Body Rides Page 2

  ‘What’ll you give me?’ he heard a man say.

  ‘Anything. Please.’

  A soft chuckle. ‘That’s what I thought.’

  ‘I don’t want to die.’

  ‘Glad to hear it. Know what? I don’t want you to die, either. Not for a few more hours, anyhow.’ More chuckling.

  Then came a quick hiss.

  ‘That didn’t hurt, did it?’

  ‘Yes.’ The sad and hopeless tone of her voice made Neal’s throat tighten.

  ‘Aw, tough tittie,’ the man said.

  Then came a gasp.

  ‘Or not so tough.’

  ‘Please.’ She wept.

  ‘Awwwww.’

  ‘Ow!’

  ‘Hurt?’

  ‘Please.’

  ‘Tell me something.’

  ‘What?’ she sobbed.

  ‘Tell me you’re a filthy, stinking slut.’

  ‘I’m a filthy, stinking slut.’

  ‘You need to be cleansed with pain.’

  ‘I need to be . . . cleansed with pain.’

  ‘I’m your salvation.’

  ‘You’re my salvation.’

  ‘Please, make me scream.’

  ‘Please . . . make me scream.’

  ‘You don’t sound like you mean it.’

  ‘I mean it!’

  ‘Do you?’

  ‘Yes!’

  ‘Liar.’

  She squealed.

  Limping past a tree, Neal saw them ahead and still a distance over to his left – maybe twenty feet away.

  Dim, vague shapes that seemed to be facing each other. One blacker than the darkness, one pale. Both mottled by random flecks and dabs of light that reached them through the foliage.

  The pale one, definitely the woman, was facing the dark one. She didn’t seem to be wearing any clothes. She had her back to a tree trunk. Perhaps she was tied to it. Neal could see her squirming. He heard her sobbing.

  The man’s dark arm reached toward her. He held something shiny. A small tool of some sort.

  Pliers?

  ‘No!’ the woman gasped. ‘Please!’

  ‘Oh yes, oh yes,’ the man said.

  The tool moved toward her left breast.

  Neal yelled, ‘Drop it!’

  Both heads turned fast.

  The man had a white face masked by wild black hair.

  ‘Drop the fuckin’ pliers, Rasputin!’ Neal yelled. ‘I’ll blow your head off!’

  He flung his arms high. ‘Don’t shoot!’ he yelled. ‘I give up! Don’t shoot!’

  Above his head, specked with moonlight, Neal saw the pliers in his right hand and a knife in his left. The slim, tapering blade of the knife looked almost as long as the man’s forearm.

  ‘Drop that stuff,’ Neal said, aiming his Sig at the dark figure.

  Shaking.

  Heart racing, pounding.

  Mouth as dry as a handful of sand.

  The man turned toward him, arms still raised, knife and pliers still in his hands. He looked cadaverous. His black hair and beard hid most of his face except for pale knobs of cheekbones. His long-sleeved, black shirt seemed to cling to the bones of his arms and ribcage, hug his sunken belly. The way his black trousers gleamed, they were probably leather. His black gloves appeared to be leather, too.

  ‘Drop the knife and pliers,’ Neal said.

  ‘Get outa here. Go on. This isn’t any business of yours.’

  ‘Wanta bet?’ Neal said.

  ‘It’s just between her and me.’

  ‘Not anymore.’

  ‘She’s my wife.’

  ‘It’s a lie!’ the woman blurted. ‘He grabbed me! Kidnapped me!’

  ‘See how she lies?’

  ‘You shut up,’ Neal told him.

  ‘Want in on her?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Just you and me. We do her when we get done, nobody’ll ever know the difference.’

  Neal shook his head.

  ‘Sure you do.’ In the blackness of the man’s beard, teeth appeared. ‘You a man?’

  ‘Please,’ the woman gasped. ‘Help me.’

  ‘You’d better drop that stuff,’ Neal said.

  ‘I’ll let you fuck her.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then fuck you, Charlie,’ the man said, and threw the knife at Neal.

  Neal fired three times as he ducked, the blasts crashing in his ears, the pistol jolting his arm. The man in black, hit, staggered backward a step just as the knife whipped past the side of Neal’s face. A couple more steps. Then a hard sit-down. He sat there, arms hanging, the pliers still in his right hand, his legs stretched out and twitching as if he wanted to kick off his boots.

  Neal aimed at the shaggy black head and fired again.

  The man’s head jerked as if kicked under the chin, and he flopped backward.

  Two

  ‘Hello?’

  He turned his head toward the sound of the voice and saw the vague, pale shape of a woman standing in front of a tree.

  Oh, he thought. Yeah. Her.

  The man Neal had shot, stretched out straight on the ground, looked like a black shadow. He hadn’t moved in a long time. He hadn’t moved at all, in fact, since flopping backward from the head shot.

  ‘Hello?’ the woman said again.

  Neal looked at her again.

  ‘Are you all right?’ she asked.

  Sure I am, he thought. Why shouldn’t I be? He’s the dead guy, not me.

  ‘Mister? Are you okay?’

  Am I okay? he wondered. After a while, he answered, ‘Yeah.’ His voice sounded dull and far away.

  ‘Can you get up?’

  Up?

  He realized that he was down on his knees. It startled him, upset him. Quickly, he stood up. ‘I’m fine,’ he said. ‘Just . . . I don’t know . . . I’ve never . . . how are you?’

  ‘I want to get out of here.’

  ‘Are you okay?’ he asked.

  ‘Not exactly. Come here, okay? Come over here?’

  ‘Yeah. Okay.’

  Neal walked toward her. He felt trembly and weak. His right arm, hanging limp by his side, swung with the weight of the pistol.

  The woman was naked, just as he’d thought. Her skin looked ghostly pale except for the dark smudges of her eyes, nostrils, mouth, nipples and navel. And except for the blood. He supposed it must be blood – those black and crooked strings that led down her skin from several wounds.

  ‘He cut you,’ Neal said.

  ‘That’s okay. I’ll live. Can you untie me?’

  ‘Sure.’ He started to slip the pistol into the pocket of his shorts, then stopped and looked over at the man he’d shot.

  ‘Don’t worry about him.’

  ‘Is he dead?’ Neal asked.

  ‘He hasn’t moved.’

  ‘Jesus.’

  ‘It’s all right. You did the right thing. He was some kind of a maniac.’

  ‘Keep an eye on him, okay?’

  ‘I will.’

  Neal went ahead and slipped the gun into his pocket. Then he stepped past the woman’s side. Her left arm slanted away from her shoulder toward the back of the tree trunk. A rope, wrapped around her wrist, was stretched around behind the trunk to the other side, where it bound her right wrist.

  Neal decided to stay at her left side, where the woman and the tree blocked his view of the man in black.

  She’ll tell me if he moves.

  With his fingertips, Neal started to pluck at the tight cluster of knots near the woman’s wrist. His eyes were no help with the work, so he looked at her.

  Beyond her upper arm, her left breast swelled out. Neal had a wonderful view of it, in spite of the poor light. It was rather small and nicely shaped, and the nipple jutted out. It was near enough to touch.

  He kept his hands busy with the knots.

  ‘I’m Elise,’ she said.

  ‘I’m Neal.’

  ‘Thank God you came along when you did.’

  ‘I hea
rd you yell for help.’

  ‘He said it wouldn’t do any good. He said nobody’d ever hear me. And if they did, they’d ignore it.’

  ‘I almost did.’

  The knots felt hard as iron, but he didn’t give up.

  He watched Elise’s chest expand, breast rising, as she took a deep breath.

  ‘I was taking a couple of movies back to Video City,’ he explained.

  ‘At this hour?’

  ‘They’re due before midnight.’

  ‘Are you going to make it?’ she asked.

  ‘I don’t think so. It doesn’t matter.’

  ‘Sorry I ruined things for you.’

  ‘Are you kidding?’

  ‘I’ll be glad to pay your late charges.’

  ‘Forget it. Really.’

  ‘You saved my life,’ she said.

  ‘Yeah, I guess so.’

  ‘No guessing. My God. Getting killed . . . that wouldn’t have been the worst of it, either, I don’t think.’

  ‘Well, you’ll be okay now. Except I can’t get the knots undone.’

  ‘Maybe you can use his knife.’

  He remembered the big knife whipping past his ear. ‘I don’t know if I can find it. Anyway, I shouldn’t touch it, you know? It’d mess up his fingerprints. We should probably leave everything the way it is, so we don’t disturb any evidence.’

  ‘Including me?’ she asked.

  ‘Well . . . I hadn’t actually thought of that. Might not be a bad idea. If they see how he tied you up like this . . .’

  ‘I don’t want any cops seeing me.’ She turned her head as if trying to look at Neal over her left shoulder. ‘I don’t want anyone seeing me this way.’

  Neal blushed. ‘Sorry,’ he murmured.

  ‘You’re different,’ she said. ‘You saved me. Look to your heart’s content.’

  ‘Uh. Anyway . . .’

  ‘Anyway, are you sure you want the cops getting involved in this?’

  ‘They’ll probably show up any minute.’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ Elise said.

  ‘Somebody must’ve reported those gunshots.’ Even as he spoke the words, he realized how naive he was being. Rarely a night went by when he didn’t hear a few distant banging noises that might be gunshots. Or might be, instead, the sounds of slamming doors, automobile backfires, firecrackers, whatever. Some of the noises had to be gunfire, but he’d never called the police about any of them.

  In this case, the shots had been fired in a strip of thick woods below the Santa Monica Freeway. Nobody passing along on the freeway was likely to have noticed them.

  The nearest homes were those shabby places across the field and railroad tracks, beyond the chainlink fence, all the way over on the other side of the road. People living there were probably used to strange noises coming from this direction. Especially backfires.

  ‘If someone called the police,’ Elise said, ‘where are they?’

  ‘On their way, maybe. It takes a while . . .’

  ‘It’s probably been fifteen or twenty minutes since the shots.’

  ‘No,’ Neal said. ‘Not even five.’

  ‘I haven’t exactly checked my watch,’ Elise told him. On the side of her face that showed above her left shoulder, the corner of her mouth seemed to rise. ‘It’s been a lot more than five minutes, though. You zoned out. You must’ve been on your knees for at least fifteen minutes.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘It’s true. I just stood here and waited. Tried to pull myself together. But I finally figured we might end up here all night if I didn’t speak up. Looks like we’re going to be here all night, anyway, unless you go find the knife, or something.’

  ‘Not the knife,’ he said. ‘I shouldn’t touch it.’

  ‘Well, find something. Okay?’ She sounded about ready to cry again. ‘I don’t like this. I want to get out of here.’

  ‘I’ll get something,’ Neal said. He stepped around to the front of the tree. He looked toward where the knife must’ve gone after flying past his face.

  It should stay where it is, he told himself. Wherever that might be. Let the cops be the ones to find it.

  He thought about making a quick return to his car. Probably something there . . . Sure. There should be a pocket knife somewhere in the console.

  ‘I could go to my car,’ he said. ‘I’ve got . . .’

  ‘No, don’t. Don’t leave me alone. Please.’

  ‘It’d just take a few minutes.’

  ‘Something might happen. Please. Maybe . . . See if he has something.’

  Pliers, Neal thought. Pliers, if nothing else.

  ‘Okay,’ he said. He walked slowly toward the body. He felt crawly inside.

  What if the guy’s not dead?

  What if he is dead?

  Either way, Neal didn’t care for the idea of going in close to him.

  He pushed a hand deep into the right front pocket of his shorts, took hold of the pistol, and pulled it out. He was fairly sure that he had fired three shots.

  No, four.

  Three quick ones, plus the head shot.

  He was almost certain he’d started off with six cartridges in the magazine, and none in the chamber. He should have two rounds left.

  It was a double-action pistol and had no safety, so . . .

  Grimacing, he raised the gun close to his face. Not enough light. With his left hand, he fingered the rear area of the slide, searching for the hammer.

  He found it all the way back.

  In the dark, after blasting the man to the ground, he’d obviously forgotten to use the decocking lever. He had dropped the weapon into his pocket, at full cock with a round in the chamber.

  Jesus, he thought. Could’ve blown my leg open.

  Keeping the pistol cocked, his finger light against the trigger, he stepped past the man’s feet and crouched down. The pliers lay on the ground near the man’s right hand.

  ‘Is he dead?’ Elise asked.

  ‘I guess so.’

  ‘Shouldn’t you make sure?’

  ‘You mean like shoot him again?’

  ‘No! Check his vital signs.’

  ‘Like his pulse?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘I’d have to touch him.’ Quickly, he added, ‘Anyway, I don’t think it’s necessary. He isn’t moving. I don’t hear any breathing, either. I’m pretty sure he’s dead. I mean, I shot him in the head.’

  For a few moments, Elise was silent. Then she said, ‘You’re going to check his pockets, aren’t you?’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘Maybe he has a pocket knife or something.’

  ‘I think the pliers’ll work fine.’ Keeping his pistol aimed at the body, he reached for the pliers with his left hand. He watched the man’s gloved hand. He half expected it to make a grab for him. But it didn’t move. He picked up the pliers and hurried away. After a few steps, he glanced back.

  ‘He isn’t coming,’ Elise said.

  ‘I know.’

  The pliers in his hand felt contaminated. As if they’d been soiled by all the suffering they’d caused, and might pass the filth to him.

  He imagined himself suddenly clamping their jaws on Elise’s nipple, squeezing hard, making her scream.

  The fantasy sickened him.

  Possessed pliers.

  They’re just a tool, he told himself.

  Like my gun.

  Stopping by Elise’s side, he clamped the pliers under one arm and decocked his pistol. Then he dropped the pistol into his right front pocket. He took the pliers in his right hand.

  ‘Watch out with those, okay?’ Elise said.

  ‘Don’t worry.’

  ‘They can really hurt.’

  ‘I bet.’ Left hand holding her above the wrist, he caught a loop of the knot in the jaws of the pliers and tugged.

  And felt the hard knot soften.

  ‘It’s coming,’ he said.

  ‘Thank God.’

  ‘Keep an eye on him.’


  ‘I am.’

  Continuing to work on the knot, Neal said, ‘I mean, I know he’s dead, but . . . That’s what they always think, you know? In the movies? Like Halloween, that sort of thing. You always think the bad guy’s dead, and then he gets you. I know it’s just the movies, but . . .’

  ‘Sometimes life’s worse than the movies,’ Elise broke in.

  ‘Yeah. You can say that again.’

  ‘And sometimes it’s better.’

  ‘Think so?’

  ‘And it’s always stranger.’

  ‘Stranger?’

  ‘I think so. Yeah.’

  ‘Well,’ Neal said, ‘all this is sure awfully strange. Me just happening to come by at exactly the right time and saving you.’

  ‘A few minutes earlier couldn’t have hurt.’

  ‘Yeah. God. I sure wish . . .’

  ‘I was kidding,’ she said. ‘I mean, it would’ve been nice, but on the other hand, I might not’ve yelled just as you drove by. I wouldn’t exactly like to go back in time and give it another whirl. You might miss me altogether, and then where would I be?’

  ‘Good point,’ Neal agreed.

  ‘I’m not about to quibble about how it turned out. It’s like a miracle.’

  ‘Or a bunch of lucky accidents.’

  ‘I don’t believe in accidents,’ Elise said. ‘Everything happens for a reason.’

  ‘Well . . . I guess you weren’t meant to die tonight. And he was.’

  ‘And we were meant to meet.’

  He blushed. ‘Guess so.’ Then the last twist of rope yielded to the pliers. ‘There,’ he said.

  Elise sighed. Her wrist shoved against his hand, so he let go. She swung her arm forward, shaking the loose circle of rope off her hand. Then she stepped away from the tree. With a swing of her right arm, she whipped the rope out from behind it.

  She hunched over slightly, head down.

  Neal looked at her back and the curves of her buttocks and her slender legs.

  We were meant to meet.

  ‘Could you help me with this?’ she asked. Turning toward him, she held out her right hand. It was still bound with knotted rope.

  ‘Sure.’

  When he reached out, she took hold of his hand. She gripped it firmly while he used the pliers in his other hand to grab and rip at the knots. He tried to avoid staring at her body. He couldn’t help it, though. Sometimes, when he jerked hard with the pliers, her breasts joggled. He could see that happen, even with the bad light. He could also see the neat little patch of hair at her groin.