In Self-Defense Read online

  “Where do you want me?” she asked softly.

  He picked up the rope and spare handcuffs, then went to the door leading to the living room. “I don’t want you no place yet,” he said. He beckoned. “Come on. We’re going to get cutie-pie.”

  Her brain was foggy from the blow to her jaw. Cutie-pie? Who is … ? She got it. Haltingly she said, “Please. You don’t mean my little girl.”

  “She ain’t so little, Mother. I like them skinny legs of hers. Mother and daughter, make a good portrait, you know?” He sneered and beckoned again.

  “Oh, no. Listen, oh, no. I’ll do anything. Please. Oh, please.” Sharon’s speech was rapid and uncontrolled, flowing without her conscious thought.

  “Goddammit,” he screamed, and Sharon recoiled in terror. “Goddammit,” he said more softly, “I told you not to fuck with me.” He grabbed the chain between her wrists and yanked. Sharon felt herself propelled forward like a rag doll as he flung her through the doorway. “You move your goddam ass when I tell you, you hear?” he hissed.

  She fell heavily on the living room carpet and rolled over. There were thumps and guttural snarls as Commander hurled himself against the back door from outside. Easy, boy, Sharon thought, and uttered a silent prayer that this crazy didn’t kill the dog.

  Brie came out of the bedroom carrying the rope and handcuffs along with a paper sack. He reached into the sack and produced a huge erect penis made from hard rubber, then bent and held the dildo inches from her face. “Big ’un, ain’t it?” he said. “You ever seen one like this?” The maker had spared no detail, even to the blue veins on top of the hardened shaft. Sharon gagged.

  Carpet fibers tickled her shoulders. The fall to the floor had cleared her head, and through her terror she now felt a burning resolve. Until he’d mentioned Melanie, Sharon’s only thought had been self-preservation, but now all such self-serving emotion flowed out of her system. She wasn’t letting him anywhere near Melanie, and all she thought of now was the best chance to make her move. As she lay on the carpet with the fearsome dildo inches from her face, Sharon made up her mind that she was willing to die.

  He shoved the dildo under his arm and swept the pistol barrel in an upward motion. “Don’t worry if you ain’t seen one before. They’re easy to strap on, pretty lady. You’ll see, nothing to it. Ssst. Ssst.” He made the hissing sound with his tongue against the roof of his mouth. “Up, now. Come on.”

  She climbed slowly to her feet and led the way through the living room toward the front of the house. Toward Melanie’s room. Sharon had forgotten her nakedness, and her fear was completely gone. She just wanted one chance, one opening, before she reached the child’s bedroom, and if the opportunity didn’t come she was going to rush the lunatic anyway. To hell with this bastard who was invading her home. Sharon lightly gritted her teeth.

  “It just came to me, you know?” Brie said, waving the gun, chuckling as he moved along behind her. “One night down there in Mexico I was shooting this album and I thought to myself, hey, what about a mother-daughter spread? Then this old guy showed me this hummer of a dick I got here. Jesus, Roy’s horse, Trigger, would be proud of this sonofabitch, don’t you think? Twenty bucks was all it cost me, too. You got any idea—”

  Sharon stepped down into the sunken living room. The lights were out, the only illumination filtering through her still open bedroom door. Brie’s singsong voice penetrated her consciousness, but she wasn’t listening to the words.

  “—what a dong this size would cost up here in the States? I seen one like it, only not near as good with the veins and hole in the head, I seen one like it at this X-rated bookstore on Industrial Boulevard, and guess what. Hundred and fifty bucks for the fucking thing, can you believe it? I tell you something, I’m going to have to shoot your picture while you’re putting it on. Otherwise people will think you’re some kind of hermaphrodite, that’s how real the bastard looks.”

  Sharon reached the step up into the hall. Only a few more feet, ten or fifteen steps separating her from the entrance to Melanie’s room. Her body tensed. She kept her gaze straight ahead.

  “Only thing is,” Brie said with a honking nasal laugh, “I can’t figure out whether you should give it to her in the snatch or up her ass. I like the front fuck, you know? But a lot of people get their jollies the other way. Disgusting, yeah, but there’s no accounting for people’s taste. Guess we’ll have to try ’em both, huh? What you think, Mother? How you think cutie-pie would like it best? Hold it, Mother. Hold it right there.”

  Sharon halted in her tracks, unsure, and swiveled her head to look at him. His face was hidden in the shadow of his hat brim. Oh, she thought. Sure. The light. He stepped to the side to flick the switch which would illuminate the hallway. He’ll have to reach for the switch, Sharon thought, and he’ll have to turn his head to the wall if only for an instant. She mentally braced herself, took a half step backward, and tensed her knee to spring.

  “Can’t see where the fuck we’re going, huh?” He groped at the wall with the hand which held the rope and handcuffs. The metal bracelets clinked together. His head moved to his right as he looked for the switch. Sharon drew a deep breath.

  And the doorbell bong-bonged.

  So unexpected was the sound, so totally impossible that anyone would be coming to call now, of all times, that Sharon froze with one foot suspended in midair. God, who could it … ? Brie was motionless as well, his hand on the wall, his head cocked inquisitively, captor and captive in frozen stop action.

  The chimes sounded a second time.

  Now Brie turned full-profile to her as he squinted through the entry hall at the front door.

  Sharon charged. She brought her handcuffed wrists up over her head, took a long running stride, and launched herself. Brie yelped in surprise and turned toward her, the gun swiveling to point at her, the set of his mouth showing that he knew all along that he wasn’t going to make it.

  She swung her weighted wrists like a woodman axing a tree, first contacting his hat and crushing the crown, then feeling the satisfying crunch of metal on bone as the cuffs smashed into the top of his head. Then her arms were around his neck; she squeezed for all she was worth, her bare breasts flattened against him, her legs coming up to wrap themselves around his waist. Sharon sank her teeth into the side of Bradford Brie’s throat like a frenzied vampire, all forgotten except that this foul-smelling creature had come into her home and threatened her little girl. A growl like a tigress’ fought its way out of Sharon’s throat and split the silence.

  Bradford Brie screamed and fell on his side with Sharon on top, her teeth grinding, ripping flesh. She tasted salt. The gun clattered on entry hall tile, and at the same time the spare cuffs and rope flew in the opposite direction. Sharon was faintly aware of something rubbery bouncing on the floor beside her ear. A penis, she thought, it’s the goddamn revolting rubber dick that this scum has been waving in my face. She clamped her jaws even tighter. Brie yelled like a banshee, clawing at the fury which ripped at his throat. Flesh ripped as he squirmed away from her. Sharon spat out a ribbon of skin. She rolled sideways on the floor, got both hands around the handle of the gun, and fought her way up on her knees.

  Clutching his wounded throat, blood seeping from between his fingers, his hat a mass of crumpled straw, Bradford Brie sprinted for the door. Sharon had never fired a gun in her life—was deathly afraid of firearms, in fact, and for two years had ignored the DA’s memo directing his staff to take turns on the police firing range—but she did know which end was which and where the firing mechanism was located. She pointed the barrel of the gun squarely between the fleeing man’s shoulder blades and yanked hard on the trigger. The trigger wouldn’t move. Dammit, she thought, the frigging trigger is frozen. Something raced through her subconscious, some long-ago something she’d heard about safety catches, as Brie flung the door open and thundered out into the night.

  Da
mmit to hell, Sharon thought. More than anything she’d ever wanted to do in her life, she’d been dying to kill the bastard.

  Homicide detective Stan Green was too godawful drunk to know what time it was or, for that matter, to give a damn. He’d begun his evening at five o’clock in the afternoon with a few toots at the bar in Pappadeaux Seafood Restaurant in the West End, and by seven had had more than a snootful. He hadn’t gone to the upscale Cajun fish joint with the idea of getting drunk, but to mull over strategy in the Rathermore case with Kathleen Fraterno and Milton Breyer. After three Hurricanes (hundred-proof Bacardi mixed with orange, lemon, and cranberry juices, sweet-tasting with the kick of four Clydesdales) while watching the happy hour crowd—young singles mostly, girls in skin-tight jeans and bare-midriff blouses showing golden springtime tans as they batted eyes and gave come-ons to young men with razored hairstyles—move and shake, and two solid hours of observing Breyer and Fraterno play with each other’s legs under the table while pretending to talk about the case, Stan Green had no longer given a shit whether Midge Rathermore had offed her daddy or not.

  Actually, Midge’s guilt or innocence had never mattered to Green to begin with. Putting evidence together against the overweight teenager had only been part of the job. The Rathermore case was the eighty-seventh homicide on which Green had worked in the past year and, aside from the publicity, wasn’t any different from the other eighty-six. The procedure was always the same: first Green zeroed in on the suspect and then set about making a case. No one could say that he hadn’t worked like hell on the Rathermore investigation, either, and for busting his ass what was he getting? Peanuts, he thought as he drained his second Hurricane. Those goddamn movie people weren’t willing to pay Stan Green a third of what they’d offered Milton Breyer.

  And Breyer, the ungrateful horse’s ass of a politician—who hadn’t known goat shit about the Rathermore case until Green had filled him in on the details—what had Breyer done? Well, for starters, the married SOB was fucking Kathleen Fraterno—which was the only thing preventing Green from taking a shot at the assistant prosecutor himself—and for finishers, Breyer hadn’t offered to share a nickel of his movie money. Breyer’s cheating on his wife didn’t bother Stan Green one iota, having done more than his share of extramarital screwing around in his time, but the fact that the prosecutor was married might come in handy should Green have to resort to blackmail in order to get his cut of Breyer’s television deal. Hell, Breyer’s wife was already rich, what did old Milt need the money for? With the proper amount of Hollywood cash, Stan Green could pay off his boat and trailer, shut his ex old lady up about the past-due child-support payments, and do some living of his own. Maybe take a little vacation, huh?

  The more liquor Green had consumed at Pappadeaux, the more resentful he had become, the result being that by seven o’clock the detective was in an alcohol stupor, staring sullenly into space while Breyer and Fraterno continued to feel each other up underneath the table. The last straw for Green had come when the movie people themselves—David Whit, the producer, a guy in his forties with a Gable mustache and sideburns, wearing pimpy-looking high-dollar boots and designer jeans, and Whit’s assistant, Rayford Sly, who Green suspected was a fag—had stopped by the table to buy a round of drinks and check up on how the case was going, and had completely ignored Stan Green. Had ignored the detective as if he wasn’t even there, as if it had been Milton Breyer instead of Stan Green who had put together the evidence against Midge Rathermore to begin with. Green had taken the snub for as long as he could—which in his condition was a total of about thirty seconds—then had told the lot of them, Fuck you very much, and had raged and cursed his way out of the restaurant into the parking lot. He’d located his car after stumbling up and down four parking rows, had yanked open the door to flop disgustedly behind the wheel, and finally had careened off into the night.

  Since he’d already worked up a snootful, he hadn’t been about to go home. He’d headed straight for Bryan Street, the section in between Peak and Haskell avenues lined with sawdust-floored beer joints, and had proceeded to make a night of it. The handsome, rawboned cop liked the Hispanic joints along Bryan Street because he could speak the lingo after a fashion, and because in the Spanish honky-tonks people treated an officer of the law with the respect he deserved. There were plenty of joints on the strip where a cop didn’t even have to lean on anybody for a freebie. On Bryan Street the bartender was likely to pop open a Bud or a Lone Star for an officer of the law and waive the buck-fifty charge without being asked, and without the cop having to roust a customer or two in order to get the bartender’s attention.

  It was on a bar stool at the Rocket Lounge, with olive-skinned couples boot-scooting on the dance floor to Johnny Paycheck on the jukebox, that Green thought hungrily of Sharon Hays. The nerve of the woman, sending a sure-enough stud like Stan Green packing. No female in his life had ever treated him that way; if there was any by-God busting up to do, he had always been the one with the say-so. Right then and there Green decided to give Sharon one more chance, decided that he’d head on over to her house so she could tell him what a mistake she’d made. Likely she’ll get down on her knees and beg for it, Green thought. Damn straight she will. He wasn’t sure just how much of a ration of shit he’d give her. Jesus, was she ever going to grovel at his feet. Finally he’d give in, of course, taking her into the bedroom and giving her the solid country fucking she was dying for, but not before he made her worry that she wasn’t going to get it. There wasn’t a woman in the world that Stan Green couldn’t make holler for more. His mind made up, the slight stiffening in his crotch growing into a full-sized boner, he had downed the last of his beer in a single gulp. Then off he’d staggered, hell-bent for leather.

  All of which preceded the scene at God-knows-what-time-of-night, with Stan Green listing in place on Sharon’s front porch as he thumbed the doorbell. Out in back of the house, Sharon’s big tan German shepherd was raising a ruckus, snarling and snapping. Must be a bitch in heat in the neighborhood, Green thought, then giggled drunkenly and thought, Well, actually there’s two of ’em, one someplace nearby to drive Commander into a frenzy, another inside the house waiting for old Stan Green to come callin’. He laughed out loud and pressed the button again.

  As someone yanked the door open from inside, Green backed away a step and spread his arms. Come to daddy, darlin’, he thought, you act real nice and ol’ Stan might not even make you beg for it. She sure was in a hurry to open that door. Green decided that she’d seen him through the peephole, and just the sight of him had made her pants so hot that she’d … Jesus Christ, Green thought, here my darlin’ comes.

  The detective grunted a startled “oof” as a wiry man, head down and wearing a crumpled straw hat, charged onto the porch and collided with Green, nose to breastbone. The man struck out blindly at the cop, twisting and squirming, opening a gash alongside Green’s nose with a fingernail. Green didn’t know what the fuck was going on. He acted on pure instinct, grabbing the man in a bear hug, the two scratching, biting, and cursing as they tumbled sideways from the porch into the flower bed. They rolled over and over on damp earth, first the skinny man on top, then the detective.

  Still drunk but growing more sober by the second, Green managed to stay on top and pin the wiry arms with his knees. The two men glared at each other. Blood ran from a gash on the skinny man’s neck. His hat toppled from his head and lay canted against a row of lilies. He had thinning hair and a big, bent honker of a nose.

  “Who in hell are you?” Green said breathlessly.

  The man squirmed and wiggled to free himself. Green increased the pressure with his knees.

  Suddenly two pale bare arms extended themselves between the men. The delicate wrists were handcuffed. The slender hands clutched a .45 automatic, which they placed solidly against the skinny man’s forehead. He stopped moving, his eyes darting wildly back and forth. Now Stan Green was really confused. He
looked to his right. Sharon Hays stood stark naked in the light of the moon, her hair wet and clinging. She smelled of lilac soap.

  The detective’s mouth opened like a fly trap. “Who in hell is this guy?” His words were slurred.

  Sharon never took her gaze away from the prisoner. “Take the gun, Stan,” she said.

  Green scratched his head. This was the weirdest fucking thing he’d ever seen.

  “Stan,” Sharon said. “Take the frigging gun.”

  Woodenly Green reached for the pistol and closed one hand around the grip. Sharon released her hold on the grip and stood erect. Green swiveled his head to look at her. His nose was inches from her bare inner thigh.

  “Quit looking at my crotch, Stan.” Sharon gestured cuffed hands at the prisoner. “Him,” she said. “Hold the gun on him. I’ll be right back.”

  She skirted the two men to go up on the porch and inside the house. Somewhere in the detective’s head there was a buzzing noise, but he held the gun steady. The man beneath him panted through crooked teeth. Green shrugged and grinned at the guy. If he ever figured out what the fuck was going on, he might even get mad. The scratch alongside his nose burned like fire.

  In seconds Sharon returned carrying a coil of rope and several sets of handcuffs. She dropped everything into the flower bed save one set of bracelets, closed one around Green’s wrist and the other around the prisoner’s. Then, after hissing, “Don’t move a muscle,” she searched the skinny man’s pockets and located the handcuff key. Finally she stood back.

  Green focused boozily on the pale-skinned naked woman, then peered at the pile of handcuffs in the flower bed. “You gotten into something kinky?” he said.

  She sighed. “No, Stan, I haven’t.” She pointed at Green and said, “You cop,” then pointed at the skinny man. “Him criminal,” she said. “See if you can hang on to him while I put something on, okay?”