At one of the front windows, he parted the drapes a fraction of an inch, just enough to see the porch. A woman was standing at the door, unaware that she was under observation. In sandals, white shorts, and a scoop-necked orange sweater, she was even better-looking than Brenda Macklin.
Brenda said, “I’m dressed.”
The doorbell rang again.
Letting go of the drapery, Salsbury said, “It’s a woman. You better answer it. But get rid of her. Whatever you do, don’t let her inside.”
“What should I say?”
“If it’s someone you’ve never seen before, you don’t have to say anything.”
“Otherwise?”
“Tell her you’ve got a headache. A terrible migraine headache. Now go.”
She went out of the room.
When he heard her open the door in the foyer, he parted the velvet again in time to see a smile touch the face of the woman in the orange sweater. She said something, and Brenda replied, and the smile was replaced by a look of concern. Filtered through the walls and windows, their voices were hardly more than whispers. He couldn’t follow the conversation, but it seemed to go on forever.
Maybe you should have let her come inside, he thought. Use the code phrase on her. Then screw them both.
But what if you let her come in and then discover she’s got a weak spot in her program?
Not much chance of that.
Or what if she’s from out of town? A relative from Bexford, perhaps. Then what?
Then she’d have to be killed.
And how would you dispose of the body?
Under his breath he said, “Come on, Brenda, you bitch. Get rid of her. ”
Finally, the stranger turned away from the door. Salsbury had a brief glimpse of green eyes, ripe lips, a superb profile, extremely deep cleavage in the scoop-necked sweater. When she had her back to him and was going down the steps, he saw that her legs weren’t just sexy, as Brenda’s were, but sexy and elegant, even without nylons. Long, taut, smooth, scissoring legs, feminine muscles bunching and twisting and stretching and compacting and rippling sinuously with each step. An animal. A healthy animal. His animal. Like all of them now: his. At the end of the Macklin property, she turned left into the searing afternoon sun, distorted by waves of heat rising from the concrete sidewalk, soon out of sight.
Brenda came back into the living room.
When she started to sit down, he said, “Stand. The middle of the room.”
She did that, her hands at her sides.
Returning to the sofa, he said, “What did you tell her?”
“That I had a migraine headache. ”
“She believed you?”
“I guess so.”
“Did you know her?”
“Yes.”
“Who was she?”
“My sister-in-law.”
“She lives in Black River?”
“Has most all her life.”
“Quite a looker.”
“She was in the Miss USA contest.”
“Oh? When was that?”
“Twelve, thirteen years ago.”
“Still looks twenty-two.”
“She’s thirty-five.”
“She win?”
“Came in third.”
“Big disappointment, I’ll bet.”
“For Black River. She didn’t mind.”
“She didn’t? Why not?”
“Nothing bothers her.”
“Is that so?”
“She’s that way. Always happy.”
“What’s her name?”
“Emma.”
“Last name?”
“Thorp. ”
“Thorp? She married?”
“Yes.”
He frowned. “To that cop?”
“He’s the chief of police.”
“Bob Thorp.”
“That’s right.”
“What’s she doing with him?”
She was baffled.
She blinked at him.
Cute little animal.
He swore he could still smell her.
She said, “What do you mean?”
“What I said. What’s she doing with him?”
“Well… they’re married.”
“A woman like her with a big, dumb cop.”
“He’s not dumb,” she said.
“Looks dumb to me.” He thought about it for a moment, and then he smiled. “Your maiden name’s Brenda Thorp.”
“Yes. ”
“Bob Thorp’s your brother.”
“My oldest brother.”
“Poor Bob.” He leaned back in the sofa and folded his arms on his chest and laughed. “First I get to his kid sister — then I get to his wife.”
She smiled uncertainly. Nervously.
“I’ll have to be careful, won’t I?”
“Careful?” she said.
“Bob may be dumb, but he’s big as a bull.”
“He isn’t dumb,” she insisted.
“In high school I dated a girl named Sophia.”
She was silent. Confused.
“Sophia Brookman. God, I wanted her.”
“Loved her?”
“Love’s a lie. A myth. It’s bullshit. I just wanted to screw her. But she dropped me after a few dates and started going with this other guy, Joey Duncan. You know what Joey Duncan did after high school?”
“How would I know?”
“He went to junior college.”
“So did I.”
“Took criminology for a year.”
“I majored in history.”
“He flunked out.”
“Not me.”
“Ended up with the hometown police.”
“Just like my brother.”
“I went to Harvard.”
“Did you really?”
“I was always a better dresser than Joey was. Besides that, he was as dull as a post. I was much wittier than he was. Joey didn’t read anything but the jokes in Reader’s Digest. I read The New Yorker every week.”
“I don’t like either one.”
“In spite of all that, Sophia preferred him. But you know what?”
“What?”
“It was in The New Yorker that I first saw something about subliminal perception. Back in the fifties. An article, editorial, maybe a little snippet at the bottom of a column. I forget exactly what it was. But that’s what got me started. Something in The New Yorker.”
Brenda sighed. Fidgeted.
“Tired of standing?”
“A little.”
“Are you bored?”
“Kind of. ”
“Bitch.”
She looked at the floor.
“Get your clothes off.”
The lovely power. He was filled with it, brimming with it — but it had changed. At first it had seemed to him like a steady, exhilarating current. Part of the time it was still like that, a soft humming inside of him, perhaps imagined but nevertheless electrifying, a river of power on which he sailed in complete command. But occasionally now, for short periods, it felt not like a constant flow but like a continuous and endless series of short, sharp bursts. The power like a submachine gun: tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat… The rhythm of it affected him. His mind spun. Thoughts advanced, no thought finished, leaping from one thing to another: Joey Duncan, Harvard, key-lock, Miriam, his mother, dark-eyed Sophia, breasts, sex, Emma Thorp, bitches, Dawson, Brenda, his growing erection, his mother, Klinger, Brenda, cunt, the power, jackboots, Emma’s legs—
“What now?”
She was naked.
He said, “Come here.”
Little animal.
“Get down.”
“On the floor?”
“On your knees.”
She got down.
“Beautiful animal.”
“You like me?”
“You’ll do until.”
“Until what?”
“Until I get your sister-in-law.”
“Emma?”
“I’ll make him watch.”
“Who?”
“That dumb cop.”