Sintown Chronicles II: Through Bedroom Windows (80 page)

“Shelly, this afternoon in the shower, did you, uh..."

“Yes. Oh, yes!"

He gently squeezed her arm. “It's hard to tell. You're such a good actress."

“I wasn't acting."

“Am I ... am I beginning to learn?"

“I don't know. Maybe. I think I am the one who is beginning to learn."

“I want you to teach me, Shelly. There's something about men that most women don't know."

“Oh?"

“For a real man, intense pleasure comes only when his partner is satisfied."

“Don't make a damn sound or I'll kill you both!” a gruff voice barked from behind.

“Oh, God,” Shelly shrieked.

“Shut up, bitch. I mean it. Now, both of you, turn around slowly."

Shelly glanced at Sam's eyes as they obeyed. The gunman wore dark cloths and a ski mask. He was Boyd's height and had Boyd's body build. His head tilted to the right, just like Boyd. The voice was familiar.

“Give me your money, Romeo."

“Take it easy, man,” Sam said as he pulled the worn wallet from his back pocket and offered it to the bandit. “Don't do anything foolish. We've ... we have a little girl back in the hotel. Just take the money and let us go."

The gunman glanced inside the wallet. “Shit! Where's the rest of it?"

“That's all there is,” Sam pleaded. “There's about fifty bucks in there and my credit card."

“Credit card's useless. Give me the watch and wedding ring."

Sam complied.

“Now you, you big titted bitch. Let's have your rings."

Why are you doing this, Boyd? We agreed to call the whole thing off. She twisted the rings from her finger and dropped them into his outstretched hand.

“Damn diamond's not worth more than a hundred,” the gunman grumbled. “Are those things real?” he asked while pressing the black pistol into her right breast.

“Leave her alone, damn it,” Sam demanded.

He waved the gun at Sam. “Lay down on your belly, bastard. I'm not fucking around, man. Do what I tell you!"

Sam went to all fours and then stretched out, keeping his eyes on the masked man.

The gunman turned back to Shelly. “Surely there is something you have to offer that will make this night worthwhile. Put your hands on top of your head."

Shelly raised her hands and grimaced as the bandit groped her left breast.

“Feels real,” he said, “but I want a better look. Get your clothes off."

“No!” Sam shouted.

The gunman kicked Sam's head, squatted and placed the barrel of the weapon against Sam's temple. “One more sound out of you, bastard, and I'll fucking shoot both of you.” He looked up a Shelly. “That's it, Slut. Take it all off. Damn. Look at the size of those boobs. Get the damn panties off too.” He grabbed Sam's hair and pushed his face into the sand. “You like fucking that shaved pussy, man?"

He stood and leered at Shelly. “Show me your ass,” he demanded.

She turned, tears trickling down her cheeks. Don't do it, Boyd, she silently pleaded.

“Bend over."

She obeyed and felt his gloved hand on her backside, squeezing, groping, prodding.

“On your back, bitch, and spread those legs nice and wide."

Sam watched as the gunman switched the weapon to his left hand and grappled with his belt. As the masked man pushed his pants and shorts to mid thigh, Sam slipped his hands under his chest.

The gunman dropped to his knees between Shelly's legs. “Now, Slut, you're going to find out what it feels like to be fucked by a real man.” He leaned forward.

Sam sprang like a wild man, knocking the bandit on his back. The gun went off. The masked man struggled to his feet and pulled up his pants. “Stupid idiot!” he shouted. He took direct aim, fired again, and fled back towards the hotel.

Shelly crawled to Sam's side. He was not moving and blood covered his face. “Boyd, you bastard!” she screamed. “I'll get you for this if it's the last thing I ever do!"

Shelly's mind did not seem to be in control of her body. She knew she was screaming incoherently, trying to tell Sam how sorry she was. As if she were observing an unfolding nightmare, she saw herself frantically putting on her clothes. She raced through the Sea Oats, planted to prevent dune erosion and, as she emerged in someone's backyard, Sand Spurs punctured her bare feet. She continued running towards light.

She reached the street and stood, dancing at the curb, waving her arms frantically at the approaching headlights.

Blue lights flashed and a siren burped as the patrol car eased to a stop. On bleeding feet, she hopped to the driver's side window.

“Calm down lady and tell me what happened,” the uniformed officer said.

“My husband—dead—on the beach,” she screamed.

He reached for his microphone. “This is 613. I'm out of the vehicle investigating a citizen complaint between 81
^st
and 82
^nd
North Avenue."

The radio crackled and a steady female voice said, “10-4 at twelve thirty-six."

As Shelly pulled marble-sized spiny balls from her feet the officer emerged from the car and inserted a nightstick in his massive belt. “Miss,” he said, “try to calm down and tell me what happened."

Shelly tested her feet on the pavement. “We were walking on the beach.” Be careful what you say, Shelly, she warned herself. “A masked man robbed us. He tried to rape me. Sam fought with him and was shot—twice."

“Show me where this happened, ma'am,” the young man said, trying to conceal his mounting concern.

The return trip was less painful, thanks to the officer's flashlight.

“Holy cow!” the young man muttered when the beam of his light revealed Sam's bloody face. He flashed the light north, then south, knelt beside the motionless man, and pressed two fingers to Sam's neck.

“This is 613,” he said into the microphone of the portable radio clipped to his shirt. “I need an ambulance and backup on the beach between 81
^st
and 82
^nd
North Avenue. A citizen has been seriously wounded."

“10-4 at twelve forty."

He looked at the now silent woman. “He's alive, ma'am, but there is obviously considerable loss of blood. Help is on the way.” He again flashed his light up and down the beach. “Which way did he go?"

Shelly pointed south.

Sirens wailed and Shelly was surprised to see an ambulance approaching on the beach itself. Other officers seemed to materialize out of thin air and, as they walked up and down the beach, their flashlights moving in eerie arcs, Shelly watched the medics load Sam's quiescent body into the boxy white vehicle.

Someone was asking her questions and she tore her eyes away from the illuminated interior of the ambulance where something was being attached to Sam's arm. “I'm sorry?” she said, looking into a stranger's bleary eyes.

“I'm Detective Mark Gilder. This,” he said nodding to his left, “is Detective Lacy Spencer."

Shelly nodded towards the young woman who looked as if she just came from a shower without taking time to dry off. Be careful, Shelly, she again admonished herself.

“Your name?"

“Shelly Pond."

“The victim's name?"

Victim—that's what he is. We both are, she thought. “My husband, Sam—Samson Pond."

“I know you are under terrible stress, Mrs. Pond. We'll take your statement later at the hospital. I'll have a patrolman drive you, or you may ride in the ambulance with your husband."

“My daughter,” she blurted out. “My daughter is with a babysitter in our hotel room."

“I'll take care of it, Mrs. Pond,” Lacy said, placing a reassuring hand on Shelly's arm. “Just give me the name of the hotel and room number."

As Shelly supplied the information, she saw officers driving stakes in the sand and stretching out yellow tape. She climbed into the ambulance, sat opposite the stretcher and reached for Sam's hand. The tears returned.

“I don't know, damn it,” Shelly shouted at the woman behind the computer screen. “We were robbed. Sam's wallet is gone and my copy of his insurance information is in the hotel room. We just went for a little walk on the beach. I didn't take my purse with me."

“I must have the information,” the woman said.

Shelly slammed her hand on the desk. “Are you telling me that you'll let Sam bleed to death unless I can give you the insurance information?"

“I'm just doing my job, Mrs. Pond. Your husband is being treated as we speak. Is there someone at the hotel who can provide us with this information?"

“I ... I don't want to wake Annie with a telephone call. Oh, God,” she whimpered, “how am I going to tell Annie?"

“Mrs. Pond,” the woman said, adjusting her glasses, “can you at least give me the name of the insurance company?"

“Look, lady. My husband is in there dying. I can't think straight. I ... I have a hundred thousand dollars in certificates of deposit. It's for my daughter's college education, but I'll use it to pay Sam's medical bills if necessary."

The woman scribbled a telephone number on a scrap of paper and pushed it towards Shelly. “I'll put down that you are self-insured. Call this number at your earliest opportunity to correct the record."

Shelly took the paper and absentmindedly stuffed it inside her brassiere.

The printer beside the computer groaned and the woman patiently waited until it released the form. “I need to you sign here and here."

Without reading it, Shelly signed the document and pushed it back across the desk.

“Who is Delilah Delight?"

“Shit,” Shelly said as she reached for the paper. “That's my stage name.” She corrected her signature, stood and glanced around the sparsely furnished, brightly lighted waiting room.

With a hint of kindness creeping into her voice, the woman said, “Someone will advise you of your husband's condition shortly."

Shelly glanced at the handful of people, each lost in his or her own tragedy, and selected a seat that provided a clear view of the emergency room doors. Live, damn it, Sam. I ... I love you, she pleaded.

Her mind reeled as she recalled the attack. Terror turned to fear as she realized she actually helped plan this horror. I'll make it up to you, Sam. Hang on, Baby. I'll make it up to you somehow.

“Maybe this will help."

Shelly jerked her head to the right.

A black female orderly stood beside her, holding a blanket. “They keep it too cold in here in the summer and too hot in the winter,” the smiling woman said as she unfolded a brown cotton blanket.

Shelly realized she was shivering and accepted the blanket gratefully.

“How do you like your coffee?” the orderly asked.

“I'm sorry. I don't have any money with me."

The orderly flashed a toothy smile. “Did I ask you for money?” She dropped her voice and glanced around conspiratorially. “I'm gonna steal it from the nurse's lounge."

Shelly smiled in spite of herself. “Black."

The woman nodded. “Like they say, black is beautiful."

Before Shelly finished the coffee, a man clad in green approached. “You Mrs. Pond?"

Shelly nodded.

He sat beside her. He seemed exhausted. “Mr. Pond is still in a coma. He has a bullet wound that barely missed his heart. It is the other wound that is more serious—the one to the left of his forehead. The bullet we removed is 9mm. Some people refer to these guns as peashooters, but I assure you, they can be very dangerous. X-rays reveal that the skull absorbed much of the impact, but the bullet is lodged inside the brain. We believe it can be safely removed and Mr. Pond is now in surgery."

“Is he ... is he going to be okay?"

The doctor sighed. “I wish I could say yes and certainly there is a possibility of full recovery. There is also the possibility of death. If he does come out of the coma, he may remain totally paralyzed or he could recover some degree of mobility. It's just too early to tell. I wish the news were better."

“You say he's in surgery?"

The doctor nodded.

“Don't I have to sign some kind of release form?"

He smiled faintly. “You already did—when you signed him into the hospital.” He reached for her hand. “I'll have someone show you to the surgical waiting room."

“Thank you, doctor,” she said as he stood.

“Mrs. Pond, the police department wants us to give you a pelvic exam."

“What?"

“It's routine with rape victims. It will take only a few minutes."

“But I wasn't raped."

He shrugged his shoulders. “Those are my instructions, ma'am."

“You don't understand. The gunman intended to rape me, but my husband...” The sob caught in her throat. “...my husband fought with him. That's when the gun went off."

The doctor's tired eyes tried to comfort Shelly. “You've been through a terrible experience. Sometimes, in cases like this, the mind refuses to remember all the details."

He held out his hand to her and she grasped it.

He looked at her carefully. “Are you a religious woman, Mrs. Pond."

The question surprised her and she shook her head. “I'm afraid not."

“I'm praying for your husband, Mrs. Pond. You should too. It can't hurt."

Shelly was never comfortable with her feet in stirrups and a stranger's eyes peering deep inside her. Why did he insist I strip completely? All he needs to see is my vagina.

His head reappeared and she watched him place a cotton swab into a bottle. The expression on his face was compassionate as he said, “Nurse Franklin, I think Mrs. Pond will be more comfortable if she has a shower, and see if you can shake the sand out of her clothes."

Shelly did feel better when she returned to the waiting room and reclaimed the blanket.

The young black woman, teeth showing, approached. “The surgical waiting room is much more comfortable. You can stretch out on a sofa and it's not so blooming cold."

Clinging to the blanket, Shelly followed the woman through a maze of silent hallways, up an elevator, through another maze and up another elevator. She settled on the plastic cushions of a sofa and looked at the orderly. “Thank you so much for your kindness."

The woman's eyes twinkled. “I ain't no doctor, but brain surgery takes a long time. You look so tired, honey. I wish you could take a little nap."