Chapter 10
Phyllis had never felt so alone in her life. Events had moved so rapidly in the roughly forty-eight hours since Gerry Mann's bloody body had toppled onto her out of his minivan in her driveway that she had not actually had time to feel the full weight of terror. The moves from place to place, the sense of mystery and high melodrama, the overwhelming physical-emotional impact of her big sex with Tim-all of these had so fully occupied her that she had not had time seriously to consider what was actually happening to her.
Now, roused by the silent call, the talons of panic clutched at her as she sat shivering on the bed. She knew, with a certainty born out of the twin wombs of experience and intuition, that something horrible was about to happen, something horrible for her. Her teeth began to chatter.
In an instant of rationality, she considered her plight and found it hard to believe. She, Phyllis West Prescott, utterly respectable young widow of Kitteridge, golf playing companion of down-to-earth Beth Davis and unhappy once-a-week mistress of Freddy the Freeloader, had inherited tainted millions from a completely illogical source, had been shot at, moved around like a chess pawn-above all had been fucked foolish by a young man of whose identity and existence she had not been aware of thirty-six hours earlier.
Now, she was facing ... what? Panic gripped her again, so tightly as to make her breathing difficult. Then rationality returned once more and she considered the fact that, if something dreadful were about to happen, she was certainly doing nothing to forestall or prepare for it. Sitting there naked in bed, waiting for the axe or whatever to fall.
By sheer force of will, she compelled her reluctant limbs to move. The first thing to do, of course, was to make sure she was locked in the room as tightly as possible. There was no way she could reach Tim or she would have called him first-but, as she moved toward the door, it occurred to her that she could call Lem Weldon in Kitteridge ... if he was home.
She tried ... and he did not answer.
She considered calling the desk downstairs and asking for protection. But something held her back-fear that she might be making exactly the wrong move, fear of sounding like a neurotic mess if she asked for protection against a danger she could hardly define.
Then she remembered a remark of Lem Wel-don's when he was recommending the Walden Pines to Tim as a reasonably safe sanctuaryhadn't he said it was virtually across the highway from a State Police sub-station? Since, according to the attorney, the constabulary wanted to question her further as a witness in Gerry Mann's murder, they ought to be glad to protect her.
But first, the door ... she turned on the bedside lamp and moved toward it to check the lock. Satisfied that it was fully bolted, she turned around to pick up the phone, and frozefor she was no longer alone in the suite.
It had never occurred to her to lock the connecting door between her room and Tim's-and now a young woman stood there, regarding her with an unpleasant half smile on her otherwise near beautiful face.
Her leanness of body, save for extravagant opulence of bosom, was evidenced by a black or navy blue leotard that clung to its every svelte curve. She was not tall-not as tall as Phyllis's five-seven by three or four inches-but any advantage this might give the frightened heiress was more than offset by the little black automatic she held in her right fist.
The face above it was framed by bright platinum hair whose fringes peeped out from the edges of a black scarf bound bathing-cap tight around it and bringing the planes of the face it framed into bold relief.
It was an arrestingly handsome face that missed beauty by an eyelash-or rather by the hawk-like sharpness of nose and chin and cheekbones. That her blondeness was unnatural was proven by the near black pupils of her enormous, long-lashed eyes, both cruelty and sensuality were revealed by the flare of her nostrils and the curve of her brightly carmined mouth.
There she stood, the unexpected intruder, studying the helpless Phyllis as if she were some sort of freak, with that sardonic half smile playing over her face as if she were savoring and relishing the moment.
"Hello, Phyllis," she said in a low slightly husky voice like the rest of her larded with sexiness, "I thought it was about time we met."
Beneath the mockery of her tone, behind the half smile that seemed painted on her strikingly attractive face, Phyllis had never felt such malevolence, such out-and-out unconcealed hatred. Yet, to the best of her knowledge she had never seen this woman before in her life.
Another remark of Lem Weldon's came flashing up from some corner of her recent memories-this one a question. The attorney had asked her if she had ever heard of a woman called-what was it?-ah, Gina de Brett.
On impulse born out of terror, she said, "Hello, Gina-what do you want?"
Momentarily, her use of the name cracked that armor of sardonic poise. The eyes narrowed, the black-bound bosom rose and fell-but the eye of the pistol-barrel remained unwaveringly on Phyllis's naked navel.
"I want you out of the way," she said. "I want you out of my life for keeps."
"I'm not aware of being in your life in any way," Phyllis replied. "If you want to talk about it, fine-I'll be glad to know what I'm supposed to have done. If not, why don't you get out of here before you get in trouble?"
"You're the one that's in trouble-not me," said the intruder. Then, after surveying Phyllis's nude body from head to heels, "I don't see what Pres saw in you."
Pres! That was a stunner. She knew Pres had had affairs with other women before they were married-he had talked freely if casually about his old flames if only at moments when such relationships were apropos. But she was quite certain he had never mentioned a Gina-especially a Gina de Brett.
Even if he had been this woman's lover, why, after all these years, should she be up in arms about it? Unless-a big unless-Gina de Brett was one of the late Sal Carini's nieces or cousins or whatever who considered herself to have been robbed by the Boston Godfather's leaving control of Interoceanic to Phyllis?
"I'm not here to talk," said Gina de Brett. MI came to get rid of you. And that's just what I'm going to do."
Phyllis saw the Whitening of the intruder's knuckles as she tightened her forefinger on the trigger of the little automatic. Time seemed to go into slow motion and, in the face of a fate she had no means to combat, fear left her and fatalism took its place. It occurred to her fleetingly that, if she had to die young, she had at least reclaimed her life, however briefly, with Tim.
And then the gun spurted fire and the shot rang out and the bullet went wild and buried itself in the ceiling-as Tim appeared in the doorway behind Gina and knocked her gun hand upward at the last possible second.
"Drop, Phyl!" he said, then, as the intruder twisted toward him, "oh, no you don't, baby!"
Who or whatever she might be, Gina de Brett was evidently no stranger to the martial arts. As Tim grabbed her right wrist, she fired another bullet into the ceiling, thus gaining a brief diversion of interest that enabled her to bring her left knee up, hard, into Tim's crotch, doubling him over in instant retching agony.
Phyllis, who had been looking on as if the drama were a theatrical spectacle, suddenly went into action. It was pure, primitive female going into battle for her man. There was a small lamp on the bureau, made of a converted old colonial pewter candlestick and she jerked it out so forcefully that she pulled the cord right out of its baseboard connection.
Leaping across the carpeted floor in two long bounds, she came upon the intruder from behind, just as she was bringing the automatic down to fire into Tim and laid the sharp base of the lamp with all her force against the right side of Gina de Brett's head. The sound of metal cutting through flesh and thudding against bone was horrible, and the intruder was knocked over sideways as if she'd been hit by a falling telephone pole and collapsed on the carpet with blood pouring out of a nasty cut running from ear to eye socket.
The pistol had dropped from her hand, and, ignoring her victim, Phyllis scooped it up and gave her attention to Tim, helping him half upright and guiding him to the bed, where he sat doubled over, still clutching his crotch.
"I'll-be-all-right-in-a-few-seconds," he gasped through clenched teeth.
The telephone rang. Phyllis answered. It was the desk, asking if things were all right. There had been two reports of the sounds of shooting.
Phyllis covered the mouthpiece, turned to Tim, said, "What should I do?"
His forehead was beaded with great drops of cold sweat, but he said, "Tell them to call in the State Police-and to send a doctor."
"Darling, you're hurt badly!" cried Phyllis.
"Not me-I've taken kicks in the nuts before," he replied in something approaching his normal voice. Then, with a nod toward Gina, "For her. I think you've killed her."
"Oh, no!" Phyllis felt the world suddenly swim. "All I did was..."
"Better put something on. Company's coming."
She barely managed to retrieve the quilted blue robe Hilma had packed for her from the closet before the doorbell chimed. By this time, Tim was on his feet, if a bit rockily, and answered it. There was brief quiet conversation, then two uniformed State constables and a physician with a black bag entered the room.
Tim led Phyllis into his room next door and said, "Try not too think about it. You did it to save my life."
"After you saved mine," she said shakily. "But I didn't mean to kill her. I just wanted
. . . " She let it tail off, wondering if she were going to be sick to her stomach again. All that wonderful food! she thought and then mentally thrashed herself for being so egoistic at such a time. She had killed a woman-not that she was concerned about Gina de Brett-after all, she had never laid eyes on the woman before, and Gina's declared intentions and actions had been close to lethal. It was the sudden eruption of her own latent violence that upset her most. She sat there alone and hating herself and shaking like a leaf.
There were comings and goings in the next room and then Tim and a weathered-looking man in plain clothes came in to question her. His name, he said, was Lieutenant O'Neil and Tim crowded close behind him.
It was Tim who asked, "How did it happen, Phyl?"
She told them as best she could. When she explained how the intruder had appeared in the connecting doorway, her lover slapped the inside of his right thigh sharply and said, "Damn it! I should have come upstairs before I left and made sure my hall door was bolted. Then she never could have got in without making some noise."
When she finished, Lieutenant O'Neil sighed and said, "You were both damn lucky. I only wish..."
"Me, too," said Tim. "We've been tearing the town apart trying to get to her."
"I know." The detective nodded. "We've had a few echoes, even out here."
"Did she kill Gerry Mann?" Phyllis demanded.
"What do you think?" the detective asked.
"I-well, it was awfully dark and it happened awfully fast, but my impression of the driver was of a man."
Tim and Lieutenant O'Neil exchanged another glance. Then the detective rose and said, "Well, there's not much more we can do here now. There's no question I can see about it's being self-defense-justifiable homicide, if you will. You'll probably want to change your rooms, Mrs. Barrett. I'd appreciate notification, just in case."
"I'll take care of that," said Tim.
"Thanks, Mr. Buckley." The lieutenant got to his feet and left by the hall door. There were still sounds from Phyllis's room. She said, "Is the-is she . . .I"
"The ambulance boys are taking her out now," Tim told her. "Do you want to change rooms?"
"I don't know. We've hardly used this one," said Phyllis. "I don't think I'm up to moving just now."
"They'll want to go over it. We'd better give them a break," said Tim. "Don't worry, darlin-I'll take care of everything."
He did it, quietly, quickly, efficiently, getting them ensconced in adjoining rooms in the other wing of the Walden Pines, still overlooking the pond. The management offered to send up a bottle of brandy, an offer that was promptly accepted. Neither one of them was prepared to sleep just then.
Nor was she ready for sex with Tim. The shock of killing another human being was taking its after-toll. She wondered, sitting there in her robe, sipping brandy while Tim undressed beyond the door of the adjoining room, if she was ever going to want sex again.
He came in after a few minutes, wearing a dark blue silk dressing gown decorated with bright miniature royal flushes. He carried his heavy automatic with him, put it down on the coffee table as he joined her on the sofa. She almost hated him just then for his coolness-it seemed to her to run very close to callousness.
He read her mood, as he had so often before in their brief, intense acquaintanceship, said, "Honey, don't let it get you. You didn't mean to kill her. In fact, I wish to hell you hadn't."
"Why not?" Phyllis asked.
"Because Gina de Brett was our best-perhaps our only-lead to the man we're seeking."
"Who was she-I mean, apart from being someone who hated me?"
"Did she say why?" he asked.
Phyllis nodded, said, "I forgot that part of it until now. It sounded so silly."
"Nothing's silly in a case like this. What was it?"
"She looked me over at gunpoint and said, 'I don't see what Pres ever saw in you.' Those were her exact words. I'm not likely to forget them. Believe it or not, I felt insulted."
"You were meant to."
"But what did they mean? Pres used to talk about his women now and then. He never mentioned her-or anyone remotely like her. Who was she, Tim? Was she one of Sal Carini's disappointed heirs?"
"In a very remote way you might call her that," said Tim. "She was a relative, but none of the legitimate sisters and cousins and aunts would acknowledge her, even if they knew of her. She was born on the wrong side of the blanket, and Italian women, Sicilians especially, are very jealous of their marriage vows. To the best of our knowledge, she was a granddaughter of Old Sal-the offspring of the offspring of an early affair that was not solemnized in any church. She was sort of an outlaw in an outlaw family."
"But why should she want to kill me? She wouldn't have been in line to inherit much, if any, from what you tell me."
Tim looked thoughtful and sipped his Courvoisier. Then he said, "She may have had her hooks into another member of the Carini clan-remind me to ask Emilico Colucci when I see him again. He might know-in any event, he'll be interested in the possibility."
She knew him well enough by this time to be aware that he was diverting her interest via evasive verbal tactics. So she said, "Tim--why should she have made that remark about Pres seeing something in me she couldn't see. I'm no flaming beauty, but I'm not that bad, and Pres did see enough in me to marry me. If ever. I heard a typical jealous woman's catty remark, that was it."
"Are you sure you heard her say Pres's name?"
"Are you implying I didn't?"
"You may have wanted her to hear his name subconsciously-at least enough so that if she said something that sounded like 'Pres' you would have thought she said it."
"Like what? Name six words that sound like Pres in the context of what she said."
"I could probably come up with sixty if I really went into it," he replied, "but I'm not going to do it. Not now at any rate."
Phyllis was so angry at this deliberate provocation that she felt all but overwhelming impulse to pull his hair out by the fistful. Then her eyes met his and saw the laughter dancing in them-and suddenly she was fighting her own impulse toward mirth.
She said, "Damn you, Tim Buckley! Can't you be serious? I just killed a woman."
"You had the right-anyway, you didn't mean to. You were defending my worthless hide. Remember?"
"Oh, darling!" She melted. All at once, her impulse to pull his hair was directed toward pulling another part of his anatomy.
He was sitting, half sprawled on the sofa, and his blue silk robe with the poker-hand pattern was parted ever so slightly below the cord that held it together around the waistline. Through the gap thus created, she could see a bit of his light brown pubic hair protruding and, just below that, a pink tube of flesh that was definitely not a part of his thighs.
"I mustn't even think about sex," she told herself silently. "I just killed a woman. I mustn't even think about fucking. It's not decent."
With a smile of sensual amusement, Tim followed her gaze and looked down at himself. Phyllis told herself she wanted to tear her gaze away from his phallus, but she was unable to obey the order. Instead, her regard became more intent as, under the continued awareness of what she was looking at, Tim's penis began to show visible changes in the course of taking place.
As it grew longer, more of it disappeared down where the robe again covered him below. And then, slowly beginning to rise, it burst through the gap in the blue dressing gown like a submerged submarine emerging from a dive. At last it stood defiantly upright, pink and thick and stiff and beautiful, inviting her to bury it deep inside a body whose underside had grown notably wet within the last ten seconds.
She made one more try, reaching forward to push it back out of sight, saying, "Tim, I mean it-it's not decent." She covered it over, pushing it flat against his legs, but her action merely increased its rigidity and when she removed her touch-she had to or she'd have been torpedoed and sunk then and there-it popped right back into view again, longer and thicker and stiffer than before.
Lazily, he reached for her and she was unable to pull herself away. He paused only long enough to throw off his own robe and then hers, and then he pulled her onto his lap and, sliding well down on the cushions, poked his pink prick right up into her more than ready hole without manual assistance.
Only when he had her thus impaled did he speak in response to her remarks. He said, after kissing her quick and hard and setting her juices to flowing ever more freely, "Phyl, you say it's not decent to fuck so soon after what happened. Well, life itself is not decent. In fact, from birth to death it's largely unmentionable, even today. But the answer to death, any death, is to live, and that's exactly what you and I are doing right now."
With that, he buried his face between her breasts and, gripping a buttock tightly in either hand, put her backfield into frantic motion that sent her quickly spinning off, utterly out of control.