Deathbed Ch. 2

A curl of desire began to pull at my insides. I wouldn’t act on it; I wouldn’t give him any clue that it existed, but there it was. I hoped it wasn’t going to cause trouble.

He picked up a lock of my hair. “You’re a pretty lady,” he said in a matter-of-fact way, examining the lock and scanning my body up and down.

“Uh…thank you.” That gaze made me a lot more than uncomfortable. I could feel the electricity in the air and I knew he felt it too, because he was its source. The whole surface of my skin seemed to grow warm while Deadman’s eyes lingered on my little waist and the curve of my breasts under my shirt.

“Damn pretty,” he said. “Real pretty eyes. Didn’t notice the color till I saw you in a good light.” I knew my dark brown eyes had an auburn tint like my hair; in some lights they looked positively red. Dried-blood brown, someone had once called them, a description I hated. “I like a red-head woman,” said Deadman, looking up and grinning from under his pale brows. “I never saw one before with eyes to match.”

“My eyes are brown,” I said, turning my face away.

“They’re red, Irene.” I looked back at him. His green eyes seemed to have a fire in them again, something like acid that would burn through any confinement or barrier in time. My heart froze. “You know they’re red. Don’t you?”

“No, they’re not,” I said, trying to stare him down, which might have been the bravest thing I had ever done.

He veiled his alarming gaze for a moment and moved a step back; I had the feeling it was a tactical retreat. “You got a man, Irene? Married?” He had probably spotted the pale indented band around the third finger of my left hand where a gold ring had been until very recently.

“N-no…not right now.” I’d carried out the equivalent of a final decree of divorce earlier that day, but I wasn’t about to tell him that. “I used to be.”

His expression said that he had some idea of what I meant by that, but how he could have known I had no idea. Other than Papa, I hadn’t told a soul. “Kids?” he asked.

“I…I had a baby four years ago.” He asked a silent question in his way. “She…died.”

“They all die some day,” he said with an detached shrug. “Every child that’s born in this world is condemned to die.”

This was a stranger remark than any I had ever heard from someone I had told about Irene’s death. Yes, I had given him the name of my little dead daughter as my own name. She had been dead almost a year now, and I knew my memory of her was fading. Not the memory of her death, but of her. I would never forget what I had felt when she had died. That was what he was indifferent to--life and death. Death could be sooner rather than later, but we all ended up as ashes and earth no matter what, and for some reason he saw the endings obscure the beginnings. The precise way that I did. “I know,” I said.

Deadman’s brows raised a little, a faint smile starting on his face. The fire kindled in his eyes again. “Do you, now?”

“Why do all these people call you ‘Taker’?” I asked to change the subject.

“’Cause that’s what they know me by,” he replied. I saw him grimace with a hint of anger, as if he had almost grasped something he wanted very badly but had seen it just elude him.

“Then why did you say your name was Deadman?”

“That’s a nickname--*Irene*.” He emphasized the name with a sarcastic inflection. “Considering who I am.”

“All right, who are you? That seemed to be a big deal back at that bar.”

“Yeah. Some people don’t cotton to me--well, most people don’t.”

“Aside from the obvious, why not?”

“The obvious?” He narrowed his eyes at me.

“Oh, I don’t know.” I folded my arms. “Beating people with chains. Threatening to drag someone to death. Kidnapping women.”

“Kidnap? No way, girl. You belong to me.”

*“What?* Either you’re deluded, or--”

“Nope. You’re the one who hasn’t figured it out, Irene. Could take a while, but I got time.”

“Well, I *don’t* have time for this nonsense!” I shouted. “I need to get to my Papa’s house, and I’m going to do it no matter what you say!”

His rolling laugh filled the room. “I like your confidence, girl!”

“I want to leave,” I said firmly. “I’m going to walk if I have to, but I am not staying in this place.” I picked up my purse and settled it over one shoulder. “Thanks for your help, what there was of it, but I’m going.”

He waited until I had touched the knob of the kitchen door. “Wouldn’t try that if I were you, Irene.”

“Then stop me, you disgusting hoodlum.” I flung the door open and stepped out on the veranda. Stephanie scampered backwards; she had apparently been listening. The rider only laughed harder. I walked to the steps and down them and across the yard, intending to head down to the road, but when I neared the drive the dogs raced to intercept me, barking. I knew those dogs meant business, so I didn’t try to run, stopping where I was as they circled me. Growling, they crouched on their haunches and blocked the way out. I reached into my purse and closed my fingers around the stock of my revolver.

Part Seven

“Come back in the house, Irene,” said Deadman’s amused voice, coming from the veranda behind me. “Walk slow and they won’t bother you.”

“I…hate…you,” I got out, still holding the revolver inside the purse. “You…son of a bitch.”

“Just come back in and sit down, OK? She’s cooking up some dinner.” I had six shots and there were five dogs facing me. Not enough, if I had to take on the rider and perhaps the family as well. I wasn’t a bad shot, but I wasn’t so certain of my ability that I would show all my cards when the odds were so against me. I let go of the gun and withdrew my hand from my purse.

“Good girl,” said Deadman as I passed him on the way back to the kitchen. I wanted to belt him. But I went inside and sat down hard at the small table, purse clutched on my lap. Stephanie was standing at the stove with a hot pan of what smelled like old bacon fat, a few uneven slices of potato floating in it. An opened can of Spam sat on the counter. She didn’t look particularly angry or put out, as if altercations like the one that had left her husband a bloody wreck happened every day.

When the food was ready, she put two plates on the table and scraped the contents of the pan into them, then dumped the pan in the sink and walked out without a word. I looked at the greasy mess in front of me and felt my stomach turn over.

“You used to high-toned grub?” said the rider with a smile, shoveling burnt Spam and potatoes into his mouth with a fork and one thumb. “I read a newspaper once said city folks eat their fish raw and pay stiff money for it. You eat your fish raw?”

“I don’t like fish.”

“Kind of fond of it myself,” he said, still smiling. “But if I ever catch any trout out of the crick, I sure don’t let that slut do the cooking. You going to eat that?”

I put a forkful in my mouth, chewed and barely managed to swallow. “No.” I put the fork down.

“Suit yourself.” He emptied my plate into his own and began to eat the rest. I got up to look out the kitchen window. “Might as well make the best of it, Irene.”

“Make the *best* of it?”

“Oh, I ain’t been walking in your shoes today, is that it? Nobody knows the trouble you’ve seen? Tell me about it, then.”

I was silent, back to him as I looked out into the lit driveway.

“Come on, girl. I want to know. Tell me about you.” I gave him an angry, impatient look. “OK, let’s run it down, then. What do I know about you? You might be about thirty, I figure, though you’re so little you could pass for younger. You had a husband and a kid once, but you don’t have ‘em any more. Dumped the wedding ring a real short while ago. You were in an all-fired hurry to get somewhere today and you still are. Papa’s gonna make it all better, you think, and what the hell it is that he needs to make better looks like something nasty, because when I mention the police, you jump. You got a look about you…like death.”

His eyes were burning into mine, and he got up and began to walk towards me. “You were drivin’ too damn fast and you damn near killed yourself. Was that what you were aiming to do? I smelled death on you. Confused me for a few minutes, because it wasn’t your death I was smelling.”

The rider had approached close enough to make me sidestep to avoid being backed against the cupboards. “So you smell of death, but you aren’t dead. That would mean…maybe you meant to die. Maybe someone died right next to you. Maybe…you killed someone just a little while ago.”

“That’s ridiculous!”

“Could be.” He smirked. “How would a little thing like you have the means, or the guts, to kill someone? Must be my imagination.” I clutched the purse with the gun more tightly. “So how’d you get rid of that husband of yours? You didn’t like him much, I guess.”

“I…no. He had a lot of money.”

“Married him for his dough, hey? You screwed around some, right?”

“What?”

Deadman smiled none too pleasantly. “You fucked around with other guys. While you were married and had a little kid.”

My face burned. “Yes.”

“What kind of guys? Suits with cell phones? I saw that damn krautwagon you were drivin’.”

“That was my husband’s BMW. He wore a suit and had a cell phone.”

“So the other guys were like that too? Or not?”

“Not like that, no.”

“Guys like…me?” He smiled sarcastically. “You’re such a high-class lady and all. I know your kind. Married to a guy who earns a living pushing paper around? Lot’sa you get a yen for a man who really knows he’s a man.”

“That must be so nice for you,” I said icily. I was furious at his insinuations, but since he seemed to have my number, it wasn’t justified anger. I didn’t have much defense against a recital of my sins other than resentment, and I didn’t have much defense against Deadman’s now-obvious interest in me other than coldness. Showing him the gun wouldn’t accomplish a thing. If I brought it out, I had to be prepared to use it immediately.

“So come sit a while.” He wagged a thumb at the front room. “Have a drink. Tell me some more about you.”

“No, thank you. I don’t want a drink, and I’m not interested in talking.”

“That’s not my favorite thing to do with a woman either,” the rider said. His smile set off alarm bells. What if he simply decided to take me, if that was his intention? Was there a thing I could do about it if he did? Although the thought of being forced was terrifying, it also gave me such a strange thrill that I lowered my gaze in an attempt to avoid letting him see it in my eyes.

For a long moment Deadman was silent, my own breathing the only sound I could hear. “You still hungry?” he asked at last.

“…Yes.”

Reaching over my head, he took a bottle of rye whiskey and a glass from a cupboard behind me. “Think there’s a loaf of bread in the pantry.” Taking a swig from the half-full bottle, he brushed past me to enter the front room and recline on the sagging bedspread-covered sofa. The springs let out an overstrained sigh, and so did I. So he didn’t mean to try anything after all, thank God…and perhaps I could leave soon.

I turned back into the kitchen and searched all the cupboards, finding the bread and eventually assembling a couple of sandwiches with a can of tuna and the mayonnaise. I located some instant coffee and put a kettle on the stove to heat water. In the front room I heard a clink of glass and a belch.

When I had eaten and finished my coffee, I checked the yard and drive again. The dogs lay here and there, but nothing disturbed the night other than the slow screech of crickets. I saw no movement in the garage; the battered Firebird and the tractor were still parked in front of it.

If Papa had received my message, which was a big if, he couldn’t reach this place in less than three hours, assuming he could get directions or even find it in the dark. I might not see him until morning, and it was nearly certain that the police would beat him to it. I’d eaten and drunk; I felt better, and I’d stayed long enough. I had to go.

If I couldn’t walk out, perhaps I could take the car keys from the hall tree and borrow the Firebird--the family probably wouldn’t stop me. I heard a snore from the sofa as I peered into the front room to check, which heartened me. I could see the bottle lying nearly empty on the floor, so it was obvious Deadman had drunk quite a bit.

Perhaps he had passed out for the night. I was familiar with the habits of a hard drinker--my grandfather had frequently spent his evenings in such a manner throughout my childhood. Gran’pa had been a sleepy drunk, not a dangerous one, except when he decided to do a little target shooting. Taking off my boots and leaving them by the kitchen door, I walked quietly past the sofa, aiming for the car keys.

The rider suddenly sat up, and I jumped. “All set?” he said, not sounding particularly drunk.

“Uh…all set for what?”

“Bed, naturally.” He got up, yawned and stretched to his full height. “Reckon I am too.”

“Oh.” I began to double back to the kitchen. “Well, I’ll just--” The rider followed.

“Not there, girl,” he said, clamping me to his side with a long arm and turning around. “Upstairs.”

“Why?” I jogged alongside him as he walked; I had little choice in the matter.

“Bedrooms are up there, that’s why. ‘Less you prefer the sofa or something.”

“Prefer the sofa?” We were almost to the stairs by now. “For sleeping?”

“Sleeping? I’m intending to tire you out, sure,” he replied. “I don’t imagine there’s going to be a lot of actual sleeping tonight.” My stomach gave a great wrench of excitement and fear. Stopping at the base of the steps, Deadman turned me to face him, cupped one hand under my chin, tilted my face and leaned down. I gasped, my lips opening, and his mouth crushed down on mine.

“Ohh!” Writhing, I tried to escape, but he was so much stronger than I that all I managed to do was rub my breasts against his ribs. His kiss pressed harder, his lips warming and parting mine while I let out little sobs of terror. The sharp stubble on his cheeks pricked my face, but his mouth was smooth and sensuous and wet, coaxing me to respond.

Dread and desire roiled deep in my belly. I did want him, or my body wanted him--he could surely tell that, but at the same time I was quivering all over with fear. I had the strange thought that sex with this man would be some kind of passage from one state of being to another--the orgasm a little death, a barricade hurdled with a strong arm to help me over.

The rider backed me up against the wall next to the stairs and slid his tongue into my mouth. Hot and salty and dizzying, his lips and tongue took mine and began to wrest all physical control from me; I responded involuntarily, sagging in his embrace.

Deadman pulled me up with a hand under my bottom and pushed my hips up into his groin, spreading his legs. He was hard, his erection bulging his fly and pulsing against my soft flesh. Did he think I was willing to be seduced, or did he mean to rape me? Was it possible for the act to be rape when I wanted him the way I did? My mind began to go dark with confused, tumultuous emotions as Deadman kissed me and ground his crotch against my stomach.

“I’ve been needing you so bad, baby,” he muttered when he came up for air. “Moment I got that scent of you, bang, I was so hard I couldn’t barely walk straight…”

One hand seized my left breast and squeezed it; the other ran down over my stomach and thighs and forced its way between my legs. I jumped and shook, jerking from side to side as Deadman rubbed my sex through my jeans. He pressed his face into the junction of my neck and shoulder, burying his nose in my loose hair and fastening his lips to my throat. “Oh yeah--I’m gonna take you ‘til the damn sun comes up!”

I gasped in panic--I had to leave the house! If he took me upstairs, he wouldn’t let me go for hours, and by then it would be too late--the police would catch up with me. In another sense it was already too late, because I’d kissed him back. It wasn’t just my body he wanted, though he had complimented my looks; he wanted *me*.

I’d let him know my darkest desires without meaning to give myself away, let him look for a moment into the cryptic, guarded recesses of my soul and find something kindred there. Both of us recognized our affinity, though I was fighting it. He would never stop of his own accord, and I had only one sure-fire way to stop him myself--if I chose to use it. “NO!” I half-screamed. “Stop--please--I don’t want--!”

“Oh, you want it, baby,” growled Deadman. I felt him smile against my throat, his teeth brushing my skin. “You’ve been checking me out since I pulled up to your car. Don’t lie to me.”

“I have to leave! Please let me go!”

“Don’t go trying to run away from me, Irene. You ain’t going nowhere but upstairs. Damn, you taste good!” He licked the pit of my throat. I tried to push away the hand on my breast, but the rider grabbed my wrist and pinned my arm to the wall behind me, pulling off the glove on his other hand with his teeth.

Was he going to knock me out again in that strange way? I hadn’t recovered from the lethargic spell for some time--the situation was growing desperate, because if he rendered me helpless I would never escape. I had the feeling that once he had taken me, I would never again have the power to part from him.

“No…please don’t hurt me!” I gasped, back arching as my arm twisted almost to the point of pain. “I’ll do what you want--don’t hurt me!”

“Not unless you like it that way, baby!” Deadman released my wrist and kissed me again, his tongue pushing past my lips. “I’m not out to bruise your pretty face. All I want is your sweet little ass!”

“Ohh…” I sagged and wriggled again, turning in his arms until his back was against the wall instead of mine. Telling him I would cooperate had had the desired effect--he loosened his grip and let me move more freely. Disentangling my purse strap, I finally got my hand on the flap. While the rider distracted himself with massaging my breasts and devouring my lips as if he were starving, I opened the purse and put my hand inside.

The revolver’s stock immediately bumped against my fingers and I drew the gun out and pressed it against his side. He started in surprise and began to break the kiss; before he could react any further I closed my eyes and pulled the trigger.

Part Eight

The rider yelled, rearing back from me and clutching his wound. The bullet had passed clean through his body a few inches below the ribs, hitting the wall behind him in a red spray. Blood spurted and bubbled between his fingers as he doubled over and fell to his knees.

I had inflicted a stomach wound, hellishly painful; the spilled digestive acids burning his guts as he slowly bled to death. “You…BITCH!” he wheezed. “Where the hell…did you get that piece?!”

“I had it all along,” I said, holding the revolver’s muzzle steady a few inches from his forehead. “I know all about men like you!”

A stream of blood began to run from the corner of the rider’s mouth. “Do…ya?” His eyes rolled up to keep me in focus, but they were glazing over in agony. I decided to be merciful. Or merciless: they amounted to the same thing.

“Yes, I do. And I know all about guns, too.” I thumbed the hammer, pulled the trigger again and saw a star-shaped hole appear in the middle of his forehead. BAM! His eyes rolled back all the way, showing only the whites, and he tilted slowly back on his haunches and slumped against the wall.

A broad smear of blood, hair and gray matter followed his head down the wallpaper. When he collapsed at my feet, I saw the huge exit wound in the back of his skull, the pale ruins of brains pulsing in the ragged, bone-edged cavity.

The rider was dead, though his eyes still gleamed open and white in the light of the kerosene lamps. So big, so forceful, but even he could do nothing to fight a little slug of lead. His long red hair had fallen partly over his face and his big tattooed arms lay slack on the floor.