“You would,” he said, utterly seriously.
"Oh Tiger—” she said, laughing softly at him, and warmly.
Now he chuckled at her. He had got the pitch.
“How are you?” he said.
“I could feel good,” she said, with a soft sigh.
“What do you hear from your brother?”
“He doesn’t like Vietnam.”
“I’ll bet he doesn’t.”
“He says it’s criminal, Tiger, is it?”
“It’s a dirty war, no doubt of it.”
“Well—I don’t know—Marie—” He paused, reflecting on it, “I don’t know. Should Americans protest?” He halted. “Why not? Tiger?”
“Well—we’re involved, in it—” He stopped again.
“It’s pretty sickening—”
“Yeh, I know, I know.” He paused—“That I know— Marie.”
For a moment, silence. They were looking at each other. “Well, anyway, Tiger—” She spoke quietly. “There won’t be any protesters in Sawyersville—” She paused— “Will there?”
Tiger grinned, wryly. He was struggling with it. That statement was true, without a doubt, no matter who felt what about it. What a world. What a rough world it was. And no doubt of it. He thought of Old Compone. Dallas was on another planet. Would things have been different? He wondered. Gazing at her. He thought of her brother. Everything. He turned to other things—
“What about the play?” He asked.
“Do we have time to talk about the play?” She said.
She had a point there. What a girl.
“What shall we talk about?” He asked. “I sure like that blouse.” He said.
“Shall I lock the door?” She said.
“You think of everything—”
“You're a dream—”
"Let's dream—”
She reached out for him and touched him. He admired her red hair. What hair. She murmured to him and stroked him. What a girL “What are you thinking of?" She said.
He grinned. “Being a good girl?” He touched her nose.
She smiled at him, a little flushed. She bent over and toward him and rubbed her nose against his. He saw those green eyes, he never could see enough of them. She smelled fresh, and good. She was in some mood and a half alright, Tiger mused. He was pulling away from darkness. He was alive, again—
“I’m always a good girl,” she said, kissing him, her eyes closed. He took her in his arms, and kissed her too, warmly.
“What am I going to do without you?” She said at last, murmuring softly to him, in his embrace.
“There’s a whole year to go,” he murmured to her, gliding his hands over her.
“It goes quick—so quick—” she said.
“That’s life—that’s how life is—I'm going to miss you—” he said, helping her out of her blouse, delighted at the exquisite sight. She had the whitest flesh. Her slip was the prettiest feminine thing. The feminine principle was the thing. She had on nothing. He fondled her breasts, lovingly, through the sheer slip. She slipped out of her skirt. She clasped him in a passionate embrace, murmuring his name. She pressed against him. That was always her way, Tiger mused, very warmly, caressing her hips. ... A girl with her own mind, who really knew her own mind, and what a mind.... He caressed tenderly.. . .
“A really good one—Tiger—sweet—” Marie said, rubbing herself against him, loving the strong phallus probing against her, ready for her. . . . "Oh God 1 need a good one—” she said, in a murmur close to a whisper. . . . "Tiger Sweet—” She was kissing him, merging with him, who could kiss like that—
“I’ll try my best,” Tiger told her, murmuring low to her, slipping her out of her slip. . . .
Surcher was up against it. He had released Jim Green, amid a fusillade of promises from his lawyer Phil Marlowe to “tear the State Police apart,” which he would no doubt attempt to do, Surcher knew. He had picked up Mr. Mummer, as per Mike McDrew’s tip (via the kid, Ponce de Leon), and he had released him too, after several hours’ questioning, having found absolutely nothing to connect him with things, not to mention that he didn’t for one moment believe him capable of such feats, if only on physical grounds, alone, however much of a fag he was, potential or otherwise. (He had finally admitted as much. He would fight, but he would disappear from the school, Surcher knew.) Certainly not. The man, or kid, who had lifted those girls around was no skinny thing. He had muscle on him, without a doubt On any grounds, Mummer just didn’t fit. He would be the last man on his list unless he actually caught him in the act sometime, and then he would have his eyes tested. He was up the creek, he knew. Not only was there obviously a first-class and pri-ma-facie kook loose in the school, having the time of his life dispatching young maids, but he left no clues. What would lead him to him? Again, outside of that crazy note, with not a print on it, he had nothing, absolutely. In a way he had hated releasing that kid, Green, for he looked good. But certainly he had no choice. He couldn’t possibly have dispatched the latest one by remote control. A search of the girl’s home had revealed nothing. This time, not even a note. Pressure was starting to build up around Surcher from all quarters. The Governor himself might soon be sticking his nose in, he knew, being that sort of vote-catcher, he well knew. Not to mention the Attorney-General, who would soon be on his tail. And what about the carloads of media men who would be turning up? He was glad he had plenty of Troopers. He mused over things. The girl had been strangled, that much he knew. She was full of jism, someone had had a good time with her, that also he knew. It was no rape job, certainly. The pathologist absolutely discounted it. There were no signs of struggle, the girl had been dispatched almost effortlessly, it seemed, almost—with her cooperation—bizarrely enough. It was bizarre, alright. Surcher shook his head over it, thinking of it. Who was the jerk? How many more Sawyersville girls would bite the dust? Would it be best to recommend a closure of the school? This point in particular worried him and caused much conflict within. The parents would probably want the school closed—if they didn’t, they might well just keep their kids at home. He couldn’t blame them. God knew he couldn’t blame them. But—on the other hand —he also knew that was the surest way to prevent the discovery and apprehension of the lunatic, whoever he was. Who he was. Surcher slowly brought his fist down on Proffer’s walnut desk, four or five times at least, soundlessly. Was it a kid? Or a teacher? He had already crossed one off the list. What about the others? What about Proffer? Surcher weighed that a moment, then discounted it. He even grinned a bit. Then, serious again, he knew he would have to examine the possibility that one of the teachers was nuts, and not just like Mummer was. Who could that be? Who was the vicious nut? Surcher twisted around in Proffer’s comfortable chair and stared out the window. He saw the expanse of the athletic fields—the football stadium—one of the best in the whole area, he knew—the Practice field—the baseball diamond, what a fine setup Sawyersville had though, he mused, taking everything in, admiring in spite of himself the unbeatable powerhouse they were. Maybe, he mused, he could pick up some tips, before he was through, and pass them on to G.A.R.—courtesy of Mike McDrew. He thought about Jim Green. He fell a little bad. He hoped he hadn’t harmed him. Without a doubt, he had put him through a little bit of a rough time. For nothing, as it had turned out. He thought about seeing him, in a couple of days, and maybe apologizing—if Marlowe and his gang hadn’t got him thrown out of his job by then, he mused, grinning a little, over that one. . . . What a one. . . .
But who was the nut? How would he find him? Would he just have to wait until he turned himself in? How many healthy young Sawyersville maids would by then have been done in? The grin had completely disappeared. Surcher sat in that chair, staring out at those fields. . . .