That’ll cinch it for sure.
My brilliant idea was suddenly more brilliant than ever.
But it would require a trip to Serena and Charlie’s house.
It’ll be worth it.
Not wasting another moment, I pushed myself out of the water. With the sodden shirt in my hands, I climbed the bank and hurried to the table.
Judy was sprawled on top, the same way I’d left her.
Sitting on the bench, I dumped the water out of my shoes. Then I put them on again, climbed the bench and bent over her. Starting at her face, I washed her with the shirt. Water spilled off her, running onto the table, dribbling through the cracks between its boards and hitting the ground under the table with quiet splattery sounds.
I thought the water might wake her up, but it didn’t. She stayed limp.
I mopped her neck, her shoulders and breasts, then decided I needed more water. So I hurried back to the creek. This time, I didn’t fall in. With the shirt sopping again, I returned to Judy and worked my way lower down her body.
I made two more trips to the creek for water.
By the time I was done cleaning Judy, I’d drenched her from head to ankles and scrubbed every inch of her with the shirt.
Every inch of her front, anyway.
I didn’t turn her over, or see any reason to.
She gave me no trouble at all, just stayed limp except for a few times when she squirmed. Now and then, she made soft moaning sounds.
I washed the shirt out a final time and put it on the bench with my cut-offs.
It took a while, in the darkness, to find a good stick. There were plenty to choose from, though. I finally came up with a piece of branch about four feet long. At one end, it was just about the right thickness to wrap my fingers around. From there, it tapered down to about half that size. It had a few small limbs along the way, but I snapped them off.
Then I knelt on the table and went back to work on Judy.
Right away, she flinched and cried out and tried to sit up.
I clubbed her down with the heavy end of the stick. Four or five blows to the head and face, and she was limp again. After that, I focused on the places where I might’ve left bruises with my teeth and hands.
Really laid into her.
The heavy end made thunking sounds when it struck her. The other end whistled each time I swung it down, and whapped her skin like a switch.
She never flinched or cried out. Those early blows to the head had done her in.
At least for now.
Exhausted and drenched with sweat, I went down to the creek. I rolled in the cool water, then lay on my back for a while with only my face in the air. It felt great. But work still needed to be done.
Not quite ready to get going, I stayed in the water and made a list in my head:
1. Make sure Judy is dead.
2. Wipe my fingerprints off her car.
3. Run back to Serena and Charlie’s house.
4. Collect the sample off the glass door.
5. Run back here.
6. Add the sample to Judy’s body.
7. Go home.
It all had to be finished before sunrise. How much time did that give me? Two or three hours, probably.
Plenty of time.
But not if I spent the rest of the night relaxing in the creek.
So I climbed out and returned to the table. Kneeling on the bench, I put my ear close to Judy’s mouth. She didn’t seem to be breathing. Nor could I find a pulse at her neck or wrist.
She seemed to be dead.
But I’m no expert on that sort of thing.
I had to be completely sure.
The best way, I decided, was to cave in her head with a rock. Why use a rock? Because I didn’t want to fire my pistol again, I had no knife or saber, strangling or suffocating her seemed iffy, and drowning her in the creek would’ve been too much work. With a good, heavy rock, I could crack open her skull and spill her brains out and know she was dead.
To get one, I returned to the creek.
Standing in the water, I reached down between my feet and plucked out a rough-edged rock the size of a baseball.
It should do the job fine.
With the rock clutched in my right hand, I climbed onto the bank and took a couple of strides toward the picnic table.
And stopped.
The top of the table was speckled with moonlight.
A flat, empty surface.
Judy was gone.
17
GONE
No!
She wasn’t on the table, but she couldn’t be gone. Maybe she’d rolled off and fallen.
I ran to the table.
Without enough light to see if she was on the ground, I searched for her with my feet. I circled the entire table, sweeping my feet this way and that, hoping to kick her.
No Judy.
I tossed the rock away, dropped to my hands and knees, and crawled under the table. The ground was soggy.
No Judy.
I crawled backward. Clear of the table, I scrambled on my knees to the bench where I’d left my clothes. My shirt and cut-offs were still there.
So was the pistol.
My panic faded a little.
I stood up, quickly put on the shorts, and pulled the pistol out of my pocket. Turning slowly, I scanned the area. Judy couldn’t have gone far. In her shape, she was lucky she’d been able to move at all, much less get down from the table and sneak into the trees.
Unless she had help.
The prowler, for instance.
The idea sickened me with dread, but only for a moment.
Nobody had come to Judy’s rescue. I was almost certain of that. I can’t explain exactly why, but I’d sensed from the start that we were alone in our clearing by the creek. I’d felt the solitude, the privacy. I’d never doubted it.
“Judy?” I asked. I didn’t call it out, but spoke in a normal voice. And knew she was near enough to hear me.
Probably hiding in the bushes or trees just beyond the table, not daring to move because she knows I’ll hear her.
“Where are you, Judy? It’s me. Alice. Are you all right? I’m sorry I ran off and left you, but…I thought you were dead. Somebody ambushed us. Do you remember that?” (I figured her memory might be fuzzy about a lot of stuff, because of being shot in the head, etc.) “You got shot and went down, and I ran for my life.”
I saw no movement in the darkness of the woods. I didn’t hear anyone, either.
“Then I came sneaking back and saw this awful woman. She had you on top of the table. She was beating you with something. I wanted to help you, but…I wouldn’t have stood a chance, you know? I mean, she had a gun. She would’ve shot me, just like she shot you.”
I stopped telling the story, and listened.
Nothing.
“She finally quit beating you and went away,” I said. “She ran into the woods. I followed her for a couple of minutes to make sure she was really leaving, then I came back to help you, but…Where are you?”
No answer.
I wondered whether she was already out of earshot, or unconscious again—or just didn’t believe me.
“It’s safe for now,” I told her. “But that woman might come back pretty soon. You’d better come out. I know you must be scared and confused—and in terrible pain—but if she comes back…Please, Judy! I’m scared. Let’s get out of here! I’ll drive you to the emergency room.”
Drive?
What if Judy wasn’t cowering in the darkness beyond the table or unconscious or sneaking deeper into the woods?