arm as if about to check his wristwatch. Instead he lashed out at his own tensed forearm with such strength and swiftness that the hard walnut cane splintered across it.
He casually tossed the ruined cane onto the carpet, next to Carver, and said, “Convinced?”
Carver nodded, trying not to vomit or lose consciousness. Bile lay bitter in his throat. His good leg was curled up tight against his stomach.
“You can talk now,” the man said, deftly adjusting his glasses again on the bridge of his nose.
Carver tried to say he was convinced. It was agree or die; he was sure of it. Only an inarticulate croaking came out. He was terrified his answer might be misinterpreted.
But apparently his attacker understood. Or at least was satisfied with the effort. He very deliberately and gently prodded Carver with the toe of his shoe. Then he brushed his hands together as if whisking dust from his palms, adjusted his tie knot, and nodded good-bye. His appearance and attitude was that of a salesman who’d just completed a successful office call.
Sunlight angled across the carpet, then disappeared, as the door opened and closed. Children’s shouts from pool and beach, which had entered the room with the outside glare, were abruptly cut off.
It was suddenly very quiet. Dim. Cool.
Carver lay with his cheek pressed against the coarse carpet, still in the fetal position but for his protruding stiff leg. He surrendered and let himself plunge with increasing speed through blackness to a place where there was no pain.
When he awoke he was lying on his back on the bed and he was sweating. His shoes had been removed. The back of his throat felt as if it had been sandpapered, and his stomach ached as if he’d eaten a hundred green apples. When he tried to lift his hand from the mattress to wipe his forehead, he discovered with a sledgehammer smash of pain that his entire upper body was stiff and sore, as if he’d been in a serious auto accident.
Someone groaned. Must have been him.
The mattress shifted and bedsprings sang. A cool, soft hand rested against his forehead. Familiar hand.
Beth said, “Who did this to you, Fred?”
“He didn’t leave his card,” Carver said hoarsely. At least he could still speak.
“One man?”
He nodded.
“Lord!”
Sitting on the edge of the mattress, she stared down at him with her own pain and concern. She was wearing faded Levi’s, a yellow sleeveless blouse, and a headband with a daisy design on it. She looked like an African princess dressed down for the occasion. “I’m gonna call a doctor.”
“Don’t do that. I don’t want anybody from the medical center.” God, it hurt to talk!
“Then I’m gonna drive you into Orlando. Get you goddamn looked at, and I don’t want any argument.”
“Not yet.”
She stood up from the bed. “Not yet my ass!”
“Let me stay here awhile. I’m feeling better, believe it or not.”
“Not,” she said. But she made no move to pry him from the bed. She cursed under her breath. “Feeling well enough to tell me what happened?”
“Slowly,” he said.
She sat back down on the bed, her hip warm against his side. “Slow as you want. Then we’re going to see a doctor.”
And he told her.
“The cane as phallic symbol,” she said, when he was finished.
“If that’s the case, it coulda been worse.”
“Maybe it will be next time. You better take this scumbag seriously.”
He was surprised by the fear in her voice, the rage in her dark eyes. He said, “I take him seriously, all right.”
She stood up and took a few hurried steps this way and that. Tall, elegant woman. “Shit, Fred! You need to back off this one.”
He said nothing. His own rage was building. He did feel as if somehow he’d been intimately violated, symbolic oral sex. For a moment an insight: Did rape victims feel this way? His hate for the man in the horn-rimmed glasses took root deep in him, hard and fast, the craving for revenge.
“Fred?”
“I’m
He casually tossed the ruined cane onto the carpet, next to Carver, and said, “Convinced?”
Carver nodded, trying not to vomit or lose consciousness. Bile lay bitter in his throat. His good leg was curled up tight against his stomach.
“You can talk now,” the man said, deftly adjusting his glasses again on the bridge of his nose.
Carver tried to say he was convinced. It was agree or die; he was sure of it. Only an inarticulate croaking came out. He was terrified his answer might be misinterpreted.
But apparently his attacker understood. Or at least was satisfied with the effort. He very deliberately and gently prodded Carver with the toe of his shoe. Then he brushed his hands together as if whisking dust from his palms, adjusted his tie knot, and nodded good-bye. His appearance and attitude was that of a salesman who’d just completed a successful office call.
Sunlight angled across the carpet, then disappeared, as the door opened and closed. Children’s shouts from pool and beach, which had entered the room with the outside glare, were abruptly cut off.
It was suddenly very quiet. Dim. Cool.
Carver lay with his cheek pressed against the coarse carpet, still in the fetal position but for his protruding stiff leg. He surrendered and let himself plunge with increasing speed through blackness to a place where there was no pain.
When he awoke he was lying on his back on the bed and he was sweating. His shoes had been removed. The back of his throat felt as if it had been sandpapered, and his stomach ached as if he’d eaten a hundred green apples. When he tried to lift his hand from the mattress to wipe his forehead, he discovered with a sledgehammer smash of pain that his entire upper body was stiff and sore, as if he’d been in a serious auto accident.
Someone groaned. Must have been him.
The mattress shifted and bedsprings sang. A cool, soft hand rested against his forehead. Familiar hand.
Beth said, “Who did this to you, Fred?”
“He didn’t leave his card,” Carver said hoarsely. At least he could still speak.
“One man?”
He nodded.
“Lord!”
Sitting on the edge of the mattress, she stared down at him with her own pain and concern. She was wearing faded Levi’s, a yellow sleeveless blouse, and a headband with a daisy design on it. She looked like an African princess dressed down for the occasion. “I’m gonna call a doctor.”
“Don’t do that. I don’t want anybody from the medical center.” God, it hurt to talk!
“Then I’m gonna drive you into Orlando. Get you goddamn looked at, and I don’t want any argument.”
“Not yet.”
She stood up from the bed. “Not yet my ass!”
“Let me stay here awhile. I’m feeling better, believe it or not.”
“Not,” she said. But she made no move to pry him from the bed. She cursed under her breath. “Feeling well enough to tell me what happened?”
“Slowly,” he said.
She sat back down on the bed, her hip warm against his side. “Slow as you want. Then we’re going to see a doctor.”
And he told her.
“The cane as phallic symbol,” she said, when he was finished.
“If that’s the case, it coulda been worse.”
“Maybe it will be next time. You better take this scumbag seriously.”
He was surprised by the fear in her voice, the rage in her dark eyes. He said, “I take him seriously, all right.”
She stood up and took a few hurried steps this way and that. Tall, elegant woman. “Shit, Fred! You need to back off this one.”
He said nothing. His own rage was building. He did feel as if somehow he’d been intimately violated, symbolic oral sex. For a moment an insight: Did rape victims feel this way? His hate for the man in the horn-rimmed glasses took root deep in him, hard and fast, the craving for revenge.
“Fred?”
“I’m
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