Chapter 5

The sun was shining brightly when Mike awoke, filtering through the edges of the lacy curtains to cast a subtle, bright pattern on the pale ivory walls. It gave him a feeling of well-being, of content, which enhanced his own mood. But a cloud seemed to pass across the sun, and the curtains cast a long shadow, now, and he felt the stirrings of some vague premonition of disaster within him.

He reached his hand out, grasping at the empty air. Then it occurred to him that he was alone. Where was Sally? He shook his head, clearing the cobwebs from it. Of course! She'd gone to care for her sister. What the hell was he thinking about Sally for, anyway?

And Kirst?

He remembered the way she'd looked the night before, lying nakedly beneath him, her legs wide spread to expose the entire plane of her upturned crotch to him, as she'd taken his own huge, blood-engorged prick into her tight, clasping little cunt, remembered the mind-blowing excitement as he'd plunged into the warm, moist cavern, the indescribable ecstasy as he'd spewed his churning, boiling sperm into her hungrily milking young belly. Christ, he thought, she'd been fantastic. The thought of the young girl made his prick jerk, coming alive, stiffening into the semblance of an erection again. He wished to God she were still here, lying on the sperm-drenched sheets with him.

He pushed himself up on his elbow and looked around. From the minor on Sally's dressing table, a man stared at him, a man with slack, paunchy jowls and reddened, bloodshot eyes. Christ, he thought! Looks like old Dorian Gray himself-and then, with a chuckle, he corrected himself: looks like the Picture of Dorian Gray! Well, picture or person, Mike Hole was looking pretty decadent this morning, pretty debauched. And where in the hell was Kirst, he asked himself again.

This time, a stab of remorse went through him, a sense of revulsion at what he'd. done. Morally, he thought, it was indefensible-screwing a kid like that the way he had, even if she had been begging for it. And legally? Mike shuddered. Kirst is fifteen, he reminded himself. Okay, fifteen and 99 per cent of another year. Whatever she is, she's under sixteen. She's not a consenting adult. And legally, Mike Hole, he said, leveling an accusatory, if imaginary, finger at himself, you're guilty of statutory rape.

He uttered a low moan, shocked by the realization. What if the little bitch took it into her head to tell someone about last night? What then, Mike Hole? He shook his head. There wasn't a single soul out here for her to tell-there wasn't a single soul out here that she knew, except for him. Okay. So far, so good. But she'll meet people, sometime, somewhere. Suppose she tells, them?

Mike shook his head again. No, he thought, she wouldn't. She wasn't the type. At least she wasn't the type to tell just for the sake of telling. If she could get something out of it, though ... oh, my God! What if she blackmailed him? In a flash, he saw his life in ruins-his business gone, his marriage destroyed, his family disgraced. His thoughts centered on Sally first, winged momentarily off to their son, Vern, away at college, then were occupied with their daughter, Jean. With a sudden fury, he pounded a clenched fist on the bed. If some lecherous old bastard like himself had fucked Jean the way he'd fucked that Danish girl, he would have killed him.

With a surge of bitterness, he thought of Jean's husband, knew that he resented him, "wonderful kid that he is," he muttered to himself sardonically, grew furious at the idea of the little bastard's making love to his daughter, knew he was being ridiculous-wasn't he a broadminded human being, who accepted sex as one of the great pleasures of man and enjoyed it in just that way? And wasn't she a grown woman, now-a married woman, too-and not a child like Kirst?

"Oh, the hell with it," he suddenly said aloud. He was too confused with the events of the past night to try to work his way through the maze of fuddled thought that cluttered his mind. Leave that to the shrinks, he told himself wryly, to the wigpickers. Or else you'll be needing one, too. He shook his head again. He had more important things to think about, now. First of all, where was Kirst? What was she doing?

He rolled off the bed, clutched for his tangled clothing strewn about the room, and hurriedly pulled on shorts and trousers. Bare-chested, he padded into the bathroom. After he'd brushed his teeth-God, they seemed to be wearing little angora sweaters-and shaved carefully, he patted his face to a healthy glow with a cold, stinging lotion. He combed his hair then, found a clean white shirt in the closet, put it on, chose a favorite tie and knotted it, then slipped into a sports jacket. He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror as he left the room. Well, he at least looked respectable. And now he'd better find Kirst.

She might have gone back to her room, he reflected. Or she might have run away-God, she wouldn't, she couldn't go to the police-or, for all he knew, her dead body might be floating in the swimming pool. He'd seen something like that, he remembered, in a movie on the Late Late Show. He took a deep breath. There was no sense in procrastinating any longer; he had to find out what had happened to Kirst.

He found her in the kitchen, dressed in a bright little sunsuit that clung like wet silk to her curves, or at least to those it covered. She was sitting at the table, a plate of hot, buttered toast in front of her, busily spreading it with strawberry jam. "Hi," she said, looking up as Mike came in. She broke off a large piece of toast, slathered more butter and jam on it, then popped it in her mouth. "I'm hungry," she said, speaking with her mouth full. "Are you?"

Mike shook his head. He'd never felt less like eating in his life. "No," he said, "I'm not hungry."

Kirst smiled, popped another piece of toast into her mouth, then hopped up from the table. "I've made orange juice," she said. "And the coffee's hot."

"Thanks, Kirst. I just don't feel like eating anything."

Kirst's eyes widened. "Why not?"

"I just don't feel like it."

She looked hurt, now, and suddenly wistful. "Is it because of me?" she asked, pouting slightly.

"No." Mike cleared his throat, trying to think of what to say to her. He had to say something, for God's sake, after last night. He stared at the wall, as if the appropriate words might be written there. When he didn't see them, he cudgeled his brain, searching for them there. Finally, lamely, he announced, "I want to talk to you, Kirst."

"Oh? What about?"

"God damn it," he said, suddenly shouting. "I don't know."

"But if you don't know, then why did you say ... " Mike took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. "Look, Kirst," he said at last, "I, well, about last night ... I'm sorry."

Kirst stared at him wide-eyed again. "You didn't like it, Mike?" she asked, shaking her head in bewilderment.

"That's not the point," Mike snapped. What the hell was the matter with this kid-all wide-eyed innocence, now, acting as if butter wouldn't melt in her mouth-and last night, acting like some cheap little tart, some slut, some whore.

A tear glistened in the young girl's eye, and Mike was immediately sorry. "Look" he said quietly. "It was wonderful. You know that. But we just can't go on like that. We've just got to forget all about last night." He thought of warning her not tomention it to anyone, then decided that that would be tempting the Fates, and said nothing about it. He gave her a grin. "Okay?"

"Yes, I guess so. Okay." Kirst said. Then, with a deep sigh she added, "I don't understand."

That was certainly true, Mike thought. She didn't understand at all. So he would have to take the responsibility from now on, make sure he didn't drink too much around the kid, and lose control again. In fact, he'd better stay away from her as much as possible, work late at the office maybe. And not hang around alone with her. Well, he'd take her out to dinner again tonight. It hadn't helped much the night before, he thought ruefully. Still, it would be better than being alone in the house with her for a long time. God, the little bitch, in that cute little kiddie outfit she was wearing, was already sending shivers of raw, animal lust shooting straight for his aching loins. He'd better get out and get out fast.

"Look, kid," he said, gulping the orange juice, "I've got to get to the office." He glanced at his watch. "Matter of fact," he added. "I'm late now."

Kirst watched as he, now standing, finished his coffee, then started for the door. "Bye," he called.

In an instant she was beside him. "But Mike," she said, lips quivering like those of a heart-broken child, "what shall I do today?"

"Just what you did yesterday," Mike answered. "Get yourself a sunbath, out there by the pool."

Kirst, still disappointed, turned away. Then, "Will you telephone me, so I don't get too lonesome?"

Telephone her! That was all he needed! He shook his head. "No. I'll be too busy." Another thought flashed through his mind. What if Sally called, what if this kid somehow-oh, not intentionally, of course, but somehow, let slip something about what had happened? Or maybe one of the neighbors would call and Kirst, lonely, wanting to talk, just to talk to someone, for God's sake, might spill the whole sordid, sickening story. What would he do then?

The girl looked puzzled, but Mike had no intention of giving further explanations. "Just don't answer the phone kid. Understand?" Her expression, which Mike caught in a backward glance over his shoulder as he slammed the door behind him, told him clearly that she didn't.

At his office, he found his desk piled high with work he'd been neglecting for days. That was good; it would keep his mind off all his troubles. He plunged into it with a vengeance, reading fine print, totaling figures, concentrating on everything at hand. By the time he slammed the desk drawer, at five o'clock, and drove home, he was almost calm.

But his excitement returned, as he steered the small car in and out of traffic. He couldn't get the memory of that little bitch-my God, he told himself, she must be a nympho or something-out of his mind. Closing his eyes against the glare of the sun as he waited for a stoplight, he seemed to see her superb white body, offered up to him, as it had been the night before, practically on a silver platter. His balls began to ache again, his prick to throb, while white hot flames seemed to lick at his loins. When he reached the house, he cut the motor and sat in the car for a few seconds, trying to regain his composure. He wouldn't give in, he told himself. Not this time. Other men had been faced with this situation, other men had resisted the blandishments of some cheap little whore, and he could, too. It wasn't going to be easy-no, it wasn't. But lots of things weren't easy, and he managed to make out somehow. Hell, that wasn't the word he'd meant! He took a deep breath. He wasn't going to give in to this, he told himself. By God, he wasn't!.

He called the young Danish girl in from the swimming pool, being careful not to look at her as she passed him, half nude again, her voluptuously rounded little buttocks bouncing and jiggling invitingly. He went into the kitchen and mixed himself a drink-He would have just one he told himself. No use playing with fire-but Kirst took an extraordinarily long time in changing her clothes, and so he had a second. God, one more little drink-just one more-wasn't going to turn him into a rapist, was it?

When Kirst at last appeared, he tried to look the other way, averting his eyes as he shooed her out to the car. The drive to the restaurant, he thought with relief, wasn't nearly so bad as it might have been. She was obviously famished, and kept her mind on dinner and her hands where they belonged.

This time, Mike drove to The Green Parrot, where the food-Italian-was more than passable, and where he was certain no one would know him. He'd forgotten, though, that the lights there were so dim it was hard to read the menu, and when the waiter insisted on seating the two of the side by side on the banquette, he was afraid to make a fool of himself by protesting.

As they worked their way through a platter of antipasto, the veal scallopine with spaghetti, the biscuit tortoni, he felt Kirst close to him, brushing his thighs with her own slim ones. He moved as far from her as possible, pleased that he could show so much restraint. But he needed a drink to keep from going out of his mind, and managed to convince himself that a bottle of Lacrima Christ, so smooth, so sweet, would have a beneficial effect. He wouldn't drink much, he promised himself; he'd share it with Kirst. giving her at least half.

But Kirst merely toyed with her glass, and when the bottle was empty, Mike realized that he had drunk it all by himself and that it was making his head spin. He'd counted on driving Kirst around the brightly lit streets of the town for awhile-he would have been safe with her, then-but now he didn't feel like it.

He paid the bill and got into the car, ungallantly letting Kirst open her door and slip inside. He kept his eyes on the road, not daring to look at her, as he headed back to the house. But her presence was maddening, and Mike had the awful knowledge that he could not resist her any more tonight than he had the night before.

When they reached home, he again slid out and let Kirst fend for herself, slamming the door angrily, trotting behind him up the garden path. He pulled his key out, and with shaking hands inserted it in the lock. The fire in his loins was raging now, beyond any control, and as the girl followed him into the front hall, he slammed the door behind them, then pulled her brutally towards him. She lifted her face to his, and his lips crushed against her soft, moist mouth, then his tongue, with cruel pressure forced it open, forced its way in, almost to her throat. After a long, wet kiss that lit white hot flames in his seething, surging balls, his aching penis, he pushed her away, then caught her hand and pulled her after him up the stairs in the darkness.

He fumbled for the light switch at the top of the stairs, but couldn't find it, swore softly, then led the girl to he and Sally's bedroom again. He fumbled again for the light switch, then forgot it, deciding that mere moonlight would be more erotic, and moved, Kirst in hand, across the room to the bed. He was already stripping off her filmy little summer dress, unhooking her bra easing the thin nylon wisp of her panties down over her round, firm thighs. When she stood before him, all her clothes in a little heap on the floor, he stared at her, as he'd been longing to do all day. Then, as he'd also been longing to do all day, he eased her backwards onto the bed.

For what seemed to her the hundredth time, Sally Hole picked up the telephone and dialed her home number. And for what seemed the hundredth time, there was no answer, only the incessant, almost eerie ringing.

But there had to be someone there. There just had to be. Even if Mike was at work. Kirst should have been there. Anyway, Mike should have been home by now. And if he wasn't home, where was he? And why?

Because she wasn't there, Sally told herself. Because she'd dashed off to take care of her sister, Mona, just when Mike needed her most with the new girl coming and all. She brushed a tear from her eye, and choked back a sob. Well, what else could she have done! Mona had been critically injured. Mike couldn't have expected her to stay home at a time like that.

Still, her husband had needed her, too. And she had failed him. And now, she didn't even know where he was. Sally broke into muffled sobs, dabbing at her eyes with a noxxet handkerchief, knotting it, stuffing it against her mouth. The nurse, coming in with a shot of pain-killing morphine for Mona, found Sally curled up in a chair sobbing hysterically, the picture of despair.

"Oh, dear Mrs. Hole!" she said soothingly. "Whatever is the matter?"

Sally shook her head. "Everything," she said. "Just everything."

"Oh, dear, now. Things can't be all that bad, now, can they?"

"Yes, they can," Sally insisted.

"Well, suppose you tell me about it," the nurse said, setting down the small tray she carried, the wad of cotton, the towel. "Maybe it will make you feel better."

"It won't," Sally said, bursting forth into fresh tears. Nevertheless, she blurted out her story; her husband wasn't home and didn't seem to have been home, she said. At least, she couldn't reach him, "And what could have happened to him, Miss ... Miss ... " she hesitated, then found the nurse's name on her lapel. "Miss Hunt?"

"Why, he's probably gone to a movie, dear." he doesn't like them!"

"There, there, dear," Miss Hunt clucked. "Everything's all right with your husband. I just know it is." Sally shook her head, refusing to believe it, as Miss Hunt rattled on. "You just see everything in a bad light now because you're so tired, poor thing. You've been under a strain, Mrs. Hole. That's all. And when you get some rest, everything will look different to you."

"No, it won't," Sally sniffled. "I know something's wrong. Something has to be. Mike doesn't answer the telephone, and he has to be home-he just has to be-because he wouldn't have gone anywhere, at a time like this, and if he's home and he doesn't answer the telephone, that means that something terrible has happened to him." Sally let out a little wail of fear at what it might be. "Oh, there's been an accident," she sobbed. "Mike's been hurt. MIKE'S DEAD!"

"Now, now," Miss Hunt admonished. "You're just upset by all that's happened. And do you know what I'm going to do?" When Sally looked at her in silence she said, "Well, I'm going to get you some little pills that are going to make you relax, and once you relax, you'll be able to get some sleep-you haven't had much sleep, dear, you know, sitting up all night with your sister, the way you have-and I really think it's been wonderful of you to do it, too-but you haven't had much sleep, you know."

Sally sighed. "I know," she said. "But I don't want any of your little pills." Her voice began to rise in shrill hysteria.

"That's all right, dear," Miss Hunt said, clapping her on the shoulder. "You just sit right here, and I'll go and get them." She picked up her tray and went out, shaking her finger at Sally.

Sally heard her footsteps receding down the hall; when they had died away she slipped from her chair, found her coat and purse, said a gentle "good-bye" to the sleeping form of her sister, and hurried to the elevator. Once downstairs, she ran through the marble-floored hallways, the tap of her high heels seeming to chase her, adding to her panic. She was breathless when she reached the parking lot, trembling as she slid behind the wheel of her car. Her forehead was damp and wet, and she felt a little faint. She rested it for a few seconds on the steering wheel-it felt cool and comforting-before she started the car. Then, summoning all the strength at her command, she headed towards the road that led to home.

It would take hours for her to reach it, and when she did, it would be late at night. She pressed her foot on the accelerator. Dear God, what would she find when she got there?

The road stretched ahead, a thin, twisting ribbon of darkness, lit briefly by the twin headlights of the car. Trees and patches of brush loomed on either side. Occasionally, Sally passed an isolated farmhouse, a roadside stand, a rural schoolhouse. Sometimes she sped through tiny villages, stopping at the continuing. She went through towns, too, where a few late gadabouts scurried home through neon-lighted streets.

She stopped once for coffee, begrudging the few minutes it took to drink it. Then she was back in the car, careening along, watching the road. The fallen logs, the piles of leaves, the small, smoldering rubbish heaps-all seemed to turn into the body of Mike, a body twisted and scarred and broken. Had he had an accident? Had he, like Mona, crashed his car into a retaining wall, been thrown around inside the hurtling mass of metal to be crushed like an eggshell? Had there been, perhaps, an accident at the swimming pool, with Mike, trying a highdive hitting his head on the tiled edge? Perhaps he'd been the victim of an attack of some sort-been mugged on the street, been beaten, even killed by some intruder in their home. Something-something had happened to Mike.

She glanced out the window and saw the sign that marked the approach to Woodland Hills. Nearing home, her fears lightened, her terror drifted away. Everything would be all right, she thought, blinking as if she had just seen daylite after days in a dark tunnel. She took a deep breath and felt the piston-like pounding of her heart begin to subside. Everything would be all right. She would turn the corner and drive down the street and there would be her home-hers and Mike's-with lights blazing cheerfully, the certain proof that all was well.

She reached the crossroads and slowed the car. A smile of relief spread across her face. Everything was going to be all right, she thought, as she headed the car onto Maiden Lane. She drove half the block, straining her eyes as she watched for Number 52.

She pulled up in front of it, and everything was dark!