Easy Ride, page 11
part #15 of Lady From L.U.S.T. Series
My hand was out there, waiting. Big Turk was breathing softly, looking from me to his girlfriend. Nance drew a deep breath. I didn’t know whether she was going to curse me out or go for me again.
“I’m a pig,” she said suddenly. “I’ve been sittin’ here, thinkin’ how much of a pig I really am. I never knew what it was like to be made to walk bare-ass in front of the boys.”
She caught my hand and gripped it. Her black eyes were shy, they lifted to look at me, then fell. But her fingers clung to mine as if to a life preserver. Her black hair was rumpled and dirty, there were burrs and bits of grass and leaf in it from where I’d banged her head on the ground, but she seemed less downcast
“I’m sorry,” she said clearly.
“And so’m I,” I replied. I tugged her off the seat, drew her with me. “Come on, I think we ought to celebrate with a picnic of some sort, don’t you? Let’s go make plans with the others. We can think of someplace nice to go to, and bring eats and soda pop. How about it?”
She nodded, and laughed. It was a good laugh, friendly and sincere. “I owe you a lot, Eve. I really mean it. You opened my eyes the way nobody else could. From now on, we’re sisters.”
We made plans for the next day. The boys were eager when they heard about it. There was a rally taking place over Hanford way. The Valley Outlaws would ride there, bring their lunch kits and cold beer. I would be packing with Baby Face.
Then we rode back to the garage. I said so long to the Outlaws, climbed into the Camaro, and started for my motel. I was just pulling into town when I decided to drop by and see how Hugo Edmunds was making out with his pollution tests. I swung onto a side road and ran tires along it.
When I was a hundred yards away, I saw the smoke.
And the flames.
Chapter 7
The inside of the place was a mass of flames, I saw as I came out of the Camaro and began my run toward the huge overhead doors. I flung myself at the big iron knob, yanked it. The doors were locked from the inside.
I ran around the building. Hugo Edmunds wouldn’t have set fire to his own equipment. Somebody had got inside and done it. But if that somebody hadn’t left by the double doors, he must have wriggled a way out through a window.
The window was closed, but, unlocked. I shoved it open and hooked a leg over the sill. I wedged myself inside.
“Hugo?” I yelled.
The fire was a blaze of leaping, livid red and blues, a wall of heat that blinded and deafened me with its roaring. I thought I could smell kerosene. The cold thought touched my mind that whoever was beating up on the pollution scientists had gone themselves one better this time.
“Hugo?” I screamed.
I ran around the outside of the flames trying to peer through the smoke. If Hugo Edmunds was inside that fire, he was finished. Done for. Nobody could get him out.
Back and forth I moved, until the heat became so great I got a little dizzy. Then I heard the moan. I filled my lungs with fresh air near the open window, whirled and ran, bent over, along the edges of the fire. I yelled his name, told him to make some sort of sound.
I stooped under a blazing arc of fire that ran from one piece of equipment to the next; Hugo Edmunds was lying on the ground in his singed underwear. I gave a yelp of dismay, bent and grabbed his wrists. There was no time to ask questions. I had to get him out.
I dragged him along the floor.
He moaned, he was burned here and there, and it must have been excruciatingly painful to have those burns chafed along the cement floor. He fainted as I got him under the arching fire between those two pieces of equipment, but that was a good thing.’ I would hurt him even more when I hoisted him up and through the window.
I could not be gentle, as I wanted. The fire was singing my own backside now and the sweat ran down my cheeks and sides and between my breasts. It was getting harder to breathe, too, the fire was consuming a lot of oxygen. I stuck his head and arms through the window, then got under his crotch and heaved upward.
Hugo Edmunds went through the window and fell on his head and a shoulder. If he hadn’t been out before, he would have been after that tumble. But at least he was still alive.
I dragged him into the Camaro.
Then I raced for Doc Thome’s place. It was after visiting hours, but Thorne had his office in his home and since it was dinner time, I hoped to find the good doctor surrounded by his family, chowing down.
Actually, he was just about to sit at table to eat. When I burst in on him he was teed off, he told me gruffly that his visiting hours were from two to five in the afternoon and seven to ten at night, and—
“He’s dying!” I screamed at him. “They poured kerosene over him and his equipment and set fire to him!”
“Jesus God,” he growled, and ran.
His nurse, who ate supper with him and his wife, helped us roll out the wheeled table. We wrestled Hugo up onto it and got him into the house and to the office. Doctor Thorne worked with a cool precision that told me he knew his job. He was a general practitioner, which meant that burns were old hat to him.
His nurse cut away the singed, burned underwear until Hugo lay naked. His sides were burned and looked painful, but the rest of him wasn’t too bad off, with just a reddish mark here and there. Doc Thorne injected him with a sedative, then used petroleum jelly on the burned areas and bandaged them lightly.
“You work fast, doctor,” I complimented him.
He stared at me over the upper rims of his glasses, that were pulled down on his nose. Sweat ran from his forehead onto his cheeks, and as I used my hankie to dry him off, he gave me his tight-lipped little smile.
“I used to practice in a big city hospital, Miss. But the smog got a little too much for my lungs. I took my own advice and moved out here to Soledad. Don’t make a tenth of what I did as a hospital surgeon, but I’m a lot happier. Life isn’t all earning money, you know. It’s good to help people.”
“Yeah,” I breathed sincerely.
He wiped his hands. “Best thing for him is get him into a hospital bed. He doesn’t need very much attention, but—”
“I’ll take him to my motel,” I said firmly.
When his eyes grew round behind his lenses, I said, “Somebody set him on fire, doctor. It wasn’t any accident. In a hospital bed, he’d be a sitting duck for anyone who wanted to finish the job.”
An idea hit me. I caught his elbow, drew him into a corner of the little office, saying, “He’s a scientist, working on the polluted waters of Lake Soledad. I’m here with the League of Underground Spies and Terrorists,” I showed him my papers. “You see, somebody doesn’t want the lake water tested.”
He nodded slowly. “I’ve heard rumors,” The dark eyes sharpened. “But if you think I know anything, you’re wrong.”
“At least, give me a hint.”
“I understand the waste products go into a hole in the ground,” he muttered, staring out the window. “But—the hole is lined with cement blocks.”
It was no help. I stared at him with my brows knotted. “Cement blocks?” I asked. “What’s that for? Seems to me cement blocks wouldn’t let out liquids the way a cesspool does.”
He shrugged. “It’s all I can say.”
He and the nurse gave me a hand with Hugo, getting him into the Camaro. Thorne worried about how I would manage him from the Camaro into my motel room, but I told him I would have no problems. I knew about the fireman’s hitch.
“I’ll stop by tomorrow about noon, just to check up.” He gave me some pointers on how to care for him, then added, “I’m not sure I approve of what you’re doing. He’d be better off in a hospital. But if you’re worried about another attempt on his life, maybe he will be safe with you close by.”
I drove to the motel. It was dusk by this time, I wasn’t too sure how the motel people might take my having a man in my room, so I went to the proprietor and explained that we were with the government, that an accident in his lab had resulted in some bad burns for Hugo Edmunds. I promised to get in touch with the police and have them give an official sanction to what I was doing.
The proprietor looked extremely doubtful about the whole thing until I mentioned the fuzz. Then he beamed and spread his hands, assuring me that if the Highway Patrol gave its blessings, he personally did not care whether I had one or a hundred men in my rooms. He walked outside with me and took a look at the bandaged Hugo Edmunds who was still under the influence of the sedative. I guess his brief look assured him that neither Edmunds nor I were going to indulge in. any hanky-panky, or if we were—well, the trouble we’d taken to work out such an elaborate gimmick entitled us.
It would have been a cinch to go someplace else and register as husband and wife, his glance told me. He walked back to his office without offering to give me a hand. I used the fireman’s hitch, with Hugo Edmunds a dead weight slung over my shoulder and made it into the room. I let him flop down on the bed.
I got him under the covers, tossing the hospital gown which Doc Thorne had loaned us to one side. Then I sat down on the lone easy chair in the motel room and got my breath back.
I told myself I was doing great. The one man who was in any position to confirm or deny pollution levels was out cold, and his equipment was a mass of ashes by now in that empty building where he’d set it up. There was no telling how long it would take to get another scientist down here. Or even if another one would come, considering what had happened to the others.
Hugo Edmunds groaned.
I got up and fumbled out a sleeping pill the doc had given me. I poured a glass of water. I lifted Hugo’s head, put the pill between his lips and told him to swallow. Two minutes later he was sound asleep.
I went and ate. It was going to be a long night. I didn’t dare get in bed with him for fear of brushing up against his burns. So when I came back from the motel restaurant I curled up in an easy-chair and tried to sleep. Three hours later, I took one of the sleeping pills and stretched out on top of the bed. I was so bleary-eyed, I wouldn’t have moved if an earthquake hit.
Hugo was awake and staring at me when I opened my eyes next morning. “How’d I get here?” he wondered. I told him. He thought about that, lying motionless and staring ceiling-ward
I asked, “How are you feeling?”
“Not too bad, considering. I’ve been stretching and moving as much as I could without waking you. I think I’ll be all right.”
“Most of your burns were around your chest. Your shoes saved your feet, though your legs have a patch or two of burned flesh.”
“I know, I know,” he agreed querulously.
“What happened?”
He had been working in his impromptu lab, he explained, when something had hit him over the back of the head. No, he hadn’t seen his assailant. He had collapsed, unconscious. Next thing he knew there was a fire in the lab, his entire equipment was going up in smoke—he could smell kerosene—and his clothes were starting to burn.
As best he could, he’d gotten out of his lab smock and trousers and crawled across the floor. His head was hurting like hell and he was scared witless. He knew damn well he didn’t have the strength to finish his crawl toward the double doors. He was going to lose consciousness and the building was going to collapse on him. He would be burned alive.
“Then I passed out.”
“Fortunately, I found you,” I smiled, getting off the bed. “A good thing I did, too. Otherwise they’d have had to send another scientist down here.”
His eyes stared at me like cold marbles. “For your information, honey—they’re still going to have to send another man here. I’ve had it. Up to here.”
“Oh, nonsense. You aren’t going to let whoever set fire to you get away with it, are you?”
“I am. I am indeed.”
I was wearing my see-through nightie—a micro-length green and yellow bit of fluff by Henson-Kickernick—and he was testing its see-throughness with his eyes as I walked back and forth, gathering my soap and towel for a morning shower. I turned in a shaft of bright sunshine and considered him.
“Tell you what. I’ll go get those goddamn samples for you. I’ll put them in my car and drive you and them to Fresno. There must be a lab there you can use.”
“I’m in no condition to test water samples.”
“Well, now. We’ll have to see about that.”
I switched my buttock cheeks at him as I strode toward the bathroom. The lower halves were half out of the bikini panties, they shook lusciously to my walk and in the mirror over the bureau I saw that Hugo Edmunds was watching them. I smiled at my secret thoughts.
While I ran warm water and sudsy soap over my cute curves, I told myself that Hugo Edmunds needed a raison d’etre. There didn’t seem to be anybody around but me who could give it to him, either. I giggled, going over ways and means. When I came out of the shower, dripping water and trying to keep a bath towel around me, I had it all planned.
I ran from the bathroom, caroling, “Now don’t you peek, Hugo! I’ve got to get into some scanties first of all and I’m not used to having a man in my bed.”
Hugo ignored me, naturally. His eyes got big as the towel slipped from by bobbling breasts. He got a real long look at them, all pink pulchritude jouncing up and down, with pert brown nipples scratching invitations in the air. He gulped out loud, seeing them.
I pretended confusion, halting to bring the towel up around my bosom, and at the same time, turning toward him so that when the towel slipped away from my backside (as I meant for it to do), he could see my pink buttocks, smooth and round and nicely divided above my sensuously rounded thighs. He also saw all my legs, natch. I look pretty cute from the rear. David Anderjanian, my case officer in L.U.S.T., has always told me so, and David never throws compliments around carelessly.
Finally the towel was in place.
I smiled over my shoulder at Hugo, whose face was very red. “There, now. I’m decent again. But—are you comfortable?”
He nodded. In one sense, he was very comfortable, because he was doing an Omar the Tentmaker bit with his tent-pole standing proudly. On the other hand, his urgent uprightness told me he was in desperate need of some ramrod relaxation. I had Hugo Edmunds right where I wanted him.
I made a real production of my dressing. I gurgled and cooed as I selected a dainty blue nylon bra, letting the towel slide down so that my magnetic mammaries were reflected in the bureau mirror. I took my own sweet time about slipping the sheer nylon cups of my brassiere over them, at the same time arching back to make them stand out clearly beneath that blue nylon while my hands were hooking the clasps. I had to let the towel fall to step into the matching panties, too. I must have looked especially fetching in just the brassiere as I lifted a leg to slip a foot into a panty leg, because I could hear Hugo make a sort of groaning sound.
I paraded up and down the room, posing now and then while debating out loud which stockings to wear. This was for his male benefit, you understand; I’d already picked out my gauzy blue Gossards. I sat down opposite the bed in the easy-chair and rolled up the stockings, then fitted them over my tinted toenails. I never hesitated about widening my legs or such, letting him see the cute little reinforcement panel that protected my blonde-fringed femininity from his peeping eyes.
I wanted him to use some imagination.
His tent was very much taller when I finally stood, slipping my feet into my Joyce Pickwicks. I smiled at him, letting my eyes assess his excitement, shrouded as it was by the bed-covers
“I suggest a good breakfast,” I smiled. “I’ll go eat mine, then come back and feed you. Eggs and bacon? Toast and coffee?”
He mumbled something which I took for agreement.
Over orange juice and black coffee, I made a few mental notes. I had to call off my participation in the Valley Outlaws’ picnic. I had more important things to do with Hugo Edmunds. Thinking about the Valley Outlaws made me realize that they might not be the villains I’d tabbed them for, first time I came into Soledad. I had been with the whole bunch of them while somebody else was clobbering Hugo and leaving him to die in that fire.
If the bike-riders were not guilty—then who?
I thought about possibilities and got nowhere. I remembered Billy Turner and realized that he was leaving the hospital and going home today. I glanced at my Movado. If I hurried, I could be there to give his father a hand.
I carried breakfast in to Hugo Edmunds. I propped him up in bed, discovering that he could move without too much pain while doing so. This was a good sign.
“Got to pay a hospital visit,” I told him while he was eating. “I’ll be back just as soon as I can.”
“No need to hurry. I can lie here quietly by myself and suffer.”
Men! Oh, well. I’ve dealt with them before and hope to do so a lot in the future. I kissed Hugo on the forehead and breathed that I’d return to hold his hand real soon.
“Maybe I’ll even put something different on,” I giggled.
Always leave ’em smiling.
I was halfway to the hospital when a motorcycle roared past, going sixty. An arm in a McHale helmet and an Enduro jacket went by me. The big Har-Dav had Space-master saddlebags on either side of the seat, which I assumed held sandwiches and a careful selection of beer cans for the rally chow-down. I waved at Dave Parker.
Then I froze.
There was a silver slave bracelet around his right ankle, standing out loud and clear against the black leather of his Big John boots.
That flash of metal—around the ankle of the cyclist who’d knocked Billy Turner down! It was still in the back of my mind, like a picture. I’d never forgotten it. I half closed my eyes to bring it into better focus. Same bike, same rider. I was sure of it. I eased up on the accelerator, the better to concentrate.
Well, now. Things were looking up. I didn’t know Dave Parker too well. He was not one of the Outlaw regulars, though he came to rallies and drag strip races from time to time. His equipment was of the best. None better. That figured, if his dad was Erasmus Parker who owned Parker Chemicals. I began to wonder how I could use this tidbit of information.
