IN THE DARK, page 9
“Wonderful,” she muttered.
She shut her eyes. She took a deep, trembling breath. With the back of her empty hand, she wiped tears from her cheeks.
No pain, no gain, she thought, and sniffed.
Small price to pay for four hundred bucks.
Then she felt cool moisture seeping through her pants.
She struggled to her feet. Standing precariously on the dewy slope, she plucked the seat of her jeans away from her buttocks. Then plucked again to nip her panties through the denim and unstick them.
Not that it helped.
They resumed clinging the moment she took her next step down the embankment.
Could be worse, she told herself. I could’ve sat down on a sharp rock. Or a broken bottle. Or a board with a nail sticking up.
Quit it.
She moved more slowly, more carefully. Before she reached the bottom of the slope, several muscles in her rump and legs began to shimmy. But she didn’t fall again.
At last, she found her way to level ground. She leaned back against a tree near the shore of the creek and huffed for air.
Gotta get in better shape.
Do enough of this stuff, she thought, and I’ll either shape up or ship out.
As her breath returned, she realized that her mouth was parched. She licked her dry lips. She looked at the creek. It was a broad, black strip, sprinkled here and there with silver bits of moonlight.
She wondered if its water was clean enough to drink.
It sure sounded wonderful. It blurbled and hissed and sounded icy cold.
Take a sip, and I’ll probably drop right where…
“Jane!” A man’s scratchy voice.
It knocked her breath out. Rigid, she pressed her back hard against the tree.
What’ll I do? He’s seen me!
Run?
“Huh?”
“That’s what she says here. Jane. J-A-N-E.”
He’s spelling, she thought. He’s reading. He’s reading off the envelope!
There’re two of them and they have my envelope.
But at least they don’t know I’m here, she told herself. I don’t think so. The guy wasn’t calling my name, just reading it.
“Jane,” he said again. “See that? Plain as the nose on yer face.”
“Nothin’ wrong with my nose,” said a second male voice. “Open ‘er up.”
“Don’t know if I oughta. Thing’s meant for ol’ Jane. I ain’t Jane. You shore ain’t Jane.”
“Fuck Jane. Open ‘er up.”
“Likely just a birthday card, some such shit.”
Jane bent her shaky legs. The bark was rough through the back of her shirt as she lowered herself to a squat. Getting down on all fours, she turned herself around and peered past the side of the tree.
At first, she couldn’t see the men at all.
Then she found two figures under the bridge, black against the lesser darkness beyond them. They seemed to be standing. One of the men looked tall and skinny and seemed to have a horribly huge, misshaped head. The shorter man looked broad and bulky. His head looked odd, too, but Jane figured its unusual shape was due to a hat.
They were farther away than she’d expected.
That’s how come they didn’t see or hear me, she thought.
She wasn’t sure why she’d been able to hear them so well. Loud talkers, she guessed. Or maybe being underneath the bridge amplified their voices.
“Shore ain’t no birthday card. Strike up a match there.”
A moment later, light flared.
Jane flinched.
No!
It can’t be him, she told herself. But of course it is him—almost had to be, huh? When it comes right down to it? Wouldn’t you just know?
The ruddy flutter of the matchlight showed that the awful size and shape of the tall man’s head wasn’t caused by bulging deformities of bone and flesh. It was hair. Thick, filthy tangles that massed around his head and mingled with his eyebrows, moustache and beard so that he seemed to have no face at all.
My own personal troll.
Why him, of all people?
He stood with his side toward Jane, and the other man stood in the way, blocking much of her view. They both wore long, heavy coats.
Must be sweltering in those things, Jane thought.
Good. I hope they drop dead of the heat.
Though she couldn’t see much, she was fairly sure that her own personal troll was the one opening her envelope while his short friend held the match.
“Shit,” said the short one. “Them things real?”
“Shore look real.”
“Four of ‘em?”
“One, two, t’ree, four. That’s right, Swimp.”
“Fuck me twice. What’s that letter… Ow!” Swimp jerked his arm and killed the light. A couple of seconds later, another match flared. “Read me what she says, Rale.”
“Read ‘er yourself,” said the tall, faceless one.
“Haw haw.”
“Awright. Here she goes. ‘Dear Jane, you sweet thing. This here’s them C-notes you asked us for. We all chipped in.’”
What? Jane thought. That can’t be right. He’s making this up.
Rale continued, “ ‘Now you gotta come across with yer crack t’morra night.’”
“She spose t’fuck ‘em?” Swimp asked.
“Naw. They’re buying crack off her.”
“Ain’t that what I just said?”
“Ya moron.”
“Ain’t no moron.” Swimp swept off his headgear—a straw cowboy hat with most of the brim missing off one side—and swatted Rale on the shoulder with it. As he did that, his second match went out. In the darkness, he said, “This here Jane, she shore don’t come cheap. Course, what you said about ‘em all chippin’ in, guess there might be a whole slew of fellows. Maybe she’s fixin’ to fuck the baseball team. Whatta they call ‘emselves? Use t’ be the Warchiefs, but…”
“The Chargers,” Rale explained.
“Yeah.” Swimp lit another match. “Well,” he said, “bad luck for them, good luck for you ‘n’ me.” The hat was back on his head. He nudged Rale with his elbow. “Bad luck for ol’ Jane, too.”
That’s for sure, Jane thought. The idiot didn’t know what he was talking about, but he was right, anyway.
Bad luck for ol’ Jane.
And then some. Losing the four hundred dollars was bad enough, but losing the note could put a stop to the whole game.
If that damn Rale had just read what was there instead of making the whole thing up…
Maybe Rale can’t read. Maybe he’s as illiterate as his buddy, Swimp.
Wait, she thought. No. He read my name. If he knows Jane when he sees it…
“How we gonna split her up?” Swimp asked.
“You mean ol’ Jane? Reckon I’ll have me the front ‘n’ you take the back.”
Swimp snorted and gave Rale another shot with his elbow. “Go awn. The bread, the moola. We gonna split her even-Steven, right?”
“Well, now…”
What if I just step out and show myself? Jane wondered. Tell them they’re welcome to the money, but could I please have the note?
Brilliant idea.
“Reckon that’d be a fair split,” Rale said.
He wants my front and Swimp gets my back. Real nice.
But maybe it’s just talk, she thought. Just a couple of horny, drunk bums talking big.
The match died.
I’ve gotta get the note!
No, I don’t. I can just forget about it. Forget about the whole thing. Go home and see what Brace is up to. Consider myself lucky to be out of it three-hundred-and-fifty bucks to the good, relatively unscathed, and with a fine new friend who might be just the sort of man…
Swimp lit another match.
During the short period of darkness, the two had changed positions. Now, they stood facing each other, their profiles to Jane. Swimp was holding both hands toward Rale. He kept the match in his right. Jane could feel no breeze at all, but the match flame shivered and wobbled, casting a crimson glow that made the two men look ghoulish.
They aren’t ghouls, Jane told herself. Just a couple of dim-witted bums. And they’re screwing up everything!
Swimp’s left hand was open, palm up.
Rale dealt him two bills.
Two hundreds.
Mine!
“All fair ‘n’ square?” he asked.
“Fair ‘n’ square,” Swimp said, his head bobbing up and down.
Rale tucked the other two bills back into the envelope, folded the envelope and shoved it into the side pocket of his long, bulky coat. Then he said, “Let’s scat.”
Swimp shook out his match. “Spose Jane’s gonna show up?”
“Shore.”
They began to walk alongside the creek. At first, Jane thought they were walking away from her.
CHAPTER TEN
“Wanta hide ‘n’ see her?” Swimp asked.
“Wanta get us shot dead? She ain’t no whore, y’lamebrain. The gal’s a drug pusher, and folks like that…”
They’re coming!
Not walking away, but heading straight toward Jane. She was on all fours, the tree trunk between her and the two men.
It won’t be between us for long!
Run!
But which way? She wondered. Up the slope? It’s so steep and slippery! I’ll fall flat on my face and they’ll grab me by the ankles… Run up the shore? I’m probably faster than them. But what if I’m not? I’ll be running deeper and deeper into the park…
If I try running anywhere, they’ll see me and chase me and…
Here they come!
She eased herself down flat against the ground at the foot of the tree, and lay motionless.
They won’t see me, she told herself. I’m dressed in black (well, not really black but close enough), and if I lie absolutely still they’ll walk right on by without even knowing I’m here.
Maybe.
Please!
Their voices came closer and closer. Jane couldn’t follow what they were saying; she could only think about the distance. Ten or twelve feet away. Now maybe six. Now probably just on the other side of the tree. Now coming alongside the tree.
They can see me now. If they look, they’ll see me.
Don’t look!
Just keep walking and don’t look down over here!
“Jumpin’ shit!” Swimp blurted.
The footsteps stopped.
“She dead?” Swimp asked, his voice hushed.
Don’t panic!
Though her face was turned away from the two, she shut her eyes. She strained to control her breathing, to take small breaths so her movement might go undetected in the darkness.
“She don’t appear real frisky,” Rale said.
Someone stepped on her. A shoe pressed against the seat of her jeans, pushed down on her buttocks and began to jerk back and forth quick and hard. She stayed limp, letting her whole body wobble with the rhythm of the shaking foot.
“Spose it’s Jane?” Swimp asked.
“Might be,” Rale said. The foot lifted off her rump. “Let’s see what she’s got.” He groaned and a couple of his joints crackled as he squatted beside Jane.
She felt a hand push down into the left rear pocket of her jeans. She knew it could find nothing there. But it rubbed and squeezed her before coming out and entering the other pocket. The hand stayed longer in that empty pocket, kneading her buttock.
Done, Rale said, “Let’s turn her over.”
Hands clutched Jane’s left shoulder and arm and hip and leg. They pulled and lifted, rolling her onto her right side (where the pocketed flashlight shoved painfully against her wrist), then onto her back. She kept herself limp—let her head wobble, her legs flop lifelessly.
“Hey,” Swimp said, “wanna see her?”
“Shore.”
She heard the snick of a match. A shimmery, pinkish glow soaked through her eyelids.
“Wah!” Swimp blurted. “She’s a hon. Ain’t she a hon?”
“A beaut. Ain’t no more dead ‘n’ you ‘r me, but she’s shore a beaut.”
“Ain’t dead?”
“At’s okay,” Rale said. “Reckon she’s passed out, ‘r somethin’.”
She felt a tug at her waist. Her belt went loose.
“Whatcha doin’?” Swimp asked.
“Jackin’ her belt.”
“No, you ain’t.”
Rale laughed. Then he unbuttoned the waist of Jane’s jeans and she snatched the flashlight out of her pocket and both men made surprised noises and flinched. Swimp, crouched by her arm, dropped the match. Rale, by her hip, had both hands on her zipper. Just as he let go, the flashlight crashed against his temple. The blow knocked his head sideways, spit flying. The falling match died. Swimp yelled in the sudden darkness. The hot matchhead found Jane’s skin just down from her throat and she gasped, “Ah!” Rale tumbled backward, arms flung high. Swimp, still yelling, scurried backward on his knees. Jane rammed the flashlight at his belly, but missed, so then rolled toward him, rising onto her left elbow as Rale splashed into the creek, flinging herself over and stretching as she jabbed. But Swimp was out of range. Jane sprawled facedown. She drove both hands against the ground and pushed herself up fast. Her jeans fell down around her ankles. Swimp didn’t notice. Or didn’t care. Whimpering, he stumbled to his feet and started to run away.
As he fled, Jane clamped the flashlight under her arm and pulled her jeans up. She fastened the waist button. She buckled her belt. Then she turned her attention to the creek and looked for Rale. Unable to spot him, she grabbed her flashlight and thumbed its switch.
Nothing.
Must’ve busted it when I whacked him.
Keeping the flashlight in her hand, she stepped to the edge of the creek. The water looked black except for bits of silver from the moon.
Still no sign of Rale.
I hit him awfully hard. What if I knocked him out, and he drowned?
What if he’s just fine, thanks, and already out of the water? Hiding somewhere?
That can’t be, she told herself. He hasn’t had time to get out. And I’ve been right here. I would’ve seen him.
He hasn’t had time to drown yet, either.
Jane suddenly waded into the creek. The chilly water filled her shoes, wrapped her ankles, climbed past her knees and up her thighs. Though the current was slow, she could feel its gentle push. She turned her back to it and trudged a few steps closer to the bridge.
Too slow.
She shoved the flashlight into her jeans pocket, took one big step and lunged, leaving her feet, plunging forward, diving down below the surface. Her shoes and heavy clothes dragged at her. Instead of gliding, she was almost stopped. She kicked to the surface and swam hard.
But only for a few strokes.
Then her right hand swept down and slapped a sodden tangle.
Got him!
Him or maybe a beaver.
As her blow submerged whatever it was that she had struck, her left hand collided with a sunken object that might’ve been Rale’s chest.
With both hands, she grabbed.
By his coat lapel and beard, she raised Rale to the surface of the creek. He was limp.
Playing possum?
Jane doubted it.
She waded backward, towing him, then dragged him onto the dirt and rocks of the shore. When only his feet remained in the creek, she let go. She was huffing for air. She dropped to her knees beside him and pushed the wet hair away from her eyes.
Though Rale didn’t seem to be moving, she pulled the flashlight out of her pocket. Holding it in her right hand, ready to strike him, she reached into his coat pocket with her left hand and pulled out the soaked envelope that he’d put there.
He still lay motionless.
What if I killed him?
He can’t be dead. Can’t be.
She needed both hands to open the envelope, so she clamped the flashlight between her thighs. She picked at the torn, wet opening at the top of the envelope, spread the edges, and fingered what was inside.
Two dark bills.
And a folded sheet of paper.
Mog’s note.
Got it!
She knew that the bills would be okay, so she tucked them into a pocket of her shirt. Then she carefully unfolded the note. She thought she might have to peel the paper away from itself, but it opened easily. It seemed damp, but certainly not sodden. For the brief amount of time that it had been submerged, the envelope must’ve kept most of the water out. She doubted very much that the handwritten message had been ruined.
This was no time to read it, though.
She shook a few drops off the paper. Putting it anywhere on her body would be risking further water damage, so she placed it on a nearby slab of rock. She pinned it down with a smaller rock.
Taking the flashlight from between her legs, she leaned over Rale’s sprawled body. With her left hand, she shook him by the shoulder.
Oh, my God, if he’s dead…
“Rale! Hey! Wake up!”
She shook him harder.
Nothing.
Hunkering down, she put her ear close to his mouth. She heard no breathing, felt no air against her ear.
With her left hand, she fingered his thick growth of facial hair until she found his lips. They were slightly parted. She forced his mouth open wider and reached in deep with two fingers. They rubbed against the edges of his teeth, slid over the slimy flesh of his tongue.
If he’s faking it and bites…
Nothing seemed to be blocking his airway.
She pulled her fingers out, wiped them on the shoulder of his coat, and again slipped the flashlight between her legs. With her right hand, she delved through his beard and reached his neck. She found his carotid artery, felt its beating pulse.
At least I didn’t kill him, she thought.
But he isn’t breathing.
She tilted his head back, pinched his nostrils shut, and held his jaw open.
What am I, nuts? He was all set to rape me. Maybe he would’ve killed me. And I’m gonna do this?
Apparently yes, she thought.
And took a deep breath and covered his mouth with her lips and blew her air into him. When she lifted her mouth away, the air rushed out of him, flapping his lips.
