She rode to Valhalla with Kipling; stormed the gates of Moscow with Tolstoy; conned her ,ay to New Orleans with Twain. She learned class from Shaw, grace from Galsworthy, elegance from Henry James. She was Anna Karenina, Sarah Bernhardt and Holly Golightly. She made up stories in school, told them to her toothbrush in the bathroom, to her dog, her cat, to anyone who would listen. And when old movies started appearing on television, she was Rosalind Russell, James Cagney and Pat O’Brien all wrapped in one, in hot pursuit of the big story. The scoop.
She was editor of the school paper, a job usually relegated to chubby girls who wore glasses, since it was assumed that they were more serious than pretty girls with tits and ass, or to boys, who were too horny to do an anything right. She wore her father’s old fedora with a press pass in the brim, barked orders and drove everybody crazy. The paper won the Sigma Chi award as the best high school newspaper in the state. She got a personal award for best editorial. It was about the passing of the town’s last blacksmith. That was when she was sixteen, her junior year.
And then she became seventeen. That year something happened to Lizzy. She got skinny. Skinny the way girls dream of being skinny.
It happened suddenly. Like a cocoon bursting open, the fat just fell away and suddenly there was Lizzie Gunn, five feet tail, ninety-four pounds, with the best tits and ass in Ozone High School. The Hair-breath Harrys of the school went crazy. Her phone rang constantly, now she was cute.
She was also independent, somewhat eccentric, a daydreamer and a loner. Slimmed down, she had boundless energy.
Ozone to Missouri U. to Lincoln to Chicago to Boston. Life had been upbeat ever since. After Ozone, nothing would ever be dull again. Dull dissolved into the six o’clock nightly news and a constant what she called ‘twiddle’ in her stomach. Her stomach had been in a ‘twiddle’ ever since. And now, sitting with Frank O’Hara chasing a chimera named Chameleon, all her fantasies, daydreams, aspirations, everything! had come true.
She kept the story short. Sunk down in the comfortable chair, he kept looking at her over his kneecaps as though he were sighting a gun. This time she stared back, and when she was finished she went right back to the subject at hand.
‘I can’t believe a man is probably getting killed at this very moment and we’re just sitting here helplessly.’
O’Hara got up and walked to the bed, and taking her hands, guided her to her feet. He put his arms around her and hugged her. It was a friendly hug, meant to restore her sense of security. She was moved by the simple act, and the warmth of his body was reassuring.
‘It got too nasty, too fast,’ he said.
‘You were right,’ she said, ‘those Mafia guys were kid stuff.’
He ran his finger down her cheek and along her jaw.
‘M-m-maybe you’re right, maybe I’m not cut out for all this.’ My God, I’m stammering, she thought.
‘We did the best we could. Life’s a lot easier if you can accept the inevitable.’ He stroked the soft part of her ear.
‘I thought I was so clever, following him that way and then I turned a corner and—’
‘We can’t brood over it. I made a bad call. The man’s a pro. It’s what he does. Put it behind you.’ He lightly stroked her neck with his fingertips.
She moved a little closer. He began to stroke her cheeks with his fingertips, then ran them lightly over her lower lip.
She thought, Does he think he can do this for a minute or two and I’ll just fall into bed?
He said, ‘Close your eyes, Lizzie.’
She felt his wet lips slipping back and forth on hers and then his tongue barely touching her lips.
She thought, yep, that’s exactly what he thinks.
Her mouth pouted open very slightly and the end of her tongue touched his.
And she thought, He’s right.
The storm was getting worse. Lightning etched the clouds and speared the earth. The world lit up for a second, then pow!—the power went off and there was utter darkness.
Hinge inched closer to the window.
She slipped away from him for a moment and her lighter flicked. There were five candles in the room and she lit them. The flames wavered in the cool breeze blowing through the windows.
‘I’m a candlelight freak,’ she said in a whisper.
‘Some tough cookie,’ he said, taking her shirt collar in his hands and drawing her lightly to him again.
Her emotions were hardly stable. She was tingling from the excitement of the night — and aroused by it. She found O’Hara irresistible, the pirate who comes swinging out of nowhere, snatches her out of the slave market and carries her away on his ship. It was a fantasy created when she first became aware of her sensuality, one that had persisted through the years. And finally she had met the pirate.
And she was the girl in his fantasy: vulnerable, lovely —but wonderfully experienced.
Hinge moved closer. It was raining harder and the wind was coming up and the garden around the cottage was turning into a mud hole and lightning seemed to be showering to the earth and in its garish light, he watched the man’s fingers unbuttoning the girl’s blouse. It seemed to take forever. Then the blouse fell open, but the man was between Hinge and the girl. He moved to the next window, saw him silhouetted against the garish flashes of lightning, barely tracing her full breasts with his thumb; taking her blouse off and dropping it on the bed; kissing her throat, her shoulders, the edge of her breast.
Hinge took the cigar from his shirt pocket and put it between his teeth and slipped the knife out of his sleeve. He risked the chance that the lights might suddenly come back on or that he would be seen in a flare of lightning. They were too involved to see anything. The guy ought to thank him. What a way to go. He would dirk the man first and kill the girl with a dart if he did not kill the man with his first thrust. O’Hara and Eliza were a single moving form in the candlelight, illuminated sporadically by the yellow glare of the storm, fumbling with belts and buttons, finally entwined, hands searching, lips tasting, as he lowered her slowly to the bed.
Fronds slapped one another in the wind, and the pelting rain stung his face. He could see them through the louvered window, dimly on the bed, naked now, lying sideways facing each other.
Eliza felt O’Hara pressing against her, his lips seemed to be all over her body, on her nipples, her stomach. His tongue explored her while she moved her hands over his back, feeling his skin, the deep arch in his back, his hard ass. She pressed slightly and he responded lightly. It was beginning. She could feel it on the back of her neck, under her ears, welling up in her stomach. She forgot where she was, who she was with, everything but the feeling that kept building, the wonderful electric responses to each touch and kiss.
Hinge started around the corner of the cottage. He reached out to try the door.
He did not hear or see the wire loop drop over his head, was not aware of its presence until it bit into his neck.
He reacted immediately and by instinct. First he shoved himself backward toward his assailant. He bunched up his neck, swelling the muscles against the wire. Then he reached back, trying to grab his attacker. Nobody.
He was on the Leash.
The wire jerked him again and he went backwards across the sidewalk into the wet sand, rolling as he hit the ground and twisting so that he came to his knees facing the assassin. He saw only a tall, dim figure holding the garrotte wire.
It was an old trick, using the Leash. The wire ran through a small ratchet, which could be tightened by pulling the wire. The killer stayed three or four feet behind the victim, constantly throwing him off balance until the wire suffocated him.
The wire had cut deep. Hinge could feel its harsh edge against his windpipe. He slashed out with the knife and tried to cut the wire. Moving quickly behind him, the assailant jerked him over backwards.