I threw my legs apart so Murphy wouldn’t land on them.
My bare feet slapped against the bottom of the tub. For a moment, I seemed to be standing, hunched low over Murphy as if looking for a good way to sit on him. It seemed like a long moment. I saw him down there, looking limp and odd. I sure didn’t want to sit on him. But I probably would’ve done it, anyway, if I’d had a choice.
I didn’t.
Because it was only a moment, and I might’ve seemed to be standing, but I wasn’t.
I was just pausing in mid-fall.
Waving my arms, I tumbled backward. My butt slapped against the edge of the tub—between Murphy’s knees. Then my legs flew up and I dropped to the floor.
My back smacked the tile floor.
Then my head thumped it.
And that, as they say, was “all she wrote.”
At least for a pretty long while.
I don’t know what I dreamed about. Probably something bad. Whatever it might’ve been, though, at least I didn’t wake up choking.
Just with a horrid headache.
I was lying on my back with my legs up, calves resting on the edge of the tub. The way Murphy’s feet were sticking out, I figured he was probably in the reverse of my position, and inside the tub.
“Murph?” I asked.
He didn’t answer.
Then I remembered the sound and feel of his head striking the wall—and my glimpse of him as I fell.
“Murph?” I asked again. “Are you okay?”
Nothing.
“Are you dead?”
Nothing.
“God,” I muttered.
Then I started to cry.
A word of advice: don’t ever cry when you’ve got a splitting headache. The crying does something to the pressure inside your head. Pretty soon, I felt like I had a team of maniacs chewing and clawing through my brain.
It seemed to get worse and worse. I tore off my wig of red hair and flung it aside. I felt a little better without it, but not much.
The pain still raging, I clutched both sides of my head.
Finally, I figured my position on the floor wasn’t helping matters. I needed to get up. So I drew in my legs. They were pretty numb from the calves down because of how they’d been resting on the tub’s edge. But I brought them to my side of the tub, anyway, and shoved with my feet.
My back slid over the tile floor. As I scooted, the top of my head ran into Murphy’s trunks and pushed them along in front of me. I ended up in the puddle of hydrogen peroxide with the plastic bottle against my shoulder.
For a while, I just lay there on my back, sobbing and holding my head, my legs straight out on the floor.
I knew I should be trying to get away.
But I couldn’t.
And didn’t really care.
I felt too miserable to care about anything.
I’d killed Murphy.
I’d damn near busted my own head open.
Maybe I did!
Raising my head slightly, I explored it with my fingers. My hair was wet—maybe with blood. But I found no gaping fissures, no spilling brains. Just a bump high on the back of my head, as if half a golf ball had been stuffed underneath my scalp.
I looked at my fingers. They were wet, but not bloody.
Pretty soon, I rolled over. I crawled out of the bathroom. Off the tiles and onto the carpet of the living room.
As I crawled toward the coffee table, CNN blared at me about some damn ferry boat sinking in some Godforsaken corner of the world.
Like I could give a shit. I had problems of my own.
The voices made my head throb.
So I took a detour to the television. Kneeling in front of it, I had to squint because of the picture’s brightness. But I found the power button and hit it with a knuckle. The TV suddenly went dark and silent.
Much better.
Turning around, I crawled the rest of the way to the table. I grabbed its edge and pushed myself up. On my knees, I studied the clutter for a few seconds.
I was looking for the Excedrin and the water glass, but the first thing I saw was Murphy’s book. The one that he’d autographed for me. Deep Dead Eyes.
It wasn’t something I wanted to be seeing just then.
I looked away from it fast.
When I spotted the plastic bottle of Excedrin, I reached out and grabbed it. I pulled it over to me, then got hold of the glass.
It was half full of water.
I tossed four Excedrin tablets into my mouth. Then, with a shuddering hand, I picked up the glass. I gulped the water and swallowed the tablets.
They went down fine.
I was still awfully thirsty, though. Holding on to the glass, I struggled to my feet. I staggered into the kitchen, turned on the faucet, and filled the glass with cold water. I drank it all. Then I refilled the glass. This time, I sipped it slowly and looked around.
Murphy’s kitchen seemed to double for an office. Its breakfast table held a computer, piles of paper and stacks of books. I could almost see him sitting at the table, rubbing his hair and frowning with thought.
No more books for him.
Starting to feel worse, I turned away and saw a clock above the kitchen’s entryway.
1:25
Early afternoon. A lot earlier than I would’ve thought.
What’ll I do?
I wanted to lie down on a nice bed and sleep. Make my headache go away. Make all this go away. At least for a while.
Lie down in my own bed…
But I couldn’t do that, couldn’t leave, not without taking care of the evidence.
A major clean-up to get rid of every trace of me.
It seemed like a huge, impossible job.
The way I felt…
I filled the glass once more with water, then carried it out of the kitchen and into Murphy’s bedroom.
As I made my way toward the bed, I saw three of the ropes he’d used on me. They lay on the carpet like pale, dead snakes. Each was still tied to a leg of the bed.
I’ll have to take those…
I saw the condom, too. On the floor where I’d dropped it when I took Murphy into my mouth.
The pale white disk looked like a sea creature you might find washed up on a beach, dead.
I’ll have to get rid of it.
But I could do nothing, now.
I set the glass of water on the nightstand, then crawled onto the bed, sprawled myself out on its rumpled sheet, and buried my face in the pillow.
39
SO LONG, MY SWEET
Most of my headache was gone when I woke up.
I was still facedown on Murphy’s bed, as if I hadn’t moved at all during my nap.
I’d drooled all over his pillow.
The sheet underneath me was sodden with my sweat.
I thought how nice it might be to take a shower, but then I remembered that Murphy was in the tub.
Dead.
I’d killed him.
I hadn’t meant to, but that didn’t count for much: he was just as dead, either way.
And here I was, sprawled on his bed like Goldilocks.
What if somebody shows up?
I’ve gotta get out of here.
So I rolled over, twisted sideways until my legs fell off the edge of the mattress, and sat up. I groaned. My body felt ruined. I was sore and stiff and achy almost everywhere. But at least my head no longer burned with pain.
I could think again.
I could function.
I could, but didn’t.
Not for a while, anyway.
For a while, I just sat on the edge of the bed, my head hanging, my back bent, my elbows on my thighs, my feet on the floor.