Chapter 1

It all happened so many years ago that it may be hard for me to remember all the facts just as they happened. But I'll try.

I was younger then. Ida was younger then. And you know, I think the world was younger then. Yes, we were younger and, as might be expected, had a stronger zest for life, for adventure, and, of course, for sex. But Ida and me, well, we still don't do bad in the sex department. Some people are just made for each other.

The town looked like something straight out of a Tennessee Williams yarn about the dusty ol' South. Even before I entered it, I hated it. I was just pulling away from the last light, going about twenty miles per hour in the right-hand lane, when some local in a beat-up old panel truck decided to come shooting backward out of his parking place without looking behind him.

There was another car on my left, so all I could do was slam on my brakes just before I plowed into him. There was a crash of metal, followed by a succession of tinkling sounds as fragments of grill-work and shards of glass rained onto the pavement. Necks craned up and down the sun-blasted street.

I locked the handbrake and got out, and shook my head with disgust as I sized up the damage. The Buick's front bumper was knocked loose at one end, and the right fender and smashed headlight were crumpled in on the wheel. But the worst of it was the gout of hot water streaming out through the wreckage of the grill.

The driver of the panel came charging out. He was about six feet, thin, dark, and hard-nosed, and the bony face he wanted to shove into mine was flavored with cheap muscatel. "Look, stupid," he said. "Maybe you think this is a race-track-"

The bad mood had been building up in me for a long time, and I was in just the frame of mind to be jockeyed around by some summer-replacement hard guy with a nose full of wine. I caught a handful of his shirt in my left and started to slap him across the mouth, but then the childishness of it caught up with me and I merely pushed him away. He sputtered some more, and at the same time somebody behind me clamped a big hand on my arm. I turned. It was a fat man with a hard and competent eye. He was dressed in khakis and a gunbelt.

"All right," he told me. "You want to start trouble around here, start it with me. I'm in the business."

"Okay, okay," I said. "There's no war."

He kept the flinty eye on my face. "You're a pretty big boy to be shoving people around."

The usual crowd was beginning to gather, and I could sense I wasn't likely to be named Miss Northern Florida of 1957. It looked as if I'd started the beef, in addition to running into him, and my California license plates probably didn't help any.

He turned to the driver of the panel. "You all right, Frankie?"

Fine, I thought sourly; they're probably cousins.

Frankie unburdened himself; the whole thing was my fault. Damned tourists, doing sixty through the middle of town. When he ran down, I had a chance to put in my nickel's worth, and that's about what it bought. I polled a few of the rubbernecks, looking for witnesses, but nobody had seen anything, or would admit it.

"All right, mister," the fat policeman told me bleakly, "let's see your driver's license."

I was getting it out of my wallet and making a mental note that if I ever came through here again I'd skip the car and walk, when a tall girl with dark hair stepped off the curb and came over.

"I saw the whole thing," she said to the officer. She told him just how it happened.

In some vague way I couldn't quite put my finger on, his reaction struck me as a little strange. He apparently knew her, but there was no word of greeting. He nodded, accepting the story, but it was a curt nod, grudging and perhaps faintly hostile. She wrote something on a card held against the back of the panel truck and handed it to me.

"If your insurance company wants me, they can reach me there," she said.

"Thanks a million," I told her. I slipped the card in my wallet. "It's very nice of you."

She went back onto the curb. Some of the bystanders watched her, and I sensed the same odd reaction I'd felt in the fat policeman. It wasn't quite hostility-or was it? I had a feeling they all knew her, but not a one had spoken to her. But she had poise.

I didn't know whether it was because of her story or because the officer finally got close enough to Frankie to pick up some of his muscatel fallout, but the picture changed somewhat in my favor. He cut Frankie down to size with a couple of parade-ground barks, and wrote up the report, but didn't issue any tickets. The damage to the panel truck wasn't extensive. We traded insurance company information, and a wrecker came after the Buick. I rode to the garage with the driver. It was back the way I'd come, near the river in the west end of the business district.

It was hot and still, around two in the afternoon of a day in midsummer. Shadows were like ink in the white sunlight, and I could feel perspiration soaking my shirt. I'd left New Orleans early that morning and had planned to go on through to St. Petersburg and have a dip in the Gulf before dinner. Well, it couldn't be helped, I thought sourly. Then I thought of the girl again, and tried to remember just what she'd looked like. The only thing I could come up with was that she was tall and quite slender. Attractive? Somewhat, but no real dish. About thirty, I thought. But there'd been something about her face, a quality that escaped me now. Well, it didn't matter.

The garage was a big place on a corner, a Chevrolet and Buick agency with a showroom in front and some gas pumps in the driveway. We towed the Buick on into the repair department, and the shop foreman looked it over. He was a thin slat of a man with a cold face.

"You want a bid, is that it?" he asked.

"No," I said. "I'll pay for it myself and let the insurance companies fight about it later."

"Day after tomorrow's the best we can do; might even take three days. We haven't got that radiator in stock, but we can get it out of Tallahassee on the bus."

"Okay," I said. I didn't look forward to spending two days or more in the place, but there was no point in griping about it. I lifted the two bags out of the trunk. "Where's a good place to stay?"

"One of the motels would be your best bet," he replied.

"Fine. Where's the nearest one?"

He wiped his hands on a piece of waste and thought about it. "Only one on this side is about three miles out. East of town, though, there's a couple of good ones, fairly close in. The Spanish Main, and the El Rancho."

"Thanks. Can I call a cab?"

He jerked his head toward the front office. "See the girl."

A big blond kid in a white coverall had come in to get something off a workbench. He turned and looked at us. "If he wants a motel, Mrs. Lang is out front now, getting some gas."

The shop foreman shook his head.

"Who's Mrs. Lang?" I asked.

"She runs the Magnolia Lodge, east of town."

"Well, what's the matter with that?"

He shrugged. "Suit yourself."

He puzzled me. "Is something wrong with it?" I asked.

"I guess not. It's run-down, and there's no pool, but where you stay is your own business, the way I look at it."

Just then the name clicked. I was almost sure it was the same one. Rather than fish it out of my wallet, however, I merely picked up the two bags, said, "Thanks," and walked out front to the driveway. I was right. She was standing beside an old Pontiac station wagon taking some money from her purse.

I walked over and put down the suitcases. "Mrs. Lang?"

She glanced around, and gave me a brief smile. "Oh, hello," she said. And all at once I realized what it was about her face that had struck me before. It was tired. Simply that. It was a slender and rather attractive face with good bone structure, but there was an almost unfathomable weariness far back in the fine gray eyes.

"I understand you run a motel," I said. She nodded. "That's right."

"If you have a vacancy, I'd like to ride out with you."

"Yes, of course. Just put your bags in back."

The boy brought her change and we took off back down the main street. I hoped if Frankie was still in town with his panel truck we'd see him in time to take the station wagon apart and hide it. I'd had all I needed of Frankie. We made it all right.

"When will your car be ready?" she asked, as we paused for a light.

"Day after tomorrow or later," I said. "By the way, I want to thank you again."

"You're quite welcome," she said. The light changed, and we went on.

I turned and looked at her. She had dark reddish-brown hair in a long bob just off her shoulders, and a rather creamy complexion, though she wore no makeup except for a touch of lipstick. The mouth was nice. Her cheekbones were high and prominent, giving an impression of faint hollows below them and adding to that overall suggestion of her being underweight and overtrained and tired. It was the face of a mature woman, and there was strength in it. Her wedding and engagement rings looked expensive, but the rest of her outfit failed to match them. The dress was a cheap hand-me-down and the sandals were old and beat-up. She had nice long legs, but wore no stockings.

On the right, just beyond the city limits, was the Spanish Main motel. It had a large pool set among colored umbrellas in front. It looked cool and blue in the white glare of the sun, and I remembered what he'd said about the Magnolia's not having one. Chump, I thought sourly. Well, I didn't like being conned. And she had been nice.

The Magnolia was about a quarter mile beyond, on the left. As she turned in off the highway, I could see what he'd meant about it; the impression was that it had never been quite completed. There were twelve or fifteen connected units in the usual quadrangle, or hollow square, with the open end facing the highway. The construction itself was solid and not too old, brick with red tile roof, but all the trim needed painting, and the grounds were bleak and inhospitable in the hot glare of afternoon. There'd been an attempt at a lawn in front, in the center of the square facing the highway, but it was brown now, and dusty, and the white gravel of the driveways was scattered and threadbare, with scrawny weeds poking up through it in places. I wondered why her husband had let it get in this condition.

The office was on the left. She stopped in front of it. There were two bags of groceries on one of the back seats. I gathered them up, and followed her inside.

The small lobby was cool, and pleasantly dim with the Venetian blinds closed against the harsh sunlight outside. There were two or three braided rugs scattered about the waxed floor of dark blue tile, and several bamboo armchairs with orange and black cushions. A TV set stood in one corner, and in front of a sofa was a long bamboo-and-glass coffee table with a number of magazines on it. On a table against the left wall was a scale model of a sloop. It was about three feet long, and had beautiful lines. Opposite the door was the registration desk, and at the closed end of that a small telephone switchboard and the rack of pigeonholes for the keys. Directly behind the desk was a curtained doorway that apparently connected with their living quarters. Beyond it, somewhere in the rear, I could hear a vacuum sweeper running.

I set the groceries on the desk. She called out, "Josie," and the sound of the vacuum sweeper cut off. A heavy-bodied colored girl in a white apron pushed through the curtains in the doorway. She had a fat, good-natured face and a big mouth overpainted with some oddball shade of lipstick that was almost purple.

Mrs. Lang placed a registration card before me, and nodded toward the bags of groceries. "Take those into the kitchen, will you, Josie?"

"Yes, ma'am." Josie gathered them up and started to turn away.

"Did the plumbers call?" Mrs. Lang asked.

I unclipped my pen and bent over the card to register, wondering-as I had for the past week-why I still gave San Francisco as my address. Well, you had to put down something, and at least that matched the license plates on the car.

"No, ma'am," Josie replied. "Phone did ring a couple of times, but I reckon it was a wrong number. When I answered they didn't say nothin'; they just hung up." She went on out.

I happened to glance up. Mrs. Lang's face was utterly still, but the creamy skin had gone a shade paler, and I had an odd impression she was having to fight for the composure she showed. She looked away.

"Is something wrong?" I asked.

"Oh," she said. She shook her head and forced a smile. "No. I'm all right. It's just the heat."

She turned the registration card around and looked at it. "San Francisco?" she said. "And how are you standing the heat, Mr. Chatham?"

"So you've been there?" I asked.

She nodded. "Once, in August. All I had was summer clothes, and I almost froze. But I loved it; I think it's a fascinating city." She reached back and took a key from one of the pigeonholes. "Take number twelve," she said.

"I'd better pay you now," I said. "How much is it?"

She started to reply, but the telephone rang. The effect on her was almost startling. She went rigid, as if she had been sluiced in the back with ice water, and just for an instant I could see the terror in her eyes. The phone was on the desk, just to the left of her. It rang again, shrilling insistently, and she slowly forced herself to reach out a hand and pick it up.

"Magnolia Lodge," she said in a small voice.

Then the color went out of her face, all of it. She swayed, and I reached out across the desk to try to catch her, thinking she was about to fall, but she merely collapsed onto a stool that was behind it. She tried to put the receiver back on the cradle, but missed. It lay on the blotter with faint sounds issuing from it while she put her face down in her hands and shuddered.

I picked it up. I knew I had no business doing it, but it was pure reflex, and I already had a suspicion as to what I'd hear. I was right.

It was an unidentifiable whisper, vicious, obscene, and taunting, and the filth it spewed up would make you sick. I thought I heard something else, too, in the background. In a minute the flow of sewage halted, and the whisper asked, "Are you hearing me all right, honey? Tell me how you like it."

I clamped a hand over the transmitter and leaned over the desk. Touching her on the arm, I said, "Answer him," and held the instrument before her.

She raised her head, but could only stare at me in horror. I shook her shoulder. "Go on," I ordered. "Say something. Anything at all."

She nodded. I removed my hand from the transmitter. "Why?" she cried but. "Why are you doing this to me?"

I nodded, and went on listening. The soft and whispered laugh was like something crawling across your bare flesh in a swamp. "Because we've got a secret, honey. We know you killed him, don't we?"

I frowned. That wasn't part of the usual pattern. The whisper continued. "We know, don't we, honey? I like that. I like to think about just the two of us-" He repeated some of the things he liked to think. He had a great imagination, with things crawling in it. Then, suddenly, there was a brief punctuation mark of some other kind of sound in the background, and the line abruptly went dead. He had hung up. But maybe not soon enough, I thought.

I replaced the receiver and looked down at the bowed head. "It's all right," I said. "They're usually harmless."

She raised her face then, but uttered no sound.

"How long has he been doing it?" I asked.

"A long-" she whispered raggedly, "long-" She collapsed.

I whirled around the end of the desk and caught her. Carrying her out, I placed her gently on the floor on one of the rugs. She was very light, far too light for a girl as tall as she was. I stood up and called out, "Josie!" and then looked back down at her, at the extreme pallor of the slender face and the darkness of the lashes against it, and wondered how long she had been running along the ragged edge of breakdown.

Josie pushed through the curtains, and looked questioningly at me.

"Have you got any whisky?" I asked.

"Whisky? No sir, we ain't got none." She had taken another step nearer the desk, and now she could see Mrs. Lang on the floor. "Oh, good Lawd in Heaven-"

"Shut up," I said. "Bring me a glass. And a damp cloth."

I hurried out front and brought in my two-suiter bag from the station wagon. There was a bottle of bourbon in it. Josie came waddling back through the curtains. I poured some of the whisky in the glass, and knelt beside Mrs. Lang to bathe her face with the wet washcloth.

"You reckon she goin' to be all right?" Josie asked anxiously.

"Of course," I said. "She's just fainted." I felt her pulse. It was steady enough.

"Ain't you goin' to give her the whisky?"

"Not till she can swallow it," I said impatiently. "You want to strangle her? Where's her husband?"

"Husband?"

"Mr. Lang," I snapped. "Go get him. Where is he?"

She shook her head. "There ain't no Mr. Lang. He's dead."

"Oh," I said.

"You reckon we ought to call the doctor?" Josie asked.

"I don't think so," I said. "Wait a minute."

Mrs. Lang stirred, and her eyes opened. I raised her with an arm about her shoulders, and held the whisky to her lips. She took a drink of it, and coughed, but kept it down. I handed the glass to Josie. "Get some water."

In a moment she was able to sit up. I helped her into one of the armchairs and gave her another drink, mixed with water. Some of the color had come back to her face.

"Thank you," she said shakily.

I waved it off impatiently. "Do you know who he is?"

"No," she said.

"You don't have any idea at all?" She shook her head helplessly. "But you reported it to the police?" She nodded. "Several times."

There was no time to lose. I went over to the phone and dialed Operator. "Give me the sheriff's office."

A man's voice answered after the second ring, and I said, "I'd like to speak to the sheriff-"

"He's not here. This is Magruder; what is it?"

"I'm calling from the Magnolia Lodge," I said. "It's about the psycho that's been calling Mrs. Lang. I think you've had a complaint on it-"

"On the what?"

"A psycho," I repeated. "A nut. He's been bothering Mrs. Lang, calling her on the phone-"

"Yeah, yeah, I know," he said. "What about him?"

"I think I can give you a lead, and if you work fast you may be able to nail him. He just hung up about two minutes ago."

"Hold it, friend. Not so fast. Who are you?"

I took a deep breath. "My name's Chatham. I'm staying at the motel, and I happened to be in the office here when the creep called this time. I listened to him-"

"Why?"

That might not be the stupidest question it would be possible for a police officer to ask, I thought, but it was close. I choked down a sarcastic reply. "Just to see if I could get a lead on where he was calling from."

"And he told you? That was nice of him."

I sighed. "No. I'm trying to tell you. I think I lucked into something that could help you-"

"Yeah. Yeah. Sure. You got his prints over the phone."

"Then you're not interested?"

"Listen, friend," he said coldly, "you think we got nothing to do but pussyfoot around looking for a drunk on a telephone jag? Tell Mrs. Lang if she don't want to listen to this goof, all she's got to do is hang up."

"She can't take much more of it," I said.

"She don't have to answer, does she?"

"A business phone?" I asked coldly.

"I can't help what kind of phone she's got. But nobody's ever been hurt over one of them, believe me."

"I never thought of that," I said. "I'll tell her and everything will be all right." I hung up, burning.

I looked into her face, and it reminded me of a girl I had once known. More than just known. It had been an intimate relationship, the kind you never quite forget. Her name was Beatrice, she was unhappily married, and now I remembered our last night together ... several years before.

She had come to my apartment and she looked like she had something on her mind. We had been sleeping together whenever we could for about six months. I didn't like it-I wanted her to leave her husband, make a clean break. I always thought that she would be happier that way. But she hung on, keeping me on the side, only this night seemed to be a showdown of some kind.

"He knows," she said as soon as I closed the door behind her. "So now what?"

"I told him I'd give you up," she said flatly. I nodded. It figured.

"OK," I said. "You gave me up. Goodbye." I opened the door and she closed it with a bang.

She walked into the bedroom without saying another word to me. I followed, still eager for her, but angry at being relegated to second place.

By the time I got into the bedroom she was taking off her raincoat. She wasn't wearing a thing underneath except her high heels, stockings, and a garter belt. Beatrice was a tall brunette who turned most men into stuttering fools as soon as they saw her.

She lay down on the bed and pawed her lovely cunt. "I can't get enough of you," she said softly. "It's going to be very hard for me."

"I don't have much sympathy," I said. "Why not leave Ken and move in with me?"

She shook her head. "I can't-and I can't tell you why, either."

I stepped out of my pants and climbed atop her on the bed. She gripped my dangling cock and worked it into a full-blown rod, hard, long and thick.

I edged forward on the bed, feeling her soft tits on my backside. I was inches from her face. She liked it like that. Beatrice raised her head and took my erection into her mouth. I worked my hips, more in anger than passion, loving the way she had to open all the way to take my hardness.

Then I scooted down and worked my angry root between her long, shapely legs.

If this was what she wanted, she had come to the right place. When the head of my cock penetrated her cunt, I saw the look of hot pleasure cross her beautiful face. She pulled back her lips in a snarl of pleasure and her large white teeth looked dangerous.

I shoved it in all the way.

She opened her eyes and stared at me and then blinked once or twice. She wasn't used to having it laid in there like that-she preferred a slower technique.

But I didn't care. I wasn't here for her pleasure anymore. There had been a time when I thought that I was, and I made every effort to please her. I thought her husband was the bad guy, but now I was getting the feeling that it wasn't that way at all, and that yours truly had been played for a stud-sucker.

I worked in anger, thrusting hard and deep, enjoying her sexual torment. Even though it hurt, I could see that she was enjoying it, getting off beautifully.

She wrapped her legs around my back as soon as I was all the way in. She urged me on with her heels, and I plunged into her with all the energy I had.

When she came it was like going over Niagara Falls in an inner tube. I didn't even know her name. Then when we cooled off, she dressed and said goodbye and I never saw her again.

Could it be happening again?