Ray Hoy - Jack Frost 01 - The Vegas Factor (5 page)

It was getting more difficult to keep my defense mechanisms at full alert, thanks to too much home cooking and too many evenings in front of the fireplace listening to music, or watching television together.

I began working out more, jogging more. I wanted to be away from the cabin, but that worried me, even with Ripper there. Thankfully she showed no desire to leave the place. I suspected it was a haven to her.
 

She usually wandered around the cabin in one of my old Vikings sweatshirts while she fixed dinner, cleaned the place, and rearranged this and that. The woman was blessed with flawless brown skin, fantastic gleaming black hair, and perfect white teeth. And her eyes, my God, they were enormous! While she lived in her own little world, I did not. I always knew where she was in the room, and what she was wearing, try as I might to concentrate on my book or TV show.

Occasionally, she lapsed into long periods of silence. I never intruded. She was somewhere with Jonathan Flynn. I knew that and respected it. I found myself hoping that the passage of time would eventually make the loss more bearable, would blur the painful, vivid memories until one day she would find that, like it or not, she was actually getting on with her life.

It’s a concept I’m familiar with.

I came home from jogging one afternoon, and found her sitting on the floor in front of the fireplace. She was crying, and obviously had been for a long time.
 

Ripper’s head rested in her lap. He pawed at her now and then, and whined. An open book lay next to her on the floor. I didn’t have to look to see what it was. I cursed myself for having forgotten it was in the cabin.

I’m an auto racing buff, have been all my life. I subscribe to all the magazines, buy all the yearbooks. She had run across my automotive library and found a picture of Jonathan Flynn, laughing and alive as he stood next to a Grand Prix Lotus, talking to a big man with a shock of red hair, mane-like eyebrows, long mutton chop sideburns and a fantastic flowing red mustache.

I sat down next to her and put my arm around her shoulders. She folded against me, sobbing. Her body shook. After a while she fell asleep.

I felt sorry for her, yet I envied the intense love she and Flynn had experienced, even if it was a tragic, painful affair. Some things are worth whatever they cost.

* * *

Felicia never got over that unfortunate day. The periods of silence became longer, and the gloom in the cabin deeper as the days dragged on. I’d come home to find her just sitting in the dark. Ripper was her constant companion. Gone was the aroma of dinner cooking, music playing.

I missed it. And I felt more helpless than ever. A cold feeling settled over me. Try as I might, I couldn’t shake it. I wasn’t big on premonitions, but she was. During her brief period of healing, just before things started coming apart, she had told me she was part witch. I can still conjure up her exact words: “I
am
part witch, you know. Jonathan knew it, too. He kidded me, but he knew it was true.”
 

She had smiled at the time, but I remember thinking that she appeared to be dead serious. I also remember the chill it had given me when she said, “I see things, now and then. Numbers, for instance, at a roulette wheel. Not always, of course. If I saw them all the time, I wouldn’t do anything else but sit at a roulette wheel. But it happens often enough to be spooky.”

* * *

I walked out of the grocery store in Zephyr Cove and hurried to my car, my arms full of groceries. I fired up the Jag and headed for home, filled with an unexplainable sense of urgency.
 

A brisk, steady breeze produced a broad sweep of swirling color as the trees gave up their leaves; they fluttered to the ground by the thousands. Today was a beauty: brilliant, cold and clear. Yellow and red leaves covered the ground. An occasional gust of wind blew them into the air. Then they slowly settled to the ground again in ever-tightening circles. Some of the trees stood in naked silence, already stripped of their foliage, preparing for the approaching Lake Tahoe winter.
 

I patted the Jag’s steering wheel. With the long snow season approaching, it wouldn’t be long before I’d get her ready for hibernation and start driving the Land Rover.

I’m a bit quirky, and even I know it. Every now and then I feel it’s time to take inventory of myself, and this was one of those times. I ran through the little list of my good and bad points—or at least those I was aware of:

1. I’m basically blessed with an irrepressible nature. If all of Al-Qaeda were in Reno, I’d still feel like I would come out on top, even if I had nothing but a handful of rocks. That’s one for me.

2. I am an eternal optimist. Hey, I’m doing okay here.

3. At the same time, I consider myself a hard-core realist, which can be a real downer at times. Good? Bad? Probably fifty-fifty.

4. I have more self-confidence than a man probably should have. However, since I’m doing the judging here, I’m still going to put a check mark on the “Good” side of the ledger.

5. I don’t like to lose—at anything. Good? Bad? I chose fifty-fifty again.

6. If I’m given a “take it or leave it,” I’ll always leave it. Absolutely good.

7. I bore easily. Probably bad.

I suddenly realized I was tired of the game. I laughed. “See Number 7, preceding,” I said aloud.

I was sure it would all work out. “See Number 2, above!”
 

But I was also sure it was going to be a long, rough road ahead. “Number 3!” I said to the car.

I don’t care who Varchetta sends to grab Felicia, I will kick his ass royally and send him home whimpering. “Number 4!” I yelled. “Definitely Number 4!”

Nothing is going to happen to her. Nothing, by God! “Number 1!” I shouted. “Not a doubt … Number 1!”

I took the steps two at a time and let myself into the cabin. I stood inside the door listening to deep silence. The ashes in the fireplace looked cold. I shut the door quietly behind me. From the bedroom, Felicia’s voice rose and fell. I couldn’t understand what she was saying, but I did recognize a broken-hearted woman’s desperation and grief.
 

I eased the bedroom door open and stood there. She was a pathetic sight. She lay on the bed, her naked body gleaming with perspiration. Her long black hair was damp and uncombed, her eyes swollen from crying. She appeared to be in pain, her hands balled up into little fists. Ripper lay on the bed with her, looking as miserable as I’ve ever seen him. His huge head lay between her breasts. He whined, lifted his head and looked at me for help, then lowered his head again.

Occasionally, she hit the brute in the head with a flailing fist. He never flinched, just whimpered and looked even more miserable.
 

Her eyes opened wide and she stared at the ceiling. Then she turned and looked at me. She didn’t seem to recognize me. Perhaps she didn’t even know I was there. But then anger changed her face, and when she spoke, her voice was filled with rage.

“Damn you, Jonathan Flynn! Why did you have to race cars?” She sat up, spilling Ripper away. He almost fell off the bed, but recovered and sat there on the edge of the mattress, staring at her. She continued to rage at me, her face twisted. “Why did you have to drive race cars? To prove you’re a man? You didn’t have to prove it to me!” Tears spilled down her cheeks. Then softly, she said again, “You didn’t have to prove it to
me
.”

Suddenly aware of my presence, she clambered to her feet and stood on the bed. She backed away as I approached, nearly losing her balance. “Stay away from me!” she screamed.

She stood there, wild-eyed, her fingers spread apart, claw-like. Her full breasts rolled and shook as she tried to balance herself on the bed. She was finely muscled, and they rippled under her wet, brown skin as she moved. The bloody scratches on her breasts, the damp, uncombed black hair, and the hunted look in those big, deep, black eyes combined to form the picture of a primitive woman, caged and desperate.

The standoff lasted only a few moments. Ripper whined. At the sound, she looked down at him and her face softened. Her fingers closed into fists again, then opened. With a sigh she settled to her knees and wrapped her arms around him. She held him against her and cried, rocking him back and forth as if she were holding a baby. The big dog draped his head over her right shoulder and whined softly.

I didn’t know what to do. Finally I walked into the bathroom, started running a tub of hot water, and returned to the bedroom. I tried to pull her arms from around Ripper. He snarled, showing me a mouthful of teeth any Great White would be proud of.
 

“Knock it off!” I said. I managed to break her grip on Ripper’s neck. He was still not happy with me. He jumped off the bed, more than a little interested in what I was going to do with her. I carried her into the bathroom and lowered her into the tub of water.
 

I washed her face with a bath sponge. She sat there, dazed. Then she looked up at me, her eyes comprehending for the first time. She looked down at the water coming up around her breasts. When she looked up at me again, she seemed aware of the situation, but she was too far gone to be embarrassed.

Nevertheless, I quickly got to my feet and walked out. I hurried to the kitchen and poured a glass of wine, then quickly returned to the bathroom. I knocked before I entered, then walked in and placed the glass on the edge of the tub. “Are you okay?”

She nodded, eyes brimming with tears. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay.” I felt suddenly helpless. “If you need anything, I’ll be in the living room.” I walked out, shutting the door behind me.
 

I mixed myself a Rusty Nail and got a blaze going in the fireplace. I turned on some music, perhaps louder than usual, something up-tempo and light.

She’d gotten something, somewhere. There’s always a creep who’ll sell you death in a capsule for just a few bucks. And there’s always the weak who’ll buy it, not knowing what’s in it, or caring.

This changed everything. I couldn’t trust her.

Chapter 7

The young prostitute walked through the motel door, Benny Florentine close behind. She took a deep breath and turned to face him, trying to think of a way to get out of this frightening situation. She looked up into his gray, hooded eyes, and her words stuck in her throat. She saw the beaded sweat in his blond crew cut, smelled the musty odor of a man who had gone too long without a shower. He was probably over three-hundred pounds, and looked close to seven feet tall.
 

The cruel look on his face, and the cords in his bull-like neck frightened her. When he approached her on the street she had been afraid to turn him down. He had pushed her into his car, and she knew it was going to turn out all wrong.

He dropped a fifty-dollar bill on the table, then turned his dead eyes on her again. Grabbing the front of her dress, he ripped it from her body with one easy movement.
 

She stood there, covering her bare breasts with her hands like a virgin schoolgirl. “C’mon, Benny, please. This dress cost me a hundred bucks and …”

Further protest died on her lips when he grinned and said, “You’ll be paid for it. I always pay for what I get.” Then he took another fifty-dollar bill, dropped it on the floor, and told her to pick it up.

She hesitated, then bent over to pick it up. He yanked her upright by the hair, and as her face came up, hit her with an open palm. She fell backward onto the bed. He was on her in a moment, stripping her panties off her legs. He slapped her twice, rocking her head from side to side.

He stood next to the bed, looking down at her. He smiled, showing very bad teeth. His voice took on a crooning tone as he leaned over and ran his hands over her small breasts, then down over her stomach. He spread her legs roughly and probed with his fingers. She winced. He laughed and probed harder. She writhed in pain.

“You ain’t very big, honey,” he said and withdrew his fingers. He wiped them across her face and got down on his knees and took a breast in each hand. Laughing, he squeezed until she cried out. Then he pinned her and pulled her legs as far apart as he could. She felt the bones creaking in her hips, as he buried his face in her warm flesh. Without stopping, he reached up and placed one big hand around her throat and squeezed. She gagged. The room began to spin and everything began to go black. She heard her own voice screaming inside her head:
I am going to die right now!

But then he stopped. The black went to a mist of red and her vision began to clear. She gagged, then despite herself, vomited. He jumped up, angry, brushing the mess from his suit. He slapped her a dozen times until she blacked out.

When she came to she was on her back, spread-eagled on the bed, cords binding her wrists and ankles to the bedposts. He stood in front of her, naked now, looking down at her with a curious smile. “You shouldn’t have oughta done that to ol’ Benny. He don’t like that.”

He raped her, over and over until she lay spent and shuddering on the bed. Occasionally he smoked and watched television, only to return to the bed, time after time.
 

The night wore on. He never tired of his game. Her muscles and bones ached, but she did not complain, afraid to open her mouth. She was smeared from head to toe with his body fluids, and her own mess.