(1987) The Celestial Bed (35 page)

Blindly, Scrafield moved nearer to the bedroom.

He was inside the bedroom, not many feet from her. She had turned and her bare back was to him. She was moving toward a chair to pick up a skirt.

‘Gayle,’ he called out quietly.

Startled, she froze, and then spun around, eyes wide. ‘You!’ she exclaimed. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘Trying to plead with you one last time. Gayle, please reconsider - agree to work with me — ’

‘I wouldn’t help you for anything in the world! Get your ass out of here!’

He was hypnotised by the dark triangle hardly hidden by her bikini briefs. ‘Gayle.’ He found it difficult to speak. ‘Gayle, forget everything I said — this is something else - I’ve never seen anyone like you … I can take care of you right now, the way you’ve never been taken care of before.’ He was moving closer to her. ‘I’ll treat you like a queen, Gayle. You’ll be a queen. You won’t have to be a whore with me …’

‘I’m not a whore, goddam you!’ she screamed. ‘You get away from me!’

But Scrafield was upon her, arms uplifted.

Gayle swung her hand at him, trying to slap his face. But he caught her by the wrists, bringing her hands down to her sides.

He held them tightly against her thighs, breathing against her contorted mouth. ‘You are a little whore, you know that? You whored with those men your pimp kept handing you. I can prove it. I can prove you handed it out every day. Now I’m going to give you a chance to be with a real man who knows how to treat a whore …’

He released her wrists, and before she could fend him off, he had her by the shoulders. He drove her up against the head of the bed and down on it on her back. Desperately she tried to rise, but he hit her with his fists, until she fell back half conscious, moaning.

Never taking his eyes off her, he removed his jacket, let down his trousers and unbuttoned his shorts. His erection, which she eyed with terror, sprung straight out.

His fingers fumbled for her bra, ripping at it, tearing it off her body. His big hands went down to the elastic band of her bikini briefs. ‘Don’t,’ she begged him, ‘don’t, don’t - ‘ She tried to rise and fight him off, but with one fist he slammed her against the headboard again and down flat on the bed.

She tried to press her thighs together, but it was no use. He had each leg in a powerful grip. She tried to resist, but his uncontrolled strength was too much for her.

He’d managed to get her legs wide apart, and for an instant savoured the length of the dark pubic hair covering her vaginal mound.

He had taken his pole of an erection in one hand, ready to direct it into her - when they both heard a metallic click in the living room behind them.

There was definitely the sound of the front door opening.

‘Paul!’ Gayle screamed at the top of her lungs. ‘Paul, help me!’

At the sound of the running footsteps, Scrafield straightened and swung about, as Brandon burst into the room. In a second, Brandon saw what was happening, and he threw himself at Scrafield.

Brandon had Scrafield by the throat, but Scrafield’s strong hands loosened Brandon’s hold.

‘You dirty bastard!’ Brandon bellowed, clutching the clergyman by the shirt, spinning him towards the living room, then swinging a roadhouse punch at him, catching him on the side of the head and driving him to the floor of the living room.

Gayle had rolled over, snatched at her phone, was dialling 911, crying into the mouthpiece, ‘Emergency! Rape! He’s still here! Get the police, get the police!’ She was shouting out her address, as Brandon disappeared into the living room after Scrafield.

But Scrafield, scrambling to his feet half-naked, was waiting for Brandon.

They went at it toe to toe, battering each other across the room, overturning small tables and lamps, grunting and hammering at each other.

Round and round the room they went, swinging at one another wildly, sometimes landing, sometimes missing, but going at it without pause.

Although breathless, Scrafield, better trained, stronger, began to recover his poise.

He saw the younger man come at him once more, ducked, parrying his blow, and then with all his might he hooked an uppercut to the side of Brandon’s jaw. Brandon’s arms dropped, and he reeled backwards, with Scrafield atop him, fists crunching again and again into Brandon’s bleeding face.

Brandon went down to his knees, dazed.

Scrafield madly kicked out at his head, and sent him flat.

Wasting no more time, Scrafield pulled up his trousers as he hobbled to the door.

He yanked the front door open in time to see two men in blue uniforms leap out of a patrol car and come racing up the path.

The two policemen had him by the arms.

‘Wait a minute, buddy!’ the taller policeman yelled at him. ‘Where in the hell do you think you’re going?’

‘I - I - ‘ Scrafield couldn’t find his voice.

‘We have a report there’s been a rape,’ the other policeman was saying.

‘The rapist, he’s inside,’ Scrafield coughed out.

‘Well, let’s all go inside and see …’

‘No!’ shouted Scrafield, trying to tear away.

‘If not inside, you’re going to the station,’ the taller policeman announced, and that instant Scrafield realised that the second policeman had drawn his hands behind him and clamped handcuffs around his wrists.

Scrafield went limp, gave up.

Early the following morning, when District Attorney Hoyt Lewis entered his reception room on his way to his office, he found Dr Freeberg, as well as Gayle Miller with a young man he did not know, already waiting for him.

Lewis halted with an apology. ‘Forgive me for awakening you so early, but I felt it important that all of us get together before the day got too busy. Please come into my office.’

They all rose and Gayle, who was holding the young man’s hand, said, ‘Mr Lewis, this is my boyfriend, Paul Brandon. Do you mind if he comes in with us?’

‘Not at all,’ said Lewis affably. ‘Let’s go inside.’

Once they were in his office, Lewis gestured for them to find places across from his desk, and after they were seated he settled into his leather swivel chair.

Lewis concentrated on Gayle. ‘I’m sorry about what happened last night, Miss Miller. It must have been terrible.’

‘It was terrible,’ Gayle snapped. ‘I’m just lucky that Paul - Paul Brandon - came in at that moment. What’s going to happen to that dreadful preacher?’

‘We’ll talk about that shortly,’ said Lewis. ‘I have something else on the agenda first.’ He picked up his briefcase, set it on his knees,

unlocked and opened it, and pulled out two manuscripts.

‘Do you know what this is?’ he asked Freeberg. ‘It’s a journal, two copies of a journal, that one of your patients kept during surrogate therapy. It was the basis for my prosecution against you, Dr Freeberg, and you, Miss Miller. Do you want to know who kept this journal, and turned it over to us?’

‘Who was it?’ demanded Freeberg.

‘A patient of Miss Miller’s named Chet Hunter,’ said Lewis.

‘Chet Hunter?’ said Gayle with disbelief. ‘But he couldn’t - he wouldn’t …’

‘He did it,’ said Lewis.

‘The bastard,’ Brandon interjected.

Lewis held up a placating hand. ‘He’s not entirely to blame. He had the idea, but it was I who gave him — with support from the Reverend Scrafield - the go-ahead to pull off this little sting operation. With this evidence in hand, I authorised your arrests.’

Gayle was furious. ‘What about us? Are you actually going to put us on trial?’

‘That, too, can wait a bit, if you don’t mind,’ said Lewis. ‘Before answering you, I must know something else.’ He leaned across his desk, handing one copy of the Hunter manuscript to Dr Freeberg and the other to Gayle Miller. ‘I want you both to read the journal Chet Hunter kept, and to let me know if it is entirely accurate in its account of your surrogate therapy.’

‘One minute,’ said Freeberg. ‘If this is evidence against us and you want us to verify it, I want to have my attorney present.’

‘You won’t need your attorney,’ said Lewis. ‘You have my word that whatever you say will not be used against you. All I want you to do is read it and tell me if it is accurate.’ He stood up. ‘I’ll be making some calls from my secretary’s office. I’ll be back in a half hour.’

Hoyt Lewis left his office, and in a half hour he returned to his own office and desk.

‘Well?’ he said to the others.

‘The part about me, my own role, is perfectly accurate,’ said Freeberg.

Gayle threw the journal back on Lewis’s desk. ‘Yes, he’s got it just right about me, too.’

‘Thank you,’ said Lewis. ‘Now let me tell you why I brought you here. When I first read Hunter’s report, I read it hastily and

with prejudice. My mind was searching only for evidence for a headline case, not for the truth. Last night, before the Chief of Police called to tell me of the Reverend Scrafield’s violent attack on you, Miss Miller, I began to have second thoughts about Hunter’s report.’

‘What do you mean, Mr Lewis?’ Freeberg wanted to know.

‘To be truthful, I became ashamed of myself,’ said Lewis, ‘of my role in this action. Hunter was to have been our star witness against you. But he was so moved by what Miss Miller had done for him that he backed out of the case, and I was prepared to do the same thing. Still, when Scrafield suggested that he himself go to Miss Miller with that wild proposal, I did agree to let Scrafield do this. Later, when Scrafield had gone, 1 began to feel uneasy about the whole thing. That’s when I reread Hunter’s account of your therapy with him, I reread it with care. It gave me a better insight into your work, a better understanding, and I wished more than anything on earth I could recall Scrafield, but it was too late. He was already with you.’ Hoyt Lewis paused. ‘Again, I’m so sorry about what happened last night. I’ll take my share of the blame. Therefore, I think you should have a voice in the disposition of the Reverend Scrafield. Once that’s settled, I’ll go on to discuss your futures. But first, since I’m seeing Scrafield in a half hour, what would you have me do with him, Dr Freeberg, and you, Miss Miller, and yes, you, too, Mr Brandon? What would you have me do with the Reverend Scrafield?’

For ten minutes after Dr Freeberg, Gayle Miller, and Paul Brandon had left, District Attorney Hoyt Lewis remained seated alone, waiting for his next guest. Now his eyes were fixed on the door to his office as it opened and the Reverend Josh Scrafield stepped inside.

Lewis had expected the clergyman’s bearing to be erect and his manner aggressive, that of an innocent victim who had been put upon, and Lewis was not surprised that Scrafield’s deportment was exactly as he had anticipated.

‘I’m glad you could see me,’ said Scrafield, crossing the office, moving vigorously.

Lewis neither rose to greet him nor offered a handshake. The District Attorney merely jerked his head toward the empty chair beside him, and waited for Scrafield to be settled. ‘I wanted to be

the first to tell you this,’ said Lewis. ‘Scrafield, you’re a stupid fool.’

Scrafield’s composure didn’t waver. ‘Listen, Hoyt, there’s more to it.’

‘I read the charges you’re booked on,’ Lewis said. ‘I’ve talked to the two witnesses, Miss Miller and Mr Brandon, at length - ’

‘You don’t really think I tried to rape her?’

‘No, you were only trying to tell her you were sorry for harassing her.’

‘You’ve got to hear my side of it.’

Hoyt Lewis nodded. ‘That’s why you’re here, Scrafield. To let me hear your side of it before I put you away.’

Ignoring the last threat, Scrafield gathered himself together, and with the earnestness so well known to his television viewers, he proceeded to expound his defence in a winning and melodious voice. ‘Hoyt, in all fairness, hear me out,’ he began. ‘You may not believe me, but I went to see Gayle Miller with the sole intent of performing the mission we had agreed upon. The instant I made our offer, Miss Miller lost her head, reverted to type. Not only did she vehemently decline our offer, but she began cursing both of us in a stream of the foullest invective I’ve ever heard. I suppose I shouldn’t have expected anything better from her, but somehow I did, and I was taken aback to say the least.’

Momentarily, Scrafield examined the District Attorney, to assess what effect his account was having on the official, but Hoyt Lewis’s expression revealed no reaction.

Hastily, Scrafield resumed his account. ‘When I realised that I’d get nowhere with her, I decided to leave. I was just getting ready to go when the little tart changed her tactics. She began to act provocatively. She was wearing next to nothing and she was clearly shaking her ass at me. I told her she was acting like a whore and it would get her nowhere. Then, she sidled up to me and said, “I have a better idea if you want to talk it over.” She led me to her bedroom - of course, I should have known better than to follow her in there - and then she said that she still wouldn’t turn state’s evidence against Freeberg, but there was something she could do on her own. She said she had a counterproposal to make. If I could convince you to free her, she said she’d give me a free fuck on the house. I was astounded, believe me — ’

Hoyt Lewis interrupted. ‘Scrafield, I don’t believe you. I don’t

believe you at all. If she was giving you one on the house, why was she fighting you tooth and nail when her boyfriend pulled you off her? Why did she call the police for help? And how come the police found you running into the street without your pants fastened?’

The clergyman’s poise began to dissolve slightly. ‘Hoyt, I’m telling you, Gayle’s a lying slut, and her boyfriend’s in collusion with her.’

Hoyt Lewis considered Scrafield coldly. ‘In short, four people lied while you alone tell the truth?’

‘Hoyt, for God’s sake, you’re not taking that little roundheel’s word over mine? You yourself agreed with me, that she was a prostie — ’

‘And I was wrong, absolutely wrong from the start, and I’m prepared to admit it,’ said Hoyt Lewis. ‘You’re a great talker, I’ll give you that, and you’re clever about people, I’ll concede that as well. From the outset you were clever enough to play up to my one weakness - my ambition. Yes, I allowed myself to be lulled by you and drawn into this mess. I began to regret it fully when I sent you to see Gayle Miller last night. I’ve regretted it ever since. You may not like what she does for men, to cure them - maybe it makes me a little uneasy, too - but that’s my problem, not Gayle’s. She’s trained. She’s honest. She believes in what she’s doing. What she does is useful to many people who need help. She is anything but a prostitute, and I’m going to admit that to the press this afternoon.’ Lewis caught his breath. ‘You and I were the real prostitutes, trying to use her body to further our ambitions. I’m ready to confess that publicly. Are you?’