There was menace in that hope, Surcher couldn’t help note.
“We’ll try our best.”
“Right.” Said the man. "Find him ”
Surcher put down the phone, thinking, what a good idea. He turned around, as Folio crossed the room to talk to him. Maybe, now he thought, Ben Shingle would have an even better one. Despite everything, he had to grin. . . .
When Tiger returned to the office, after a quick Health Ed class wiih the Freshmen, he found none oiher than Miss Craymire sitting there. She looked unhappy to an grinned at her. He gave a little nod at her. Her form was
warm.
“Come on.” he said, warmly.
He walked tow'ard the couch.
Smiling, she followed him.. . •
Surcher said into the phone, after a pause, “What am I supposed to do—give every body the third degree?”
He said it very calmly, after reflecting on it, in response to the Attorney-General’s last sally, a brilliant one: "It’s somebody in that school. I know it. It has to be."
“No—no—nothing like that—” said the voice in his ear, almost astounding him. The guy had taken it seriously? Surcher mourned the lost sarcasm. Wasted. And studied too. To boot. Well, it could be. He was the Attorney-General. Who now went on, “But Christ, listen—how big of a place is it? Listen, you can pin him down, my God I’m sure of it—He must stick out a mile! No kidding. Once my men get there—” A pause. “I know 1 can count on your total cooperation—” Another pause. “Got that?” Surcher had. “Listen, this is dynamite. We've got to find him." There was another pause, while Surcher said nothing. Why? He felt like asking him. Just for the hell of it. What would his answer be? How many votes, he wondered, would it mean to him? He almost asked him. He could have chuckled— under different circumstances. “Here’s another thing—” Pause. Surcher waited for it. “Captain? Are you with me?” He confirmed this. “Good. Listen—there’s going to be a writer coming along with my men. Ben Shingle—you’ve probably heard of him—he's one of the big ones. He just flew in and the Governor passed him on to me. He wants to write a book on this, the whole case, from start to finish, eventually. That will be quite the book you can imagine, Captain.” He paused again. Surcher could have groaned. He pictured it. “Well, now get this, take good care of this man, Captain—as far as I’m concerned he’s on extreme degree. He had been expecting her. Proffer had contacted him and made arrangements for him to see her. Checking his schedule, he had agreed to do that. It would just fit in. Tiger also found a tiny note on his desk, reading simply, “When?—H.L.” He had grinned. Hilda Linder. Yes, it certainly was time for that maid. He was glad she reminded him, though he hadn’t forgotten her. He would set her up, he mused, tomorrow. First thing. That was it. He thought about her. She was a fair-haired maid. As soon as Miss Craymire left, he would set her up alright What time was it?
“Well, Jane, how are you?” Tiger asked the secretary, in his open, friendly way.
She wasn’t exactly the most beautiful creature in God’s creation, but there were points in her favor. True, she ivas on the wrong side of that curve, of course, as he himself was, well he knew, of course, but—her eyes, for instance. They were a beautiful, clear green. Beautiful eyes. Her figure wasn’t all that bad either, though she kept it hidden. Her hair wouldn’t be bad at all—if she did more with it. Her teeth—well, they were a little big, true. But not offensive. Her face, in toto, wasn’t unpretty. Certainly, there was warmth in it. And it could be pretty. She was an old maid, Tiger mused, but didn’t have to be. He didn’t think she was born that way. He felt for her. It was the first time he had ever had a chance to reaJly talk to her. Maybe, he thought, he just might help her. Maybe, he also thought, the whole sad chain of recent events would have at least one fruitful offshoot. He hoped. It could be. In any bombed site, flowers grew. Tiger stopped. It could trigger off a whole day’s review. But he thought, for this too is part of the process. Complexes. Normal curvature—
“I’m really feeling awful, Mr. McDrew,” she confessed, “In fact, I can't stand it.” She would sob. He knew. In a minute.
He nodded, gazing at her in that friendly way. He thought that under the circumstances, at least to start off with, it would be best to utilize a strictly nondirective approach. He would try it.
“You really don’t feel too good,” he told her.
“I feel awful."
“Everything seems pretty bad.”
"Awful."
them take him along, “Anything’s possible—isn’t it? Jane?”
He waited. It was a process of serial approximation. And this was the challenge, the heart and life, the excitement in it. Well he knew.
“But I don't want to die that wayl” She cried out
He couldn’t blame her. He was in total sympathy with her. He gazed at her. Those green eyes were just beautiful. He knew. He thought of Rochelle.
“How do you want to die?” He asked, gently.
“Why—” She was choked for words.
“How many of us choose how we die?” Now he asked her.
“What do you mean?”
“What do you think I mean?”
“What—” she gasped—“What did I come in here for?”
“I wonder.”
She sank back in her chair as if she were dissolving into it. Tiger watched her. Her eyes never strayed from his, they were terror-fixed. He felt for her.
“Sex has always been associated with death in your mind, hasn’t it?” He said, softly. “To have sex is to die, in your mind. Am I right?”1
She sat there. She seemed paralyzed. He wondered if she would scream.
“Am I right?” He pressed on with it.
“Yes.” She said barely above a gasp. It was like the last word she would speak. She sat there, soundless.
‘‘Have you ever had sex?” He asked her.
“No.” She answered—
“Do you masturbate?”
“What?”
“Play with it—?”
A pause. She was about to cry.
“Yes / do.”
Her hand sank toward her chest. She hadn’t passed out She began to sob quietly.
“How do you play with it?” Now he asked.
“I—” She said, barely, through her sobs.
“At night? On your bed? All alone? In the dark?”
“I—plav with it—”
“How?”
“I—rub my hand—over it—” he barely heard.
“All of it?”
“It feels so good—”
“Do you talk to it?”
“I rub a long time. I get very hot. I sweat. Mr. McDrew —I’m all wet—" The words emerged slowly, little drawled bunches of them, barely audible.
“Are your legs up?”
“They’re up—”
“Open?”
“Way up?”
“I’m on my back. My knees are—up—”
“Way up?”
“Up—”
“Is your hand wet?”
“So wet—”
“What else do you do?”
“Do you put anything into it?”
“How deep into it?”
“What do you think of?”
“All—sorts of—things—I—” “Do you like it?”
“Oh—I—”
“How often do you like it?”
“What do you thiuk of?” “Sometimes—”
“How high up?”
“So—oh—High up—”
“Do you play with them?” “I—caress them—”
“The tips?”
“I—stroke the tips—” “How are you?**
“Way—oh—way up—” “Who are you thinking of?”
“Harry?”
“What?”
“Harry Proffer?”
Tiger thought of soccer. He had always taken a dim view of that game, so called. It made him unhappy to see what a tremendous drive was now going on in the athletic-commercial complex to establish it as a major sport in the USA—of all places. They might even succeed. The scoundrels. He saw signs of that It would be a sad day, and no kidding. He hated the game. What would come next? Cricket? Jane Craymire remained silent