dizziness passed, he hobbled over to Julie.
She had a dark bruise where the walking stick had hit her under the chin. Her eyes were shut. Her lips and cheeks were crusted with something, as if white glue had been squirted around her mouth and dried. Rick wondered what it was. Then he knew.
Gagging, he turned his eyes quickly away from her face. But what he saw only added to his disgust and horror. The skin of her shoulders was bruised and dented from bites. Her breasts still held the imprint of fingers, as if they had been fiercely squeezed. Fingernails had left tiny, crescent-shaped impressions. Her nipples looked chewed. Rick covered his mouth and shut his eyes. But he had to look again. Lower, she was caked with dried blood and more semen. Rick had never seen that part of a woman before, just in a few pictures.
Embarrassment suddenly pushed its way through Rick’s other agony. Even though he wasn’t turned on, what if Julie woke up and saw him staring there?
He bent over and lost his balance. Though he waved an arm to steady himself, he knew it was useless. He flung the crutch from his other hand and reached beyond Julie as he fell. For a moment, he was braced above her like a bridge. But his left leg gave out as pain blasted up it. He collapsed. He fell on Julie.
He started to cry.
She was naked, and Rick had nothing on but swimming trunks, and he was lying on her. Her bare skin against him. He could feel the jut of her hipbone, her flat belly, her ribcage. He could feel a breast against this side, just below his armpit.
If she comes to now ...
There was no movement under Rick.
No rise and fall of Julie breathing.
Of course she’s breathing, he thought.
But she wasn’t ...
Rick’s mind seemed to freeze. He shoved himself off Julie, rolled onto his side with his head resting on her outstretched arm. He saw his hand reach out as if it belonged to someone else. It curled around her throat. His fingers searched for the feel of blood pumping through arteries and veins below her jaw.
Then he was up on an elbow, sobbing as he shook Julie by the shoulder. Her head wobbled from side to side. He waited for her eyes to open.
They didn’t.
They never would.
Gillian’s first task, after securing the house, was to determine the name of its owner.
On the coffee table were several magazines:
Gillian went into the den. She shut the curtains across the glass door, then turned on a lamp. On top of the television, along with two remote control units, was a copy of
The owner, therefore, was undoubtedly Fredrick Holden.
So, she thought, I’m house-sitting for Uncle Fred. Or is it Unde Rick? I’d better just stick with Uncle Fredrick till I find out what he goes by.
With the lamp off, she stepped under the curtains and slid the door open. She carefully peeled off the duct tape she had used to hold the glued section of glass in place. She wadded it in her hand, shut and looked the door, turned on the lamp again, and tossed the tape into a waste basket she found behind the bar.
The bar had a refrigerator. Inside was a nice selection of soft drinks and beer, and a couple of jugs of wine. Gillian lifted out a jug of Blanc de Blanc. She chose a good-sized brandy snifter from a shelf of glasses, twisted out the bottle stopper, and filled her glass. She took a sip. The cold wine had a subtle, fruity flavor, and was not too sweet.
With the glass in one hand and her flashlight in the other, she went into the kitchen. The windows there faced the side of the house and the front porch, as she searched the kitchen in darkness except for the glow from outside. A bulletin board hung next to the wall phone. Some notes were pinned to it. Gillian decided to wait until morning to read the notes. Beside the bulletin board was a picture calendar. Flashlight tucked under her arm, she lifted the calendar off its small nail and carried it into the den.
She sat on a soft recliner chair, took a sip of wine, and studied the calendar. The top portion had a glossy color photo of a slender young woman posing beside a pool. She wore a string bikini and her skin was shiny with oil. Just what Gillian expected of a fellow who had mirrors on his bedroom ceiling.
The lower portion of the calendar was devoted to the month of June. Today was Saturday the 21st. The square block for the 21st had no writing on it. Neither did any of the squares for earlier in the week. On the 13th was written: “7:30 Stewardess; 9:05 Passion.” The 7th had similar notations: “7:10 Elena, 8:50 Crazy.” Gillian guessed that these were the starting times for double-features, the movie titles abbreviated. The rest of the dates for the month of June had no writing in their spaces. She glanced at July, then shook her head.
“You’re no help,” she muttered at the calendar.
Apparently, Fredrick Holden needed no reminders of when he was leaving on his trip or returning. Maybe Gillian would turn up some information later. She was in no mood to continue investigating the matter now. She wanted to settle in and relax.
One final chore.
After taking the calendar back into the kitchen, Gillian went to the front room. She stepped into her skirt again and pulled the sweater over her head, but decided not to bother with her heels. Car keys in hand, she removed the burglar bar and unlocked the door.
Outside, the night air was cool and fresh after the stuffy warmth of the house. The grass was dewy under her bare feet. Down the street, a car swung into a driveway. A man and a woman climbed out and walked toward their front door. Nobody else was in sight.
Gillian climbed into her car. She drove it to the end of the block, turned the comer, and parked at the first empty stretch of curb. She walked back to the house.
At the driveway, she stopped.
Something looked different.
She frowned. What was ... ?
Light no longer glowed through the living room curtains.
The nape of Gillian’s neck went tight.
Someone inside the house? Had someone been in there all along?
No. Probably the lightbulb burnt out.
But what if someone is ... ?
She suddenly knew. Shaking her head and smiling at her foolishness, she checked her wristwatch. Eleven o’clock. Though she hadn’t seen the timer, hadn’t even bothered to look for it, the living room lamp was obviously equipped with one. It would be set to turn on the lamp after dark and kill it around bedtime.
Nobody in there after all.
Hearing the grumble of a car engine behind her, Gillian looked around. A Corvette. Slowing down as it approached.
Her heart lurched.
Oh Jesus, no!
But the car didn’t swing into the driveway. It went by and turned onto the driveway of the house next door.
Gillian hesitated.
She must’ve been seen.
Okay, she thought. Fine. Great, in fact.
As the Corvette stopped in front of the gate at the far side of the neighbor’s house, she cut across the lawn, heading for it. The engine went silent. The headbeam died. A man climbed out from the driver’s door, swung it shut, and walked around the low front of the car.
