Part 4 (2/2)
”Sure you won't feel better if I hang around for a bit?”
”I'm sure. Thanks anyway.” She opened the front door for him. ”Have a good run.”
He jumped off the stoop, and raced across the lawn.
Lacey shut the door and locked it, relieved that he was gone. Had it been intentional, touching her breast? Probably. He'd been so insistent on staying. More than likely, he'd hoped she would fall into his protective arms and...
h.e.l.l, he was just being a good neighbor.
She tried to push the revolver into her waistband, but the jeans were too tight. She shoved its barrel down a front pocket. It wouldn't go in past the cylinder, so she pulled it out and carried it into the kitchen and held it while she poured herself a gla.s.s of pinot noir. She took the revolver and wine into her study and sat at her desk.
Her back felt exposed. Turning her chair, she could see the open door. That was better, though she still felt vulnerable. She placed the revolver on her lap. With a trembling hand, she lit a cigarette.
Then she sipped her wine and picked up the phone. She dialed.
On the other end, the phone rang twice.
”Tribune,” said James, the night editor.
”It's Lacey. I've got a story for you. There were two killings at Hoffman's to night.”
”Ahhh.” He sounded disgusted. ”Okay, you want to give it Tome?”
”Tribune reporter Lacey Allen last night discovered the mutilated body of Elsie Hoffman and fatally injured Red Peterson when she entered Hoffman's Market shortly before closing time.”
”You found them?”
”Afraid so.”
”Christ!”
”Before she could summon authorities, Miss Allen was herself a.s.saulted and rendered unconscious by an unseen a.s.sailant. Paragraph. Police, arriving on the scene, found that Red Peterson had succ.u.mbed to his injuries. A thorough search of the premises revealed that the killer had fled.”
For the next five minutes, she continued to tell her story to James and the Tribune's tape recorder, filling in details, never mentioning her rape or the specifics about the killings or her suspicion that the a.s.sailant had escaped in her car, finally recapping the earlier incidents at the market. ”That about does it,” she finished. ”Except for one thing. I'd like some time to recuperate. Tell Carl I won't be in tomorrow, okay?”
”Sure thing. You all right?”
”Just beat up a little. I'll be in Friday.”
”Fine. Great work, Lacey.”
”Just happened to be at the right place at the right time.”
”I detect a note of irony.”
”Only a note?”
”Take care of yourself, kid.”
”I will. Night, James.”
”See ya.”
She hung up. With the revolver and empty winegla.s.s, she returned to the kitchen for a refill. Then she went into the bathroom. She shut the door and thumbed down its lock b.u.t.ton. A feeble mea sure. Any pointed instrument turned in the keyhole, she knew, would pop open the lock. But the little precaution was better than none at all.
She set her pistol and gla.s.s on the floor beside the tub, and started the water running. When it felt hot enough, she stoppered the drain.
She turned to the medicine cabinet mirror. The face looking back at her was a bad copy of the one she was used to: slack and pallid, dark under the eyes, the eyes themselves wide and vacant. Turning her head, she fingered back the hair draping her right temple and studied the patch of swollen, red-blue skin. The ear, too, was slightly puffed and discolored.
”A shadow of her former self,” she muttered. It brought a slight smile. Part of the strangeness left her eyes.
She took off her blouse. Then she unfastened her jeans, tugged them down, and kicked them off. She tossed the blouse and jeans into the hamper.
She looked down at herself. Fingers had left redblue impressions on both her b.r.e.a.s.t.s.
Must've grabbed them and squeezed.
The teeth indentations had disappeared, but her nipples were purple. She touched one and winced.
Her body was seamed with fingernail scratches: her shoulders and upper arms, her sides, her belly, her thighs. At least he hadn't raked her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, and none of the scratches would show when she was clothed-the silver lining.
She tested the water with a foot. Hot, but not burning. She climbed in and slowly lowered herself, clenching rigid with pain as the water seared the raw lips of her v.a.g.i.n.a. The pain faded, and she let herself down the rest of the way. She gritted her teeth as the water scorched her torn thighs. But that pain soon faded, like the other. She took a deep breath. Leaning forward, she turned off the faucet.
The house was silent except for the slow plop of water drops near her feet.
Bracing herself against the shock, she splashed water onto her scratches. At first, it felt like lava running down her open flesh. Then it wasn't so bad. After a sip of wine, she lathered herself with soap and rinsed.
She picked up her winegla.s.s again, and lay back. Head propped against the rear of the tub, she sipped the wine. It felt warm and good going down. Holding the gla.s.s in one hand, she reached down with the other, down through the hot water between her open legs. Tenderly, she fingered herself.
He must've chewed her there, too.
Filthy b.a.s.t.a.r.d!
At least he didn't kill me-another silver lining?
f.u.c.k the silver linings.
Lacey blinked tears away, and reached for the bar of soap. She rubbed herself gently.
And the bathroom lights went out.
She threw herself against the side of the tub. She clawed the rug, trying to find the revolver.
Where was it?
Then she touched its cool steel. She picked it up by the barrel, found its handle, and gripped it tight.
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