The Girls He Adored

43

For her day and age, and taking into account her profession and the corner of the world she lived in, Irene Cogan's sexual experience was somewhat limited. She knew everything that people did, she just hadn't done much of it herself. And what she had done, she'd done with Frank-she'd remained a virgin until shortly after they became engaged. Their sex life was fulfilling, if not adventurous, a phrase that might have been applied to the rest of their marriage as well. The last time they made love was the night before he died. It was sweet; the next morning he was cold beside her. She hadn't made love to a man since, except in her dreams.

And now this. While Max handcuffed Bernadette to the steering wheel, Irene took a blanket from the trunk, spread it across a bed of pine needles, and stood beside it-for some reason it seemed important to her not to be lying down waiting for him. Then he was standing before her, face to face, and it was as if she were back in that dream of the operating theater, where they were naked, and he'd dropped to his knees and kissed her to orgasm.

If he drops to his knees, I'll die, she thought. Instead he took off her red wig, tossed it into the bushes, then leaned forward and kissed her. She realized he wanted her to open her mouth, to kiss him back. And she should have, she knew she should have-two lives were at stake-but she just couldn't bring herself to do it. She averted her face; or rather her head turned itself away from him- that was more how it felt.

“Even better,” he whispered into her left ear, which she'd unwittingly presented to him-at these close quarters there was no escaping intimacy. He brought his hand up, splayed those smooth, bony fingers across her left cheek, and shoved gently, turning her around, all the way around until her back was to him. One of his arms was around her chest, the other behind her, fumbling; she heard a zipper.

He was pressing the length of his body against her now; if he had an erection, she couldn't feel it. He grabbed the waistbands of her slacks and running shorts, and tugged them down to her lower thighs, his weight still pressed against her.

She toppled forward, her pants around her knees; the strong arm around her chest supported her, lowered her gently. Then she was on her hands and knees and his weight was on top of her, his arms around her. He slid his hands under Mrs. Bill's polyester blouse and pulled up her jogging bra to caress her breasts. She could feel his penis pressed against her panties, her homely white Olga panties. He began humping, rubbing his still soft penis against her buttocks, but making no attempt to lower her panties or enter her. Then he withdrew his hands from her breasts and began slapping her across the shoulders and the back of her head.

It didn't last long, a minute, maybe two. He moaned; his weight came off her. As she crawled on her hands and knees to the edge of the blanket, she heard him swearing under his breath. When he didn't come after her, she stood up, pulled her shorts and slacks up over her panties, rearranged her bra, started to turn around. His face was red; he was wiping his hand on his jeans.

Premature ejaculation, thought Irene, turning away again quickly, before he caught her looking. Frotteurism. Erectile dysfunction. Her inner voice had turned self-protectively clinical.

“I changed my mind,” said Max after another minute had passed. “It'd probably screw up our therapeutic relationship, don't you think?”

And that was that-it was over. Of course it would never really be over. Irene's neck and shoulders still stung from being slapped, and her breasts retained the sense memory of those slippery smooth fingertips. But she'd been preparing herself for far worse, so along with the shame and anger was an enormous sense of relief. And he'd never entered her, never been inside her-for some reason, that made more of a difference than she ever could have imagined.

Another cause for relief: afterward, Irene managed to talk Max into leaving Bernadette behind, arms cuffed behind her and ankles tied, but otherwise unharmed. He'd even helped Irene make the girl as comfortable as possible, gathering armfuls of pine needles to make a bed, and spreading a blanket over them.

“I promise we'll call somebody to come get you as soon as we're done with Maybelline,” Irene promised Bernadette loudly, as Maxwell returned to the car to fetch a second blanket from the trunk. Then, whispering: “You'll be safer here.”

“Don't worry about me-I can get loose, I know I can. I've seen people do it in movies-you work your hands behind your back and under your legs. I can walk back to the county road, somebody'll come along. Plus there's a good chance my mom reported me missing and they're already looking for the car. I'll keep my fingers crossed for you.”

“I'll keep mine crossed for you.”

“Thanks for what you did back there-I'll never forget it.”

“That's all right. I'm just sorry-”

But Maxwell had returned. “Get in the car, Irene. I want to check these cuffs, and give Bernie here a word to the wise.”

This next part would be the trickiest for Max. He knew how the Bucharest thrust worked theoretically-he'd have to get behind Bernadette and slip the blade of the boning knife between her first and second cervical vertebrae-but he'd never actually attempted it himself. None of the alters had. And the timing would have to be perfect-he'd have to do it while Irene's back was turned. Nor could he let Kinch out to handle this one-subtlety was not Kinch's strong suit.

But if Max did pull it off, Irene would never know, and Bernadette would scarcely feel the knife. Of course, even if she did, she'd have neither the time nor the neural connections to enable her to cry out.

“Here, let me help you get settled,” he said, kneeling behind the girl and tilting her head forward to spread the vertebrae.

“Thanks.”

“Don't mention it.”