My lip throbbed. When I touched it, my fingers came away wet.
“You ruined the mood,” she said.
“By not hanging over the edge.”
“Aw,” she said. “You really are a wimp—your loss.” She patted her crotch. “What I’ve got here could snap you like a turtle and drain you like a pump.”
Practiced patter. Hooker talk.
Had she freelanced, just like Lauren? Between skating and dancing, or had it been her main gig before meeting Ben Dugger and Tony Duke?
She wiggled back into her shirt and sweater, spread her legs—not enticingly, a combat stance—and shot me the finger. “He thinks he’s so smart.”
Putting me in third person. The grammar was more than symbolic, and I knew more was wrong than my failure to meet her sexual demands.
An audience. Before I could put the threat in place, figure out what to do, a man emerged from the shadows at the other end of the pier. Approached us.
Cheryl turned her back and walked toward him. He was barely visible because, unlike her, he’d dressed for concealment.
Black sweatsuit, black shoes. He and Cheryl met in the center of the pier. Everything rehearsed—I’d been the only one ad-libbing.
“He thinks he’s smart,” said Cheryl.
Kent Irving said nothing. His brassy hair had been tied back in a pony-tail, emphasizing the breadth of his round, ruddy face. Impassive face. Something silvery and reflective in his right hand.
Cheryl flashed teeth and tucked her white T-shirt tight.
“Baby,” she said.
Irving’s one-lipped mouth stayed shut.
“It’s good you came when you did, baby,” she told him. “He was ready to fuck me blind, would’ve raped me and tossed me over the edge.”
She kissed his ear. Irving still didn’t react. He stepped closer. I had nowhere to go but into eternity, but I stepped backward anyway. The automatic in his hand was level with my face.
“He thinks we’re stupid, baby,” said Cheryl. “Thinks he can just happen to be boating by, just happen to be sitting there doing his crossword puzzle like it’s some big fucking coincidence and we’re not gonna suspect anything. Asshole.”
I said, “Suspicion’s a two-way street. The police know I’m here.”
She said, “Right.” Irving remained silent and still. How far was the drop? How high was the tide? Would I hit water or slam into hard-packed sand, collapsing my spine like a twig? If I could calculate the drop in the darkness, would rolling on my side help, allow me to escape with only crushed ribs, internal injuries? I hadn’t consulted a tide chart, had no reason to, terrific planning—
Kent Irving walked some more, and I stood my ground. The barrel of the gun was ten feet away. Chromium lips and a tiny black mouth that said, “Oh.”
Cheryl stayed behind Irving, yammering, showing all those teeth, tossing her goddamned hair—
“Enough,” Irving told her, in that thin, high voice.
She pouted. “Sure, baby—you saved me, baby. He was an animal, would’ve rammed me without mercy, just used me and threw me away.” She placed a hand on his meaty shoulder.
“Yeah,” he said.
“Yeah, baby, so you saved me. You’re gonna be happy you did.”
“You really think it’s happy days?” I said. “The police really do know I’m here. Meeting you, Cheryl. He can’t afford that. You’re expendable— just like Baxter and Sage—”
“Enough,” Irving said, softly. Same word he’d used with Cheryl. The lack of inflection said it all.
No sweat, no strain. Eyes as animated as gravel. Business as usual.
Maybe he’d hired someone to shoot Lauren and Michelle and Lance and Jane, but if he had, it had been out of convenience, not apprehension. He could pull that trigger like brushing his teeth. Eat breakfast moments later without giving it a second thought.
I said, “You know I’m right, Kent. You can’t chance her talking to the police. Sooner or later, she’s got to go anyway. She’s stupid and nuts and undependable. Actually thinks you’ll leave Anita for her and the two of you will end up with all of Tony’s money and live happily ever after, the Prince and Princess. You know better. She’s no princess, you’ve had dozens like her. Just another stupid hooker with plastic tits—”