Fever(55)
“I think she came up here sometime on Sunday and the two of you got it on. Only you like it rough and things got out of hand—”
“No! It wasn’t like that!”
“Then how was it? Why’d you beat her up?”
Partain licked his lips, waggled his head from one side to another, big-eyed, as if looking for a way out.
“Answer me, Phil. Why did you beat her up?”
“She … I … all right, all right, I caught her trying to steal money out of my wallet, all right? Afterward, after I already paid her the fifty she asked for. All right? You satisfied now?”
“You must’ve been damn angry. She was banged up pretty good.”
“Bitch fought me, what else could I do? Tried to scratch me, kick me in the nuts. It was self-defense.”
“What time did all this take place?”
“I dunno what time, late afternoon …”
“And then what happened?”
“What you think happened? I threw her ass out.”
“And she went back to Ginger Benn’s apartment.”
“Yeah, I guess so. That’s the last time I saw her—”
“You’re lying, Phil. Ginger Benn was there on Sunday and she didn’t see Janice Stanley. Nobody saw Janice until Monday morning.”
“I don’t know where she went, how the hell would I know?”
I was remembering those red chafe marks on Janice Krochek’s wrists. “Let’s try this on for size. You caught her stealing from your wallet, beat her up when she fought you, but you were still pissed and you figured it wasn’t enough payback. So you held her here against her will, tied her to the bed, let’s say, and used her while she was lying there helpless, and kept her tied up and kept using her until Monday morning.”
It was the right scenario or close to it. Partain looked sick and panicky. Nerves jumped and crawled in his cheeks like worms under thin white latex.
“And then maybe you decided you wanted more sex, more payback. So you went over to her house on Tuesday, caught her there alone—”
“House? What house?”
“You know where she lives. You could’ve found out easily enough. You went over there, caught her alone—”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“—and she gave you more trouble and things got out of hand. Is that about how it happened?”
“No!”
“Where is she, Phil? What’d you do with her body?”
“Her … body? Jesus, you think I … Jesus!”
“An accident, right? You didn’t mean to kill her—”
“You’re crazy! I never went to no house, I never killed nobody! You’re trying to frame me, you …” The last word caught in his throat; he gagged, coughed up another stream of words. “I can’t listen to no more of this, I don’t have to stand here half-naked listening to this shit.”
Partain stumbled over to an open closet door, dragged a pair of pants off a hanger. He was still at the closet door when he got them on, and when he reached in again I thought it was for a shirt. Wrong. What he was after was on the shelf above.
Gun. Stubby, scratched up Saturday night special.
I froze. So did Runyon. Partain waved the piece back and forth between us, his hand shaking hard enough to make the muzzle bob up and down. “All right, you bastards,” he said, “all right!”
Both Runyon and I had been under the gun before, a couple of times together before this, and I’d been shot once a long time ago. But you never get used to looking down the bore. And the reaction, for me, is always the same: muscles bunching up tight, senses sharpening, a kind of cold calm descending over a thin layer of fear. The fear comes from uncertainty more than anything else; you can’t predict what somebody with a gun in his hand will do, and that goes double for a man in the throes of panic.
I said slowly and evenly, “You want to be careful with that, Phil.”
“You’re not gonna arrest me, frame me for something I didn’t do.”
“Nobody’s trying to frame you.”
“I never killed that bitch Janice. I never went to her house, I never saw her again after I threw her outta here Monday morning.”
“I believe you. Put the gun down, you don’t want to shoot anybody.”
“I don’t want to but I will. I’m not going to jail for something I didn’t do.”
“You don’t have to go to jail. If Janice Stanley’s alive and intended to press charges, she’d’ve done it already. You’re home free, Phil. Unless you pull that trigger and one of us gets hurt.”
It didn’t register; he wasn’t tracking clearly. He waved the gun, holding it in both hands now to steady his grip. “Get out of my way. I’m getting out of here.”