Recoil by Jim Thompson Page B

blush, too, and tried to fix her face against it.
    I put out my hand, and let the fingers trail across her breasts.
    She gasped, but she didn’t pull away. She sat and waited, biting at her lip.
    “You’re out of character, Mrs. Luther,” I said. “Or are you in character? It’s got to be one way or the other.”
    “I—I don’t know what you mean.” I could feel her mind racing, trying to think and not to think at the same time. “Y-you’ve got no right to question me!”
    “You made one pass at me after another,” I said, “and you weren’t particular where or when you made them. And then Hardesty told you to lay off, and you did. You didn’t count on my making the passes. You don’t know what to do, now that I have.”
    “I—” her eyes were glazing. “I know what to do.”
    “Spill it! You were told to begin. You were told to stop. What’s it all about?”
    She didn’t answer. She wriggled, moving closer to me; and her lips parted, and her eyelids flickered lazily. She seemed to have taken a deep, swelling breath and held it.
    It was a good act, if it was one. I decided to see if it was, and, if so, how good. I caught the bodice with both hands and pulled out and down.
    It came apart like paper, and she fell against me, flinging her arms around me, and crying.
    “P-Pat!” It was almost a sob, frantic, hysterical with passion. “Oh, Pat…”
    I let her draw me forward and down.
     
    We still lay together, but I was thinking. The ash-blonde hair was sweetly damp against my face, and her lips brushed my ear, kissing, whispering, and the soft ripe body began to move again in tentative rhythm.
    But I was thinking.
    What if Doc should come in, now, I thought. What if the door should open and …
    The door did open.
    A silver-backed hair brush stood on edge on the coffee table, mirroring the opening door. Mirroring Doc.
    And, then, as gently as it had opened it closed again.
    It closed; and cautiously the screen door opened and closed.
    Seconds later I heard the quiet purr of a distant motor. Distant, then more distant.
    Doc, the insanely jealous, had seen this— this! —and driven away.
    It all had taken place in seconds, not more than a minute. Too swiftly for shock and fear to follow. And Lila Luther hadn’t seen or heard.
    I sat up. Shock was gripping me at last. A cold, weak feeling spread up through my chest and throat, and cold sweat broke out on my forehead.
    “Darling!” She sat up, also, anxiety and hunger blending on her face. “What’s the matter?”
    “I don’t know,” I said. “Felt sick, all of a sudden.”
    She whispered, “Maybe you’d better go,” and I went.
    I wanted to tell her, to explain, and reason that had become unreason held me silent. Perhaps she shouldn’t know. Perhaps it would precipitate a crisis if she did. Why and how I didn’t know, but I sensed the danger. She couldn’t be trusted. She’d lied about the car. She’d lied figuratively, ever since I’d come to this house. She knew what was going on, and I didn’t, and if I told her this…
    I didn’t know. I didn’t know what might happen. But I wasn’t going to tell her and find out.

16
    T he sign on the pebble-glassed door read:
    E.A. Eggleston
Investigations
    The office was in an old five-story building down near the public market.
    He couldn’t be too good, I’d thought, being in that location. He didn’t have to be good, to know what I wanted to, and I didn’t want anyone that would be really sharp, that would get ideas and follow them up.
    He was tall, and thin-faced and drowsy looking. His scuffed crepe-soled shoes were up on his desk when I went in, and his big bony hands were folded across his stomach. A crumpled gray hat was pulled low on his forehead.
    He didn’t shift the hat or his position during the half hour or so that I was there.
    “Cosgrove,” he said in a soft, deep voice. “What do you do, Cosgrove?”
    “Do you have to know that?” I said.
    “Got to know whether