Tears Are for Angels (22 page)

    I started taking my clothes off. He stood over ten feet away, the gun steady, the knife in his other hand, sneering a little. His eyes kept flicking greedily toward Jean.

    It's funny. I thought, I ought to hate him. I used to hate him. But it's different now. I have known what it is to feel that you have to kill, that there isn't anything else to do. I have known that and I cannot hate even him for feeling the same way. Not even him.

    But I kept watching him for the slip, for the moment of hesitation, for the time when the gun would drop, when he would take his eyes off me long enough.

    I was undressed now, standing there stark naked, and I turned my head and so was she. The starlight spilled over her slim, pale body, and the moon, peeping now over the trees on the far side of the lake, cast a golden glow over the high, small breasts and the line, slender legs and the rounded hips.

    I looked back at Stewart. He was licking his lips and I saw that his eyes were not on me at all now, but were gorging themselves on her.

    I took a slow step to the left, away from her. Instantly the gun swiveled at me and the flushed face swung toward me, anger lighting it all over.

    "Look at me, Dick. Look at me."

    Her voice was husky and low and I felt a chill go down my spine. He didn't look away from my face. But I turned my head and looked at her.

    She was holding her arms out to him, swaying a little, moving her hips ever so slightly. Her voice beckoned him again:

    "Look at all of me," she said.

    His gun was still very steady on me, but his eyes now switched back and forth quickly between us.

    She took a step forward.

    "You stand still," he said.

    She stopped. He licked his lips again and shook his head. She ran her hands sensuously over her breasts and down her flanks. The hips moved again.

    It almost made me sick to watch, to see her having to do this to herself in front of him. But I loved her for it. because I knew it was for me. For us.

    I took another step to the side. The gun did not follow me.

    "You could have me," she said. "You don't have to kill me."

    "You stop that. Don't you come any closer."

    She took another step forward. His eyes were all for her now, but I was still too far away to rush him. I moved a little more, angling for his side, away from her. Just keep your eyes on her, I thought, just don't notice me moving at all. Just forget I'm here and keep looking at her.

    "Kill him," she said. "I'll help you. I'll help you hold his head under. But don't kill me."

    "You bitch," he almost whispered. The gun pointed between us now, at nothing. I saw it tremble slightly and his eyes were glued to her body. I moved a little more. One more step was all I needed, and she was buying it.

    A breeze was moving across the dark water and I fell it chill my bare skin where sweat had bathed it.

    She had swayed very close to him now, still moving her hands over her breasts and stomach and hips.

    "Look at me. You can have all of me… all of me…"

    And then I had taken that last step I needed. The gun still aimed at space and his face, oblivious now of all but her pale, gleaming body, swaying slowly before him, offered up to him, was avid with desire and lust.

    "Yeah," he said. "Yeah, I could have you…"

    I dug my toes into the sand and leaped at his legs and felt myself driven through space, propelled, it seemed, for an eternity of waiting, of listening for the roar, of almost feeling the bullet smack into me, the hard smash of it, and then there was the good, clean shock of my I shoulder driving into his thigh, of the giving of it, the collapse of it, and the sand gritting against my face, and the shape of him under me, and the strength coming up out of my belly to fight.

    I grabbed blindly for his arm and felt my fingers close down on his wrist. Whisky breath fumed in my face. His body convulsed violently and he twisted from under me.

    I was on my side, holding desperately to the arm that held the gun and trying to get my knee between his legs. He got a leg under him and half rose and I saw the long blade of the knife sweeping at me.

    I rolled into him, hard, and felt something sear across the top of my left shoulder. For a moment we were almost face to face, and I saw the other arm go back again, the switch blade shining in his hand, and I thought, Here it comes now, here comes the end of it.

    And then he grunted sharply in my ear, and I felt his weight jerked back from me, and I turned my head and saw her standing there, her legs wide and braced, both hands clutched around his wrist.

    I was holding his left arm to the ground, pinned with my arm and body, and she was pulling now on his right, ripping it back from the socket, her whole face clenched in the strain of it, the knife poised in his fingers, and then he screamed once from the pain of it and his hand opened and the knife fell from it.

    She let go his arm and her hand went swiftly to the ground and I saw her straighten and step away, holding the knife in her hand. His whole weight came on top of me again, stale breath sighing out of him, and I felt his now free fist punch sharply at my kidneys.

    If I only had two arms, I thought, if I could only hold on to this wrist and still have an arm left to fight with instead of a goddamned useless stump hanging off a useless shoulder…

    I rolled again, gouging my head and shoulder and stump into his chest, and came up on top of him, still holding down the hand that held the gun. He's strong, I thought. I've got to get my arm free. He was exerting all his strength there now, trying to force the gun back up toward me, warding off my knee with his own, squeezing at my throat with his other hand.

    Suddenly I let my arm go limp and the fierce strength of his own arm, the one holding the gun, snapped our locked wrists up into mid-air.

    Then, with all the force I could gather, I shot my arm straight ahead, still gripping his wrist.

    I could almost feel the bones grind in his shoulder socket, and he groaned hoarsely and I snapped the arm against the earth and twisted his wrist steadily to the inside.

    He opened his mouth to scream, his body writhing under me, and I rammed my shoulder into his face and ground it against his nose.

    "Drop it," I said. "Drop the gun or I'll tear your arm right off your shoulder!"

    I felt the strength of him gather under me for a last effort, I felt all of him bunch into a hard knot, coiled, ready to unwind in one jolting, twisting smash. I hung on and then it came from under me. the animal thrash and fury of it, and I took it, grunting hard from the shock, and still hung on.

    Then he was spent, and f knew it and twisted harder on his wrist until, finally, with a despairing anguished shriek like that of a wounded beast, his fingers relaxed and the gun fell from them.

    Now, I thought. Now. It's just him and me. No guns, no nothing. Just his muscles and mine and nothing else, the way it should have been all the time.

    I let go of his arm and grabbed the gun. I felt my feet under me and sprang away from him.

    

    

    She was beside me quickly and we stood there looking down at him, snarling and defiant on the earth, his hair wild and tangled, the eyes blazing and the lips pulled back, his shirt half torn from him, the calm water shining unruffled behind him.

    I remembered that Jean and I were naked. I turned my head slightly toward her. She stood quietly, her breasts heaving a little, her legs slightly bent, pale beauty standing unafraid beside me.

    "Put some clothes on," I said.

    She looked at me and her eyes went to my shoulder. I remembered the fiery sweep of the knife against it.

    "You're hurt. You're bleeding."

    "Not much. He just scratched me with the knife. Put something on, baby."

    She moved toward the car, where our clothes lay. I looked steadily at Stewart, holding the gun on him. He lay there and you could sec the tension crouching, coiled in him. Neither of us moved.

    Then she was beside me again and I saw from the corner of my eye that she was buttoning my shirt around her. It reached almost to her knees.

    "I ought to bandage that shoulder."

    "Later. It's all right."

    His voice flung up at us from the ground, high-pitched now, more evil than ever.

    "What are you going to do?"

    "In a little while," I said, "we're going to call the Sheriff. We're going to tell him the whole story."

    He laughed, the sound moist in his throat.

    "Even what you were going to do to me?"

    "Even that."'

    "And how are you going to prove anything on me?"

    "Easy," I said. "Because I'll do the calling, not you. Because this is your gun, not mine. That's your knife, not mine. And there aren't any rope burns on you. Like on Jean and me, where you tied our arms."

    His malevolent eyes narrowed at each word.

    "They'll find out all about the other time," he said. "About Lucy."

    "That's right," I said.

    "You haven't got the guts!"

    "Guts are funny," I said. "It's easy to have guts when you hold the whip hand. Jean, hand me that knife."

    I heard her breath catch, then felt the knife pressed into my hand. She took the gun and held it steadily on Stewart. I flicked the long blade open. I held it carelessly and his eyes shifted quickly toward it.

    "What happened that night?" I said. "What really happened?"

    His laugh was a little uneasy, but still ugly.

    "I want to know, Stewart. And I want to know quick. You gave me some ideas about this knife."

    He eyed me narrowly and said nothing.

    Quickly I dropped to one knee beside him and the point of the knife touched his throat.

    "What happened that night?" I said.

    His eyes flicked from side to side and his tongue darted at his dry lips. I pushed the knife a little harder at his throat.

    "There was a letter," he burst out, the words high and weak, hurrying out of his throat. "The envelope had a return address for some adoption outfit up north. When it came through the post office I saw it… and opened it. It told about how her baby had been adopted."

    "And you blackmailed her. Threatened to tell me."

    "Well, I…"

    "And all you wanted was just to go to bed with her?"

    "Listen, Harry, don't…"

    "And you knew she'd do it, didn't you? To keep me from finding out."

    "I… Yes. But you got to…"

    I stood up and backed away.

    "I'm going to beat the living hell out of you," I said.

    I heard Jean gasp. His eyes narrowed and I saw his muscles gathering. I handed the knife to Jean.

    "Get up," I said. "It's just you and me now."

    The coiled tension in him jerked him to his feet in one explosive motion.

    "Harry," Jean said, "you can't-"

    "I've got to."

    And then he laughed.

    "Come on," he said. "Come on and finish it."

    And I remembered my arm again, suddenly, blindingly, and cursed myself for male vanity and conceit in thinking I could do it, in thinking I could stand there and slug it out with him, with both of his strong arms, and win. I cursed myself and knew that I had to do it anyway.

    I stepped quickly forward and telegraphed a wild, swinging right toward his chin and saw him begin to duck and swung my right leg up, as if I were drop-kicking a football.

    My foot caught him in the chest and he straightened up, grunting, off balance, surprise all over his face. I clubbed him with the right. He went down in a heap on the ground.

    This is no time for fair fighting, I thought. The hell with the rules. I swung my foot hard into his ribs.

    He rolled with it and I felt his hands go around my leg and yank. I hopped a step or two forward and he pulled again and I went down, sprawling at full length, my head not a yard from the edge of the dam.

    He sprang at me from the earth and I felt his full weight come down on my back, his hands go under my chin, and my head snap back.

    I felt bones rub together in my neck and shoulders.

    "I'll break your sonafabitching neck," I heard him mutter in my car. I thrashed behind me with my one arm, but I couldn't reach him.

    "You'll never tell, London! Never. I'll kill you-just like I killed Lucy."

    Something exploded in me.

    I humped my back sharply and sprang forward to my knees like a bucking horse. He flung over my shoulders in front of me and I ground my feet into the earth and drove into him again, furious now, forgetting all but the hatefulness of him, all but what he had said, and suddenly felt space open up beneath us, and remembered, with sharp revolting fear, and felt the shock of the water, the cold awakening surprise of it, the evil blackness of it, closing around us.

    The water quieted us both and for a moment we sank easily and swiftly, my arm still around his waist, the force of our fall driving us deep below the surface.

    And then his body, slippery now in the murky water, moved violently against me and I felt him slip out of my grasp, his legs churning heavily in the water, smashing into my stomach as he began to rise toward the surface.

    I began to kick too, a deep fear of being alone down there shooting through me, a fear of the silence and the blackness and the evil under the surface of the calm lake, my lungs beginning to burn now and my eyes stinging from the one time I had opened them under the water.