Inconstant Moon - Default Font Edition (29 page)

As they head back down the steps to the path, Jose asks, “Eric, what do you see yourself doing in ten years?”

“Me? I just want to be an English professor with leather elbow patches and lots of co-eds to oggle.”

Jose laughs again. “Bullshit. Anybody dumb enough to be an English major secretly wants to be Hemingway.” “Not me, ” laughs Eric. Then suddenly serious, “I want to be Steinbeck.”

“But Hemingway got all the babes.”

“Hemingway? He was gay, what did he need babes for?”

“That's bullshit. No way Hemingway was gay. Hemingway ran with the bulls, man. He was macho.”

“Hemingway only acted macho so nobody would know.”

“You're making that up. You must mean Chandler.”

“No way,” Eric grins, “and you can't even mention Chandler in the same breath with Hemingway. That's sacrilege.”

“Well,” says Boris, staring morosely at the table bolted to the floor of the Interview Room, “It wasn't a big fight, exactly.”

Lewis says, “Really.” Unconvinced. “That's not the consensus at the U.”

Boris shrugs. “Well, it was really more like the mother of all misunderstandings.”

Lewis studies him across the table, then says, “In my experience when people are knocked down it qualifies as a fight.”

Boris looks up and meets her eye. “But it was my fault. She was right to hit me. I acted like an idiot, and I . . .” Boris sighs and breaks the eye contact, dropping his eyes. He spends a few moments staring at the fake wood grain imprinted on the plastic table as though it offered the meaning of life. Finally, he looks back at Lewis, and says quietly, “I deserved it. She tried to stop me with words, but I kissed her anyway. She was trying to, to push me away. And I . . . forced her.”

Wolfrom says, “Sounds like more than a misunderstanding.”

“Yes.” Agrees Boris, before burying his face in his hands.

Wolfrom glances at Lewis, who nods then smashes her fist on the table to get the suspect's attention.

“You bastard, this isn't about you, it's about her. Stop your snivelling, it doesn't excuse what you've done! How could you do it? The girl isn't even half your size.”

Boris's expression is pure misery. “Stupid me, I told myself that she wanted me to . . .”

Lewis shoves her chair back with such force it clatters into the wall, bounces off and falls over on the floor. “That is such bullshit. No woman on earth wants to be raped and used as a punching bag. You twisted bastards make me sick, you really do.”

Shaking in fury Lewis stalks to the door and slams out of the room. Boris watches the door bang closed, mouth agape. Wolfrom sits quietly beside him, waiting.

Looking around Boris doesn't see any tissue box and he's not about to ask, so he mops his eyes with his sleeve. Boris looks at the other detective, sitting there impassive. Boris tells him, “I was going to say 'kiss her'. You know, like the crab says in that movie? I thought if I kissed her she'd fall madly in love with me. Dumb, eh? I'm not subtle, but, I never . . . I never . . . God that's sick.”

Wolfrom sits back, folding his arms across his chest. “But somebody did. Your friend Natasha was punched and kicked and raped. Brutally. She was left in the woods, unconscious in the cold. Blunt force trauma, shock, exposure.”

“Natasha is my closest friend. Wanting to be more than that doesn't make me a rapist.”

“Alright, then help us out here. Tell us what happened. Who might have done it? We need to catch the guy who did it.”

“Oh I'd like to catch the guy who did it, alright.”

The student's tone sends a chill down Wolfrom's spine, and he studies Boris carefully. That had the ring of truth. But.

“You wanted to kiss her, she said no, but you forced yourself on her anyway. That's assault right there, Boris.”

Boris nods. “Yes.”

“So after all that, you expect us to believe you just walked away?”

Boris shrugs. “That's what happened.”

“After she made you look like an idiot to the whole school? That can't have been pleasant.”

Ruefully, Boris nods. “No it wasn't. That's why I took off back to the residence. I didn't want to have to see anybody.”

“So, you were alone the rest of the afternoon?”

“When I got back to the Res I jumped in the shower, but my eye hurt more than usual.”

Quietly watching the interrogation through the one way glass, Detective Lewis thinks how convenient that shower was. Makes it damned near impossible to get any forensics off the guy. Nothing beats washing your hair in the shower for eradicating any microscopic evidence under the fingernails.

She is pleased to see that Wolfrom's doing such a good job. Wolfrom asks, “This happens a lot?”

“It wasn't my first black eye— I've got brothers. But it seemed to hurt more than I remembered. After the shower I was getting an ice pack when I ran into Elsie. She's a med student so she took a look at my eye.”

Wolfrom raises his eyebrows. “Redhead? With the hair?”

Boris nods, “Yeah. She said my eye looked okay, and then I just holed up in my room. You know, updating my Facebook status. Unfriending Natasha.”

Natasha opens her eyes. She really is in the hospital. Damn, it wasn't a dream.

Her head is a little muzzy, tender.

Reaching up, she can feel bandages swaddling her head. Aches all over. Wiggle fingers, toes. All the bits work but everything is stiff and achy. She's sore, everything is sore, but no killing pain. Seems the drugs are pretty much worn off. The I.V. is out. Good, that means she must have enough fluids. Take it slow. It means she'll be able to get back to real life sooner. No time for laying around in bed. Things to do. Like find the bathroom.

She sits up slowly. Okay, not dizzy or anything, that's pretty good. Head a little sore. Gotta pee bad though. Very gingerly she turns sideways, slides her legs to the edge. Feet over. She can do this. She slides off the edge of the bed, feet on the floor.

Cold. A moment of dizzy, grip the bed rail. Hold on. Better. Cold feet, pee, no contest.

She pulls the thin top blanket off the bed and wraps it around her shoulders like a shawl and shuffles toward the doorway and sure enough the side door is a . . . closet. Next one is . . . yes. Natasha is acutely thankful for the metal bar positioned beside the toilet. As she lowers herself she is impressed with the accomplishment. You know you're at a low point when going to the potty by yourself gives you the same rush as climbing Everest. The thought triggers a giggle. Ouch. Hurts without drugs.

She's gonna have to check her face in the mirror when she's done. It will be bad.

Maybe better not to look.

No.

She has to know.

Finishing up, she flushes and toddles to the mirror. A mess of bruises down her face. A split lip. Teeth all present and accounted for. All in all not too bad. Considering.

She washes her hands, splashes water on her face. There's a shower stall, with a seat in here. A bath would be so good. Yes. She shuffles back to the door and peeks out. No lock on the bathroom door. Great, she thinks ruefully, that'd be handy if she were to fall and not be able to get up.

Just she wants privacy. She wants a lock, but she needs to wash. The shower head is on a hose clipped to the wall.

This is good. Get a nice gentle spray outta that. Draping the blanket over the towel rack, she lets the pathetic little hospital gown slip to the floor. The mirror above the sink shows a symphony of bruises running down her torso. Ga. Who could do something like this?

On purpose. Suddenly it feels personal.

The fragile balance she's been feeling slips and a surge of anger washes over her. God, what do women see in men? They are nothing but pigs. She grips the edge of the sink and closes her eyes, breathing deeply. Breathe.

Bath. Think about sitting down in the soothing water. Only antibacterial hand soap liquid on the sink. But really, it's the water she wants, soothing water. Soap might hurt. Have to see. But water will help. Getting clean.

Oh yes.

Over to the bath, she sets the soap on a shelf, then unhooks the nozzle and suspends it to hang low to spray inside the tub enclosure while she gets the water to the right temperature. Brain is ticking. She takes it as a good sign she wasn't stupid enough to shock herself with cold water. Now the water is warm so Natasha shuts it off and opens the door, stepping carefully into the bath. She pulls the tub enclosure door firmly closed. The last thing she wants is a flood and a bunch of people running in to help. Uh uh.

Natasha turns the water on and uses the the nozzle, gently spraying it all over. Feels nice. But with no lock, she can't get really relax. She feels too exposed.

She puts soap on her hands and lathers up, but rubbing it on her shoulders aches, so maybe not.

But.

She's been avoiding looking down.

Examining herself. She has always been comfortable in her own body. She just was. Until now. Now someone has done something unspeakable to her and she doesn't even know the extent of it.

Because she's afraid to even look. Breathe. Breathe deeply, suck in the air. Think of something nice. Beach. Waves rolling in, the sun beating down, warming her. Yes. Okay. She can handle it.

No way is she letting that bastard win.

Taking a firm grip on the bar, just in case, she looks down. There are black and purple marks inside her thighs. The bruises and abrasions from the pummelling he gave her are nothing to seeing exactly where hands gripped the insides of her thighs as the bastard raped her.

Chills run down her spine as she stares in horror at the bruises in the shape of hand prints. Seeing where the fingers dug into her flesh makes it all too real and a wave of nausea overcomes Natasha and she vomits bile into the tub. Still she clings to the bar with all her strength.

Ignore the tears. They're tears of anger. Tears of strength. Grip the bar. Tight.

Falling down is not an option.

No fucking way is that asshole gonna get away with this. No fucking way. Open eyes. Turn the nozzle on the bile and spray until it's all gone. Soap. Lather up, rub it in. Damn but that stings.

Everything hurts. Let the water flow. Washing it all away along with the tears. She is alive.

He cold cocked her, she was out cold from the get go. She didn't fight.

Why did he punch the hell out of her? Wasn't raping her enough? She'd heard that rape was a crime of violence, and she can both see and feel how much anger has been unleashed on her. But still she can't make sense of it. It just hurts. Let the water flow. The warmth helps soothe the aches.

She's just starting to drift off when she hears a tentative knock on the door. A clutch of terror washes over her. Shut off the water, grip the nozzle. Some defensive weapon, eh? Rat bastard who did this. Made her scared of a knock on a door.

“Yes?” her voice is stronger than she thought it would be. Although muffled by the door, the voice is unmistakable.

“Natasha, It's Liz. I brought you some things. Do you need a hand in there?”

Uh oh. Sexual fantasy 101. Liz putting hands on her helpless body, helping dress her, Ohmigod, no. It can't happen. “I'm okay Liz. I'll be out in a minute.”

“They said you were still sleeping but the IV was out. Want me to go get you some juice or something?”

“Yes please. That'd be awesome. Juice, food. Anything you can get, I'm starving here.” She smiles as she hears Liz bounce away. Okay good, now get out and dressed before Liz comes back. She hopes Liz brought real clothes. If it's down to the hospital gown she'll just have to wear the blanket as a toga.

Natasha comes out and sure enough the bag on the bed has clothes, sweat pants. Soft and forgiving. Excellent choices. Oh hell, most of this was in a filthy heap on the floor under her bed. Why did Liz have to go and do her laundry? She'll never get over the silly crush at this rate.

Climbing back onto the bed she struggles into the fluffy sweats. She rests before wrestling her fuzzy socks on. Not hardly dizzy. How good does it get.

A gentle knock on the door. “Come in,” Natasha calls, God, she thinks, I almost feel like a human again.

“Natasha, you're dressed. Shouldn't you be in bed?”

“Well I'm on the bed. I actually don't feel too bad, considering. This is so much better than that hospital gown. Girl, I'm gonna have to put you in my will for that.”

Liz giggles. “Oh I'm so glad you're all right. You look a million times better.” Liz hands Natasha a bottle of apple juice.

“Then I must have looked pretty bad.”

Liz nods. “Ethan wanted to come, but I said no.”

“Why? Oh, you mean because . . . I don't think it's him, it would be okay, you know. Ethan's a friend, he's a nice guy.”

Liz smiles. “Yeah, I think so. You think he's nice?”

Natasha says, “Yeah, I do.”

“They really had you doped to the eyeballs.”

“I don't remember much, it was pretty surreal.” Holding the juice bottle gingerly, Natasha takes a sip and the juice stings her split lip, but she needs the liquid. “But I'm close to clean and sober right now and . . . you know, I could swear all of these clothes were filthy, under my bed even.” Natasha purses her lips. “What'd you have to go and do my laundry for? You didn't have to do that.”

“You'd have done the same for me, I didn't want, I mean I wasn't trying to make you feel bad, but I felt a little guilty enough going in your room without permission and I didn't want to go through your drawers, too, that's so personal. So I just threw some of your stuff on the floor in with the load of laundry I was doing for myself anyway. No biggie.”

“Don't be silly.” Natasha sits back, relaxing a little. “Liz. You were doing a favour. I mean, really, getting clothes for somebody in the hospital isn't exactly the same as ransacking their drawers so you can read their diary.” Thinking, ransack my drawers anytime.

“You have a diary? Oh the chances I missed.”

“Yeah right. Even if I was insane enough to have a diary I sure wouldn't leave it laying around Fyfield house, at least not without heavy duty encryption, that's for sure. Did you bring chocolate?”