I drove past again and on down the road a few hundred yards, to where I’d U-turned the first time. Mine was still the only car in sight. I made another quick swing around, came back uphill in low gear. A short distance below the driveway, on my side of the road, my headlights picked up a narrow, rough-earth turnout. I cut the lights and eased in there, making certain I was all the way off the pavement before I shut off the engine.
I felt around under the dash, unsnapped the .38 Colt Bodyguard from its clips, and slid the gun into my pocket. Heavy darkness broken only by those distant shards of light enveloped me as I got out: the road was still deserted. Cold, pummeling wind, directionless night sounds, the strong resinous scent of evergreens and the more pungent flavor of woodsmoke. I pulled my coat collar up, ran across the road to the driveway.
It was of packed earth, rutted and overlain with a carpeting of pine needles. There was enough starshine overhead to outline the ruts and uneven ground between them; the tree shadow along both sides was as thick as black paste. I walked in as fast as I dared, head down and body bent so I could watch my footing. Dry needles and twigs crackled under my weight, but the wind made more than enough noise to drown out small sounds. The woodsmoke smell was stronger in there.
Off to my left the light grew less fragmented, and when the track began to curve, the trees thinned out and I could see part of a clearing, then the black bulk of the cabin. The light came from inside, making a warm yellow rectangle of a front window. In the outspill, there was the gleam of metal and glass — two cars parked before a narrow, railed porch, one medium-size and dark colored, the other low-slung and light colored.
Richard Twining was here, all right. And he wasn’t by himself.
I changed course slightly, taking an angle that brought me to the cabin on the side away from the lighted window. Music played inside, not loud, just discernible above the skirl of the wind. I passed slowly alongside the sports car, ducked under the log rail at the far end and lifted up on the porch.
Boards creaked, but barely loud enough for me to hear. I took another step, and there was a wind gust that hammered a shutter or loose shingle somewhere, created a series of mutters and rattles and shushes in the trees. By the time it lulled again I was past the front door and up against the wall next to the lighted window.
Inside, a woman laughed suddenly, a shrill giggle that ended in a kind of squeal. Then the squeal became something else, a long, drawn-out sighing moan. I knew that sound, all right; there is no other like it and its cause is as old as time. I eased my head and body around, not being too cautious about it because there was no longer any need, and peered in through the glass.
They were on the floor in front of a stone fireplace, on a scatter of oversize throw pillows. Light from a log fire and a squatty end-table lamp shone on outflung arms and legs and bare, sweat-shiny flesh. The woman was on top, turned in profile to me — young, carrot-topped, plump, and enthusiastic; I had never seen her before. Twining’s face was clearly visible, teeth bared, eyes open and lust-popped, a satyr’s mask that turned my stomach. Under other circumstances I would have looked away immediately; I’ve never much cared for sex as a spectator sport. But it was not what they were doing that kept me standing there a few seconds longer. It was what I saw when he arched his body, twisted and lifted his head off the pillow: three parallel lines a couple of inches long, an angry red in the firelight and lampshine, on the left side of his neck down to the collarbone.
No doubt of it now, none at all. The anger in me boiled up, to the point where I did not give a damn about being reckless. I sidestepped to the door, felt for the knob, turned it. Not locked. Good. Less wear and tear on me.
I went in, making as much noise as I could, and slammed the door behind me.
22
There was nothing comical in the way they broke apart, surged up off the floor in a wild untangling of arms and legs and bumping of bodies. Or in the way the woman grabbed up one of the pillows to cover herself, making little frightened squeaking noises. Or in the way Twining gawked at me in those first few seconds, with slack-jawed incredulity and the clownlike foolishness of a middle-aged, paunchy stud caught in flagrante delicto. The whole scene was pathetic and shameful and disgusting. And I was loaded with too much dark and bitter rage.
He said, “You... what... Jesus Christ, how did you...” Confused and meaningless sputterings. He took a half-step toward me. “Son of a bitch...”
“Stay where you are.” I had my hand in my coat pocket, holding on to the gun, but I did not want to show it unless I was forced to; the plump carrot-top had nothing to do with this and she was scared enough as it was. I moved the pocket a little, with just enough menace to show Twining I was armed and meant business. But it was all right. Very few naked men are willing to start trouble with another who is fully dressed, and he wasn’t one of the few. Lover, big lover, not a fighter.
“Rich?” the woman said in querulous tones. “For God’s sake. Rich?”
He paid no attention to her. “What the hell’s the idea?” he said to me. Confusion giving way to blustery anger. And with the return of control came the realization that he was standing there nude in front of me. His gaze wavered and slid away, around behind him. His pants were draped across the back of a wicker sofa; he moved over there, trying not to be too eager about it, and managed to put them on without hopping around too much. That made him feel better. He came back to where he’d been before and glared at me and said, “What the fuck’s the idea? Who do you think you are, busting in here like this?”
Ignoring him, I said to the woman, “Go into the bedroom and put your clothes on. Then get in your car and drive away. Your boyfriend and I have some business to take care of.”
She looked at Twining, clutching the pillow against her body with both arms. “Rich?”
“Go on, get dressed,” he said without looking at her. “I’ll handle this.”
“Are you sure—?”
“Go on, go on!”
She went, scooping up clothing with one hand and then running. I didn’t pay any attention to where she went; I had eyes only for Twining.
He said, “I don’t have any goddamn business with you.”
“Sheila Hunter.”
“...What?”
“You heard me. Sheila Hunter.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Bluff and bluster, but he couldn’t keep the fear from showing in his eyes.
“How’d you get those scratches on your neck, Twining?”
His hand came halfway up, twitched, and went paralytically still. The fear was on his face now, in little beads of sweat. “I don’t have to answer that. This is my house — you’re trespassing on private property. I can have you arrested.”
“Go ahead. Call the law.”
“I will if you don’t get out of here—”
“I’m not going anywhere. You’re the one going somewhere.”
“Bullshit.” Then, “Where am I going?”
“You know where.”
The carrot-top came back into the room like somebody walking on hot embers. Wearing a green coat, her hair still tangled, her eyes still showing fright — but not as much fright as Twining’s.