Manhunt. Volume 5, Number 5, May 1957

Prowler! by Gil Brewer

A luscious girl like Shirl... No wonder she attracted a prowler.

Waiting, he lay perfectly still in the hot moist darkness. His body, naked beneath the thin sheet, was covered with perspiration. He lay in a kind of patient agony, waiting for his wife to sleep. He stared straight up at the moon-washed ceiling, somehow containing his breath, thinking about what was in the living room behind the screen, on the studio couch.

His wife writhed and twisted, then settled again on the bed, nearly touching him. Working very slowly, he edged away from her — waiting, as a fury of blood drummed in his ears.

Sometimes his heart beat so loudly he imagined Grace would hear.

And he was listening, too...

Listening for those intimate, secret sounds that now and then reached him from the living room. The sound of delicious turning, of a carelessly moved leg. Long, plumply curved, lovely.

Shirly.

Lying in there on the studio couch, waiting, too.

Waiting for him.

Sometimes he almost yelled, it was that bad.

“Nick?” Grace said.

He didn’t answer, cringing inside, cursing.

“Nick, you asleep?”

Grace stirred. One hand reached out and touched his arm, then jerked away. He knew very well that she wouldn’t stop until he answered her. He knew she knew that he was awake. Husbands and wives know those things, feel them.

“Nick?” she whispered softly.

“Yes. What?”

“It’s so hot!”

“Yeah,” he said quietly, thinking, “Go to sleep, you bitch — go to sleep.”

“I can’t go to sleep.”

“You don’t try.”

“I do so try!”

“For God’s sake. How you expect to get to sleep lying there, talking to me? Calm down. Take long breaths. I’ve got to sleep, Grace. How can I with you telling me you can’t sleep?”

She sat up on the bed. “But I can’t sleep.”

He lay there gnawing the inside of his cheek. Moonlight was bright in the room. He was soaking wet now, his heart thumping and thumping.

“Guess I’ll read awhile.”

Before he could even speak, she turned on the bedlight. It glared across her. He came to one elbow.

“Grace! Good God, I can’t sleep with that light on. You’ll never get to sleep reading. You’ve got to lie down and relax.” He lay down, forcing himself to remain still, holding on somehow, listening.

His wife frowned at him. Then, quickly, she flipped off the sheet and slipped out of bed. She wore a red shorty nightgown, and she was a very pretty woman. Nick didn’t think so, however. He could see her only as a barrier to a force that was driving him out of his head.

“Wonder if Shirl’s asleep?” she whispered, standing by the bed, scratching her thigh. “You think she can sleep in this awful heat?”

He kept his eyes on the ceiling. “She certainly won’t be able to sleep with you tramping around, talking. Why the hell don’t you get in bed and try to sleep?”

She smiled at him. She had dark hair, richly thick around her curved shoulders. Her breasts thrust at the thin fabric of the gown.

“Going to get a glass of water,” she said, turning, moving toward the hallway that led to the bathroom. “Good Lord, it’s hot — hot — hot!”

Her round buttocks shadowed under the gown, bunching as she padded from the room.

He lay there. He waited. The toilet flushed, roaring into the night. Grace cleared her throat. She started to hum, then quickly ceased. A water faucet spouted, ran, and ran, and ran. He writhed on the bed, slithering against the drenched sheets. He heard her hold the glass under the faucet. She drank, turned the faucet off, dumped out the glass, slapped it carelessly back into its wall-bracket.

“Ooops!” she said, admonishing herself. “Shhh!” The bathroom light clicked off. She padded into the bedroom, smiling toward him.

“Nick?”

He moved his eyes slowly open. “Huh? Oh, Jesus, I was asleep. Aw, cripes, Grace — you woke me up.”

“Sorry, darling. Say, you remember what I did with that book from the library? The one about the flea circus? It’s so interesting. You oughta read it. I can’t find it.”

He lay there. “Please,” he said. “You’ll never get to sleep reading something you like.” He came to one elbow again, his hair soaked, eyes bleary. “Come on. Get in bed. Turn off the light. Just snuggle down and stretch out, and you’ll soon be asleep. Okay?” He grinned at her.

“Oh, all right!” She snapped it at him. She crossed to the bed, flopped down, pounded at the pillow, sighed, turned off the light and lay there. “Maybe I should go in and see if Shirl’s all right,” she said.

He said nothing.

“It’s hotter in the living room than it is out here.”

You telling me, he thought, immediately visioning Shirly lying naked on the studio couch, waiting for him. The thick auburn hair. The luscious white-skinned body, shaped to drive a man crazy. Willing, waiting. The wet red lips, the hot dark blue eyes, those hot little hands. The sly way of her, secret, laden with passionate treachery. A pure and simple sex-pot, but close-mouthed and careful — and always ready, anytime, anywhere. Eager. Urgent.

“Nick!” Grace’s voice was nasty. “I’ve been talking to you. The least you can do is listen.”

He whispered it softly. “I’m trying to sleep.”

“I was just saying, Shirl should be more careful, the way she acts. Running around the yard, the way she does. Well — exposing herself. She is my sister, and I want to help her get started again, the way her marriage went on the rocks, like that. But, you know, the Johnsons reported a prowler to the cops, just last week. And she’s always — well, just showing everything she’s got to everybody — every man that comes along. Runs out to the milk truck, like that. She won’t listen.” She paused, then said, “She’s just got too much of everything.”

“Sure. G’night.”

He lay there, waiting. The night was still and hot, a slow hot wind lifting lazily at the curtains, sliding across the bed, like a dry, hot dragon’s breath.

Suddenly, he knew she was asleep — or, starting to sleep. And he knew he still had to wait.

...thinking about last night, and the night before, and all the other nights. The wild hot nights on the studio couch with Shirly. And tonight, too — a thousand nights would never be enough. They would have to do something, but whenever he mentioned divorcing Grace, Shirly just laughed.

“You can have anything you want,” she would say softly. “I’m always ready, Nicky — always. But the edge will go away if we get married. You know that. This is what makes it so good!”

They were in the garage that time, standing in a corner by the work-bench. Shirly had on black shorts, and a thin white sweater. Grace was making the beds, her being that close made it all the more wonderful.

“See what I mean, Nicky? Oh, Nicky!”

And this was the time Grace had come into the garage. He had leaped around and stood with his back to her, searching for tools on the work-bench. Shirly’s shorts had been on the floor and he’d kicked them under the bench. Shirly had grabbed down a pair of old overalls from a nail on the wall. She sat on a tool box, holding the overalls across her lap, saying, “My goodness, Nick — these overalls are filthy. Just filthy!”

He convinced Grace he wanted them dirty, because he liked them that way. For all Grace knew, Shirly and he had just been gabbing while he was straightening the work bench.

Grace hadn’t suspected a thing.

He came awake, staring into the darkness. His wife was breathing deeply and evenly. He’d been asleep, for God’s sake! He’d slept. How long?

He listened. There was no sound, but the hot wind drawing through the windows.

He thought he heard a soft movement from the living room. Shirly. Knowing her, he was positive she’d be waiting.

He listened to Grace breathe. It was absolutely even and deep. She was asleep. Once she was asleep, it was difficult to wake her. It would be even better tonight, because she hadn’t gone to sleep early. She would sleep for a long time, hard.

He had to admit that all this strain was beginning to tell on him a little. This was the third time he’d fallen asleep, waiting for Grace to konk off. No wonder — every night in there on the studio couch. And sometimes during the day, too.

Thinking of Shirly got him going again.

He began to move toward the edge of the bed. Once he’d awakened Grace. If he did again, he could always say he was going to the bathroom. And he had every movement down to an art, worming slowly like a snake to the edge of the bed, without pulling at the sheet, without causing a sound.

He got one foot off the bed, braced on the floor. In a moment he was clear of the bed. He stood there in the moonlight, looking at his wife, listening to her breathe. She was really out cold tonight. He checked his watch on the dresser. Two-fifteen.

Late. But to the good, really. Once before it had been very late, and Shirly had fallen asleep. He had crept in beside her, and slowly awakened her the way she liked. What a night that had been. He began breathing a bit more rapidly, and moved carefully on bare feet toward the hall door.

Once in the hall, he stepped fast. He came through the dinette, turned through the archway into the living room.

There was no sound, but the slow hot wind out in the yard. The Australian pines moaned softly.

He moved across the living room to the bamboo screen they’d set up for Shirly, so she’d have some sort of privacy. Privacy. Wow, that was a laugh!

He came around the edge of the screen.

She was asleep. Lying face up on the studio couch, the moonlight very dim here. The sheet was pulled up just across her breasts. Her thick hair was fanned out around her head on the pillow, and the lush outline of her body showed in shadow under the sheet.

He did not call to her, did not make a sound.

Slowly, gently, he lifted the sheet. With the same intricate care he had used in leaving his wife’s bed, he now slid under the sheet and slowly moved toward the girl. He arranged the sheet over him, and gently eased toward her, whispering her name, “Shirly — baby, baby — here I am, baby.”

He put his arms around her, kissing her mouth, and that was when he felt the wetness, when he thought that she must be perspiring heavily.

The living room lights suddenly blazed with a crazy brilliance.

The bamboo screen crashed to the floor.

He leaped up, kneeling on the bed, the sheet falling away. It was then he saw the blood. He was covered with it.

“Well, Nick?”

Grace stood there in her shorty nightgown, smiling gently at him. Then she didn’t smile. She just stood there.

“She’s dead!” he shouted. He sprang from the bed in a kind of blind, savage horror, covered with blood from chest to knee. The girl lay in a bath of blood. He couldn’t move, couldn’t speak now.

“Were you checking again to see if my sister was sleeping okay — eh, Nicky?”

Grace had never called him Nicky.

Grace was pointing to the front screen door. The main door was open. The screen door was slashed, screen curling to the floor.

“You’d better call the police,” she said. Her voice was very quiet. “A prowler apparently broke in and murdered my sister. It’s a terrible thing, isn’t it? Why, look,” she said, pointing to the floor, “there’s the knife he must’ve used.”

A bloody carving knife lay on the rug.

“All right,” Grace said. “Maybe it’s better if I call. You’d better take a quick shower. They might think things, huh?”

“You,” he said. “You did it!”

She sighed. “Of course, darling. I love you. I knew what was going on with that little tramp. It was just a matter of time. I spoke to Shirl, but she refused to leave. Said she’d take you with her.” She moved toward the phone. “Hurry up,” she said. “Take your shower, Nicky.”