Ronald Tierney - Good To The Last Kiss - Crimes of the Depraved Mind Series

Maldeaux looked around, noticed others were staring. ‘We’ve already covered that, right? Tomorrow? One more opportunity to get to know one another?’

‘I’m going out of town. I have a little cabin up around Russian River. My escape.’

‘Another river, right?’ he smiled. ‘You like rivers.’

‘I guess,’ she said.

‘Maybe I’ll go with you.’

‘No. I think you’ve just missed the point.’

At the door to the Estrella apartments they stood quietly.

‘I’m not going to invite you up,’ Julia said.

‘OK. Despite what you might think I wasn’t trying to work my way into your bed.’

‘Good.’

‘I’m not sure I’m looking for romance.’

‘Just a pal, huh?’

‘I don’t know. I don’t know why I expect you to understand me. Do you have a yearning?’

‘A yearning?’

‘Yes. A word we don’t use anymore. It is a want you want so bad it’s painful. Do you?’

‘What about you?’ She didn’t want to think about it.

‘There doesn’t seem to be much left. That’s pretty frightening.’

‘I don’t know what you mean,’ Julia said.

‘I know. I know you don’t. I’m babbling. I guess I don’t want to leave you just yet.’

‘No, tell me what you mean about being frightened.’

‘Maybe…’ He shook his head. ‘Never mind. You’ve got your key?’

Julia nodded.

‘I’m gone.’ Thaddeus Maldeaux said, disappearing around the corner.

That night two things were on her mind. A bit of guilt about David Seidman. No matter how much she tried to justify her rightness of action and no matter how many times he said he understood, Seidman seemed to stoke her guilt.

Number two was obvious: Thaddeus Maldeaux. Julia tried to think of something else. It didn’t work. The more she tried to get her thoughts away from him, the more they were tugged back to Thaddeus. It had been a long time since she had these kinds of feelings. Frightened, hopeful, elated – all simultaneously or at least in rapid succession.

These were schoolgirl feelings. ‘Get a grip on it Julia,’ she told herself. ‘He’ll take you for a little ride out to the middle of nowhere and you’ll have to walk back.’

She remembered when she was fifteen. Donnie Patton. She remembered how he made her feel all rubbery. She remembered the walk by the muddy Cedar River – a dozen or more miles outside of Iowa City – out in the middle of nowhere. She remembered her dog, the white German Shepherd romping along the shore. She remembered the brown water, the dragonflies, the kissing on the sultry summer day – his body pressing up against hers, his moist lips, softly pressing at first, until her heart began to beat rapidly. Julia remembered it clearly. He pressed harder, sucking her breath from her.

She remembered his hand slipping inside her blouse, underneath the bra. He took her hand brought it down, past the waist, pressed her palm against the hardness beneath the coarse denim of his jeans.

Julia pulled away. She allowed her hand to go back, to be guided inside. She let him remove her blouse, then finally the rest. His palms were sticky and he smelled of oranges. Funny, she thought. Funny what you remember. She remembered her white blouse waving like a flag, stuck on the limbs of a dead tree.

The next day Donnie ignored her.

Julia didn’t want to think of Donnie anymore, or of any of the others, including the one she married. She climbed out of bed, went to the window and looked down on Ivy Street, little more than an alley two floors beneath her window.

She felt alone and lonely. When she realized at least she hadn’t been thinking of Thaddeus, she smiled. But, there she was. Thinking of Thaddeus. She was too old for this, she thought. Too old. It wasn’t pleasant. It wasn’t sensible. It was frightening.

Her choices in men had never been too wise. Despite the enormous pull he already had upon her, she was sure she needed to resist.

Julia climbed back into bed. She felt safer in the little alcove. She thought about calling Paul. It was too late.

She closed her eyes. Did she have a yearning? Yes. She did.

The Camaro rumbled first down Dolores, then swung over to Mission Street. The car and its basso profundo engine and the familiar rap repetition didn’t cause much of a stir. Mean, loud cars weren’t rare in the neighborhood.

There were a lot of people still on the street despite the lateness of the hour. The night didn’t feel right. Too many people. Somebody would see her get into the car. A brother, maybe. A friend. He looked at his gas gauge. He was maybe twenty miles until empty. It wouldn’t do to have someone in the car while he stopped for gas.

If this sexual freakiness welled up in some dark part of his brain, as it seemed to, young Earl Falwell sensed he was still in the half-light, still in control, though barely. He could get through the night. Surely he could. He wanted to. He didn’t like what was going to happen. He never did. This was the worst time in the cycle. He was being torn apart. It always tore him apart until he gave into it.

What if he just locked himself up in a room somewhere? He’d even thought about going to a head doctor. He thought about going to the police. But he couldn’t bring himself to do it. He only thought about turning himself in when the urge was early up on him. By the time it got a grip, he could tell himself – convince himself – this would be the last time – and he could convince himself it was just this once. Just this one time. One more time.

Once he found the right person, there were no thoughts about what he would or wouldn’t do. He would be in the middle of doing it. Afterward, after the ritual, after his tension was relieved and the obsession released its hold, the next morning he’d be so disgusted he couldn’t imagine himself ever doing it again. He always thought it was over. But it never was. Maybe he could chain himself to the wall and go cold turkey, rid himself of these relentless urges altogether. Be free. Live a life.

He could get through the night, he thought. He’d just pick up a bottle of tequila or gin and drink himself silly. When he was drunk he only thought about doing it. Sober, it was hell.

He swung back around the block on his third pass at 24th Street and headed back toward Market. He took Van Ness north to Lombard Street and Lombard west until he found a gas station. He pulled in.

He looked around. He kind of liked Lombard. Though he was born in rural Tennessee, Lombard reminded him of a lot of streets in a lot of cities he’d passed through. It was comfortable in a way. It was an everywhere street, with its gas stations and motels. Could have been Dallas or Kansas City or Nashville. Certain parts of any city were all the same. The street was still busy – a stream of cars headed west to get on the Golden Gate.

At the pump, as he put the nozzle in the hole, he saw a girl get out of her car. Once she passed to the pumps and the green fluorescent light shown on her, he thought she might be the one. She had that look. Somewhere between pain and death. A strange nervousness that made for a familiar sadness. A long, delicate neck. This was irresistible.

He felt it all come back. If only that one chick hadn’t spoiled it all the other night. If that woman’s face hadn’t spoiled his ritual, he could have gone for awhile without him getting caught up in it. It was coming on altogether too quick. Now, dammit. It was going to happen now. With this girl. Damn!

He pushed the little gadget on the hose that let the gas flow on its own and walked over to the chick that got out of her Mazda. It was an old Mazda, the one with the aluminum, rotary engine. A wonder it was still running, he thought.