Borderland (20 page)

Slowly
Diane turned her face into the mattress again. Adrenaline flooded her veins and
for the first time in hours she was able to think clearly. This wasn't a
kidnapping and Joseph wouldn't be able to save her. No one could. She was going
to be raped and...

A canvas
head bag.

Brains flying
everywhere.

The
scream that rose in her throat stayed there and choked off her air. She gagged
and fought against the rag in her mouth, straining to cry out. Her vision began
to darken. Then a sense of calmness and quiet determination replaced the panic.
There was no way out. She was going to die. She was at the mercy of these
murderous old men and there would be no mercy. But she, Diane Mancuso Fluscher,
sixth generation in a long line of willful, volatile Italian women, knew what
to do.

With
slow deliberation she began to swallow the rag in her mouth, forcing it back
with her tongue to block off her breathing passages.

No
gagging, Diane. Eat it. It's your ticket out of here, so start swallowing.

A
calloused hand moved up the inside of her thigh again. Touched her. Probed her.

Swallow,
dammit!

"Hmmm,"
the man with the purple nose said. "Need to grease you up a bit."

Swallow.
Swallow.

Already
dizzy. Lungs aching, straining. Muscles contracting in agony.

No
air.  Oh god no air!

Just
another minute or so and we're—damn you, Joseph—out of here.  Gone.

No one
messes with a Mancuso. See how the skinny bastard likes fucking a corpse…

CHAPTER 17

Nolan
sat on the toilet lid in the bathroom and examined his hands. The burns had at
last stopped oozing and the healing appeared to be well under way. He reached
for the ointment and began humming an Elvis Presley tune heard on his car radio
the night before, I Can't Help Falling in Love with You. He knew all the words,
so after a moment he stopped humming and started singing. It felt good, the
porcelain acoustics were great.

He
paused during the second verse to chuckle. He had been singing in bathrooms as
long as he could remember. From an early age he displayed an affinity for
music. He could hear a tune three times and know the lyrics and music by heart,
and oh God, how he wanted his mother to buy him a guitar for his tenth
birthday. He remembered begging her on his scabby knees to buy him the Les Paul
guitar in a store window. It was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.

His
mother purchased a piano instead, a piano and then lessons with a piano
teacher.

Nolan
shook his head and went on with the song, his voice full. He didn't have to
worry about being heard, Vic took his girls to Denke's Sunday morning service,
and Cal and Myra were outside picking tomatoes. Big Al Dunwoodie was coming for
Sunday dinner. For some reason Vic acted pissed about Nolan inviting the man to
the house, but Nolan figured he owed Al, and Nolan had donated more than enough
money to the grocery fund to cover one dinner for a friend. He didn't know what
the big deal was.

He
finished with the ointment and, still singing, reached for the bandages. He
should probably leave soon. Vic was acting weird about a lot of things and Nolan
didn't want to endanger their friendship by overstaying his welcome. By all
indications familiarity was in heat and ready to start breeding a little
contempt. Maybe he'd leave tomorrow, Monday. No, wait, Cal wanted to go fishing
tomorrow night. The smart little shit had whipped up a net to seine the pond.
He didn't want the kid to go by himself. Myra had the pistol right now but he
didn't trust her chances against the assholes in the gray Buick. Their absence
of late was making Nolan nervous. Guys like that didn’t give up so easily. They
were planning something, but what?

Why the
hell he cared was another good question. The answer, he supposed, was Cal. He
liked the kid. Cal had spunk and wit and he didn't brag about his brains like
the eggheads Nolan remembered from his own school days. Cal listened when you
told him something. Nolan could see him leaning over the Mustang's innards, his
young face a study in concentration. "Shroud, overflow, heater hose,
transmission fluid line, radiator hoses. . ."  He repeated everything
Nolan said to him.

Jokingly,
Nolan had suggested that maybe Cal should go to work on Al Dunwoodie's
superconductors. Cal looked up, smiled, and said he had been thinking the same
thing, and then he went off into energy, electrons, magnetic fields, copper
oxide, barium carbonate, and a whole list of other chemistry lab shit—until he
saw the Lost in Space look on Nolan's face and apologized. When Nolan looked at
the Mustang again he felt like he was looking at Fred Flintstone's car. By Cal's
standards, everything under the hood had to be Stone Age technology.

Ancient
or not, both cars were now drivable. Vic drove the Lincoln into town and the
Mustang was out of the barn and parked in front of the garage. Nolan felt good about
that. Though Cal had done most of the actual labor, Nolan felt he helped the
cause by providing the parts and supervising the work. Now everybody had
transportation and Cal had successfully completed Auto Shop 101.

He taped
off the bandages and rose from the toilet seat to put everything back in the
cabinet. When he saw himself in the mirror he noted that he needed a haircut.
The hair on the back of his neck itched, and one long strand that grew out of a
half -assed cowlick in front kept falling over his forehead into his eyes. He
pushed it back with his fingers and just for fun sang one verse with his lip
snaked up in Elvis-fashion. He was still smiling to himself when he opened the
bathroom door and found Myra leaning against the wall in the hall.

"Singing
to the mirror?" she asked. "I know that's the only person you
couldn't help falling in love with."

"Where's
Cal?" Nolan replied.

"Cleaning
the fish I caught last night. Do you mind? I have to go."

He moved
aside to let her enter the bathroom. "You shouldn't fish at the pond by
yourself, Myra."

She
closed the door on him. He positioned himself against the wall and waited. When
she came out he said, "I mean it. What if they decide to snatch you
instead of Cal? If you disappear Cal will have no choice but to go back to his
grandmother."

He could
see she hadn't considered that. Rather than rub it in, he picked up a strand of
his hair. "Can you cut hair? This is driving me crazy."

Absently
she nodded and handed him the Beretta. He pushed it into the waistband of his
shorts and stood by while she went back in the bathroom for a pair of scissors.

"In
the kitchen," she said when she came out again. "The light's
better."

He
followed her, watching the sway of her hips beneath the fabric of her simple
sundress. She looked good in yellow, it showed off her tan.

"Drag
one of the dining room chairs in here," she said over her shoulder.
"I won't be able to reach if you sit on the kitchen stool."

In the
dining room Nolan passed through a cool spot. He waved an arm through it before
grabbing one of the chairs. For an instant he remembered the night of the fire
and the imaginary bodies he had seen in the trailer. Then he shrugged. Why
think of that now? He hadn't had any problems since. The old house had cool
spots everywhere, never in the same place twice. Creaks, groans, and cool
spots. Just like any old house.

"In
the kitchen, Cal," Myra called out the pantry door. Beyond her, Nolan
could see Cal hacking away at the head of a good-sized bass. The boy nodded
without looking up. His hatchet caught the reflection of sunlight as he lifted
it. Nolan smiled at the muscles in Cal's arm. Any man would think twice before
approaching a feisty kid with a hatchet in his hand.

"Wet
your hair in the sink," Myra said, and Nolan pulled off his T-shirt. Then
he lifted his bandaged hands.

"Would
you mind? I just changed these."

She took
a dishtowel from a drawer and came to bend him over the sink. She turned on the
cold water. Nolan jumped and cursed under his breath at the icy assault.

"Okay,"
she said after a moment. "In the chair now. Do you have a comb?"

"Not
on me."

She
draped the towel around his shoulders and returned to the bathroom. Nolan
started humming again. When she came back he stopped. Her fingers touched his
neck as she began to comb his wet hair. Her voice was hesitant when she spoke.
"You sing very well, Nolan."

He
looked straight ahead. His nipples were getting hard. "Thank you."

"I
enjoyed listening to you in the bathroom earlier. It's a beautiful song."

"Yes,
it is," he said blandly. "Very romantic."

Her
combing paused then continued. "Did you ever think of doing anything with
music?"

"Yeah.
Until my mom decided I should go to some fancy school of performing arts. That
changed my mind."

"Why?"

"Because
my dad said I'd be surrounded—and probably influenced by—a bunch of pussies and
faggots."

He
didn't have to see her face to know she was taken aback. "I see,"
Myra said. "Did you want to go?"

"I
was sick of being ridiculed. If I'd screamed like Mick Jagger and played guitar
instead of piano the bad-asses would have left me alone. But I didn't and they
didn't."

"I
can’t believe anyone ever picked on you."

Nolan
smiled at the disbelief in her tone. "Until I went out for sports they did.
Then I managed to kick their asses one at a time. Sack this one in football,
nail that one with a slide to the ankles in baseball, and take out another in
wrestling. I was doing fine right up to the time I got kicked out."

"You
were kicked out of school for fighting?"

"For
gambling. A history teacher owed me twenty bucks on a Bowl game and instead of
paying up she turned me in. I had no interest in what my Mom wanted for me so I
went to Columbia, Missouri to live with my dad."

"And
played college baseball."

"Yeah."
Nolan heard the scissors begin to snip.

"Were
you any good?"

"Yeah."

A pause.
"Not good enough to play professionally?"

"I'll
never know," he said. "I turned down all the offers I received."

"Why?"

He
lifted a hand. "I didn't know what I wanted. She wanted me to be in music
and he wanted me to be in baseball. Nobody asked me what I wanted."

Myra
began snipping again. "And what was that?"

Nolan
smiled. "I wanted to be a singing shortstop. No, just kidding. I enjoyed
them both, but like Cal I wasn't sure and I didn't like being pushed."

"So
you chose not to pursue either career," Myra said. Did you finish
college?"

"Sure."

"What
was your major? Music?"

"No,
Sociology."

"Sociology?"
Myra repeated. "And you were a cop and now a fireman. Well, that makes
sense, in a way." She moved in front of him and put a finger under his
chin to lift his head. "Have you thought of going back to school?"

He met
her gaze and grinned. "Wait'll you meet Al Dunwoodie. He'll make you want
to go back, join the Peace Corps then start a campaign to save humanity from
its own stupidity."

Myra
smiled at him for the first time in what seemed like days. "I'm anxious to
meet him. But you still haven't answered my question."

"I'll
answer yours if you answer one of mine," Nolan responded.

She
combed up a section of hair, held it with her fingers, and snipped. "Go
ahead."

"What's
the story on you and Vic?"

Myra
kept her eyes averted. "I don't know what you mean."

"Yes
you do. I thought I was on the set of an underarm deodorant commercial Friday.
You remember—when he picked you up and did that little kiss and spin?"

"He
was happy, that's all," Myra said.

"I
know. But I was just wondering if you'd put on one of your little tease acts
for him. You know, lift the mourning widower out of his doldrums."

He
expected to feel the scissors snip flesh; instead she smiled again.
"That's an idea. I'm sure he wouldn't object to a little no-strings sexual
gratification. It might be good for both of us."

Nolan's
mouth tightened. "Be sure to provide him with a list of sexual
partners."

"That
should be easy," she said.

"Just
one?"

"Can
you say the same?"

"I
wouldn't want to."

"I'm
sure." She stood back from him then. "Nolan, I don't understand you.
You can be so charming and so funny and I swear I get goose pimples when I hear
you sing. But how something so beautiful can come from such a jerk is beyond
me. Why are you so combative?"