave him alone.
He finished the chaser and waved again for the bartender. Surely, inevitably, she walked to the bar and took the stool beside him. The dark green skirt caught on the stool and slithered up her leg as she sat, and the sight of firm white flesh heaped fresh fuel upon the mental ball of fire.
He tossed off the shot without tasting it or feeling any effect whatsoever. The beer followed the shot in one swallow, still bringing neither taste nor numbing peace. He winced as she tapped a cigarette twice on the polished surface of the bar and placed it between her lips.
The fumbling in her purse was, he knew, an act and nothing more. Christ, they were all the same, every one of them. He could even time the pitch—it would come on the count of three. One. Two. Thr—
“Do you have a match?”
Right on schedule. He ignored her, concentrating instead on the drink that had appeared magically before him. He hardly remembered ordering it. He couldn’t remember anything anymore, not since she took the seat beside him, not since every bit of his concentration had been devoted to her.
“A match, please?”
He pulled a box of wooden matches from his shirt pocket without thinking, scratched one on the underside of the bar and held it to her cigarette. She leaned toward him to take the light, moving her leg slightly against his, touching him briefly before withdrawing.
Right on schedule.
He closed the matchbox and stuffed it back into his shirt pocket, trying to force his attention back to the drink in front of him. His fingers closed around the shot glass. But he couldn’t even seem to lift it from the bar, couldn’t raise the drink that might save him for that night at least.
He wanted to turn to her and snarl: Look, I’m not interested. I don’t care if it’s for sale or free for the taking, I’m not interested. Take your hot little body and get the hell out.
But he didn’t even turn around. He sat still, his heavy frame motionless on the stool; waiting for what had to come next.
“You’re lonesome aren’t you?”
He didn’t answer. Christ, even her voice had that sugary innocence, that mixture of sex and baby powder. It was funny he hadn’t noticed it before, and he wished he hadn’t noticed it now. It just made everything so much worse.
“You’re lonesome.” It was a statement now, almost a command.
“No, I’m not.” Instantly he hated himself for answering at all. The words came from his lips almost by themselves, without him wishing it at all.
“Of course you are. I can tell.” She spoke as if she were completely sure of herself, and as she talked her body moved imperceptibly closer to him, her leg inching toward his and pressing against it firmly, not withdrawing this time but remaining there, inflaming him.
His fingers squeezed the shot glass but it stayed on the bar, the rye out of his reach when he needed it so badly.
“Go away.” He meant to snap the words at her like axe-blows, but instead, they dribbled almost inaudibly from his lips.
“You’re lonesome and unhappy. I know.”
“Look, I’m fine. Why don’t you go bother somebody else?”
She smiled. “You don’t mean that,” she said. “You don’t mean that at all. Besides, I don’t want to bother anybody else, can’t you see? I want to be with you.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re big. I like big men.”
Sure, he thought. It was like this all the time. “There’s other big guys around.”
“Not like you. You got that sad lonesome look, like I can see it a mile away how lonesome you are. And unhappy, you know. It sticks out.”
It did; that much was true enough.
“Look,” she was saying, “what are you fighting for, huh? You’re lonesome and I’m here. You’re unhappy and I can make you happy.”
When he hesitated, she explained: “I’m good at making guys happy. You’d be surprised.”
“I’ll bet you are.” Christ, why couldn’t he just shut up and let her talk herself dry? No, he had to go on making small talk and feeling that hot little leg digging into his and listening to that syrupy voice dripping into his ear like maple syrup into a tin cup. He had to glance at her every second out of the corner of his eye, drinking in the softness of her. His nostrils were filled with the smell of her, a smell that was a mixture of cheap perfume and warm woman-smell, an odor that got into his bloodstream and just made everything worse than ever.
“I can make you happy.”
He didn’t answer, thinking how happy she would make him if she would just leave now, right away, if the earth would only open up and swallow her or him or both of them, just so long as she would leave him alone. There wasn’t much time left.
“Look.”
He turned his head involuntarily and watched her wiggle slightly in place, her body moving and rubbing against the sweater and skirt.
“It’s all me,” she explained. “Under the clothes, I mean.”
He clenched his teeth and said nothing.
“I’ll make you happy,” she said again. When he didn’t reply she placed her hand gently on his and repeated the four words in a half-whisper. Her hand was so small, so small and soft.
“C’mon,” she said.
He stood up and followed her out the door, the glass of rye still untouched.
She said her place wasn’t far and they walked in the direction she led him, away from the center of town. He didn’t say anything all the way, and she only repeated her promise to make him happy. She said it over and over as if it were a magic phrase, a charm of some sort.
His arm went around her automatically and his hand squeezed the firm flesh of her waist. There was no holding back anymore—he knew that, and he didn’t try to stop his fingers from gently kneading the flesh or the other hand from reaching for hers and enveloping it possessively. This act served to bring her body right up next to his so that they bumped together with every step. After a block or so her head nestled against his shoulder and remained there for the rest of the walk. The fluffy blonde hair brushed against his cheek.
The cheek wasn’t numb anymore.
It was cold out but he didn’t notice the cold. It was windy, but he didn’t feel the wind cut through the tight blue jeans and the flannel shirt. She had lied slightly: it was a long walk to her place, but he didn’t even notice the distance.
/> She lived by herself in a little shack, a tossed-together affair of unpainted planks with nails knocked in crudely. Somebody had tried to get a garden growing in front but the few plants were all dead now and the weeds overran the small patch. He knew, seeing the shack, why she had fixed on the idea of him being lonely. She was so obviously alone, living off by herself and away from the rest of the world.
Inside, she closed and bolted the door and turned to him, her eyes expectant and her mouth waiting to be kissed. He closed his eyes briefly. Maybe he could open them and discover that she wasn’t there at all, that he was back at the bar by himself or maybe out cold in his own cabin.
But she was still there when he opened his eyes. She was still standing close to him, her mouth puckered and her eyes vaguely puzzled.
“I’ll make you happy.” She said those four words as if they were the answer to every question in the universe, and by this time he thought that perhaps they were.
There was no other answer.
He clenched his teeth again, just as he had done when she squirmed before him on the barstool. Then he drove one fist into her stomach and watched her double up in pain, the physical pain of the blow more than matched by the hurt and confusion in her eyes.
He struck her again, a harsh slap on the side of her face that sent her reeling. She started to fall and he brought his knee up, catching her on the jaw and breaking several of her teeth. He hauled her to her feet and the sweater ripped away like tissue paper.
She was right. It was all her underneath.
The next slap started her crying. The one after that knocked the wind out of her and stopped her tears for the time being. His fingers ripped at the skirt and one of his nails dug at her skin, drawing blood. She crumpled to the floor, her whole body shaking with terror and pain, and he fell upon her greedily.