of rocks so she would be out of sight from above. “Aren’t gonna get their kicks looking at me,” she muttered.
Bonnie shoved herself off the boulder and squatted. “Maybe we ought to start down.”
Bert nodded. “I don’t like this at all.”
You and me both, Rick thought. “Let’s get moving.”
Gillian woke up. She was sprawled on the water bed. Lifting her head off the pillow, she looked at the alarm clock on the nightstand. Three-twenty. That left more than an hour and a half before it was time to go over to Jerry’s.
If I’m going, she thought.
She groaned as she climbed off the undulating bed. Her back ached, and her rump felt stiff and sore. Standing up straight, she turned her back to the wall of mirrors. She looked over one shoulder. Her right buttock had a three- inch band of shiny red near its top. Some curls of white skin rimmed the lower edge of the scrape. She picked at one of the larger pieces, thinking she might peel it off like the dead skin after a sunburn, but pulling it hurt so she stopped. The left buttock, now so raw, looked as if someone had taken a hard swipe at it with sandpaper. The skin around both abrasions had a rosy glow. That’s where the bruises will come, she thought. That’s where I’ll be black and blue.
Could’ve been a lot worse, she thought.
The rosy glow suddenly spread. Even her face took on a deep red hue.
God, why couldn’t I just get bashed up? Why did I have to lose my pants?
Talk about your Stupid Human Tricks.
Jerry was good about it, though. Hell, he was terrific.
He really wants me to come over.
And I told him I’d bring his robe back.
She lifted the robe off the foot of the bed where she had tossed it before flopping down. It was still damp inside. She didn’t see any blood on the dark blue fabric, but maybe she ought to throw it into the washing machine, anyway.
She tossed the robe down, stepped into her sandals, and slipped into her shirt. The shirt felt fine. The way it draped her rear end, it didn’t even touch the wounds as long as she stood very straight.
When she bent over to pick up the robe, the shirt fell lightly against the raw place. It stuck to moisture there when she straightened up. She plucked it away, thinking she had better bandage that side, at least.
First, I’ll throw this in the wash.
She carried Jerry’s robe outside.
On her way to the laundry room, she looked at the high redwood fence and listened for the splashy sound of swimming. There was only silence from the other side. Maybe Jerry had gone inside. Or maybe he was stretched out, sun-bathing.
I might still be there, she thought, if I hadn’t crashed and burned.
She saw herself lying on one of his loungers. She felt the heavy heat of the sun, and then Jerry’s hands sliding over her skin, spreading oil on her back and legs.
It might have gone that way, she thought. With a sigh, she entered the laundry room.
In spite of the light coming in through the curtained windows, the room seemed dark after the brightness outside. Next to a large basin stood a drier. On the other side of the drier was a top-loading washer. A nearby shelf held a collection of detergents and bleaches.
Gillian lifted the lip of the washing machine and peered inside. The drum appeared to be empty. She stuffed Jerry’s robe inside, sprinkled it with soap powder, and closed the lid. She changed the temperature setting to cold, and turned the dial to regular. The machine started with a rush of shooting water.
Jerry’ll think I’m terribly domestic, she thought, returning the robe to him all freshly laundered.
Smiling, she looked away from the washing machine. At the end of the room stood a white-painted cabinet. Its doors were shut.
Normally, Gillian’s curiousity would have been whetted by the sight. She would’ve hurried to inspect the contents.
But the urge wasn’t there.
She realized that she’d had enough of Fredrick. She didn’t want to inspect anymore of his possessions, didn’t care to discover anymore of his secrets.
She left the cabinet unexplored and went out the door.
Walking into the driveway, she angled toward Jerry’s fence.
Don’t be a ditz, she told herself.
Why not?
On tiptoe, she peered over the top of the fence. The pool was deserted. Jerry was nowhere to be seen. Feeling a small tug of disappointment, Gillian turned away. She cut across the driveway and entered the den through its sliding glass door.
In the bathroom, she searched the medicine cabinet. She found adhesive tape and a roll of gauze. And three straight razors, one with a scrimshaw handle depicting an old-fashioned sailing ship. She picked that one up. Holding it carefully, she fingered a trigger-like lever and the blade flashed up.
She grimaced and muttered, “Yook.”
Fredrick Holden would, she thought, have a collection of straight razors. They way his taste seems to run, he probably daydreams of slicing up naked women.
Maybe he does slice up naked women.
Goldilocks and the homicidal maniac.
Cute thought, that.
She looked closely at the white handle of the razor. Any bloodstains? Didn’t seem to be.
She set the razor down on the edge of the sink, then took off her shirt. There was only enough gauze to make a bandage for her main scrape, so she didn’t need the razor to cut it off the roll. Lucky me, she thought. She folded the netty fabric into a pad. Then she stripped off two lengths of tape to secure its edges. She used her teeth to rip the tape off the spool.
I could’ve gotten by, she thought, without even touching the damn razor.
She picked it up and carefully folded the blade. She put it back into the medicine cabinet, set the remaining tape inside, and shut the mirrored door.
Her face in the mirror looked flushed. Specks of sweat glistened on her forehead, under her eyes, over her lip. A hand towel hung from a bar beside the sink, but the thought of wiping her face on one of Fredrick’s towels was repulsive.
She used her shirt to mop the sweat off her face.
Then she stepped in front of the full-length mirror on the bathroom door. She turned around. Peering over her shoulder, she pressed the bandage into place.
She put on her shirt as she walked to the den. She went directly to the bar, opened the refrigerator, and took out a bottle of beer. After a few swallows, she sighed.
Now what? she wondered.
The washing cycle wouldn’t be finished yet.
She wished she could take her suitcase out to the car. That way, there would be no need to return here after leaving Jerry’s house tonight. But he might see her carrying it out.
I’ll get it all ready, she decided, and leave it by the door when I go over. Then I’ll just have to reach in, grab it, and take off.
Beer in hand, she stepped around the end of the bar and glanced at the digital clock on the VCR. Three thirty-eight. Christ. Only eighteen minutes had gone by since she woke up from her nap.
Give yourself about twenty minutes to get ready, you’ve still got an hour to kill.
Read? She felt too restless to read.
So watch the tube, she thought.
She wandered over to the shelves and looked at Fredrick’s collection of video tapes.
Should’ve known, she thought, as she started to read the tides:
