Wild by Gil Brewer Page A

and veered down the hall, thumping on the one bare foot. I walked after her. She entered the bedroom, sprawled backwards across the bed.
    “What’m I going to do?” she whispered. She tried to lift her head without success. “Maybe it’s an accident—maybe he did it himself—maybe he….”
    I said, “No. He knew something hot. He wanted to tell me. He was a serious guy, not the type to take his own life. You’ll realize that when you sober up and think about it. He was too damned serious. It cost him his life. It’s an old workhorse with a long gray beard, honey, but he knew something somebody couldn’t afford to let anybody else know.” I went over by the bed and looked down at her. “I read a letter you wrote to him, telling him it was all off.”
    “I never loved him,” she said. “He couldn’t understand that. He kept telling me he’d never b’lieve it.”
    “Your letter sounded as if you had cared plenty.”
    She closed her eyes, lying motionless. “You don’t go around trying to hurt people,” she said. “I wanted to let him down easy.” Her eyes snapped open. “All right,” she said. “I’m no good—say it. Say it!”
    “Take it easy,” I said.
    The sheath dress was very tight. The skirt was twisted up across her soft thighs, and her small belly moved with her emotions. She arched her head back, her hands shoving up against the full thrust of her breasts. You could see how she was fighting inside, wanting to cry but not letting herself; trying to find a way out but discovering only solid black walls on every side. Trapped in the mind. Enclosed in a maze with no way out. Blaming herself.
    I sat on the bed beside her.
    “Easy, now,” I said, feeling helpless.
    She rolled suddenly toward me, flung her arms around me, her face burrowed into my chest. Her body lay pressed against me, her fingers biting into me. Her voice was small, lost, afraid. “Help me.”
    I laid her back on the bed, leaned above her face. Her eyes watched me with the fright like tiny flames in the deep pupils. What the hell can you tell them when they’re on a spot like this? From the outside, she was a lush piece of sex, lying sprawled across a bed. Only inside, she was a frightened human being, clawing at high smooth black walls, fighting for control.
    “It’s rough,” I said. “This does put you on a spot, but we’ll see what we can do. Maybe it’s going to help. Getting drunk won’t help. Try to hang on, will you?”
    Her fingers tightened on my arms. She watched me. The red lips parted and she breathed hot and not at all unpleasant whisky fumes into my face. “All right,” she said softly. “I’ll try. But help me. I’m scared. I don’t know what to do. It’s Carl—it must be Carl.”
    “Maybe,” I said. “In fact, probably. But not for the reason you think.” I looked down at her. The face composed itself and the red mouth smiled hesitantly. The breasts swelled as she took a long breath.
    “I like you, Lee. I like you an awfully lot.”
    I patted her with my left hand. My palm patted bare flesh where the dress had twisted up to her hip. She didn’t move. I did, damned quickly. I stood up beside the bed with my heart socking my ribs. She lay there on her back, looking up at me with a faintly cockeyed smile. Drunk, she’d forgotten everything; the dead man, the works.
    “Don’t go,” she whispered. “I need you. Please stay for a while.”
    “You’re tight as a coot,” I said. “I almost forgot.”
    “Forgot what?”
    “That you’re drunk.”
    Her moment of clarity had come and gone. The fog was in her eyes again. Her tongue was thick.
    She patted the bed. “Lie down here—I wan’ tell you something.”
    Something rattled from the back of the house. I turned quickly and headed for the kitchen. Her white purse was on the floor in the hall. I heard her moving on the bed. The bottles rattled again out there. My insides crawled and I went to the door, flung it open. A man leaped