So he vaulted from the station wagon—out of Desie’s loving arms, through an open window (yipping as his surgical wound grazed the lock button), into the misting darkness in quest of… ducks? But where?
Mr. Gash watched him run away and said, “That solves the dog problem.” He pushed Twilly Spree’s lifeless form out of the car, pulled the door shut, and climbed into the backseat with Desie. He considered moving her to the rear cargo bed, but it was cluttered with mangled chew toys and carpeted with Labrador sheddings. Mr. Gash preferred sex that did not require a head-to-toe vacuuming afterward.
“Take off your clothes.” He placed the gun to Desie’s temple. Mechanically she removed her sweatshirt, bra and jeans. Mr. Gash shook himself out of the houndstooth coat and with his free hand folded it neatly into a square.
“Stick this under your head,” he told Desie.
“What about your pants?” She was so frightened, so strung out with terror that her own voice seemed to be echoing from a cavern; some remote, untouchable part of her consciousness that urged her to stall, drag it out, keep the monster occupied as long as you can.
As awful as it might get.
“My pants?” said Mr. Gash.
“They’re wet.”
“Yeah, they are. From the rain.”
“I know,” Desie said, “but it’s cold on my skin. Could you please take them off? The shirt, too.” She was lying on her back, covering her nipples with her hands. Now it was purely about survival; nothing could be done for Twilly, who was either dead or dying. Desie would cry for him later, if she made it.
Mr. Gash sat poised on the edge of the seat. “Don’t you move,” he told her. “Don’t you even blink.”
He unzipped his brown shoes and placed them under the seat. Then he tugged off his damp trousers and laid them across one of the headrests. Next came the shoulder holster, then the shirt.
“What’s that?” Desie asked. Even in the dark she could tell it was a most unusual garment.
“Bulletproof vest,” Mr. Gash lied.
“Is that from a snake?”
“Sure is. Wanna touch?”
“No.”
“It’s dead. Go on and touch it.”
Desie did what she was told, tracing her fingertips across the corrugated scales of the hide. She shivered not at the sensation but at the thought of where it had come from.
“Please take that off, too,” she said.
As Mr. Gash fumbled to unlace the corset, he said, “Mrs. Stoat, I don’t think you get it. This isn’t a goddamn honeymoon, it’s what the cops would call an aggravated sexual battery. And you’re making me more damn aggravated by the minute.”
When he climbed on top of her, she robotically positioned a hand on each of his shoulders, which felt greased and lumpy. Something hard poked her neck, and she correctly assumed it was the handgun.
Mr. Gash said, “Oh shit.”
“What?”
“There’s a leak in this damned car.”
Desie looked up and noticed a dime-sized hole in the Roadmaster’s roof. The hole was from the bullet that accidentally fired from the killer’s gun when he smacked it against Twilly Spree’s head. Now water was dripping from the hole onto Mr. Gash’s bare torso.
“Right down the crack of my ass,” he reported sourly.
He sat up and hastily plugged the leak with a wadded-up discount coupon for chicken-flavored Purina. Then he again lowered himself on Desie, saying, “Now. Finally.”
She resolved not to fight; Mr. Gash was too muscular. But she had another plan: to will herself paralyzed from the neck down, so she wouldn’t feel him. It was a technique Desie had developed while engaged to the multi-baubled Andrew Beck. Later, the self-numbing hypnosis had proved useful with Palmer Stoat, during the nights when his Polaroid antics became tedious.
Her trick was to imagine she was living in a borrowed body, through which she could see and speak but not feel. And at first she didn’t feel anything of Mr. Gash.
“Gimme second.” His breathing came in a heavy rhythm, as if he was practicing a meditation. “Just hang on,” he said.
Elatedly, Desie thought: The creep can’t get it up!