"T" is for Trespass (33 page)

We grappled, both of us down on the pavement now. He was on his back and I lay on my back as well, sprawled awkwardly on top of him. He was scissoring his legs in an attempt to encircle me and lock my body between his thighs. I reached back and clawed at his face, hoping to gouge an eye. My nails raked his cheek, which he must have felt because he punched me in the head so hard I swore I could feel my brain bouncing against the inside of my skull. The fucker outweighed me by a good two hundred pounds. He pinned my arms against me. His grip was viselike, and close up against him like that my elbows were of no use. He rocked back, thrusting himself forward, trying to hook one foot around the other for leverage. I managed to turn my body halfway and I used the bony structure of my pelvis as a wedge to keeping his big knees apart. I knew what he'd do—clamp down, force the air out of my lungs with the increased pressure of his thighs, clamp down again. He'd use compression, like a boa constrictor, tightening his legs around me until I ceased to draw breath.

I couldn't make a sound. In the heaving silence I marveled at the sense of solitude. There was no one else on the street, no one even remotely aware that we were out here joined in this strange embrace. He'd begun to mew—joy, sexual arousal—I wasn't sure which. I slipped down, the heavy flesh of his thighs now pressing on each side of my face. He was hot, sweating between his legs as he squeezed. His weight alone was sufficient to crush me. Without exerting any other effort, he could have sat on my chest and it would've taken less than thirty seconds before the dark came down.

I was deaf. His thighs had shut out all sound except for the hush of blood moving through his veins. I squirmed and rotated myself by inches. I turned again until my nose was smashed up against the crotch of his panty hose with its soft, helpless bulge in range. He didn't have a hard-on. That much was obvious. Any clothing other than panty hose would have offered him protection—heavy jeans or sweats serving as a jock strap or a codpiece of sorts—shielding his nuts. But he was turned on by the feel of silkiness against his naked skin. Such is life. We all have our preferences. I opened my jaws and bit down on his scrotum. I closed my eyes and clamped down until I thought my upper and lower teeth would meet in the middle. The wad in my mouth had the consistency of foam rubber with a touch of gristle at the core. I held on, like a terrier, knowing the searing message of pain was streaking like lightning through his frame.

A howl went up and his thighs popped open as though they were spring-loaded, letting the cold air rush in. I rolled over on my side, scrambling on my hands and knees as far as the car. He was thrashing on the ground behind me, gasping and groaning. He clutched his crotch where I hoped I'd inflicted permanent damage. He wept, his cries hoarse with anguish and disbelief. I felt around for my car keys and snatched them up. I was shaking so badly I dropped them and had to scoop them up again. He'd managed to pull himself upright, but he paused to puke before he staggered to his feet. His face was sweaty and pale, and he held himself with one hand while he limped in my direction. His obesity and his lumbering gait slowed him just long enough to allow me to open the car door and slide in. I slammed the door and banged the knob into the locked position as he grabbed the door handle and yanked. I flung myself across the passenger's seat and banged the knob down on that door as well. Then I sat there, lungs heaving while I gathered my strength.

He slammed both his hands down on the roof of the car and pushed, trying to rock it with the force of his weight. If I'd been trapped in my beloved VW, he'd have rolled the car over on its side and then over on its roof. The Mustang he couldn't budge beyond the faintest shudder. He had no tolerance for frustration. He grabbed the windshield wiper and twisted it, bending it until it stuck out like a dislocated finger. I could see him search for something else to destroy.

He circled the car. Mesmerized, I kept him in sight, turning my head as he moved around the rear and reappeared on my left. He was making sounds that might have been English, but the words were flattened and formless, without the dots and dashes of vowels and consonants to make them distinct. He skipped back two steps and ran at the car. He side-kicked the door. I knew he'd put a dent in the metal, but given that he was shoeless and clad in panty hose, he'd hurt himself more than he'd hurt the car. He yanked at the door again. He banged a fist against the glass and then tried to force his big meaty fingers into the crack between the window and the post. I felt like a mouse in a glass case with a snake outside, hissing and striking ineffectually while fear shot through me like zaps from a Taser gun. There was a hypnotic quality to his assault, fierce and relentless. How long would it take him to breach my small fortress? I didn't dare abandon the safety of the car, which was at least keeping him at bay. I leaned on the car horn until the sound filled the night air.

He moved around the car again, prowling, looking for a weakness in my fortifications. He was clearly infuriated to have me in plain sight but inaccessible. He stood on the driver's side staring at me and then abruptly, he turned away. I thought he was leaving, but he walked across the street and at the far side, turned to face me again. There was something in his eyes so crazy that I hummed with fear.

With a jangle of keys I managed to jam the right one in the ignition. I turned it and the engine roared to life. I jerked the wheel to my left and swung away from the curb. I knew it would take two tries before I cleared the bumper of the car in front of me. I backed up and turned the wheel again. I glanced over as Tiny began to run at the car with more speed than I'd have thought possible for a guy his size. He'd pulled his right fist back and when he reached the car, he drove it straight through the window, shattering the glass. I screamed and ducked as jagged shards flew by, some landing in my lap. The glass that remained in the window tore into his flesh. His punching arm was extended as far as his shoulder blade, but when he tried to pull free, glass bit into the fabric of his blouse like the angled teeth of a shark. He groped for me blindly and I felt his fingers close around my throat. The simple fact of physical contact jolted me into action.

I shoved the stick into first, popped the clutch, and floored it. The Mustang shot forward with a squeal of burning tires. Out of the corner of my eye I could still see Tiny's arm and hand, like the branch of a tree driven through a wall by a gale-force wind. I slammed on the brakes, thinking I could shake him off. That's when I realized I was suffering a misperception. Between his own weight and my speed, I'd left him half a block behind. It was only his arm that remained, resting lightly on my shoulder like an old chum's.

I won't go into a moment-by-moment account of what followed in the wake of that grisly incident. Much of it I've forgotten, in any event. I do remember Officer Anderson arriving in his patrol car and Cheney's arriving later in his slick little red Mercedes convertible. My car was parked where I'd left it and I was, by then, sitting on the curb in front of Henry's house, shaking as though suffering from a neurological disorder. Having battled with Tiny, I sported sufficient contusions and abrasions to lend credibility to my account of his attack. My head was still ringing from the punch. Since there were already warrants out on him for similar offenses, no one suggested that I was to blame.

These were the facts that worked in my favor:

At the time of the accident, I stopped and approached the injured man with every intention of rendering assistance if necessary, which it wasn't because he was dead.

According to the Breathalyzer and later blood analysis, I was not driving under the influence of alcohol or drugs.

When the officer from the traffic division arrived on the scene, I gave him my name, address, registration, and proof of insurance. I had a valid California driver's license in my possession. He ran my name, license number, and plate, and determined that my record was clean. I was worried he'd pick up on the tiny matter of the TRO, but since we hadn't yet appeared in court, the restraining order probably wasn't in the system. Besides which, I hadn't done a thing to
her
.

There was a suggestion to the effect that I might have used excessive force in defending myself, but that opinion was quashed forthwith.

The Mustang was in the shop for repairs for a week. The windshield wiper and the window on the driver's side would have to be replaced. The driver's-side door was dented and the white vinyl bucket seat on the driver's side was a loss. No matter how often or how thoroughly the upholstery was cleaned, there would always be traces of red in the seams. Whether I'd hang on to the Mustang was another matter altogether. Owning the car was like owning a fine Thorough-bred racehorse—beautiful to behold, but expensive to maintain. The car had saved my life, no doubt about that, but I wondered if every time I drove it, I'd see Tiny starting that fatal run with his right fist pulled back.

Gus was discharged after two days in the hospital. Melanie went through a local agency and made arrangements for a new companion for him. The woman did light housekeeping, prepared his meals, ran errands, and went home at night to a family of her own. Of course, Gus fired her at the end of two weeks. The subsequent companion has survived to date, though Henry reports hearing a good deal of bickering from the far side of the hedge. A week after Tiny's death, Gus's Buick Electra was found six blocks from the Mexican border. It had been wiped clean of prints, but there was a stack of oil paintings locked in the trunk that were later valued at close to a million dollars. Solana must have hated abandoning such assets, but she couldn't very well disappear while continuing to hang on to a carload of stolen art.

One happy side effect of her disappearance was that she was a no-show in court the day of the hearing on the restraining order. The matter was dismissed, but I was still going to need a judge's orders to get my guns back. I knew in my heart of hearts, I wasn't done with her, nor she with me. I'd been responsible for the death of her only child and I'd pay for that.

In the meantime, I told myself there was no point in worrying. Solana was gone and if she came back, she'd come back and I'd deal with her then. I put the matter behind me. It was done, done, done. I couldn't change what had happened and I couldn't give in to the emotions that ran like a riptide under the placid surface I presented to the world. Henry knew better. Tactfully, he probed, wondering aloud how I was coping with Tiny's death, suggesting that perhaps I might benefit from “talking to someone.”

“I don't want to talk to anyone,” I said. “I did what I had to do. He didn't have to attack me. He didn't have to jam his fist through the glass. Those were his choices. I made mine. What's the big deal? It's not like he's the first guy I ever killed.”

“Well, that puts it in a fresh light.”

“Henry, I appreciate your concern, but it's misplaced.”

I was aware that I sounded testy, but aside from that, I felt fine. At least that's what I told him and anyone else who asked. Despite the brave face I wore, I went through my days with a low-level dread I could scarcely acknowledge. I wanted closure. I needed to have all the loose ends tied up. As long as she was out there, I didn't feel safe. I was afraid. “Terrified” was a better word. I realized later I was experiencing a form of post-traumatic stress disorder, but at the time all I knew was how hard I had to work to suppress my anxiety. I had no appetite. I didn't have trouble falling asleep, but I'd wake up at 4:00
A.M
. and that would be the end of it. I couldn't concentrate. I was fearful of crowds and unnerved by loud noises. At the end of every day, I was exhausted from having to maintain such a tight grip on myself. Fear, like any other strong emotion, is difficult to hide. Much of my energy was devoted to denying it was there.

My only relief came from my early morning run. I craved movement. I loved the feeling of flying over the ground. I needed to be sweaty and out of breath. If my legs hurt and my lungs burned, all the better. There was something tangible about the calm that came over me when I was done. I started pushing myself, adding a mile to the three I typically put in. When that wasn't quite enough, I ramped up the pace.

The lull was short-lived. Sunday, February 14, was the last day I'd be able to enjoy the quiet—artificial though it may have been. In the coming week, though I didn't know it yet, Solana would make her move. Valentine's Day was Henry's birthday, and Rosie treated us to dinner to celebrate his turning eighty-eight. The restaurant was closed on Sundays, so we had the place to ourselves. Rosie put together a feast and William helped serve. There were just the four of us: Rosie, William, Henry, and me. We had to do without Lewis, Charlie, and Nell because the Midwest was socked in with snow and the sibs were stranded until the airport opened again. Henry and Charlotte had mended their fences. I thought for sure he'd invite her, but he was reluctant to stir up any suggestion of romance between them. She would always be too driven and single-minded for his laid-back lifestyle. He said he wanted only his nearest and dearest with him while he blew out his candles, beaming at our lusty rendition of “Happy Birthday to Yooouuu!” Rosie, William, and I pooled our money and bought him three copper-bottom saucepans that he adored.

 

Monday morning, I got to work at eight—early for me, but I hadn't slept well and I'd ended up going out for my run at five thirty instead of six, which put me at the office half an hour ahead of my usual time. One virtue of my office—perhaps the only virtue—was that there was always parking available in front. I parked, locked my car, and let myself in. There was the usual hillock of mail piled on the floor under the slot. Most of it was junk that would go straight into the trash, but topmost was a padded envelope that I assumed was another set of documents from Lowell Effinger's office. Melvin Downs had failed to appear for his deposition, and I'd promised Geneva that I'd go after him again and have another heart-to-heart. Clearly, he'd been unimpressed by the threat of contempt of court.

I dropped my shoulder bag on my desk. I slid out of my jacket and draped it over the back of my chair. I tackled the manila envelope, which was stapled shut and took a bit of doing before I opened it. I separated the flaps and looked in. At the first glance, I shrieked and flung the envelope across the room. The action was involuntary, a reflex triggered by revulsion. What I'd glimpsed was the hairy appendages of a live tarantula. I literally shuddered, but I didn't have time to calm myself or gather my wits.

Horrified, I watched the tarantula feel its way out of the padded mailer, one hairy leg at a time, tentatively testing the characteristics of my beige carpeting. The spider looked huge, but, in fact, the squat body was no more than an inch and a half wide, suspended from a set of eight bright red legs that seemed to move independently of one another. The front and rear parts of its body were round and its legs appeared to have joints, like little bent elbows or knees, which terminated in small flat paws. Body and legs together, the spider could have filled a circle four inches across. With mincing steps, the tarantula crawled across the floor, looking like an ambulatory wad of black and red hair.

If I didn't find a way to stop it, it would scuttle into one of the spaces between my file cabinets and reside there for life. What was I supposed to do? Stepping on a spider that size was out of the question. I didn't want to get that close to it and I didn't want to see stuff squirt out when I crushed it to death. I certainly wasn't going to whack it with a magazine. My distaste aside, the spider represented no danger. Tarantulas aren't poisonous, but they're ugly as sin—mossy with hair, eight glittering round eyes, and (I kid you not) fangs that were visible from half a room away.

Oblivious to my concerns, the tarantula tiptoed out of my office with a certain daintiness and proceeded to cross the reception area. I was afraid it might stretch and elongate, insinuating itself under the baseboard like a cat slipping under a fence.

I kept a wary eye on it, rapidly backing down the hall to my kitchenette. On Friday I'd washed the clear glass coffee carafe and set it upside down on a towel to dry. I grabbed it and sped back, amazed at the distance the tarantula had covered in just those few seconds. I didn't dare pause to consider how repellant it was at close range. I made my mind a blank, turned the carafe upside down, and set it over him. Then I shuddered again, a groan emanating from some primitive part of me.

I backed away from the carafe, patting myself on the chest. I'd never use that carafe again. I couldn't bear to drink from a coffeepot that spider feet had touched. I hadn't solved my problem; I'd only delayed the inevitable issue of how to dispose of it. What were my choices? Animal Control? A local Tarantula Rescue group? I didn't dare set it free in the wild (that being the patch of ivy outside my door) because I'd always be searching the ground for it, wondering when it was going to pop out again. It's times like these when you need a guy around, though I'd have been willing to bet most men would have been as disgusted as I was and just about as squeamish at the idea of spider guts.

I went back to my desk, sidestepping the empty manila envelope, which I'd have to burn. I took out the telephone book and looked up the number for the Museum of Natural History. The woman who answered the phone didn't behave as though my situation was unusual. She checked her Rolodex and recited the number of a fellow in town who actually bred tarantulas. Then she informed me, with a certain giddiness, that his lecture, complete with a live demonstration, was a favorite among elementary-school kids, who liked having the spiders crawl up and down their arms. I put the image out of my mind as I dialed the number she'd given me.

 

I wasn't sure what to expect of someone who made a living consorting with tarantulas. The young man who arrived at my office door half an hour later was in his early twenties, big and soft, with a beard that was probably meant to lend him an air of maturity. “Are you Kinsey? Byron Coe. Thanks for the call.”

I shook his hand, trying not to bubble over with gratitude. His grip was light and his palm was warm. I looked at him with the same devotion I accorded my plumber the day the hose on the washing machine came loose and spewed water everywhere. “I appreciate your being so prompt.”

“I'm happy to be of help.” His smile was sweet and his thicket of blond hair was as big as a burning bush. He wore denim overalls, a short-sleeved T-shirt, and hiking boots. He'd brought with him two lightweight plastic carriers that he set on the floor, one medium and one large. The coffee carafe had attracted his attention the minute he arrived, but he'd been polite about it. “Let's see what you got here.”

He eased himself down to the floor on one bent knee and then stretched out on his tummy and put his face near the carafe. He gave the glass a tap, but the spider was too busy to care. He was feeling his way around the perimeter, hoping for a little doorway to freedom. Byron said, “He's a beauty.”

“Oh, thanks.”

“This fellow's a Mexican red-legged tarantula,
Brachypelma emilia
, maybe five or six years old. A male judging by his color. See how dark he is? The females are closer to a soft brown. Where'd you find him?”

“Actually, he found me. Someone left him for me in a padded envelope.”

He looked up with interest. “What's the occasion?”

“No occasion, just a very sick practical joke.”

“Some joke. You can't buy a red-legged spiderling for less than a hundred and twenty-five dollars.”

“Yeah, well, nothing but the best for me. When you say Mexican red-legged, does that mean they're only found in Mexico?”

“Not exclusively. In states like Arizona, New Mexico, and Texas, they're not uncommon. I breed Chaco golden knees and cobalt blues. Neither cost as much as this guy. I have a pair of Brazilian salmon pinks I picked up for ten bucks each. You know you can actually train tarantulas as pets?”

“Really,” I said. “I had no idea.”

“Heck, yes. They're quiet and they don't shed. They do molt and you have to be a little bit careful about bites. The venom's harmless to humans, but you'll have swelling at the site and sometimes numbness or itching. Goes away pretty quick. It's nice you didn't kill him.”

“I'm a conservationist at heart,” I said. “Listen, if you're going to pick him up, please warn me. I'm leaving the room.”