Chapter 9

THE DRIVER LEAPED OUT OF THE CAB AND RAN around it to where Alan was crouched on the walk.

The cabbie bent over him. "Take it easy, mister. You're all right. You're home now, and I'll get the cops for you. Everything's going to be fine."

Alan was too beat to argue with him about it.

The cabbie lifted him. Alan stared through wavering fog at Connice's doorway. They moved unsteadily toward it.

The door was thrown open and Connice came running out into the morning sunlight. He heard her dismayed cry when she saw his bloodied face. He swore inwardly, wishing he had not come back here. Connice had every reason to hate him, and yet she cried out in agony at the sight of his pain. He couldn't figure women.

"Here let me help you," she said to the driver.

They supported Alan to the front door. "It's all right now," she said, "I can manage him now. We'll make it all right, thank you."

"Sure," the cabbie said. "I'll notify the cops for ou, ma'am."

"The cops?" Connice said.

"Sure. Somebody really worked him over. Maybe the cops can find out who done it."

"Oh, yes," Connice said. "I see. Well, you needn't call them. You've done enough. I'll call them right away. Thank you."

"Shouldn't wait too long," the driver said. "No sense giving them thugs a chance to clear out too far."

"Oh, no," Alan heard Connice assuring the driver. "I'll call right away."

She closed the front door and Alan toppled helplessly against it.

"Oh my God," Connice said. "What happened to you?"

She didn't wait for an answer. She supported him to the couch, let him down easily upon it. He heard her going away but did not open his eyes. It was not worth the effort. Then she returned and washed off the mud and caked blood. He felt the sting of antiseptic. "You don't look much better," she said, "but maybe you'll feel better now."

He sighed, nodding.

"They almost killed you," Connice said. He nodded. "They tried to. I fooled them." He sank into a deep sleep then, but after a moment came up, fighting, to consciousness. He was afraid to sleep. He cried out, "I've got to get out of here."

"You can't. You're in no condition to go anywhere."

"They'll find me."

"What do you mean? How did this happen to you?"

Eyes closed, he spoke slowly, tiredly. "When I left here, I thought I could find whoever framed me."

"What did you find out."

"Brass knuckles hurt."

"Oh, my poor darling. Lie still, you've got to rest."

"No. That cab driver. He'll report to the cops. I know he will."

"I talked him out of it."

"No. He'll do it. I know he will. You don't know my kind of luck. I've got to get out of here."

"Rest. You're terribly hurt. You've got to rest."

"Rest won't do me any good if the cops get me."

"Trust me, Alan. I won't let them in."

"Don't be crazy. You couldn't keep them out. It would be worse if you tried."

"Where would you go?"

This sane question stopped him, because he had no logical answer for it. Where would he go? He couldn't wander around town in these spattered, bloody clothes. He had nowhere to go. He had chased down the only lead that made sense. And here he was.

"What were you trying to prove?" he heard Connice ask. She sat on the couch beside him, but her voice seemed to come from some distant place.

"Prove? No. I figured maybe somebody that I wrote about in .those unsolved crimes I was doing for TV might have decided I knew too much. I remembered the hood that came to warn me off the Ira Festish case. I went there ... I don't think they were overjoyed to see me."

"You think the man who killed Festish--? "

"Framed me for Sherarn's murder? No. Not any more. I did at first, because it seemed to me that only those people had any idea who was being written about in those unsolved crime cases. And they knew because somebody in the police told them. I explained to the guy that we never left the murder case so anybody could recognize it. In the Festish case, we changed the locale from L.A. to New Orleans. Changed all the names. In most cases we changed the murderers if they were men in real life we made them women in the scripts, and vice versa-anything to disguise the stories."

"Lie still," Connice said. "I have one more pair of your slacks, and another shirt. You better change your clothes."

He caught her hand and pulled her to him. "You lied to me about being rid of me, didn't you?"

"That's none of your business."

"I'd loss you only it would hurt too much."

She pulled away. He heard her moving around in her bedroom. And then he heard something else. A car slammed into the curb out front. He didn't have to see it to know it was a police cruiser. He said, weakly, wanting to yell it: "Connice!"

She ran into the front room carrying a fresh pair of slacks and shirt. "What's the matter?"

Her doorbell chimed, striking them numb. They stood peering at each other. The sound seemed to reverberate forever.

Connice recovered first. She motioned him to silence, dp-toed to the window. She glanced through the tilted Venetian blinds and almost fell away from it.

She nodded, her face gray. It was the police.

Moving stealthily, Connice crossed the room. Carrying his fresh clothing, she caught his hand, motioning him through the kitchen.

Holding his breath, Alan followed. The bell rang again, the sound pursuing them. Connice caught up her handbag, going out of the rear of her apartment.

The sun lanced at Alan's battered face as they crossed to the lined parking area where Connice's Fiat roasted in the heat.

He toppled in beside her and she already had the engine started. She pulled out and turned in the alley, going toward downtown L.A.

Alan put his head back and closed his eyes. The wind burned his raw face. But it did not matter. He didn't believe they would get very far, but that didn't matter, either.

He was too tired to care.

Connice drove at the speed limit and whipped the small car around the larger ones, driving as if she knew where she was going.

The hotel near Fairfax had been built when southern California was dominated by the Spanish and Monterey influences. It was scabbed, the stucco peeling off its facade.

Connice pulled into its parking lot.

"Where are we?" Alan sat up.

"A hotel."

"They won't take us in, me looking like this."

"You go in the lobby rest room, change clothes, and put on these dark glasses. I'll register and get us a room."

Alan caught her arm. "You don't have to get mixed up in this, Connice, any deeper than you are."

"I know I don't. But unfortunately, I've been mixed up in everything that concerns you since the first time I saw you. It's not because I want to. It's like salmon going upstream. I can't help it."

He winced. He wanted to refuse to go with her any farther. She could let him out, get out of here. This was what she ought to do, but he was too sick. He had the thought of being alone in this nightmare.

"Come on," she said. "I'd only worry about you anyway. I might as well be with you."

He changed clothes in the hotel rest room, placed dark glasses over his eyes. He stared at his reflection in the mirror, and grimaced. He looked like six pounds of hamburger wearing dark glasses.

Connice awaited him just outside the rest room door. She swung a room key in her hand. He carried his soiled clothes wrapped in a bundle under his arm.

She laughed. "At least they can't say we don't have luggage."

He followed her up the dark stairs to the second floor. It smelled musty, old. She unlocked a door. "Come into my parlor, my pretty fly," she said.

Connice locked the door and set the lock. Alan glanced at it, thinking it would not restrain a growing child. The cops would follow them, rap on the door, and the door would cave in under the gentle tapping. He didn't say anything. It no longer mattered.

Connice put her arm around him and led him to the bed. He sat down on it, springs protesting.

"I never said it was Century City," she said.

"It's fine." He yawned, and yawning was agony.

Connice pushed him back, lifted his legs. "Go to sleep. Rest," she said. "No matter how long you've got, the rest will help you."

She loosened his sandals. He felt her massaging his feet. He said, "That's the only place they forgot to hit me."

"Rest," was all Connice said.

There was a lulling quiet in the room. Distant sounds of cars on the street, the lazy sounds of mid-morning only intensified the silence in here.

Connice stood up and Alan's eyes flew open.

She stared down at him. "What's the matter."

He spoke in panic. "Don't go away."

"Don't be crazy," she said. "Of course I won't."

He moved over on the bed. "Lie down with me."

"You've got to rest," she protested.

Alan laughed helplessly. "That's all I can do now.

But I'll do that better if you're close to me. It's the only way I can rest with you close to me."

Her voice caught slightly. "Why that's the nicest thing you ever said to me." Her tone lightened. "Come to think of it, it's the first nice thing you ever said to me."

He lifted his arms, holding them out to her. She hesitated a moment and then she came into his arms, lying close against him on the bed. He embraced her, feeling the sweetness of her firm breasts. She smelled good. It felt good to have her close. He yawned. He put his hand on her mound, moving his fingers, but fatigue struck him. He sagged into the mattress. He wanted to feel her thighs, her breasts, her loveliness, but he could not, and he was asleep.

It was dark when he woke up.

Connice was not beside him. He opened his eyes, and cried out, "Connice!"

"I'm here, darling. Right here." She was sitting in a rocking chair at the window, staring out into the street, watching the darkness settle over the valley.

She stood up and he saw that she was naked. The sight of her in the gray room went through him like an electric charge. He snapped on the light beside the bed. She protested. "Do you need the light?"

"You know I do," he said.

She stood beside the chair, letting him look at her nudity. He swung off the bed and stood up awkwardly and she came to him and pressed close and undressed him, one piece of clothing at a time. It didn't take long the shirt, the slacks, and then they pushed their bodies together, heated and naked.

He closed his arms around her. His hands tightened on the globes of her buttocks, squeezing. They both were breathing hard now.

"I've been watching you sleep," she whispered. "I got so hot I couldn't stand it. I wanted you so."

He didn't say anything.

"Come back to the bed," she said.

She danced him to the bed and they sank down upon it. The bed was heated with the warmth from his body. She shivered, pressing closer. She had not lied. She had been waiting for him, naked and urgent with lust. She kissed his mouth and one of her hands went down, holding him. He touched her quivering breast with the nipple so rigid it seemed it would break at his touch. It didn't. His fingers closed in the darkness at her thighs and he found she was on fire, hot with her need for him.

She lay pressed in beside him and she ran her hands over his body. He forgot the agony of the beating he'd absorbed. Her touch was light, and yet electric at the same time.

He watched her stroking him. He was standing, vibrantly ready for her. He moved his fingers faster, loving her, and she gasped aloud, wriggling her hips because she was crazy for him.

She pushed her legs wide apart, lifting them, without speaking, holding her body ready for him.

He came up, kneeling over her for a moment.

In a whisper, she gasped, "Oh, darling, please hurry."

He didn't speak. She caught him and when he was between her widespread legs, she guided him to her. He thrust and she gasped, pushing her head back and closing her eyes in ecstasy.

He came down hard upon her. She didn't speak. She kissed him and her hands caught his buttocks, thrusting him violently to her.

Then, holding him like that, she began to work her hips while he surrendered himself to the sweet, hot pleasure of her embrace. She was gasping for breath. She was driven wild and she was thinking of nothing but pleasing him.

Harder.

Faster. She drove herself insanely now because she had mounted to the passionate heights and she wanted to carry him with her. It had to be mutual, precise, together, it had to be perfect. She was gasping, fighting and working and thrusting to make it perfect for both of them. And she did.

The climax came, suddenly and frenziedly. He attained his goal at the exact moment she reached the apex of delight herself, both of them shaken with the furious violence of fulfillment. They trembled there for an instant in eternity, and then plunged downward into darkness. The agony of fatigue was sweet in him and he felt the heated pressure of her breasts, the dampness of her body locked upon his, and they sagged together in the unutterable sweetness of complete satisfaction.

They stayed like that, locked in each other's arms. Alan yawned, feeling the exhaustion sweep up through him, overwhelming him again. It was as if he had not rested at all. He thought with helpless laughter that he'd experienced more sexual bouts in these days since his trouble started than he had known for weeks at a time in his normal living. There had been times when he had been lonely, tense with need. Now he stayed tired all the time, and there always seemed another body waiting to be sated.

He sighed, maybe because troubled times heightened all fears, all pleasures, all delights. And he was thinking this as he drifted off again into warm sleep.

When he awoke again, the light beside the bed still burned, but Connice was sprawled close beside him, breathing through parted lips, fast asleep.

He got up quietly so as not to disturb her. The springs squealed and she shifted, whimpering in her sleep. He stood a moment, naked, grinning down at her helpless nakedness.

He went into the bathroom, then returned. She was awake, lying on her back, her lovely breasts pointing at him, the light glittering in the perspiration on her body.

She got up. He said, "Where are you going?"

"Take a shower."

"I'll bathe you."

"Don't be crazy. You don't need to."

"I want to."

They got into the tub together. He turned on the water, found a bar of soap and stroked her body with it, taking his time. She purred, sagging against him, almost overcome with the comfort and pleasure of being caressed and fondled in the warmth.

He dried her with a heavy towel, swung her up in his arms and carried her in to the bed.

But he was troubled, and she saw this. He tried to concentrate upon the perfection of her breasts, the soft dark triangle at her thighs.

She stroked his face. "Why don't you turn on the TV?" she suggested. "There might be some news you want to hear."

He nodded, snapping it on. He returned to her, but sat tense, watching the gray tube flicker, brighten, and come to life.

There was a brief wait before the late-night news. Connice lay with her head on his shoulder. She stroked him with her fingers. It felt good, but he could not respond. She did not mind. She loved what she was doing to him, and it pleased her to be able to fondle him as much as she liked.

The newscaster mentioned the Sheram murder almost at once. After stating that the TV writer suspected of killing the aging man over a quarrel about a dog remained at large, the newsman said, "A new development which may point away from Alan Taylor was announced by the sheriff's office today. Miss Tess Simpson, a neighbor of the suspected Taylor, a woman who gave damaging evidence against Mr. Taylor at the coroner's inquest, has changed her story substantially "

Alan leaned forward, forgetting Connice, forgetting her fingers stroking him. He gazed, transfixed at the picture tube.

" Miss Simpson stated at the inquest that she had seen Mr. Taylor's lights on early the morning of the day Mr. Sherma was slain. Now she says that she did not see Mr. Taylor, but instead saw a man, much thinner and smaller than Mr. Taylor, on that fateful morning. According to Miss Simpson, she saw this small man leave Taylor's house through the garage. Unable to sleep, attracted by the light, Miss Simpson said she stood in the dark on her porch, saw this smaller man run out of the rear door of the Sheram house across the alley. She said the small man was not near enough for her to recognize, but she is now certain that it was not Mr. Taylor, who is taller, much bigger than the man she saw in the alley the night Sheram was slain."

The newscast went on, but Alan no longer heard it. His heart banged crazily.

He turned staring at Connice. "She's changed her story," he whispered. "The old Lez has changed her story!"

Connice caught him in her arms. "Oh, Alan, I'm so glad for you."

"I've got to get out there--. "

"What?"

"I've got to. I've got to talk to her. Maybe she could tell me enough what he looked like so that I'd know him. It's somebody who hated me. He came from my house, carrying my gun, wearing my shoes! He returned the shoes, and buried the gun in that vacant lot. I've got to talk to Simpson."

"You can't. Let the police handle it, Alan."

"But they don't know the people who might want to harm me. If I could talk to Simpson-"

"It might be a police trick to get you to do some foolish thing like this. They might be trying to get you back out there."

Alan was already reaching for his clothes. "That's a chance I've got to take."

Connice caught his arm. "Suppose it is a trick, and the police capture you. You'd never get free again."

He buckled his trousers, slipped on the shirt. He sat down then and pulled on the sandals.

He looked at her. "I don't believe it's a trick, Connice. It makes too much sense. Somebody did take my gun, and my old shoes. They would have come out of my garage, and they had to come back. What they didn't know was that the nosy old woman next door was standing in the dark, watching."

"She says she doesn't recognize the person."

"But she might be able to tell me something that will make it possible for me to recognize him. Don't you see, I've got to? It's my life, Connice."

She stood up unwillingly. "It's my life, too," she said. "I'll drive you out there."

"No. Stay out of it, Connice. It might be a police trick."

"That's a chance I'll have to take. You can't run around looking like this. Those dark glasses don't cover that much of your face."

After a moment, he nodded. "You can drive me out to Island Groves. You let me out and then drive back home. If I need you I'll call you."

"The story of my life," Connice said.

He stood and watched Connice dress, the panties that concealed from him the urgent loveliness of her thighs, the bra inhibiting those breasts, the dress covering all of it. She slipped her feet into her shoes and ran her fingers through her hair.

He touched her face gently. He said, "This will all end someday, Connice. If it does, I swear I'll make it up to you somehow."

"Well, let's go," she said. "Those kind words are enough to keep me going for a week."