Chapter 9
The wedding was a simple civil ceremony. John had no particular friends in Lunalia, and neither he nor Carol had any relatives they cared to invite. The witnesses were Carol's local lawyer, the Sidney Greenstreet look-alike, who had probably been tempted from his office by the opportunity to kiss the bride; and his secretary. Melody was there as a nominal bridesmaid.
Melody had suggested that John invite Ken Burke/Byrnes as best man, but John hadn't seen any humor in this.
Ken didn't pose as much of a problem as Melody had feared he would. The day after their date, he was gone from his house, and he didn't return for a week. He told her that he'd gone away to think things over.
Apparently he'd been more troubled by their sexual encounter than by his interview with John. He was still obviously in love with her, but he had apparently made a resolution to treat her with distant, big-brotherly affection. She found this amusing and did nothing to renew their intimacy.
She had been afraid that John would fall apart under pressure from Ken, but quite the opposite seemed to be taking place. Ken looked haggard, nervous, and red-eyed after his week's absence, and he came to look progressively more so. The thought of revenge had sustained him for more than a year, and now he was no longer certain that John had murdered his sister. Perhaps John's words had convinced him, but Melody believed that she had more than a little to do with it; she guessed that Ken was simply incapable of believing that the father of the girl he loved had murdered Leila. The sudden disappearance of the obsession for revenge had left a vacuum in him, and he was showing the strain.
Nevertheless, he still worried her. He showed no inclination to move away, and she was sure that his continued presence would eventually have a bad effect on John. He continued to ask questions, too, even though he was no longer sure what answers he was looking for.
John and Carol had no desire for an extended honeymoon. They planned to spend a long weekend in Miami. Melody was invited, but she thought it would be polite to decline and let them have a few days alone together.
Melody was a self-sufficient person. She liked to be alone. So the prospect of spending four days by herself in the beach house neither bored her nor upset her. On the contrary, she looked forward to it as a little vacation. Much as she loved John and liked Carol, the small house seemed crowded with both of them in it. She hoped that Carol could be prevailed upon to buy them a bigger place soon.
Alone now, she laughed aloud as she remembered how she'd narrowly averted a disaster. Carol had convinced herself that easy money would ruin John's talent. She was thinking seriously of giving all her money away so that he would feel obliged to keep plying his craft. Horrified, but careful not to show it, Melody had gently led her away from that idea, convincing her that John was made a sterner stuff and would be able to resist the temptations of luxury.
She hadn't told John about that yet. She would wait till he returned from the honeymoon.
"Shit," she said aloud, as somebody knocked on the front door.
She was naked, and she didn't feel like putting any clothes on. Nor was she happy about having this first pleasant taste of solitude interrupted. She thought about not answering at all. But she knew it was Ken, and he knew she was home. He would keep knocking, and then he would probably break in if he got no answer, fearing for her safety.
Grumbling, she snatched up her beach robe, belted it tightly about her waist, and went reluctantly to the door.
"Hi, Melody."
"Hi yourself."
He was disconcerted by her coldness. She realized that it would be a tactical error to alienate him completely, so she put on a smile.
"May I come in?"
"Sure."
He followed her into the living room. "I guess your father has left, huh?"
"Yes."
"Is something wrong?"
"No. I was taking a nap, Ken. Is there anything special you wanted to see me about?"
"I'm sorry, Melody. I'll come back later if-"
"No, I'm awake now," she said, lighting a cigarette.
She studied him. He looked more haggard and nervous than ever. He prowled the room, picking things up and putting them down with no apparent design. One of the things he picked up was the copy of Where The Bones Are Buried, and he held it and looked at it for a while.
"John wanted to know if he should give you an autographed copy."
He shot her a wild-eyed look, obviously unappreciative of her sense of humor. He put the book down.
"Melody. I've got to be certain."
"About Leila, you mean? I thought-"
"I've got to make sure," he interrupted.
"I don't see how you ever will be. He didn't do it. I'm sure of it, and I was there."
"But there might be something. Notes for this book, maybe. A diary. Something."
"Oh, for God's sake, Ken. 'Dear Diary, I took a walk in the park this morning. Murdered my wife this afternoon. We had roast beef for supper and watched television.'"
"I didn't come here to be laughed at."
"Then you shouldn't have come here."
He stared dully at her. "Then you won't let me take a look?"
"What, poke through my father's things while he's not here? Get out, Ken. Maybe I'll let you apologize later, but right now I want you to get the hell out of here."
He stared at her for a moment longer. Then, without another word, he turned and left. She heard his car staring up a few minutes later.
She mashed out her cigarette in exasperation. She was mainly annoyed with herself for underestimating the strength of his obsession. It was certainly stronger than any feeling he had for her, she'd seen that plainly in his eyes. She was afraid that he was now more than half crazy, that he might do something drastic.
Even though she'd belittled his idea that he might find something in John's papers, she was afraid that he might have. John was a compulsive writer. He did keep an irregular diary. He worked out his personal problems on paper. Even thought they lived in the same house, he sometimes wrote her letters, wanting to make sure that he had his thoughts on some subject in proper order. He might not find the confession of murder that he was looking for, but he might find something, a hint, a word, enough for his crazy mind to work on.
And, she reflected, he might be screwy enough to break into the place and look for what he wanted without her permission.
She didn't know what to do. It would take her a year to go through John's papers and make sure they contained nothing incriminating. Nor did she want to pry into his private papers, even for a good cause. She would have to call him, but she knew he hadn't arrived in Miami yet. She couldn't imagine what kind of constructive advice he could give her, though. Burn down the house, perhaps, with all the papers in it.
She jumped when a rap sounded at the door. It sounded "harder, more determined than before. She didn't recall hearing Ken's car return.
Through the screen, she saw a small, powerfully built man in a Smokey the Bear hat and loopy black sunglasses. He had a big star on his shirt pocket and a big gun at his hip.
"Officer Boulton, isn't it?"
"Dep'ty Sheriff, Miss. May I come in?"
"Sure, what the hell."
"Beg pardon?"
"I thought I was going to be alone for a while, and it seems like Grand Central Station around here. But come in. What's on your mind?"
She walked back into the living room, lighting another cigarette. She was certain that this had something to do with Ken Burke, even though she didn't know what; nor could she believe that he'd gotten the police here so quickly.
Beau Boulton was only a couple of inches taller than she was, but his posture took advantage of every millimeter. He strutted when he walked, and he wore his campaign hat on his forehead, almost touching his sunglasses. His hand often moved to his gunbutt as if he needed reassurance that it was still there. Using one of his Britticisms, John had once described him as a nasty piece of work. It was a very apt description, she thought.
"We got this here report about naked bathing," he said abruptly.
"Jesus Christ, are you serious?"
"You better believe I'm serious. This is a serious charge. And I'll thank you kindly not to blaspheme. Would you mind sitting down there, little lady, and facing me when I interrogate you?"
"I'll make a deal with you," she said, turning to face him. "You promise not to call me little lady, and I won't call you little man. Okay?"
She was so totally unprepared for what happened next that it took her a moment to realize what had indeed happened. She saw a burst of bright color before her eyes and found herself sitting in the chair. Only when the pain came did she know that he'd hit her across the face, very hard, with the back of his fist.
"I got a better deal. You keep your smart-ass wisecracks to yourself, and I won't smack you upside the head."
"You dirty little prick," she spat, fighting back tears of rage and pain.
She was equally unprepared for his next move. He reached out almost casually and seized her lower lip between his thumb and forefinger. He tugged, and she was forced to rise from the chair and follow him. The more promptly she followed, the less it hurt. She couldn't strike down his hand without doing worse damage to herself.
He took her a few steps, then kicked her feet out from under her. She fell heavily to the floor. When she tried to rise, he pushed his booted foot between her breasts and forced her down again.
"You just lie quiet," he said, standing with one foot resting lightly on her chest like some travesty of a big game hunter, "and let me hear you say 'Dep'ty Sheriff Boulton, sir' in your very sweetest and politest voice."
"Fuck you, creep," she snarled.
His boot pressed down harder, crushing her, forcing the breath from her body. She struck at his leg, kicked at him, but she might as well have tried to fell a tree with her bare fists.
"Stop it, stop-please-"
"Let's hear you say it. It ain't all that hard."
She raged against it, but she choked it cuts "Deputy Sheriff Boulton. Sir."
"Now, I guess you can say we got ourselves started off on the right foot," he said, and he laughed hard at his stupid joke.
He eased the pressure on her chest. She dragged gulps of air into her scorching lungs. She fought against an urgent desire to vomit.
"What you got on under that there robe, gal?"
She glared up at him. Impatiently, he tapped his fingertips on the truncheon he wore opposite his gun.
"Nothing," she said sullenly, sitting up when at last he removed his foot.
"That figures. We got this report about these two ladies running around bald-ass naked out to Deckert's Island, out there in the bay. You know anything about that? That wouldn't have been you, would it? You better take off that there robe, so's I can compare you with the description."
"You can't get away with this. You can't come in here-"
"I can do whatever I goddamn please with a little cunt-sucking whore from New York City. Take off that fucking robe, or I'll tear it off your goddamn back."
She pushed herself up and ran toward the kitchen for all she was worth. She had taken barely three steps before her progress was violently arrested. He had grabbed the back of her robe. She tried desperately to shrug out of it and keep running, but he was upon her before she could succeed, encircling her waist with his powerful arm. She got in one good shot, an elbow thrust back into his ribs, and she had the satisfaction of hearing a "whuff" of surprise and pain. Her satisfaction was brief. He gripped her unbound hair and twisted it. She screamed as he forced her to her knees.
"The robe," he said, giving her hair another vicious twist, and she let it fall to the floor.
"I got to admit I been tellin' you a little white lie, honey," Boulton said in an obscenely gently croon. "We didn't get no report. It was me that seen you out there, you and your new redheaded mama. I dang near cried, watchin' the two of you, thinking what a godawful waste it was for two such fine cunts to be messin' with each other."
Melody's mind raced back. She recalled the noise she'd heard in the underbrush, the scrambling she'd mistaken for a deer.
"Yesir, I tell myself, maybe that big-ass redhead is a confirmed bull-dagger, but this twitchy little piece of tail is doin' it 'cause she don't know no better," he continued. "So I figured I'd just mosey on over here and show you how it's supposed to be done. I figure I got a whole weekend to give you some real good teachin', while your Mama and Papa is away."
She was swept by a wave of dismay at the prospect of having to listen to this garrulous swamp-cracker all weekend. That disturbed her even more than the thought of rape. When she realized that it did, she couldn't control a laugh. That was a mistake. He struck the back of her head, knocking her sprawling on the floor.
"You got a whole pile of learnin' to do," he observed mildly. "Number one, you call me 'Deputy Sheriff-' no, you call me 'Mister Dep'ty Sheriff Boulton, sir.' Number two, you don't laugh 'less I say something funny. Lesson number three is comin' right up now."
She heard the creak of leather, the purr of his zipper. His hat went scaling over her to the other side of the room. She didn't want to look back at him. She lay on her belly and waited, thinking. There was no gun in the house, but the kitchen was stocked with an excellent set of knives. When Beau Boulton got-hungry, she was certain, he would tell her to do the cooking. Vividly, she imagined the pleasure of sticking the heavy, triangular French knife between his ribs.
"Turn over," he said, nudging her with his bare toe, then kicking her in the ribs when she didn't move fast enough to suit him.
She rolled over on her back. He was wearing only his khaki shirt, the star still affixed to it. She was a little surprised to note that she didn't find this ludicrous outfit at all funny. The sunglasses had concealed little black eyes set close to the bridge of his nose. They suggested two beads of buckshot rolling in a damp palm as they traveled over her body, trying to devour it all at once.
"Hot damn," he breathed. "You're a piece and a half. I'm gonna show you what it's all about, sugar. You won't have no urge to go suckin' on any cunts when I get through with you."
She knew the consequences of sarcastic remarks, so she suppressed three or four that rose to her mind. She would not now or ever give him the satisfaction of pleading with him. So she lay still and silent, glaring at him. She noticed that he found it very difficult to meet her eyes.
She was vaguely annoyed that the instrument of her impending humiliation was so insignificant. Beau had a dinky little dick, even though it was fully erect. It took her a considerable effort of will power to keep from commenting on it.
"We got plenty of time for all kinds of foolin' around later, honey," he said hoarsely, sinking to his knees between her legs. "I'm gonna get you to give me a nice blowjob later. I'm gonna get you to kiss every square inch of my skin before you get around to it. But right now I'm gonna plow you."
He almost flung himself on her, his arms pinning hers as his cock rammed around in her crotch, blindly seeking the opening. She made an effort to relax and minimize the pain, but her cunt was cold and dry when he shoved into it. She couldn't hold back a squeal.
"You, yeah, you like it already, I can tell," Beau gasped, grinding his hard flesh into her. "I heard you with that redhead, groanin' and moanin' and damn near screamin' your head off. I'm gonna make you do that, too."
She bit her lip, still struggling to relax her cunt. He wasn't waiting for her. He kept pushing ahead, deeper and deeper, even though it must have hurt him, too. But he was in a feverish state of excitement that probably made pain and everything else besides the fact that he was fucking her unimportant. He was red faced, sweating profusely, and he trembled in ever muscle as he shoved harder and deeper.
His excitement was so great that he apparently didn't hear the return of Ken's car next door. She heard the door of the car slam, then the screen door of his house, but Beau was deaf to the sounds.
"Oh-oh-oh," she moaned, gradually raising her voice, filling her lungs, raising her voice to a howl, a shriek: "Oh-oh-OOHHH!"
"That's what I want to hear, that's just what I want to hear," Beau grunted, beginning to hump her vigorously. "Only you don't have to holler like that in my ear."
"It's so good, I can't HELP it, I can't HELP it!" she howled.
"Yeah, yeah, I figured you'd like it once you knowed what it was all about, I figured-"
The screen door slammed. Beau tensed. He stopped fucking her, his cock half buried in her pussy, as he raised himself to stare at something beyond her head.
"Get off her, you bastard," Ken said.
"Get the fuck out of here!" Beau snarled.
Melody heard a clicking sound. "I won't tell you twice," Ken said.
Beau released her and got to his feet. She rolled over on her belly, gasping for breath, annoyed with herself for shaking all over. She saw Ken standing in the door. He was holding an automatic in his tight white fist, presumably the gun he'd bought to shoot John.
She turned to look at Beau. His hands were raised tentatively. He was edging very slowly backward to the spot where he'd left his pants. And his gun belt.
"What happened to your hard-on, Mister Deputy Sheriff Boulton, sir?" she sneered, and he glared at her.
"Are you all right, Melody?" Ken asked.
"Yes," she said shortly, getting to her feet. "Make him stand still. He's moving toward his gun."
"You heard her," Ken said.
Beau shot her a venomous look as she made a wide circuit of him and pulled his revolver from its oiled holster. Careful to stay out of Ken's line of fire, she walked toward him, examining the pistol.
John's thrillers contained lots of helpful information about firearms, and she had no difficulty finding the safety and flicking it off. When she was about three feet from Ken, she pointed the gun at his belt-buckle and pulled the trigger. She wasn't sure where her second shot hit him, because he was half spinning as he staggered backward through the door. He fell heavily on the porch, writhing with his knees hugged to his chest.
"What the hell," Beau said. "What the hell did you do that for?"
She cast him a cold glance as she picked up the automatic that had flown from Ken's hand. She worked the slide, ejecting a cartridge that had been in the chamber, as she walked toward Beau.
"Wait a minute, little lady. Please, wait just one minute. No. No!"
"Shit," she muttered, when the first shot missed him entirely.
"Holy Jesus, don't!" Beau cried, his voice rising to a high-pitched scream.
The second shot hit him right between his beady little eyes. He was lifted from his feet and flung hard against the wall, and the back of his head exploded like a pumpkin smashed in the street by Hallowe'en vandals.
Melody sighed, brushing her golden hair back from her face as the tension flowed from her body. She wiped Beau's gun on her robe and pressed it firmly into his dead hand. Then she walked to the porch, wiping Ken's automatic. He had stopped groaning, and his eyes and mouth were wide in a look of utter astonishment. A fly had already settled near the track of pink saliva running from the corner of his mouth. She put his gun in his hand.
Then she walked briskly to the telephone and dialed the police.