David's War. Herbert Kastle

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СКАЧАТЬ man with almost no hair would give up. After all, how many sixty-year-old rapists were there?

      The thought and her extreme nervousness made her laugh shrilly, even as she fought to free herself from the arms encircling her body.

      The laugh was a mistake. ‘Cunt!’ he shouted, and spun her around and flung her back toward the sink.

      And now his hands were fists and he was raging and advancing on her, and she choked on her terror and was unable to say she would stay the night if only he wouldn’t rage at her, wouldn’t hit her. And why did men act this way with her anyway? Why did these things happen to her, she who had loved Daddy and Will?

      She turned her back on him and bent over the sink, unable to face the fearsome sight. And saw the dishes where he had hurriedly placed them, the scraps of meat still there and the forks and the steak knives . . .

      The terror was too much. He would begin hitting her soon.

      She turned, raising the knife, and hacked down at his chest. She felt the blade scrape bone before sliding in up to the haft. She also felt hot liquid spray her knuckles.

      She cried out.

      He also cried out, a strangling, choking sound.

      He was staring down at the knife sticking into the lower centre of his chest and at the brilliant red stain spreading rapidly over his white shirt. He shook his head and stumbled backward. She jerked the knife out and followed, stabbing and sobbing, feeling the hot liquid spray her face. She slashed too high once and sliced open his cheek and said, ‘No, no!’

      But it was always that way with knives and, while she was sickened, she wasn’t surprised as she had been the first time. It was a butcher’s shop with knives and if she’d had a choice, if it didn’t always happen so fast, if she had been able to plan it, she would have used something else, anything else. How the TV shows irritated her with their bloodless stabbings, shootings, beatings! Bad for the children to think it was so neat, so easy . . .

      She almost tripped over him when he collapsed, first into a sitting position, then onto his left side. His arms and legs moved convulsively, briefly, and were still.

      There was a puddle of blood on the floor, growing larger by the second. She turned to the sink and ran the water until it was hot. She washed her hands and face; washed the knife thoroughly; washed the other dishes and utensils.

      She dried everything, found where they belonged and put them away, holding them with the towel. She remembered the coffee cups in the living room, and soon they too were washed and put away.

      She stepped carefully up to Vincent, avoiding the puddle of blood, and bent and fingered his neck, trying to find a pulse in the carotid artery as she taught her first-aid class; then tried the right wrist. Nothing.

      She went to the little toilet off the entry hall and checked herself in the mirror. Her cheek was faintly stained, as if with rouge. She washed thoroughly and returned to the kitchen and dried herself with the dish towel, which she planned to take with her.

      She thought about what she might have touched. She wiped everything she could think of with the dish towel, including doorknobs. She tried to remember what else she should worry about, from the Agatha Christie mysteries she had once been addicted to. But that was when she’d been married. Since then she had not enjoyed murder mysteries. On the other hand, since then she had become far more experienced in murder than Miss Marple . . . which brought a wan smile to her lips.

      She went to the living room and fluffed up the couch cushions and wiped the coffee table with the dish towel. Still holding the towel, she went to the front door, opened it a crack and looked out. She stepped into the hall, closed the door, wiped the knob and put the towel in her coat pocket.

      Later, at home, she felt that the long walk had done her good, had relaxed her. She piled her clothes, including pantyhose and shoes, in the centre of the kitchen so as not to forget to take them to a trash bin behind a shopping centre far from the one she used. She hated to lose the coat, and the shoes were almost new, but traces of blood could have splattered onto them. For that same reason she showered, scrubbing herself, soaping her hair three times.

      In bed at last, she was amazed that she was so calm, so free of guilt or fear. It was increasingly this way, each time it happened.

      Vanessa felt his penis going soft in her mouth, and told herself it didn’t mean that he felt less for her. Personal problems. Business problems. Perhaps health problems. He’d lashed out at Jitzler, hadn’t he? He’d even lashed out at Christmas! So this was just another symptom of a general problem.

      He said, ‘I’m sorry.’

      She began to lie down beside him, but he got up and went to the chair for his robe.

      ‘Can’t we talk about it?’ she asked.

      He walked to the bathroom. ‘What’s there to say?’

      He didn’t even sound upset, as he had when it happened the first time, four or five months ago.

      She put on her shoes and followed him. He enjoyed seeing her naked in high heels; used to make her walk and dance round the house that way.

      He was urinating and said, ‘A little privacy, please.’ He had never been shy with her before, nor she with him.

      But now she reddened as if she had walked in on a stranger, and went to the bathroom off the study. When she returned to the master bedroom, he was almost dressed.

      She couldn’t believe he had turned off so completely! She walked toward him, seeing herself in the mirrored closet doors, big breasts bouncing, rear end rolling, pubic hair trimmed close in a neat dark triangle . . . and knowing how men reacted and how he had reacted, she was excited by her own image.

      His voice weary, he said, ‘What is this? Show time?’

      She began dressing quickly, not looking at herself, feeling nothing for herself because the man in the room felt nothing for her. And the man in the room had been the man in her life.

      He left the room.

      She fought back the tears. She checked the digital clock on the nightstand. Not quite eight. Still time to call Rob Cerjak and ask if his invitation was open. He was going into production with a mystery pilot for NBC and had offered to let her read for a ‘strong supporting role that could develop into a continuing part’. But there was a definite string attached.

      She used the phone on the nightstand, spoke to him, and they were on for nine. She went down the hallway to the front door, and saw that the kitchen light was on. She hesitated, then walked in. Dave was sitting at the table in his suit, shirt and tie, as if waiting for the party to begin. Just sitting there, hands folded in his lap.

      She was suddenly filled with pity. Why, she didn’t know. He had everything this town could give, including his pick of women. He had simply tired of her.

      But looking at him, she felt it went much deeper than that and was afraid for him.

      ‘Dave, I’m going now.’

      ‘Drive carefully,’ he said, as always.

      ‘Why don’t you relax? Have a few drinks? Get out of that suit?’

      He СКАЧАТЬ