Chapter 14
Sitting in the darkness of the living room with Janie on his lap, he realized he'd drunk too many double bourbons. He didn't feel right. His ears roared in the peculiar way they always roared when he drank too much-a distant roaring like the wash of a surf on a distant beach. His skin was hot and his stomach felt like a small fire.
He couldn't remember everything. He could remember sitting in the tavern and talking to someone, he could remember glancing at his wristwatch and discovering it was almost five o'clock. He could remember running to the pawnshop, but he couldn't remember paying the clerk for the handcuffs.
He could remember sitting in the car in the A&P parking lot with the handcuffs and snapping them around his wrists and fumbling with the key to get them open again. A gray-haired lady had peered into his car, watching him and frowning.
He couldn't remember the drive to his house and he couldn't remember taking the groceries out of the trunk of the car. He could remember taking the shotgun and going to the cellar, pointing it at Irene, Janie, Ellen. He could remember the startled expressions on their faces-startled because he had a shotgun instead of the familiar Luger.
After that he could remember nothing until he was alone with Ellen in the kitchen, after they'd all eaten supper. He could remember feeling very, very clever because the shotgun wasn't! loaded and because he'd had the nerve to bluff and make them believe it was loaded. He could remember singing and placing his hands on Ellen. He had kneaded her breasts and he had said something-he couldn't remember what-and she had slapped his face.
He couldn't remember Janie washing and drying the dishes as she always did, but he could remember-just before they came into the living room and turned off the lights-that he had looked at the rack on the enameled sink ledge and seen the dishes all washed and dried and stacked. Janie never replaced the dishes in the cabinets. She'd mentioned that Ellen had said it was a waste of effort to continually be putting them in the cabinets and continually taking them out of the cabinets.
The shotgun lay on the floor near the chair. He had sobered slightly and now he knew he had taken some dangerous chances. Being drunk he'd done several things that could have proved fatal. He could never get drunk-never again. Not until all the girls were dead and buried.
Janie kissed him and moved on his lap, sliding toward his knees. Her hands pressed between his pants and his shirt, he sucked in his breath to allow more room. She couldn't reach as far as necessary and she withdrew, reaching for his belt buckle.
Before she could unbuckle his belt, he slid one of his hands beneath her skirt. Her breath came harsh and warm and sweet and excited against his cheek. In a few minutes she leaned against him, trembling, suddenly limp as if all the strength had flooded from her flesh.
He waited a while and then gently lifted her from his lap. He picked up the shotgun from the floor and went around the room, turning on the lights. Janie stood near the chair where they had been, blinking at the sudden brilliance. He walked to her and with all the light she suddenly seemed much different than she had seemed in the darkness. She was nothing more than a kid, a kid of a girl with immature breasts on a soft body not quite a woman's body. Suddenly she did not look attractive or tempting.
"Stan, don't you want...? "
"No."
"Is something wrong?"
"There's nothing wrong, Janie. Nothing at all. But I don't like your little game. It's a hell of a little game. It's a game for children. Maybe you enjoy it. I don't enjoy it. When are you going to grow up? What you do-what you did to me-and what you want me to do to you...."
He couldn't think of the words. He wanted to tell her she was only playing at the threshold of real love-making, playing a game that was stupid and dangerous. She was the worst kind of a flirt, a flirt willing and eager to go to the brink of the act, but not willing to go as far as the act itself. He couldn't think of the right words.
He finished awkwardly, "Don't you want to be a real woman? Don't you want to find out what it's really like? Are you afraid? Come on. Let's go."
He waved the shotgun. She walked before him, silently, her head bowed. Her skirt was wrinkled, he noticed, her hair messed-strands dangling before one eye, her lipstick smeared. When they went through the storage room, he saw her face clearly. She looked puzzled, thoughtful.
After he had locked the cellar door, he returned to the living room and sat in the chair again.
He thought, Stanley Scott, kidnapper, rapist. It didn't seem real. None of it seemed real. Emma had killed herself. Ellen wanted to make love to him. Janie wanted to play her little sex-game. Of the four, only Irene had reacted normally-perhaps in the way most women would react if kidnapped. If he tried to rape her, Irene would scream and fight. A normal reaction. But Emma, Ellen and Janie weren't quite normal.
He wondered, What is normality? Perhaps there was no such thing as a normal man or woman. If he had kidnapped any four women in the world ... perhaps any four would have developed much along the same lines. One suicide, one absolutely willing to make love with him, one with a warped vision of sex, and one completely "normal" woman like Irene....
He remembered Irene's words, Someone will find us if you keep us here. Maybe she was right. When he originally forced the four women into the cellar he had not contemplated the future, not contemplated it beyond the immediate desire and urgency to use their bodies.
Maybe she was right.
He raised the shotgun and turned it until it aimed directly at his head. The position was awkward but he found, if he held the gun just right, he could force the trigger back.
He pushed against the trigger and heard the click of the hammer and shuddered.
If the gun had been loaded, everything would have ended in the instant of that click.
He shuddered again.
The shotgun was too clumsy and slow to use. But the Luger would be easy and quick. He would carry it constantly. And if Irene were right ... the Luger would be an easy, quick escape route....
It had snowed again but had stopped sometime during the morning and the temperature had dropped below freezing until the snow became crisp and powdery. A bitter wind beat against his face as he waited for Amy to open the door after he knocked and he turned his back to the wind, shivering. When she opened the door he couldn't see her for an instant. The wind had brought blinding tears to his eyes.
In the hallway, as he removed his gloves and hat, as Amy helped him to remove his coat, his eyes cleared and he saw her. Before, when he'd come to make love with her, he'd caught her off-guard and she'd been wearing a frayed dress, a faded pair of slippers, her hair uncombed. This time she'd prepared for his visit.
She'd dressed in a shimmery blue sheath that hugged every curve, accentuating the tilt and points of her breasts. She'd had her hair done in a honeycomb style that made her look younger. She wore nylons, high-heeled black shoes, a flower-scented perfume. Her lips were deep red-the kind of lipstick she'd always used but it seemed thicker and, after she kissed him, he could taste the lipstick on his mouth.
"Sorry to keep you waiting, Stan. Carl asked for water and I wanted to wait and be sure he'd fallen asleep again. As they get older, it's harder and harder to get them to take a nap."
"It's cold out there."
"It's cold in here. That darn furnace isn't working right."
"Your hair looks nice."
"Thank you."
"And the dress looks nice."
"Thank you."
"New dress?"
"Old dress, new hairdo. Florence Malcom loaned me the use of her car today and took care of the children while I went to the beauty shop. How do you like that? Amy Jarrell finally escaped her prison!"
"Who's Florence Malcom?"
"I thought you knew her. She went to the University of Delaware with Bob and I. She used to come to our parties ... before she started having babies all the time. Didn't you meet her at the New Years' Eve party Bob and I gave?"
"I was here but I don't remember Florence Malcom. Maybe I was too busy looking at you." He winked. He placed his hands on her hips, moving them to her waist. Her waist was so small his fingertips almost met at her spine and his thumbs almost met at the front of her stomach. He kissed her, crushing the pliable smallness against him, passion erupting as he ran the palms of his hands over the curves of her buttocks.
"I want to tell you before I forget, Stan. Florence has an idea she and I could baby-sit for each other. That is, one day each week I'd take care of her children while she would be free to do whatever she wants to do, and one day each week she'd take care of mine while I would be free to do whatever I want to do.
"She's going crazy being stuck in the house so much. We're both going crazy from being stuck in the house so much. We started talking about it and she came up with the idea. She'd let me use her car. I'd pay for the gas. That's all. Doesn't it sound wonderful?"
"Uh huh."
She reached upward and locked her fingers at the back of his neck. "You haven't thought what that would mean, Stan. That would mean you wouldn't have to come here. It'd be a lot safer. We could go ... anywhere. I could meet you anywhere."
"Uh huh."
He wanted her, wanted her fast. She seemed in a talkative mood and he wanted to break that mood. He moved his hands from her waist, up, then stopped with his hands holding her immediately beneath her breasts. When he moved his thumbs upward, they dug into the underparts of her breasts. He playfully jiggled her breasts until she pulled his hands away.
"Ummm. Wait until I get out of this dress, Stan. Shall we go to the bedroom? Is the shotgun in that box? You can bring it to the bedroom and I'll hide it in the closet where Bob won't find it."
She hurried up the stairs and he followed, carrying the box. When he reached the bedroom, she was already slipping out of the blue dress. Clad in only her underwear, she walked across the room to get the shotgun, carried it to the closet and leaned into the closet.
Watching her while she was bent in that awkward position, naked except for the silken undergarments, he hurried to undress and stood behind her. He laughed and leaned against her, grasping her hips. She gasped and straightened, beginning to laugh with him after the surprise had faded.
She glided into his arms, and from that moment she seemed totally different from the Amy Jarrell he had always known. After she had undressed, she paraded her body before him, teased him, coaxed him, suggested all the ways they could meld their bodies together.' Boldly, giggling, laughing-she asked him to go slower or faster or to stop or to start. She squirmed and gyrated and pulsed.
At times, tangled in an intricate position and pounding his body against her, lost in the throes of his own lust, she would suddenly pull away from him and laugh and say she wanted to try another way. At times, when he could think only of that one vital warm-soft-tight area of her body, she would frown thoughtfully and adjust an arm or a leg or change the position of thighs or hips and then smile with satisfaction.
When they were exhausted and content, when they could join their bodies no more, she said he should leave. The children were due to wake up soon. While he dressed she went into the bathroom and he heard the spray of the shower. When he finished dressing, he went to the bathroom door and opened it. She had adjusted the shower so the water struck beneath her shoulders.
She pointed at the honeycomb hairdo. "Not much of a shower. But I can't get my hair wet. And my shower-cap won't fit over this."
"What will Bob say when he sees that hairdo?"
"He-likes this style. A lot of the teenagers are wearing it and I told him I was thinking about trying it just to see how I'd look. How do I look?" She turned off the water and pirouetted, her hands on her hips, her stomach pulled in, her breasts thrust outward. "Beautiful!"
"You'd better wipe off that lipstick."
Studying his face in the medicine cabinet mirror, he saw she had smeared his face. He started to use one of the towels, but she said it would look strange if Bob should notice lipstick on a towel. He used his handkerchief and when he finished he saw she had put on a robe.
In the hallway on the first floor she took his coat from the closet and gave it to him.
"I don't want to hurry you, Stan, but the children will wake up soon. Call me Wednesday. I'll have Florence's car Thursday and we can make arrangements about where to meet. Maybe I could come to your house? Would that be all right?"
He nodded.
He had put on his coat and moved toward the door.
"Wednesday is a long time to wait," he said.
"I don't want to wait that long, Stan. But we'll have to be careful ... at least until we know Bob isn't suspicious. As soon as I can, I'll show Mother the gun and tell her it's a gift for Bob. I'll tell her that was why you were here when she saw you ... because you'd bought the gun and brought it to me. That should explain everything and then we won't have to worry about her telling Bob."
He nodded again.
"Don't forget to call me."
"I won't forget."
"I'll give you a little reminder so you won't." Stepping closer, she took his right hand and removed his glove. Stuffing his glove into one of his coat pockets, she took his right hand in both of hers and guided it beneath the fold of her robe. He had to lean slightly forward until she had moved his hand exactly where she wanted to place it, and then she clamped her thighs against it-hard.
"I won't forget," he said.