Hurricane Bay

“You were married to Larry Miller. There’s a nice guy.”

“A boring guy, I’m afraid. I like excitement. Or maybe every nice guy is a boring guy. I don’t know. You know what, Dane? Men just don’t come in the kind that I really want to keep. Actually, I may be a real voice for my sex.”

“Oh?”

Sheila had laughed, and looked stunning. “Yeah. Guys are usually ratty to women. They fall in love…lust first, most of the time. They marry, they cheat.”

“Not all of them. I’d say it’s pretty even.”

“Not on your life! Trust me. Men always seem to need someone to bolster their egos. Some guy told me once that it’s just natural. You know, survival of the species. Long ago, guys had to sow their seed, just like lions, or some shit like that. Mate all they could so their DNA would go on and on. Instinctively they’re still that way—except, of course, that they don’t really want to procreate anymore, because on the not so instinctive side, something resembling brains kicks in and they don’t want to pay child support. But some guys are innately bad, maybe not even in a way they can help. Look at all the old geezers looking for trophy wives. Sixty-, seventy-, even eighty-year-olds throwing out wives they’ve had for years, finding some beach bunny and patting themselves on the back for having a kid when they’re members of AARP. Makes ’em macho.”

“Sheila, you know, I have friends who have been left by their wives, taken to the cleaners big time by them.”

“See, there you go. Defending your sex.”

“I’m not trying to defend anyone. I just think that people in general aren’t always so great to others. I’ve seen plenty of men behave like real assholes. I’ve seen some women who are just as cold and calculating.”

“Different thing,” Sheila said, waving a hand in the air. “Someone should do a study on it. As for me, well, I guess I’ll just go on thinking that I’m standing up for my sex, using guys like paper cups, tossing them out as soon as they get a bit soggy.” She’d looked at him then. “Dane…are you sure…I mean, sometimes, way back when, we’d get together when neither one of us had a steady thing going.”

“Sheila, you’ve got to trust me here. I’m not what you’re looking for. But I will give you a speech, which is what you need. You’re beautiful. You deserve ten times more than you’re giving yourself. Not to mention the fact that your lifestyle is dangerous. There are a bunch of assholes out there, not to mention the fact that these days the world is full of sexually transmitted diseases, some of which can kill you.”

She’d laughed then. “Oh, great! You think I’m infectious. Dane, I’m careful as hell.”

“No, you’re not. If you were, you’d be looking for something more than money.”

“It’s not just money,” she said softly.

“Then…?”

“I told you, I’m making up for all the assholes out there.” She’d leaned against the pillows on the sofa then, watching him with a rueful smile. “I hear you’re in deep mourning over something gone wrong. I can help. I can make you feel better. If only for a night.”

He had to admit, the thought had been tempting. But Sheila couldn’t really give him anything. And there was nothing he could give her.

“No good, Sheila,” he had told her softly.

And still she’d stayed. They’d had some wine, played chess. She was a good player. Then they’d had some more wine. And finally it had been really, really late, and she still hadn’t gotten up to go.

“I wish you’d want me, Dane.”

“Sheila…”

“What’s wrong with me?” she asked for the second time that night.

“Nothing. You’re beautiful. It’s what’s wrong with me, and the fact that I don’t think we’re particularly good for each other.”

Then that smile. “You know what? I don’t sleep with that many guys. I string them along pretty far, but…I like gifts, good food, expensive bottles of wine. I swear, Dane, I’m not diseased or anything. I’m smart and I’m careful, and more selective than it might appear. And I always carry protection. Dane, dammit, I know you’re hurting, but…don’t you ever just get urges, need some kind of relief? I’m perfect for you. I know you don’t love me, and I don’t want anything from you except to be around sometimes…. You can turn off the lights, drink yourself into a stupor, and I won’t mind. And it’s not like it’s something you haven’t done before, a place you haven’t been before.”

She’d made a move for him. Chess pieces had fallen to the floor. And he’d had a lot of wine, a lot of pain, a lot of guilt and self-recrimination, and a lot of longing. Sheila was beautiful. So overtly sexual she was impossible to ignore. Maybe men were nothing more than slightly evolved beasts. She hadn’t been wearing a damn thing beneath her red dress, and she’d made a point of letting him know it.

“Sheila, I’m telling you, it just wouldn’t be right.” But there had been a guttural quality to his voice then.

“I don’t care, Dane. I don’t care. I just want to stay. For one night.” She stood then. With definite talent, she let the red dress fall to the floor. “Call it a mercy fuck,” she pleaded.

He wasn’t sure he could throw her out naked. He wasn’t sure he wanted to.

It hadn’t occurred to him that she was scared of leaving. Chalk it up to arousal and maybe even a certain ego. Before he knew it, she was on her knees before him. Her eyes were pleading.

And Sheila was good at what she did.

They hadn’t wound up in his bed, but right there, on the couch, where they’d played chess. He’d awakened feeling a dull throbbing in his head. Sex. Like eating food with no taste. Breathing in and out because the lungs did so without the commitment of the conscious mind. He didn’t want to hurt Sheila. They’d both been banged up enough. He didn’t want to talk, either.

Hadn’t needed to.

Sheila had gotten right up, grabbed the red dress and walked to the door, pausing long enough only to look out to make sure it was light. “Thanks,” she’d said, not turning back.

“Hey, my pleasure,” he said lightly, hoping to make them both feel better.

Still, she hadn’t looked back. That was when she had said it.

“Help me, Dane.”

“I’m trying to help you, Sheila. You don’t want to listen to me.”

Then, still with her back to him, “You can’t help it that you don’t love me. I don’t expect you to…. I don’t love you, either…Well, as much as anyone, but…I just…”

Then she’d turned for a minute.

“I need help.”

“Sheila, we can get you some help—”

She’d laughed, cutting him off. “A psychologist for my nympho tendencies?” She shook her head. “You don’t understand. And I can’t…explain.” She had stood in his doorway just a moment longer. In the soft pink light of dawn, he thought he saw a brief look of desperation cross her face.

“I look tough, but…I’m afraid.”

“Jesus, Sheila, then you’ve got to change your lifestyle.” His outburst had brought him to his feet. “Quit picking up strangers and going off with them. Settle down with a different goal in mind, rather than striking a blow against men for all women, or whatever it is you think you’re doing.”

A slow smile had crossed her face. “None of you have ever known just what it was like, being me. And…as for my crusade…Oh, Dane! You just don’t know how fucked up men are.”

And then she’d left.

God, she had needed help! He hadn’t seen, hadn’t known, how much.

It was the last time he had seen her.

Alive.

And now…suddenly, even his palms were sweating. What was the killer going to do next to implicate him?