Resurrection Dreams (41 page)

And someone was still swimming toward her. A vague, pale shaped in the water’s blackness.

Jack?

It must be Jack. He’ll save me.

“Jack!” she shouted. “Help! Quick! They’ve got me!”

And Jack’s voice came from the swimmer. “Save some for me, folks.”

Melvin laughed.

All of them came at her. They threw her down. They piled on top of her, clawing, biting, ripping. She twisted beneath them. She writhed. She felt her belly split open. Someone bit her thigh. Her left breast was torn off and she saw it bulging from Patricia’s mouth. Then Jack’s face loomed above her. It came down, loose eye swinging. She felt the slimy eye slide against her cheek, felt his mouth cover hers, his tongue thrust in. She twisted and bucked, trying to push him off. The canoe capsized.

Cold water clutched Vicki, filled her mouth and throat.

Wide awake, she struggled to the surface. She grabbed the ladder of the diving raft, coughing and gasping, shaking from the terror of her nightmare.

When she could breathe again, she climbed the ladder. She staggered onto the platform and rested there on her hands and knees. Something was hanging from her. She lowered her head more. Her T-shirt was ripped down the front. Its dripping edges swayed. Her left breast was bare, the shoulder strap of her bra dangling from the cup bunched beneath it.

Vicki pushed herself up, resting on her haunches, she studied herself in the faint light seeping through the fog. And pressed her lips tight as she gazed at the tangle of scratch marks on the pale skin of her breast and chest and belly.

She could hardly believe that she had done this to herself.

But she remembered tearing her nightgown once, soon after her arrival in Ellsworth. So she must’ve done this.

She had not only torn her clothes and skin, she had put up such a struggle against the demons of her nightmare that she had pitched herself into the river.

The body heals, why not the mind?

Could the mind get worse instead of better? She’d had horrid nightmares before, but nothing that caused her to do anything like this.

With trembling fingertips, she explored the scratches. Only those on her belly were deep. The skin there had been plowed up in furrows.

She pulled at the rumpled fabric of her bra and lifted it over her breast. She tucked the strap down inside.

And heard distant splashing sounds.

Her back jerked rigid. She listened.

The sounds, which seemed to come from behind her, were those of someone swimming.

She felt as if her wind had been punched out.

This can’t be happening. I’m awake.

Am I?

Vicki sprang to her feet and whirled around. The platform dipped. She grabbed the ladder’s uprights and held herself steady and gazed into the fog.

The swimming sounds came closer.

She saw a yard or two of black water beyond the raft before the whiteness closed off her view.

She heard only one swimmer.

Who is it? Melvin? Charlie? Jack? One of the others?

Maybe all of them were coming for her, the rest of them approaching from below the surface. They don’t need air, she thought. They’re dead.

How do they know I’m here?

My shoes, she thought. I left my shoes and socks on the beach.

Oh, Jesus!

“LEAVE ME ALONE!” she cried out.

The sounds of the splashing stopped.

“VICKI?”

A man’s voice. Almost familiar.

“I’m sorry,” it called through the fog. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“Who are you?”

“Paul. Paul Harrison. We used to…”

“PAUL?”

He swam out of the fog and reached out with both hands and took hold of the ladder and looked up at Vicki. She stared down at him.

“Permission to board?” he asked.

Vicki nodded and backed away. Her heart slammed. She struggled to breathe.

He climbed the ladder and stood in front of her, slim and dusky in the vague light, bare except for clinging white undershorts.

A body she had seen countless times in cut-offs and swimsuits, a body she had held tight and caressed. So long ago.

So damn long ago.

Vicki shook her head. “This…is impossible.”

“I heard about your problems,” he said. His voice was almost the same as she remembered it. A little deeper, more confident. “I was in Guam until yesterday. I got into San Diego and ran into an old buddy. He told me about it. He didn’t know it was you, but he remembered I used to talk about a girl in Ellsworth, and…” His voice went husky. “Oh God, are you all right?”

Vicki didn’t answer. She rushed to him and threw her arms around him.

He held her. He stroked her hair, her back.

His skin was wet and cold, then warm where it pressed her. There was muscle where he used to feel bony. But his body fit against her the way it used to, as no other body ever had, as if it had been made especially to join with Vicki’s body and complete her.

“You’re really back?” she murmured against his neck.

Paul nodded.

“I can’t believe it.”

“Believe it,” he whispered.

“How did you find me?”

“It wasn’t easy. I figured Ace would know. I called her about half an hour ago. She said you’d gone for a run. I remembered you and the river, so I tried the beach.”

“Saw my shoes and socks.”

“I hoped they were yours.”

“You could’ve called out, you know.”

“I wanted to surprise you.”

“You scared the hell out of me. I thought they were coming for me.”

“You don’t have to worry about them anymore. I’m here. Nobody’s ever going to hurt you again.” His hands tightened on Vicki’s back, pressing her hard against him. “God, I’ve missed you.”

“I’ve missed you, too,” she murmured. “God, so much. I thought I’d never see you again.”

“I always wanted to come back and look you up. I just didn’t have the guts. I’m a leatherneck with one enormous yellow streak. I figured you’d met someone else, probably got married, had kids. I didn’t want to know. I figured I’d missed out.”

“You didn’t miss out.”

“Ace told me you’re…single.”

“I been saving myself for you, hon.”

He laughed softly, and Vicki tipped back her head and watched his face come slowly down and waited for the feel of his mouth.

ONE YEAR LATER

“Nobody move or yer dead meat!”

Meg Daniels jerked with alarm at the rough shout, and dropped her loaf of bread on the floor. She stared at the two men standing in the 7-Eleven’s doorway. A tall man with a revolver in one hand, a nylon satchel in the other. A shorter, stocky man with a sawed-off shotgun. Though the Bakersfield night was balmy, both men wore long coats. And ski masks.

Side by side, they strode toward the counter.

Meg wanted to back way, but she didn’t dare.

The tall man dropped his satchel onto the counter. “Fill it up,” he told the clerk.

The stocky man turned to Meg. He studied her through the holes of his mask. She trembled as she watched his bloodshot eyes roam down her body.

With the muzzle of the shotgun, he nudged her left breast through the thin fabric of her tank top. “Nice,” he muttered. “Real nice.”

“Don’t…hurt me. Please.”

“Aw, I wouldn’t hurt…”

The blast of a gunshot roared in Meg’s ears. Whipping her head sideways, she saw the back of the tall man’s coat puff out. Blood sprayed from a hole below his shoulders. But he didn’t fall. Instead, he shoved his revolver toward the clerk and fired. His bullet slammed into the clerk’s chest. The clerk staggered backward, dropping his gun. He was still on his feet when the stocky man swung the shotgun and fired. The clerk’s face from the mouth up flew apart in an explosion of red. Then he flopped out of sight behind the counter.

The tall man leaned forward, reached into the open drawer of the cash register, and started taking out money. He scooped up bills, tossed them into his satchel, and reached for more.

Meg, dazed, stared at the back of his coat.

The hole there was the size of a half-dollar. Blood was spilling out of it.

But he kept stuffing the bag with money.

“Yer coming with us, honey.”

The words seemed to come from a great distance. Meg thought, Is he talking to me? Must be. Nobody else in the store.

“Hey, you!”

She turned her head. The stocky man was looking into her eyes.

“You got a problem with that?”

She shook her head.

The tall one closed his satchel and lifted it off the counter. He turned toward Meg. He had a leaking hole in the middle of his chest.

Why isn’t he dead? she wondered.

“We’re taking this one with us,” said the stocky man.

“Fine by me, chief. She’s a knockout.”

Grabbing the front of her tank top, the stocky man yanked Meg forward.

And out of the store.

Toward a waiting black van.

“Would you like another drink?” Graham asked, seeing that she had nothing left in her glass but ice and a red swizzle stick.

She shook her head. Her hair swayed, shimmering golden in the soft lights of the cocktail lounge. “Not here,” she said. “But if you’d like to come up to my room…?”

“You’re staying here at the hotel?”

Instead of answering, she opened her clutch purse and took out a room key.

“Well, now,” Graham said.

“This is your lucky night.”

“I’ll say.”

He could hardly believe his luck. He’d been striking out so many times since JoLynn left him and he moved to Tucson. Even when he did score, it was with women who were as desperate as he was: they were older, or plain, or fat, and all had personalities that were either bland or grating on the nerves. On a scale of one to ten, they ranged from about three to five.

This gal, Patricia, was at least an eight.

Lovely, golden hair. Warm blue eyes. A sprinkle of freckles across her nose. A quick, sly wit that tended toward the sarcastic but stayed short of mean. And a slim, lithe body that her dress did little to conceal.

More like a negligé than a dress. Low cut and glossy white, with spaghetti straps and a slit that showed her left leg all the way to her hip. The smooth way it flowed down her body, Graham knew she wore nothing underneath.

She had only two minor flaws, or she would’ve been a ten for sure.

A face that was slightly too long. Not long enough to make her seem horsey, just enough so she couldn’t be considered gorgeous.

And she was pregnant. Not grossly pregnant, but enough so her belly pushed out the front of her gown.

Graham was keenly aware of what was pushing out the front of his slacks as he climbed off the barstool. He buttoned his sport coat, hoping to cover it.

Patricia took hold of his hand.

“Burrr,” Graham said, smiling.

She smiled. “Cold hands, warm heart.”

As they walked through the cocktail lounge, he thought about how her chilly hand would feel on his hot flesh.

They walked through the hotel lobby and entered one of the elevators. It was empty. Patricia pressed a button for the second floor. She looked at him and licked her lips. “I’m going to devour you,” she said.

He said, “Jesus.”

The elevator doors slid open. She led him through the corridor, and unlocked the door of 218. Graham entered first. No lights were on. When she shut the door, the room was dark except for a pale glow coming in through the glass doors on the far side.

She moved into his arms. He felt the firm mounds of her breasts and belly pressing against him. He kissed the side of her long, cool neck. He caressed her bare back. He ran a hand down to the slitted side of her gown, stroked the skin of her thigh and hip, inserted his hand beneath the fabric and found the silken smoothness of her rump.

She eased away from him, and for a moment he wondered if something was wrong. But only for a moment. Then she was undressing him: taking his coat off, opening his shirt and casting it aside, tugging at his belt, unbuttoning his waistband, skidding his zipper down, crouching as she drew his slacks and underwear down to his ankles.

He squirmed at the touch of her lips, her tongue.

“Delicious,” she whispered.

Then she stood up.

“Go in the bathroom,” she said.

“Sure. What for?”

“I like to do it in the shower.” She nodded toward the darkness of an open doorway. “I’ll be along in a minute. I’ll make us drinks and bring them in.”

Incredible, he thought.

He took off his shoes and socks, kicked his feet free of the pants, and went into the bathroom.

He turned on the light. The brightness made him squint for a moment. Then, he saw himself in the mirror.

One nervous-looking guy.

Ain’t nerves, buddy.

Jesus!

Shaking his head, he grinned at himself. His mouth was parched, so he stepped to the sink and turned on the faucet. He used a hand to cup cold water to his mouth.

He straightened up and turned off the water. He wiped his wet hand on his belly. He looked at himself again in the mirror, and again shook his head.

This can’t be happening.

But it sure is.

Trembling, he stepped to the tub. He ran the water until it felt good and hot, then turned a handle and watched the spray shoot out of the shower nozzle. It felt cold for a moment, then hot. He climbed into the tub. He slid the frosted door shut, and waited beneath the beating spray.

She likes to do it in the shower.

Oh man oh man.

First, we’ll wash each other.

He could feel it, feel her soapy hands sliding all over him, feel her breasts slick under his latered touch.

Graham moaned as he saw her vague form through the shower door. He couldn’t see much, just the pink tint of her skin.

The door slid open.

He saw the hammer in her upraised hand.

Saw the face behind her shoulder, bulgy eyes gazing at him, thick lips grinning.

The hammer crashed against his forehead. He fell. The back of his head slammed the bottom of the tub.

A shadow of consciousness clung to him.

“Turn off the water,” he heard through the ringing in his ears. Patricia’s voice.