Chapter 2
In less than an hour, Bill had regained his identity and was pressing the Thunderbird along the expressway back to Manhattan. He had returned to the sleeping room long enough to change clothes, scrub off his make-up and rid himself of any incriminating evidence. The woman's clothes lay at the bottom of a sewer basin and the wig that he had rented was locked in the car's trunk. He would return it tomorrow. The only immediate problem was his hands.
There were some cuts on his knuckles-souvenirs from the punk whose teeth he had knocked out-and those cuts were going to take some tall explaining. But he'd think of something. He always did.
Dressing up as a woman, getting off a few kicks, had been foolish, he supposed-nothing that he wanted to analyze for its significance. But-what the hell!-he had always wanted to pull something like that, he had, and now it was over. He wasn't going to fret about it, or less, worry about the punk who had run into his fists. Right now, he was just plain hungry.
Presently, he reached a drive-in restaurant. He maneuvered the sleek, white Thunderbird into a stall and flicked his lights. The swanky car never failed to impress teenage girls, and the dark-haired car hop was no exception. She was about 16. When she saw the car, her dark eyes burned with sudden interest. She wiggled toward him with an anxious, dreamy smile.
"What would you like, sir?"
Bill hastily appraised the cuteness of her figure and decided that there were several things that he would like. Her uniform-saucy and a real come-on-consisted of flame-colored hipsters and a monogrammed white vest that was scarcely long enough to hide her bra. From the underside of her swollen breasts to the exciting swell of her provocative hips, she was completely bare.
"What have you got?" Bill smiled. His eyes lingered on her exposed belly button.
"Just about anything you want, sir." She nibbled on the eraser of her pencil.
Bill decided to tease her. "Anything?"
"All right, youuuuuu." She joined him in the joke. Her cherry red lips were torn between a smile and a laugh. "We've got hamburgers, cheeseburgers, hot dogs, French fries...."
"I'll take one of those." His eyes rested merrily on her blossoming breasts.
"One of what?" And she knew what he meant.
He grinned impishly. He supposed that it was time for the game to end, not that she wouldn't be willing to carry it further a whole lot further. With a car like this hell, she'd probably scramble into the back seat in nothing flat.
"Bring me a hamburger, French fries and a chocolate shake."
She scribbled the order on her pad. "Be back in a jiffy."
He watched her leave. She wasn't wearing a damn thing under those hipsters, shaking her tight little rear end all she could and wanting him to know how nice it might feel.
He closed his mind to her body. Easy, or not, it was still jail bait. He had been in enough trouble for one night. There was no use tempting more.
Several minutes later, she returned with the tray and fastened it to his door. Bill paid her.
"If there's anything else you want, sir...." Her dark eyes swept the classic lines of the Thunderbird. She gave him a wink. "...just flash your lights."
He told her he would, and watched her wiggle from sight. Plenty hot and plenty nice, but also, he thought a little sadly, plenty dangerous.
Forgetting her, he dove into the hamburger. Suddenly, a jalopy full of young toughies pulled in next to him. The youths began blowing their horn and flashing their lights.
The young girl who had waited on him came to their heap. She knew them. Bill could gather that much from their conversation.
"...mmmmm, how I dig those swivel hips!"
"You creeps want something?"
"Get her! Do we want something." He laughed. "Hell, we want you, baby. You don't think we drove all the way out here just to sample your lousy garbage, do you?"
"Lis'n, guys. I don't have all night and if the boss sees me...."
"So we'll take him in the back seat, too."
They roared. They thought that was a real funny.
"Jake, I gotta go."
"Why don't you cut out? Tell that jerk boss to cool his job and jam it."
"Jake, for chrissakes!...."
"So what time d'ya get through?"
But Bill couldn't hear the rest of the conversation. Their driver started the jalopy and raced the engine. Puffs of blue smoke filled the drive-in. The girl waved to them and the car dragged out.
The rest, of it what would happen later that night was something Bill had to speculate. The youths would return, then they'd drive to some deserted back road and give her the gang-banging that her young body pleaded for.
Visualizing that possibility, he wondered if Edie had ever worked in such a place. Just as suddenly, the passing thought blossomed into a full-fledged sex fantasy. He was able to envision Edie, attired in high heeled patent leather shoes, tantalizingly tight short-shorts, strutting up to a carload of teens.
The sex drama ran away with his imagination. He saw Edie being coaxed into a car by the same toughies, going quickly to the back seat and letting them remove her clothes.
His excitement swelled.
He imagined a young boy putting his hand inside Edie's bra and thrilling to the hot swell of her pink-tipped breasts. Edie moaned.
Now another boy moved into the mental picture. He slid Edie's panties off. She surrendered completely. She wanted it. She wanted the boys.
And now they were turning her over on her bare stomach. One of the boys said that she'd been naughty. She would have to be spanked. And then. ...
Bill blinked the mental pictures out of his mind.
What the hell was the matter with him?
He was trembling.
Was he going out of his cotton-picking mind?
During the long drive from Queens back to Manhattan, Bill had tried to purge himself of the sexual daydreams which had become a greater and greater part of his conscious thinking. He couldn't understand the reason for the mental images, but they were always the same imagined scenes wherein Edie was exposed to faceless strangers, being undressed by them, and then after minutes of hot, fervent embraces, going anxiously to bed.
In the daydreams, and of late the haunting pictures had become sharper and sharper in their intensity. Bill could visualize Edie and the faceless stranger indulging in every shameful, wicked perversion imaginable. Sometimes, Bill had even been able to envision the wild tide of their intercourse, and on such occasions, the lustful daydreams swept him to the edge of climax.
It was maddening, really, and a damned good thing that no one could read his thoughts. They'd probably lock him up. And then he grinned at himself in the rear view mirror.
What the hell? It was only a daydream, wasn't it? There was no harm in that.
The trick yes, the trick was to make certain that it remained a daydream. ...
It was after ll o'clock when Bill guided the Thunderbird onto Columbus Circle and approached the last few blocks to his apartment.
The place that they rented was in the upper 60's above Central Park. Fashionable and expensive? The answer was yes. But Bill made good money, the location was convenient to his job, and since both he and Edie were undecided on a more permanent living site, the apartment suited them well.
Bill eased the car into the apartment's underground garage. He took the self-operated elevator and zoomed to the 15th floor. Edie would be fuming by this time. He could hardly blame her.
He walked reproachfully, slowly, down the carpeted hallway, framing the excuse he would offer ardent kisses weren't always the perfect answer.
He put his key in the lock and swung the door open. The apartment was in total darkness.
"Edie?...."
The whole world blew up under him. Pain blinded him. Edie screamed. Then the floor came up and smashed his face. ...
He was stretched out on the living room floor when the fog cleared and consciousness returned. His head throbbed with the sudden impact of light. Edie was bent over him with a wet wash cloth. She was crying.
"What ... what happened." It was only a mumble.
Edie fell across him and sobbed. "Thank God, you're all right. Oh, Bill...."
He managed to raise himself up to a sitting position and held her in his arms. "Edie ... Edie, what happened?"
Her body shook with sobs. "It was terrible ... he
"Who?"
"I don't know, Bill. I don't know." She shuddered. She was clad in only a slip. Her arms were like ice.
"Edie, for chrissakes! Get hold of yourself."
She cried some more and he held her and consoled her. Finally, after her long cry was over, still trembling, she began to spill it out.
"It was about 30-minutes ago ... he ... he knocked at the door. I ... I was dressing. I thought it was you. ... and then I opened the door. There was this man and he asked for you...."
"And you don't know who he was?"
"I never saw him before." She paused. Her eyes were enlarged. "Then he just burst in and ... he had this hammer ... Bill, do you know what he was going to do? He was going to...." She burst out crying and fell into his arms.
He patted her gently.
She stopped. "He said if I didn't do exactly as he said ... and then he turned out the lights and grabbed me ... and then you came and...."
He held her comfortingly. He stroked the coldness of her arms. "It's all right, honey. It's over now." He helped her to her feet, feeling slightly unsteady on his own. He felt the throbbing lump at the top of his skull. "Good thing I've got such a hard skull," he said, trying to manage some humor.
She blinked away the tears and squeezed his wrist. "I'll call the police."
Bill watched her swing for the telephone. No one could match her in high heeled shoes and sheer hose. Her legs were perfect. And then the suspicion began...
Something else was perfect, too. Too perfect.
Her hair-do.
Not a single strand of hair was out of place, and if...."Edie."
"Yes, Bill."
"Did ... did he?...."
Her cheeks were moist with tears. Her lips quivered. "No, Bill ... he didn't." She picked up the telephone and called the police.
The wait was a stony silence. Edie had put on a robe and they sat at the kitchen table solemnly sipping on cups of instant coffee.
Bill dreaded his suspicions, but did Edie believe he was a complete fool? That blow with the hammer had been no more than a light love tap just enough to knock him out. If it had truly been delivered by a maniac bent on rape, the nut would have smashed his brains in.
And Edie's hair. There'd been a struggle, she said, but it was unmussed. How did she explain that? He looked to her face for an answer. Her eyes were tense, but her expression was impassive and told him nothing.
Was it possible to be that wrong about a woman?
And then the police arrived...
Bill admitted them two officers from the Central Park district precinct. They were young and polite, taking notes as Bill and Edie offered their separate stories.
One of the men the shorter one made a cursory search of the apartment. It was routine. He found nothing.
In the meantime, Edie afforded the other officer a vague description of her alleged attacker. She sketched him as being middle-age, medium height, weighing about 150-pounds and having dark hair.
The officer shook his head. "And that fits about one-million New Yorkers. We'll keep an eye open, but about all we can tell you people is to get a chain lock installed on your door. Don't open it until you're certain who's there."
The shorter officer examined Bill's scalp. "Using a hammer, it's a wonder he didn't smash your skull open."
Bill turned to Edie. "Yes," he said icily. "It's quite a wonder."
"If anything else comes up," the officer said, "give us a call." They stepped out into the hallway. "And don't forget what I said about chain locks on doors."
Edie nodded weakly.
And then they were alone.
Very alone.
Bill lit himself a cigarette. Edie made herself another cup of instant coffee. Neither of them spoke. Bill was choked up. After two drags on his cigarette, he stubbed it out.
He walked to the window, looked out at the twinkle of lights below. How had it been, he wondered. Had they been standing in the darkness behind the door, petting and straining against each other's bodies? Had he come home before he was expected? Was knocking him out a ruse to hide her unfaithfulness?
"Edie?. "
"Yes, Bill." Her tone was faint. "It was close, wasn't it."
"What?"
He turned to face her. "The man ... I mean, in another minute he would have had your clothes off, wouldn't he?" He came slowly toward her. "He'd have had you pinned down on the floor and been on top of you and feeling your titties and...."
"Bill!"
He pulled her into the front room. He yanked her robe off. "He'd have had you down...." He pressed her to the divan. "...and then he would have been inside you...." He opened the front of his trousers. "...and then he would have been going back and forth, and back and forth...."
"Bill!" Edie screamed.
But it was too late to stop, too late for everything. He was rough and crude. He threw her slip above her waist, tore her panties down to her ankles and came at her like a brute stranger.
She screamed again. She fought him.
Bill only laughed. Then he found the opening for his confused passions and bore savagely between her hose-clad thighs.
There was no tenderness, no sighed words of love. It was a physical thing, savage revenge for an unanswerable suspicion. And in the bitter-sweet climax that followed, midst her tears and protests of pain, there were neither caresses, nor endearments.
And now it was finished.
Bill Trumball had raped his own wife.
And there was no sense of victory, nor of elation. Instead, there was only the utter loneliness of defeat.
And too that bugging, damning question: Who was this other man?