CHAPTER 15

Baker Ramsey looked through half-closed eyes at the nurse on top of him.

Her name was Mary Alice, and she rose and fell upon his body, making little whimpering noises, her starched skirts pushed up around her waist, the front of her uniform unbuttoned to allow her large breasts to spill out into Ramsey's kneading hands. "Oh, you, you, you ..." she whispered as an orgasmic shudder ripped through her. Ramsey came, too, but more quietly. This one was good. He'd see some more of her. He held her off him as she tried to collapse onto his chest. "No, baby, you can't go to sleep," he cooed at her. "You've got to get back down the hall. If you get caught, we can't fuck again, right?" She ran her fingers down his huge arms. "God, what muscles!" she said. "You jocks are really something!" Ramsey placed his hands under her buttocks and, as easily as a normal man would hoist a doll, lifted her off him and onto her feet beside the hospital bed, careful not to bump her against his knee.

She giggled as she looked for her panty hose under the bed. "You're the only man I ever knew who could pick me up like that."

"We'll do it again," he said.

"How long do you need?" she asked, kissing him lightly. "Shall I come back in an hour?"

"Not tonight, baby," he replied. "I've got surgery at seven; I need some sleep. You wore me out, anyway."

"Sure, I'll bet," she said lasciviously, rubbing her hand over his penis. "I'll check on you during the night, anyway."

"Don't do that," he said. "I'm a light sleeper; you'll wake me up. Just put down on your clipboard that you looked in. Don't worry, I won't die in the night."

"Whatever you say, Bake," she cooed. She gave his limp penis a final kiss and swung out of the room, smoothing her skirt as she went. Ramsey waited until her footsteps had receded before he gingerly removed the ice pack from his knee and swung his legs over the side of the bed. The clock on the night table read just after 2:00 A.M. As he stood he caught sight of himself in the full-length mirror on the wall. Automatically, he flexed his biceps, then struck a bodybuilder's pose. Right, he said to himself. That's what turned the girl on—all that muscle. He'd seen the look in her eyes when he'd checked in to the hospital that afternoon, and he hadn't been the least surprised when she came to his room after midnight. He took one more look at himself in the mirror. Women loved him like this. Except Liz, the bitch. She'd started to go off him when he began to put on the heavy muscle. Ramsey moved across the room, limping; he had used crutches, for effect, when he had checked in to the hospital, but he could walk without them, especially with another kind of help. He took a small bag from the closet; from that he removed a small leather case, unzipped it, and chose from the row of bottles. He held it up in the moonlight and read its label: XYLOCAINE. He took a disposable syringe from the little case, tore off the wrapping, and plunged it into the rubber neck of the bottle, sucking some of the contents into the plastic implement. He returned the bottle to the case, limped back to the bed, and sat down, crossing his legs, the injured knee on top. Carefully, he began injecting the painkiller, choosing the soft tissue, varying the depth of his stabs. He massaged the knee gently. Damn that little prick, Schaefer. The bastard had done this to him with one kick. Who'd have thought he could have ruined the knee so easily? He'd used his little medical kit to hold off the pain until he could get into the game with the Rams. Then, one tackle, and he had had an excuse for his injury. Now the pain began to ebb away, and Ramsey could walk back to the closet without limping. What the hell did it matter if he made it a little worse? They would fix it in the morning, anyway. He got into some jeans, moccasins, and a shirt; then he took the spare pillows from the closet and arranged them under the sheets. He cracked the door and looked down the hall; the nurse was at her station, her back to him. He tiptoed across the hall and headed down the fire stairs; they ended in the main lobby, which was deserted at this time of night. In a moment, he was out of the hospital and into the empty street, avoiding the emergency exit. Looking carefully both ways, he limped across the street and disappeared into the Brookwood Hills neighborhood, a quiet, old subdivision of medium-sized houses that had, in recent years, become expensive. Soon, when the Xylocaine had taken full effect, he no longer had to limp. It took him twenty minutes, moving in the shadows, to find the place. He passed through the backyard of the house next door and spent a moment taking a length of rope from a child's swing. Ray Ferguson opened his eyes, alert, unsure about the sound he had heard. He looked at his sleeping wife, then got out of bed, listening. The back door opening, that was what the sound had been; he often forgot to lock it. He sat very still, straining to hear. Another sound, this one from his study. The publisher got slowly up from the bed, so as not to disturb his wife, and went to the closet for his shotgun. He had bought the weapon years before from a small-town hardware store, a short-barreled pump twelve-gauge that had belonged to the local police force, the man had said. There had been some burglaries in the neighborhood that year, and he had been worried. He had loaded the weapon with number-nine bird shot, the smallest available. He didn't want to kill anybody; he'd have bought buckshot for that. He just wanted something to frighten somebody away, if it came to that. Now, he thought, it has come to that. He walked quietly to the stairs in his bare feet and started slowly down them, listening.

He stopped at the bottom and turned toward the study. That was where the sound had come from. At the door he stopped, afraid. "All right, you in there," he said, surprised at how strong his voice sounded, "I've got a shotgun. There's an outside door in there, and you'd better be out of it in five seconds. Now, get going!" He listened hard again.

"Ray?" It was his wife's voice, sleepy, upstairs. He ignored her.

There was absolute silence from the study. His eyes had become accustomed to the darkness now, and the moon was sending slatted rays through the venetian blinds in the room. It was a big room, with a vaulted ceiling and exposed beams. He released the safety on the shotgun and pumped it noisily. "You'd better get moving, buddy," he said loudly, "unless you want a snoot full of double-aught buckshot!"

Still, only silence. "Ray?" his wife called again. "What's happening?"

"Stay there," Ferguson said to her. He stepped cautiously into the study, the shotgun at port arms. A board squeaked under his bare foot.

Something soft brushed against his face, and, suddenly, he couldn't breathe. He was swept up, off his feet, then lowered to his tiptoes. In panic, he dropped the shotgun and clawed at the rope around his neck.

"Where is she?" a voice said, close to his ear, hot breath on his neck.

The rope slacked minutely. He pushed with his toes, trying to lessen the tension. "What?" he managed to croak. The rope went tight again, before Ferguson could get his fingers under it. 

"Just once more, and if you don't tell me the truth, I'll tear your head off. Where is Elizabeth?" The rope stayed tight until Ferguson was at the brink of unconsciousness, then it slackened. He bit at the air, sucking it in. "Last chance, Ferguson; the very last chance." Ferguson began to weep. 

"Ray?" The voice was startlingly loud. She was standing in the door to the study. "Oh, my God!" she screamed. Ferguson went limp. He knew he would tell Ramsey anything, now. "Please don't hurt my wife, Baker," he said.