After Midnight (30 page)
“Not really.”
“You don’t think so?”
“No. This is just to look good in case Murphy gets the cops on me.”
“He won’t do that.”
“You never know,” I said. “Guys’ll stab you in the back.”
“Not this one. He loves you.”
“He
loves
me? Do you think so?”
“Sure. He’s head over heels.”
“I don’t know.”
“Trust me,” Judy said.
“I sure hope you’re right.” I hoped so badly that she might be right. It made me feel excited and sad and warm to think that Murphy might actually love me.
It made me feel a little like crying.
“I
know
he loves you,” Judy assured me. “But that doesn’t mean he’ll come back and untie you.”
“Oh, he will.”
“Maybe he will and maybe he won’t. Do you want me to cut you loose, just in case?”
It didn’t seem necessary. After all, I was sure that Murphy would soon be back. But I liked having Judy in the room with me, and wanted her to come closer.
So I said, “Yeah, maybe you’d better.”
Smiling, she strolled over to the bed. She climbed onto the mattress, swung a leg over me, and sat on my belly. Then she leaned forward. Her left breast looming over my face, she started to saw at the rope around my right wrist. Her breast shook with the quick movements of her arm.
Then it stopped.
She’d quit trying to cut through the rope.
I pulled, but my arm was still tied down.
“Why are you stopping?” I asked.
“I changed my mind. I don’t think I’ll cut you loose, after all.”
“Why not?”
“Just remembered something.”
“What?” I asked, with a bad feeling starting to chill my stomach.
“
You
didn’t cut
me
down.”
“I know, but…”
“Why should I cut you down, when you left me hanging in the woods?”
“I had to,” I said.
“And I had to chew my hand off, or I’d still
be
there. You know what? It hurt.”
“I’m sorry.”
“You oughta be.”
“I am.”
“Prove it,” Judy said.
“How?”
“Kiss me.”
Her breast hovered low over my face, swaying slightly, looking golden in the soft sunlight coming in through the curtains. Her nipple was just above my mouth.
Opening my mouth, I raised my head off the pillow.
I flicked her nipple with my tongue.
“Not there,” she said, and thrust the gory stump of her wrist into my mouth.
“
Eat it
!” she yelled.
Shocked awake, I cried out—into my dish rag—and tried to sit up.
The ropes held me down.
I struggled to fill my lungs, but couldn’t get enough air. Not with the gag in my mouth. Murphy had left some slack in it, though. Rubbing my cheek against my shoulder and shoving at the rag with my tongue, I quickly got my mouth clear and took deep, quick breaths.
As I calmed down, I started thinking.
First, I’d caught a mouthful of water in the bathtub.
Now this.
Both times, I’d fallen asleep dreaming of Judy, then gotten startled awake, only to find myself suffocating.
Maybe she’s trying to tell me something
.
What am I supposed to do, go back and cut her down before she has to gnaw her hand off?
Maybe she’s already done it!
Hell, she couldn’t chew her hand off even if she wanted to. It was too high above her head.
I realized that I wouldn’t be able to chew mine off, either.
What if we’re both stuck?
Don’t worry about it, I told myself. For one thing, I can probably get free if I really have to. For another, I won’t have to. Murphy should be getting back pretty soon.
How soon?
I had no idea how long he’d been gone. I’d fallen asleep almost right away, but how long had I been under? It didn’t
seem
like very long. Ten or twenty minutes?
He’ll be back any time now, I told myself.
How do you know?
Where’s his bank?
He hadn’t told me, but it had to be somewhere in town, probably no more than a ten-minute drive from here.
Ten minutes each way. That makes a total of twenty. And there might be a line inside the bank. So give him another ten minutes for the line.
That adds up to half an hour.
But maybe the line is really long.
Or they give him trouble about making such a large withdrawal.
Or he decides to take care of another errand or two before coming back.
Or his car breaks down.
Or he has an accident.
Or the bank gets robbed while he’s there.
And the bank robbers take him hostage.
Or shoot him.
Or he drops dead of a heart attack.
Or an aneurism.
HE’S NOT DEAD, DAMN IT! HE CAN’T BE! HE LOVES ME!
Calm down, I told myself. For one thing, he’s
not
dead. For another, he doesn’t
love
me. That was Judy saying that. In a dream. Has nothing to do with reality.
Like I said before, dreams stink. They’re no good for anything. They only exist to torture you any way they can.
He doesn’t love me, I told myself.
But he
will
be back.
The bank
didn’t
get robbed while he was there. That’s nonsense. Paranoia.
He’ll be back any minute.
Sure he will.
But maybe with cops in tow.
Maybe he’s been lying to me from the start and right now he’s telling the cops all about me.
No, he wouldn’t dare.
No matter what story he might tell the cops, he’d be in a world of trouble the moment they found me tied to the bed. A naked woman, roped down, with numerous minor injuries and his semen inside.
Before you know it, they’ll be thinking
he
killed Tony and abducted Judy and me.
For a while, I tried to come up with a good story to explain how it all worked. Maybe the four of us went to the park together on a double-date. I was Tony’s date and Judy was Murphy’s date. But then Murphy decided he wanted
both of us
, so he killed Tony, chopped him up and put him in the trunk…
How does Milo the Killer Slob fit in?
Maybe Judy escaped from Murphy, only to be grabbed by Milo—a thrill-killer lurking around in the woods in search of victims. He jumps her and takes her to his camp…
Awfully far-fetched.
Keep it nice and simple.
I could just say Judy ran off into the woods and I don’t know what happened to her after that.
But what about Tony’s car? I’d have to explain how it ended up back at Judy’s apartment building—with his body in it.
That’d be a good trick.
It’s probably not the only problem, either.
What about the tape from Tony’s answering machine? If the cops showed up and cut me free, they would be sure to find it under the pillow.
Murphy put it there.
Simple.
But how could I possibly come up with a sensible story that explained everything?
Claim amnesia.
Good idea.
Tell the cops I don’t know how
anything
happened. Last I remember, I was walking back to my garage after watching the television in Serena and Charlie’s den.
That should work.
At least until Judy spills the beans.
If she talks, I’m screwed.
I should’ve killed her when I had the chance.
Maybe it’s not too late.
I suddenly had an urge to get free, run out to Judy’s car and speed over to Miller’s Woods, find the camp and finish her off.
Do it now. Get out of here before Murphy comes back.
But the ropes held me down.
I strained at them with my arms and legs. They were nothing but pieces of old clothesline, and seemed to stretch as I pulled. They also tightened around my wrists and ankles. I kept pulling, anyway. For all I knew, Murphy might’ve done a lousy job tying the other ends around the legs of the bed. Maybe something would give, down there. Or maybe I could break the ropes by sheer strength.
They held, but I didn’t give up.
I pulled, jerked, kicked, squirmed and bucked. Soon, I was out of breath and pouring sweat.
I quit struggling, and rested.
The ropes had tightened so much that they’d cut off my circulation. My hands and feet were numb. The pillow case and sheet underneath me felt soaked.
Gasping for air, I blinked sweat out of my eyes.
And thought, Maybe I
can’t
get loose.
I can! I will!
Just give me a minute to catch my breath.
While I was waiting to make my next try, someone rang the doorbell.
At any time of the day or night, I hate the sound of a doorbell. It almost always means someone has shown up uninvited.
An intruder is barging into your life.
Invading.
No matter what, it’s annoying and a little scary.
But just try having the doorbell ring when you’re naked in the bedroom of a guy you hardly know, you’re tied down, and your legs are spread apart about as far as they’ll go.
When I heard that doorbell, I felt as if someone had shot a hose full of ice water up my bowels.
I froze.
The bell rang again.
Nobody’s home! Go away!
What if it’s the cops?
So what if it is? I told myself. Cops can’t come into a place without being invited. Not unless they have a search warrant.
They can’t possibly have a search warrant.
Can they?
The bell rang again.
GO AWAY!
Calm down, I told myself. Whoever it is, they can’t get in. Sooner or later, they’ll give up and go away.
Again, the bell rang.
Persistent…
What if it’s burglars?
They do that. They pick a place that looks deserted. But before they break in, they ring the doorbell to make sure nobody is home. If someone comes to the door, they have a little story to tell. “Is Doug there? No? Oh, I must have the wrong address.” But if nobody answers the doorbell, they figure the place is empty and safe to rob.
In they come…
And find me like this.
Should I call out?
And say what?
I’m here, but I can’t come to the door right now!
Like I’m on the john, or something.
Could you come back in a few minutes?
No, I thought. Don’t do it. Keep your mouth shut.
The little town of Chester has its share of crime. I mean, what place doesn’t? But the odds had to be slim that the doorbell was being rung by a burglar.
Especially
when you consider that, since just after last midnight, I’d run into a weirdo flasher
and
a serial killer. On top of all that, a
burglar
? Not likely.
Not impossible, either. But…
Someone used a key on the front door. I heard its quiet ratchety sound as it slid into a lock, heard the latch click back, heard the knob rattle, heard a sigh of hinges as the door swung open.
Shit! Now what?
A man’s voice called out, “Murphy? Yo, Murph? You home? Helllllo? It’s only me from across the sea!” He waited a few seconds, then said, “Yo ho ho, guess you’re not home.”
I heard the door shut, but I didn’t know whether he was inside or out.
Until I heard his footsteps on the carpet.
Great! I’m gonna get found!
Some creep I don’t even know is gonna see me like this.
He must be Murphy’s best friend or brother or something. You don’t give a spare key to just anyone.
This guy is about to have the surprise of his life.
I heard the television come on. It sounded like CNN’s Headline News.
That’s right, I thought. Sit down in the living room and watch some TV news. Just stay put. Don’t move. Murphy’ll be home pretty soon. He’ll figure a way to steer you out of the place, and you’ll never be the wiser.
From the TV came a nifty British voice talking about tribal massacres in some African country. Zaire or Rwanda or some damn place.
Suddenly, during a pause in the broadcast, I heard footsteps again. These were quiet, as if the intruder had taken off his shoes.
What’s he doing?
Going into the kitchen for a beer?
The only route to the kitchen—or just about anywhere else in the apartment—would take him past the open bedroom door.
Maybe he won’t look in.
Fat chance.
I shut my eyes and went limp.
The footsteps suddenly stopped. The intruder said, “Whoa!”
I kept my eyes shut and tried to keep my breathing shallow and slow.
Let him think I’m out cold or dead or something. I sure didn’t want to strike up a conversation with the guy.
“What the hell’s going on here?” he muttered, and came walking slowly into the room. “Lady?” he asked.
I didn’t stir.
He said, “My God, what’s Murphy
done?
”
He sounded as if he were standing at the foot of the bed. I tried not to think about the view he had. But I could feel myself blushing.
I was blushing, sweating, and my heart was pounding fast. Couldn’t he see any of that?
Not where he’s probably looking.
“Wow,” he said. “Oh, Murphy, Murphy. How’d you land a babe like this?”
Down between my legs, the mattress sank in.
The mattress shook, making me wobble.
What’s he doing?
A hand patted me on the thigh. Very high up on my thigh.
“Hello?” he asked. “Young lady? Can you hear me?”
