Hard Case Crime: Baby Moll
Read Hard Case Crime: Baby Moll Online
Authors: John Farris
Acclaim For the Work
of JOHN FARRIS!
“Few writers have Mr. Farris’s talent for masterfully devious plotting, the shattering, effective use of violence, and in-depth characterization.”
—The New York Times
“A whirlpool of suspense, dread, and thrills, but also fiction of meaning and substance — phenomenal, first-rate.”
—Dean Koontz
“Inventive, sexy, and intricately plotted... superbly engrossing.”
—Publishers Weekly
“John Farris is the godfather of thriller writers.”
—F. Paul Wilson
“Farris is a real master.”
—Peter Straub
“His paragraphs are smashingly crafted and images glitter like solitaires.”
—The Philadelphia Inquirer
“Farris has the remarkable ability to jab his literary ice pick to the bone marrow.”
—Brian Garfield
“Farris puts [readers] on the edge of their seats via compelling characterization and ratcheting up the tension at every turn of a well-crafted plot.”
—Booklist
“Strong, lip-smacking suspense.”
—Kirkus Reviews
“Well-drawn characters... graceful and gripping story-telling... another winner from a legendary writer.”
—Fangoria
“Farris has marvelous skill.”
—The Associated Press
“It’s amazing... The characters are as vivid as any I’ve ever read, and Mr. Farris constantly surprised me with the twists and turns of the plot. Mr. Farris is a master storyteller.”
—Larry Bond
“John Farris is more than a giant, he’s... the Tyrannosaurus Rex of thriller writers.”
—Douglas Preston
I heard it again — the sound of someone walking stealthily toward me in the sand. I rolled on my belly, gathered my legs beneath me and dived at an indistinct figure five feet away. We went down. There was a muffled sound of surprise. My hand slid along a smooth curved thigh, touched rounded breasts and full nipples. I was holding a woman as naked as I was, and holding her damned tight, the weight of my body pinning her to the sand. I backed away from her fast and she sat up. She cried out again, reached toward her breasts with protective hands.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “You shouldn’t have come up behind me like that.”
“It’s... all right,” she said in a strained voice. “I’m sorry I... startled you.” Her hands came away from her breasts slowly and dropped to her knees. She sat very still, apparently looking toward me. I hadn’t held her long, but long enough for her to be perfectly aware I wasn’t dressed either. Not that it made any difference, in the dark.
“Who are you?” I said.
“I’m Diane. You... must be Pete Mallory.”
“That’s right. How did you know?”
“Macy’s talked about you. He brought you here to find the person who’s going to kill him.”
“Yes.”
She was silent for a moment. Then she stretched, rising to her toes, and relaxed. Her voice was calm again.
“Macy will tell you about me,” she said. “I’m supposed to be a little bit crazy.”
“Are you?”
She laughed girlishly. “I suppose so. I suppose I am...”
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BLACKMAILER
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SONGS OF INNOCENCE
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by Mickey Spillane
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by Christa Faust
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NO HOUSE LIMIT
by Steve Fisher
MOLL
by
John Farris
WRITING AS ‘STEVE BRACKEEN’
A HARD CASE CRIME BOOK
(HCC-046)
First Hard Case Crime edition: August 2008
Published by
Titan Books
A division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd
144 Southwark Street
London
SE1 0UP
in collaboration with Winterfall LLC
Copyright © 1958 by Fawcett Publications, Inc.,
Copyright © 2008 by Penny Dreadful, Ltd.
Cover painting copyright © 2008 by Robert McGinnis
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the publisher, except where permitted by law.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Print edition ISBN 978-0-85768-306-9
E-book ISBN 978-0-85768-766-1
Cover design by Cooley Design Lab
Design direction by Max Phillips
Typeset by Swordsmith Productions
The name “Hard Case Crime” and the Hard Case Crime logo are trademarks of Winterfall LLC. Hard Case Crime books are selected and edited by Charles Ardai.
Visit us on the web at
www.HardCaseCrime.com
Chapter One
We had fun that day, the day Rudy Mask turned up in Orange Bay to reweave the net that held me to the past. In the morning Elaine and I took the boat through the calm waters of the pass and hunted south along the coast for snook, and, later, when the chest was full, for a beach and growth of trees where we could rest and swim.
I decided on a curved narrow piece of island three or four hundred yards from the shoreline, and edged the boat into the beach. Elaine slipped over the side into shallow water to guide the keel against the sand.
“Catch me,” I said, then jumped over the side, splashing water on her swimsuit.
“Pete!” she wailed.
“So what?” I chided. “That’s what it’s for, isn’t it? To get wet?”
She backed away and waded indignantly out of the water. I followed with towels and the basket of lunch. She was good to watch. A tall girl with long legs, a smooth straight walk. She wore a blue bathing suit, cut high at the firm thighs, fitting snugly over the slender curve of waist and small breasts. Made to run, quick and laughing, along the beaches, to lie in the sun that nourished her slender strength. I had found her on a beach, and had known the ache of wanting something so much that the long months of waiting were almost unendurable.
I spread the beach towels when Elaine indicated a desirable spot. “We eat?” I said.
She turned her face to me. “Not yet.” She took off her seaman’s cap, harshly white against the glistening black of her hair, flipped at her bangs with a knuckle. Her lips formed the slanted grin I liked. “You stink of fish, mister. Bathe yourself.”
“You come too.”
“No. I—”
I took her wrist. “Come on.”
“Pete, I don’t — ” She brought the edge of her wrist up against my thumb, breaking the hold. “Don’t go cave man on me. I really don’t want to swim—”
I beat on my chest, Tarzan fashion, and made a grab for her. She choked back laughter, squirmed out of reach. I chased her toward the water, running full tilt. She stopped suddenly, ducked, stuck out a foot. I tumbled into the water, came up gasping.
“You’ve got sand in your hair now.” She grinned, panting. “Better wash it out as long as you’re in there.”
I went into the water, pushed deep into the coolness, swam until my lungs were hot and bursting. Then I broke surface and took air, blinking the sting of salt from my eyes. The sun was a hot flare lashing at my face. The sky was a blue shield that threw back the heat and softened the glare. There was a whisper of breeze. I swam easily and slowly back to the beach. My arms made slow rippling splashes, the only sound other than the far laughter of the girl as she ran through shallow white water, kicking up spray to sparkle in the sunlight. It was a good morning. It would be a good afternoon, too. Then the sun would deepen and grow large behind the fringe of trees on
the shore and it would be time to go home. I felt the old thin taste of fear rising in my throat. There had been too many good days. Soon maybe the luck would begin to tarnish.
I waded to shore and took Elaine by the hand. She walked beside me, breathing deeply, her eyes gleaming. We had our lunch, then stretched out on the beach towels. I took lotion and rubbed her shoulders and back. She stretched, the long muscles in her legs tight, then relaxed. After a few seconds she looked at me with one eye and smiled like a little girl who doesn’t quite know how to pick up a kitten. She cupped a hand behind my head and brought my face to hers, kissed me. It started gently and became fierce and demanding. I lay down beside her. I touched an ear and the tip of her nose and traced the fine lips with the tip of my finger, tracing that crazy smile which makes me feel warm in a place deep inside that I once thought was forever scarred.
“Talky today, aren’t you?” she said lazily, her eyes smiling.
“Sometimes words are just a nuisance.”
She closed her eyes for a moment. Her hand touched my shoulder, slipped down my arm. Her fingers closed around my wrist, worried the hand gently. “Yes,” she said. “Such a man. Such a big man for me. Such a big man to love. How I love you, Pete.” The eyes opened and she looked at me somberly. “You’re not worried about something, are you?”
I tried not to let my smile fade. “What would I have to worry about? I own my own business and I’m about to marry the most beautiful girl in the state. Even her old man is beginning to like me. Me worry?”
“Don’t try to kid — ” she warned, but I stopped her with a kiss. I overdid it a little because I wanted to shut off whatever she was thinking about me. She knew me too well to distrust any of her intuitions.
I felt her body stiffen. “Hey,” she said, “you... trying to start something?”
“Yes.” I kissed her again, and she responded readily.
But she said firmly, “No, Pete.”
“We’re going to be married.”
“We’re not married yet.”
“All we haven’t had is the ceremony.”