“But you say, Dr. Wainwright, that she skipped out.”
“We took Holden’s car. It was on a dirt road about an hour’s hike away. She drove until we found my car, which was on a different road about ten miles off. Bert and I took my car, and she followed us. She was supposed to follow us till we found a police or sheriff’s station, but she took off.”
“She was right behind us one minute. Then she was gone.”
“You feel, then, that she had some reason to avoid a confrontation with the authorities?”
“Looks that way.”
“But she sent the scrapbook, I’d bet on it.”
“Do you have anything you’d like to say to Mary Smith if she should be watching this broadcast?”
“You bet. Mary Smith, whoever you are, we love you.”
“We’re not interested in revealing your identity to anyone. But we’d like to thank you-in person, if that’s possible. I’m in the phone book, Richard Wainwright.”
“This is Henry Gonzalez for Eyewitness News. Back to you, Laura.”
Gillian pressed the remote button, and the television screen went blank. Leaning back against the bedrest, she sighed.
“They seem like nice people,” Jerry said.
“They are.”
He took hold of her hand. “There’s that old Chinese proverb ... I think it’s supposed to be Chinese.”
“That you’re responsible for people after you save their lives?”
“That’s it.”
“That’s bullshit.”
Jerry laughed softly.
“She said they love me.”
“Yeah.”
“That’s really nice.”
“I don’t think there’s any reason to worry that they’ll tell on you.”
“No.”
“Even if they did, it’s not that big a deal. There’d be publicity, though. And the cops would want to talk to you.” -
The
“But you’d be a hero. You already are. Mary Smith is.”
Fuck Mary Smith. And Gillian O’Neill. Time I got myself a new
Following the outstanding success of “Gone Midnight,” a sequel to this record-breaking blockbuster movie, is now in the pipcline. As we speak, award-winning screenwriter, Trisba
“Sure. A hero. And I’d probably get prosecuted for violating Holden’s civil rights.”
“Maybe you’d better stay anonymous. But like I said, they won’t tell. How about having them over?”
“Like a dinner party?”
“A swim and a barbecue.”
“That might be nice. But let’s wait a while till it all calms down. And I’d like a chance to heal before anyone sees me in a bikini.”
“Yeah,” Jerry said. “Don’t want to put them off their food.”
Gillian slapped his thigh.
“You look fine,” he told her.
“Sure. Like I went through a garbage disposal.”
And she suddenly pictured the carcasses of the two young women, the way they had looked when she stood above them after crawling out from under Holden. Then she was on her mountainside perch, staring down, and they were still alive and she heard their screams over the rush of the stream as Holden worked on them.
Gillian felt herself shrivel inside, tight and cold. Goosebumps rose on her skin.
“Jerry?”
“Uh-huh?’
“Jery. D’you love me?”
“Do bees like honey? Does night follow day? Did Rhett love Scarlett?” .
“Funneee. I mean it, pal. I need to know if you really love me. Y’know? Really care.”
“As in, follow you to the ends of the earth?”
“You got it.”
“Where’s this leading, Gill? And why so serious, at this hour?”
“Because, dummy, I am about to spill a whole mess o’ beans. Like tell you a story, the like of which you’ve probably never heard before. And all of it is true. It’s about me. So. I need to trust you. I need to know that you love me enough to say, hey, what the heck. It’s you I love, not your goddamn life history.”
Jerry leaned up on an elbow and looked at her. Tears were coursing down her cut and bruised cheeks.
“My God, Gillian. What’s wrong?”
Okay. She’d had a rough time. A terrible time, what with Fredrick Holden an’ all; and he her uncle, too. But he had an overwhelming feeling that there was something else. That something much bigger was on her mind.
“If you love me and we stay together, I want you to know me. The real Gillian O’Neill. No matter how many alibis I have, what I do for a living, what position I sleep in at nights, what brand of coffee I drink ... I just need to come clean, Jerry. And after you’ve heard what I have to say, I want you to be honest. Tell me you love me and that my secrets’ll be safe with you. Or, tell me you don’t want to know, and I’ll just clam up and go to sleep.”
She looked so miserable that he took her in his arms and shushed her, just like a baby. Love, compassion and concern for her welled up inside him. He’d never felt like this about anyone before, in all of his life.
“There, now, my love. No need to worry about a thing. I do love you-believe me, I do. Just the way you are. No frills. No hidden agendas. Just you. If you’re about to tell me that you’re an award-winning scriptwriter, don’t bother. I already know. Anything else, I don’t need to be told.”
Turning to him, she whispered, “Hold me some more.”
He did.
They lay on their sides, wrapped in each other’s arms. Jerry held her gently.
“How come you know I write screenplays?”
“You told me. You said you ‘scribbled.’ Remember? Well, I watched this film a while back. About this diehard female mercenary caught up in some kind of Greek political plot. Good swimmer, too. Swam in mountain lakes, hid out in caves and all that stuff. Come to think of it, just the damn fool sort of thing you’d probably get up to. Caught the name of the screenwriter, too. Matched yours.”
“A regular Perry Mason. You shoulda told me.” She smiled and gave a small yelp.
“What is it ... ?”
“My cut lip just opened up again.”
Jerry held her closer and she snuggled into the curve of his body. He felt warm and smooth. Soon, the gripping chill inside her melted and a wonderful relief flooded her being.
One day, she promised herself, one day, I guess I’ll tell him the full story. Not yet, though: Not tonight.
Gillian tightened her arms around him. She pressed herself hard against him, and the feel of his body on her bruised and wounded skin was as soothing as a kiss.
RICHARD LAYMON
Richard Laymon is the author of over 30 novels and 65 short stories. Though a native of Illinois and a long-
