Read Online Color Him Dead by Charles Runyon - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Charles Runyon
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turned, ready to face the man in calm, imperious dignity.
But he was gone.
“Coward,” she said aloud. It had been too easy; she had only to throw up the shield of the Barrington name, and that rugged man had retreated.
She lay back and turned her body up to the sun. How well did he know me? she wondered. What use did he make of me? Did he love me? She teased her memory, but the door to her past remained closed. She gave up trying to remember him; it was a nagging frustration, like a sneeze which never quite matures, but forever rises up in the throat.
The sand felt good on her back. Impulsively she untied her halter and pulled it off, then unzipped her shorts and kicked them off her feet. She rolled onto her stomach and wriggled her body against the sand. She opened her legs, then closed them. The sand lumped up between her thighs, warm and intimately caressing. The sun pressed gently against her back, the breeze drew soft fingers up and down her legs, the world held her in a soft, loving embrace….
A metallic scraping penetrated her half-sleep. She lifted her head and saw the bearded man bending over her dinghy.
“What are you doing?”
He straightened and dropped something into the pocket of his shorts. He turned, and a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “Putting your boat out of action.”
Her lips went dry. “What’s … the point of that?”
“So we can talk in peace. Don’t you want to talk?”
He came toward her with one hand braced against the rock, hopping along on his right leg. In the back of her mind, behind the chill of fear which paralyzed her muscles, she thought: he must have stepped on a spiny sea urchin. Then she saw the long red scar on his leg and the way he held it stiff, as though the bones were fused together. He’s crippled, she thought, and there’s another vicious scar on his side and another on his face and …
Oh God, I don’t like this at all!
She rolled over and sat up, not even trying to cover her body. She had an impulse to run, but the man was lowering himself onto the sand five feet away, between her and the dinghy. Just sit and wait, she told herself; don’t do anything to upset him. He wants something from you and it’s more than a chat, otherwise there’d have been no need to sabotage the boat.
“Tell you what, Edith,” he said pleasantly, as though humoring a child. “We’ll sit here and play a little game. You look at me and try to remember me, and I’ll tell you when you’re getting warm.”
She tried to swallow, but there was a hard lump in her throat. She watched him reach down the front of his shorts and pull out a flat package wrapped in oilcloth. He untied the string and peeled away the oilcloth, revealing a layer of transparent plastic. He began removing that, slowly, but without waste motion, as though he had planned each move far in advance. The plastic came off, and beneath it was a layer of canvas. She stifled an impulse to giggle. It’s a trick package, she told herself; he’ll get it all unwrapped and there’ll be nothing inside but an old potato. She had a weird feeling that he had given her a time limit; she must remember who he was before he finished unwrapping the package or else …
what?
She felt perspiration trickle down her spine and between her breasts. She would never remember, she knew that. But what can you do? she asked herself. The prima donna act doesn’t work; you tried that and he just grinned at you. The Barrington name didn’t stop him from tearing up your boat. So okay, maybe he gets what he wants, it won’t kill you. As the old Chinese saying goes, you might enjoy it if you relaxed.
Calmly, now that she had mentally prepared herself, she lit a cigarette and blew the smoke out slowly.
“I know the answers.”
His hands stopped, poised above the package. “Yes?”
“You waited three weeks in the radar shack. You hid from Doxie so you could catch me alone and helpless on this rock.”
“And violate
But he was gone.
“Coward,” she said aloud. It had been too easy; she had only to throw up the shield of the Barrington name, and that rugged man had retreated.
She lay back and turned her body up to the sun. How well did he know me? she wondered. What use did he make of me? Did he love me? She teased her memory, but the door to her past remained closed. She gave up trying to remember him; it was a nagging frustration, like a sneeze which never quite matures, but forever rises up in the throat.
The sand felt good on her back. Impulsively she untied her halter and pulled it off, then unzipped her shorts and kicked them off her feet. She rolled onto her stomach and wriggled her body against the sand. She opened her legs, then closed them. The sand lumped up between her thighs, warm and intimately caressing. The sun pressed gently against her back, the breeze drew soft fingers up and down her legs, the world held her in a soft, loving embrace….
A metallic scraping penetrated her half-sleep. She lifted her head and saw the bearded man bending over her dinghy.
“What are you doing?”
He straightened and dropped something into the pocket of his shorts. He turned, and a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “Putting your boat out of action.”
Her lips went dry. “What’s … the point of that?”
“So we can talk in peace. Don’t you want to talk?”
He came toward her with one hand braced against the rock, hopping along on his right leg. In the back of her mind, behind the chill of fear which paralyzed her muscles, she thought: he must have stepped on a spiny sea urchin. Then she saw the long red scar on his leg and the way he held it stiff, as though the bones were fused together. He’s crippled, she thought, and there’s another vicious scar on his side and another on his face and …
Oh God, I don’t like this at all!
She rolled over and sat up, not even trying to cover her body. She had an impulse to run, but the man was lowering himself onto the sand five feet away, between her and the dinghy. Just sit and wait, she told herself; don’t do anything to upset him. He wants something from you and it’s more than a chat, otherwise there’d have been no need to sabotage the boat.
“Tell you what, Edith,” he said pleasantly, as though humoring a child. “We’ll sit here and play a little game. You look at me and try to remember me, and I’ll tell you when you’re getting warm.”
She tried to swallow, but there was a hard lump in her throat. She watched him reach down the front of his shorts and pull out a flat package wrapped in oilcloth. He untied the string and peeled away the oilcloth, revealing a layer of transparent plastic. He began removing that, slowly, but without waste motion, as though he had planned each move far in advance. The plastic came off, and beneath it was a layer of canvas. She stifled an impulse to giggle. It’s a trick package, she told herself; he’ll get it all unwrapped and there’ll be nothing inside but an old potato. She had a weird feeling that he had given her a time limit; she must remember who he was before he finished unwrapping the package or else …
what?
She felt perspiration trickle down her spine and between her breasts. She would never remember, she knew that. But what can you do? she asked herself. The prima donna act doesn’t work; you tried that and he just grinned at you. The Barrington name didn’t stop him from tearing up your boat. So okay, maybe he gets what he wants, it won’t kill you. As the old Chinese saying goes, you might enjoy it if you relaxed.
Calmly, now that she had mentally prepared herself, she lit a cigarette and blew the smoke out slowly.
“I know the answers.”
His hands stopped, poised above the package. “Yes?”
“You waited three weeks in the radar shack. You hid from Doxie so you could catch me alone and helpless on this rock.”
“And violate
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