Zamira’s home was just this side of the mountains from Las Vegas. I drove all through the night, just the twin shafts of my headlight beams breaking the solid darkness of Nevada’s Fairchild Desert.
I didn’t quite know why I’d decided to drive to Fullmoon from Salt Lake City. I’d heard so much about the gorgeous Zamira and her estate, Fullmoon, that somehow it didn’t seem right to arrive as hired help—to be driven there in her limousine.
Even though I’m an insurance investigator, I don’t much like being tagged as a flunky. When they send Jerry Killian out to check a claim, they’re sending their highest paid agent, and it isn’t good to let the customers think they’re getting just another balding accountant. So I’d left the plane that had flown me in from New York and hired a car.
Toward afternoon I saw the mountains looming up from the flat ochre of the plain. Nevada in the morning is something special, and under ordinary circumstances I might have stopped to enjoy the sight.
But I had a three hundred thousand dollar robbery and murder to investigate, and scenery wasn’t on my mind at that moment.
Zamira had made her pile in films. Why I bother saying that is foolish. Every male over ten years old has probably seen that willowy blonde on a movie screen at one time or another. And panted over her—if he’s healthy!
Her home showed she’d been influenced by Hollywood. The damned thing sprawled out over two city blocks and had everything from an inlaid Arabic tile swimming pool to a completely outfitted polo field. With ponies.
I swung in the long drive and tooled the rented Mercury through an acre of carefully landscaped timber. The house towered up suddenly, and I put my foot on the brake in awe. If it had been built of solid gold it couldn’t have been more imposing. I won’t try to describe it; wait till you see it in Better Homes and Gardens. The gardens were nice, too.
A doorman stepped off the huge front portico when I pulled up, immediately whisking the Mercury away to god knows where.
I introduced myself past a guard, a doorman second class, a butler, a personal secretary, and a few assorted hangers-on who looked slightly less important. I was finally shown into the living room.
It was a sunken one, and I stood on the top of the steps leading down to it, looking right into Zamira’s face. The moment I saw her, I thought two things:
What a fantastically beautiful creature, and—Is she a thief and a killer?
She was more gorgeous than any woman I think I’ve ever seen. The color of her hair was like a morning sun, with just enough red in the blonde to make her a standout anywhere. She was as long-legged and blue-eyed as I’d seen her in Night on Willow Beach or That Cambridge Woman. There was something so unearthly beautiful about her; it was like watching a living dream walk toward me.
Many men have dreamed of being near Zamira, and I was living their dream. I was almost speechless—almost, but not quite. I don’t like women. I’ve had my fill of them.
She was walking across the sunken living room toward me, her hand outstretched, and I know what she was seeing. A little shrimp of a guy with a scar down the left side of his face, from the bottom of his eye to the corner of his mouth; a guy with watery gray eyes and a receding hair line; a guy just under five foot five. She was looking at Jerry Killian.
And Jerry Killian was looking at a woman who might have killed her house guest and stolen her own fantastic gold statuette—the Golden Virgin.
“Hello. Miss Zamira? I’m Jerold Killian, from Associated Insurance,” I said, almost nastily. I decided being belligerent would be as good as politeness. I wasn’t figuring on being there that long. I stepped down into the living room. She was a good three inches taller than me, and I felt my face burn.
She didn’t seem to notice but took my hand. It was warm as a woman’s hand should be, the one she extended.
Then the scar on my face began to itch.
I must have started in surprise, because she gave me an odd look, her lovely features drawing up in question. She didn’t say anything, though, and I was glad of that.
“Hello, Mr. Killian. I’ve been expecting you. Won’t you come in. Chief of Police Raines is just finishing up his investigations.”
“I’ll maybe have some of my own questions to ask,” I snapped. She stared at me coldly for a second, then looked over her shoulder in confusion. I didn’t quite know why I was being so unpleasant. Perhaps it was because she was so beautiful and I knew a little character like me didn’t have a chance with her. Perhaps it was something else. I don’t know.
We started walking across the room and she tried to start the conversation again, feeling her way as though she were afraid I’d jump at her again. “A terrible thing has happened, as you know, and I hope you’ll forgive the way the house looks.” She smiled at me warily, and her voice was frankly sincere. Too sincere, perhaps.
I muttered something, low and noncommittal. If I hadn’t been in this game for twelve years, gathering twelve years’ worth of cynicism—and if that scar of mine didn’t have the habit of itching whenever something was cockeyed, I might have trusted her—as much as I’ll trust any damned woman.
There were two men in the living room sipping at drinks. “Police Chief Raines, Jerold Killian of Associated Insurance,” she introduced us. I shook his hand. He was an overweight, florid sort of fellow, looked like a good, competent cop.
I turned to the other fellow, just as he was rising to shake my hand. “This is my agent, Ralph Cobb. Ralph, Mr. Killian is here to investigate my claim,” she said, amiably enough. Cobb pumped my arm a few times in that goddam false camaraderie fashion, and I tagged him at once. One of the thousands of tiny, basketball men that bounce through Hollywood’s lower depths. I couldn’t stomach him, at once.
“Won’t you sit down,” said Zamira. Slowly, without my knowing it, my eyes had been drawn back to her. She was all they’d billed her to be. I could see why she had been the cause of innumerable nightclub fights and divorces. I’ve known men who would have killed for a woman half what she was.
Had she killed?
I decided to try answering my own question by asking her one: “Do you have any idea who might have gotten away with the Virgin, Miss Zamira?”
She let a smile flicker across her face and said quickly, “Why don’t you call me Elsa, Mr. Killian. That’s my first name, you know.”
I nodded my head in acceptance and repeated my question. She pinched her lower lip and stammered, “I—I don’t really know who it might have been! So many people were here that night. So many people I knew only vaguely.”
“Why was that?” I asked, noticing Raines’s annoyance. I was probably asking questions he’d already handled. So what? To hell with him; this was my check, not his. My company had three hundred thousand in it. All he had was a fat paunch.
“Well, with all the tourists drawn to the gambling in Las Vegas, and those horrible atomic bomb tests around here, a host of people from all over the world have been drawn to this area. They’re following the money, I suppose, and, well, any number of questionable people might have been about. You understand, don’t you?” She had a faint European accent—too faint to identify accurately—but her tone was thoughtful and honest. Was the woman a marvelous actress, too?
I softened my own tone. “Yes, I understand perfectly.”
We talked for another half hour, and I re-asked the same questions again and again, in different ways. She answered the same each time, as best she could. Sometimes she’d pause to think, usually she’d answer straightforwardly.
What had happened was fairly simple: the Golden Virgin was a solid gold statuette, about two feet high (a lot shorter than me, I thought, but if I disappeared, I wonder how many people would run around trying to find me!), which was supposedly from ancient Phœnicia. It had been insured over two years ago, when Zamira had been riding the crest of her popularity and had built Fullmoon as a retreat.
She’s never really exhibited it, but two nights before it had been placed in a glass case atop the big table in the living room, for show during a dinner party. About two o’clock the next morning the party had broken up and all but two of the guests had gone home. They were Cobb and a bit player named Carol Bentley.
I’d remembered Bentley from his pictures in the papers. He’d been in any number of nightclub brawls and was quite the rake. One of the cleft-chin, charcoal-gray haired breed of muscle-chested lads. Probably her lover, I mused ruefully. It’s guys like me that get the leftovers after guys like Bentley get the Zamiras!
Cobb and Bentley had taken guest rooms, and sometime around five-thirty Zamira had been awakened by a splintering of glass and a shot. She’d slipped on a robe and come downstairs to find Bentley with a bullet in his kisser and the Golden Virgin stolen. That was her story, and that was all she knew. Cobb’s yarn was basically the same.
They had called the police, and they had come in almost immediately from Las Vegas. The gun had been unregistered and clean of prints. That was the story, and there seemed no more anyone could find out. The Virgin was missing, Miss Zamira was distraught, and Associated was out three hundred thousand bucks.
Just as I was heading into the fourth repetition of the story, checking minor points, the butler came in, announcing dinner. Raines heaved himself off the sofa, setting his empty glass down and said he’d be back the next morning to clean things out of the way. Elsa Zamira asked him if he’d like to stay for dinner but Raines declined, thanked her, and waddled out.
“Shall we go in, Mr. Killian?” she asked, smiling.
I indicated I’d follow her, but she took my arm, and I found myself walking into the dining room with her. Cobb followed at a reasonable distance, and I could imagine the glowering cloud on his face.
“Where were the servants that night?” I asked, pulling out a chair for her.
She looked up at me, and a faint light of annoyance seemed to be dying in her eyes. “Why, I let them go for the night. I do that once a week. It lets them get into town. We’re rather secluded here.”
“Yes, I know,” I replied, sitting down across from her. I decided I’d been too much the bastard to the woman. She was trying to be pleasant to me, so I figured I’d be civil to her. “Don’t these atomic tests bother you?” I began, making idle conversation. “They’re only about a hundred miles west of here, aren’t they? The testing grounds, I mean?”
She gave a characteristic wave of her hand. One I’d grown used to seeing her use in her pictures. It signified annoyance and exasperation. “Good lord, yes! All this talk about radiation and poisoning water, and all sorts of things. It scares me silly. Well,” she admitted, “I’ve been thinking of moving out of Fullmoon for quite some time. I want to get back to the coast. This flying back and forth between pictures is a nuisance, really!”
I smiled and laughed shortly. Then I looked at her carefully, and one of those investigator’s hunches I have once in a while hit me. This woman was putting on an act. Something was on her mind. The scar began to itch again for the second time since I’d entered Fullmoon.
“Why do you dislike me, Mr. Killian?” she asked. It took me by surprise, and I didn’t look up.
“What makes you think that, Miss Zamira?” I answered, the nasty tone back in my voice.
She didn’t answer, and I didn’t say anything more. She should know how I hate women! She was too smart. She was the kind of woman I’d come to fear—because they were too smart. Yeah, something was phoney with this dame!
The dinner went badly.
I was wondering what results I’d get if I called her a liar and a murderess to her face.
We said goodnight at eleven o’clock through the dregs of brandy cordials. Cobb rolled from side to side as he climbed the stairs out of sight. I looked at Elsa Zamira. “You’re a strange fellow,” she said.
“Yeah, strange,” I replied, cynically, snorting a half laugh.
“What makes you so bitter?” she asked. “Who hurt you?”
I felt myself grow red again, and the scar under my eye quivered as though it were a tic, not a scar. “Look, lady,” I snapped, rising, “I’m just another lousy hired hand, see! I’m here to check on a bauble you’ve lost, and I’d appreciate it if you’d stick your nose the hell out of my business. I appreciate your hospitality, but would you mind going the hell to bed!”
She stared at me silently for another moment, then turned quickly and went upstairs. I thought I heard a muted, “Good night,” float down from upstairs, but I couldn’t be sure. I sank back into the easy chair, cupping the brandy snifter in a suddenly shaking hand. Why had I jumped her like that? Was I so attracted to Elsa Zamira that I had to bark at her every time she spoke to me?
I sat there for another five minutes, considering what I knew for certain and what I guessed.
I’m an insurance investigator. I’ve been in the business twelve years and I’ve picked up a few tricks. I can tell when someone has something on their mind. Elsa Zamira was one of these. She had something big on her mind—I wasn’t sure, but it might be robbery and murder.
I was still in the dark, but that itching scar was starting to make me nervous for some light on the subject.
I ran a finger down the furrowed flesh. It was smooth and rolled, and it made my thoughts of Elsa Zamira tie in with another girl a long time ago. A girl with a beer can opener and a big hate for me. That had been the last girl for a long time. My work had taken my love from then on.
Until today. Now I found the other girl’s face slowly dimming, and the blue-eyed picture of Zamira taking its place. I was scared, and I kicked myself mentally. You’re a shrimp and an ugly, cynical little nothing, Killian, I prodded myself. If she has anything to do with you it’ll be to make you pass that claim through quicker!
I felt myself sinking under with self-pity and self-hate, and it’s at moments like that, I want to cry. I pushed myself out of the chair and started to go upstairs to bed. I wanted to pass this claim out and leave Zamira’s house as quickly as I could.
I was passing Cobb’s room when I heard voices from inside. I slipped into the empty room next door and put my ear against the wall. There was only one reason I did it; the second I’d heard the voices—that scar had started in again. I’ve never ignored a hunch that started with that scar itch.
It was Zamira and Cobb. They were talking about me.
“Do you think he suspects anything?” Cobb was asking.
“Who can tell?” Zamira answered, laconically. She had a strange tone to her voice.
“What’s the matter with you?” Cobb snapped at her.
“I just don’t like all this. The idea wasn’t a bad one to begin with, but why did Bentley have to go?” She was angry, and I could imagine her white fists clenched as she spoke to the slippery little agent.
“If he hadn’t been prowling, trying to get into your bedroom, if he’d gone back to Vegas with the rest of them instead of hanging around here, he wouldn’t be dead!” Cobb pointed out, a rasp in his voice.
I suddenly realized something. The instant I knew Bentley had not been her lover a strange feeling came over me. I wasn’t certain, but I was afraid I was falling in love with Elsa Zamira.
I felt guilty about listening, but this was what I’d been sent out here to find, and now that I’d found it I was drawn forward, forced to get everything they were saying. But they were finishing. Cobb was saying, “You go on back to bed now. We’ll keep the Virgin where it is till the heat is off, then we can get it melted down safely. Along with the insurance money it’ll clear all our debts in Vegas!”
She said something then I didn’t catch.
I was tight in the chest. This lovely woman was a thief and perhaps a murderess. At least a willing accomplice.
The world fell down a hole once more. That’s your luck, Jerry Killian, I pitied myself.
I waited till Zamira had gone past, then I slipped into my own room.
In the dark I stood and bit my lip. Any ideas I’d had about Zamira and myself were dead once again. She was a thief, and I was an insurance agent. My job was to find the Golden Virgin and get her slapped behind bars.
But where was the Virgin?
The moonlight filtering through the French windows cast long silver shadows across the bed. Zamira lay asleep, one slim, white arm thrown across her face. The evening was warm and she had slipped the covers down. The press releases were on the level; Zamira does sleep in the raw, I thought.
I dragged my eyes away from that silken body most reluctantly and looked around the room. I didn’t quite know why I’d come in here. I told myself it was because I had to find the Virgin to pin anything on them. They’d hidden it somewhere around here, and I had to get it.
To put Zamira in prison. Or get her executed.
Is that what you want to do? I asked myself. She’s a murderess! She doesn’t mean anything to you! She wouldn’t even give you a tumble. Then, illogically, the thought ran through my head, so typical of me when I’m in that kind of mood: you’re too short!
I tore my mind off my thoughts and started looking through the room. It was illogical, hunting then and there, but somehow, I wanted to be there, right then.
I was riffling the huge closet, searching behind the rack of gowns when she called me. “I was wondering when you’d come in, Mr. Killian.”
I spun around. She was still lying in the same position, but the hand had dropped away from her eyes. It was now held out toward me. I felt my throat go dry on me, my knees become rubbery. This was invitation, and no chance for misinterpretation.
I stood up slowly and walked toward the bed. She was smiling. In the moonlight, I don’t think any painter, no matter how great, could have captured that beauty. The woman was a flawless piece of art to begin with, but the shadowy luster of the moonlight made her a goddess.
“What were you looking for in there, Mr. Killian?” she asked. Her eyes weren’t mocking, just sincere and a bit hurt. They were glittering.
“The—the Virgin?” I answered, not even knowing I’d given the answer as a tremulous question.
“Which one…Jerry?”
I couldn’t stop myself. The constriction of my throat caught at me, and my thoughts pounded back and forth in my skull. Was it possible? Was it possible that this woman, this idol of millions, found me interesting? She’d only known me a few hours, yet…
The idea of making love to Zamira was fanstastic!
She raised both arms to me, then, and the muscles of her body tightened. I sat down on the edge of the bed. She ran slim, warm fingers over my arm.
I leaned down, my face close to hers. Her lips parted, but before I could bring mine down to hers, I heard myself saying, “Did you kill Bentley and steal the Virgin, Elsa?”
I felt her start and tighten nervously. She turned her head slightly, disturbing the golden cloud of her hair on the pillow. “Do you think I did, Jerry?” she asked.
I couldn’t answer. “Does it matter, then?” she said. She seemed unconcerned at what I’d said.
Her arms slipped around my neck smoothly. She pulled me down to her. The last thing I heard her say was, “Does it matter anyhow…Jerry?”
Right then, I wouldn’t have cared if she’d been Lucretia Borgia!
But the next morning was something different. I cared in a big way. Not only had the woman stolen a statuette that would cost my company three hundred thousand dollars and murdered an innocent person in doing it, but she’d made me forget my job. Made me want to toss it up just for one night of god-wonderful love with her.
I didn’t know what to do.
I knew she’d done it. For god’s sake, I’d heard them say they’d done it! But I couldn’t prove it. I didn’t have any real proof. The Virgin was hidden somewhere, and on an estate as big as Fullmoon the chances of finding it were slim. Very slim.
I might have passed the claim through, forgotten what I’d heard—but for something that happened at breakfast.
“How did you sleep, Mr. Killian?” inquired Cobb, a jellied smile pasted on his lips.
“All right, I suppose,” I replied.
“And you?” inquired Zamira, looking at Cobb with a sharp expression.
“Fine, fine. Just fine!” answered Cobb, looking sorry he’d started the conversation. He subsided into his bowl of corn flakes with a sigh and an anxious spoon.
“How long can you stay, Jerry?” asked Zamira quietly.
I looked up quickly. I hadn’t been at all sure the night before wasn’t a dream—or a nightmare. I’d found a woman, and yet she was a killer. I didn’t know what to do. If it had been a dream, things might have been easier.
“Not too long,” I answered. “Perhaps I’d best get back tomorrow or the day after.” I smiled across at her.
“Fine, fine!” boomed Cobb. “You two youngsters can get together and go visit Vegas. Perhaps you’ll fall in love—who knows!” He was chuckling like an old granddaddy, and I dropped my spoon.
It hit me all at once. They were making fun of me! A woman like Zamira didn’t need any sawed-off lover like me. She had continents at her feet. There could only be one reason she was bothering with me. They were afraid I knew what they knew and wanted me on their side.
She was willing to give me her body in compromise. I’d thought I wanted her love—but she’d only given me her body!
I full fisted my napkin off my lap and threw it into my cereal bowl. I shoved my chair back and started to leave.
“Jerry! Aren’t you going to finish?” she said, worriedly.
“I’m not hungry!” I tossed back, as I went through the front door.
I waited out front till Raines showed up. I’d finally gotten things straightened out in my mind. For murder and robbery there were excuses. There are men who can forgive these things. For a while I’d been one of those men.
But there is no excusing being made a fool. They should have known better. A man can tolerate almost anything but being shown he is a clown when tempted by a beautiful face! That’s when he’ll stop at nothing to get revenge!
I’d decided I was going to get Elsa Zamira if it took me the next ten thousand years. But I didn’t think it would. By the time Raines pulled up in front, I had an idea formed—from bitterness and anger—and wanted to pull it off.
I took the police chief aside and asked him if he could get me something. He said he could if I needed it, but what for? I told him I needed it and just to trust me.
“How soon can I have that thing?” I asked.
“Just as soon as I can get a man into town to find one. Why?” He was worried. He didn’t like me. I’d been unnecessarily rude to Zamira the night before, and he didn’t care for me one bit.
I put him off with a gesture, reasserted Associated’s interest in the case and said, “I think I can tape this case up for you this morning if you let me play it my way.”
He looked down at me and scratched the back of his fat neck, giving me an argument, not knowing what I had in mind. I argued a little longer and a little better, and finally he gave in, dispatching the other cop with him into town to locate what I’d asked for.
I told him I’d drive him into town in my Mercury, and we went in to take our leave of Miss Zamira and her Fullmoon.
“I’m sorry I can’t stay longer, Elsa,” I said, holding her warm hands in my own. We stood outside the front door, at the edge of the portico. The morning sun highlighted her golden hair.
There were tears at the corners of her eyes, and I didn’t know whether to pull her to me and kiss her or smash that gorgeous face. But I was too far into this thing now. I had to go through with it. I knew I would, anyhow.
She shouldn’t have made a fool of me!
“I’m sorry, too, Jerry. Perhaps you can come back again sometime. Soon.”
I played my part well. She never suspected, which was just the way I wanted it. “Perhaps someday. I’ll put through the clearance on that claim, of course. You’ll get your check in a week or so.” She thanked me, gave me a brief kiss on the cheek—for which she didn’t have to bend—drawing an astonished look from Raines, and said goodbye.
She’d let me make love to her, and she’d thought it would wipe out any suspicions I’d had. She was wrong—so wrong.
We drove away from Fullmoon, and Raines kept looking over at me strangely.
“You’re the first man I’ve ever seen that woman really sorry to have leave, Killian,” he said. He seemed concerned. I looked over at him quickly just as he said, “She loves you, Killian.” The way he said it made me think of steel rending. Raines was a victim of the Zamira charm, too. I felt sorry, sorry, sorry for him. I knew just how he felt!
We drove into the next town and found the cop Raines had sent after my gadget.
I took the hook-in mike, then started giving the Chief instructions. I could see he didn’t like this whole business, particularly my telling him what to do next, but I’d promised results, and they were up against a brick wall otherwise so he was willing to gamble.
“Now in about two hours, I want your men to be all set up with roadblocks across the highway from Las Vegas. When Zamira and Cobb come through, stop her and hold her. Check the stuff in the car—you’ll find the Golden Virgin.”
“How do you know?” he asked belligerently.
“Just bet that I know, Raines,” I snapped. “I don’t play if I don’t know how to win,” I added.
“Well you’d better, Killian,” he replied with an unpleasant tone in his voice. “I don’t like you, Killian. You know that. I don’t like the way you operate, and I don’t like the way you treat people. So you’d better come up with a winner, or I’ll make sure you’re really out!”
I grinned at him nastily, hopped back into the Mercury and roared out of town, back toward Fullmoon.
I left the car a half mile down the road and walked the rest of the way to the estate. I came in with the house blocking me off from anyone’s sight and in a few minutes was at the window.
I’d made sure it was unlocked before I’d left the first time that morning.
Without any noise—a small man can be quieter than you think—I slipped inside. The radio was on a bookshelf.
I hooked in the trick microphone, cutting it into the radio speaker. I hid the trailing wire behind the bookcase and threw the mike out the window. Then I had to do some fast acrobatics. I turned on the radio—loud!—and dove out the window. I was on my feet and had the window slammed shut before the radio had warmed enough to send the blast throughout the house.
I unwound the rest of the wire, taking me around the corner of the house, and listened for any decrease in volume. I heard high heels tap-tapping on the inlaid oak floor, and the music from the radio started to die away. Then I cut in, using a deeper voice, blanking out the music and beginning, “We interrupt this broadcast to bring you a special…”
I got there a few minutes after it happened, and Raines told me later what had occurred.
Zamira had come barreling down the highway, going at least ninety-five in her souped-up sportscar. When she’d seen the roadblock, Raines said, he could see her eyes get big and white. Then Cobb had tried to grab the wheel away from her. She’d tried to slow, but he made her try to run the barricade!
The car piled into the blockade, Zamira lost control of the wheel—hell, at ninety-five who could have held it?—and roared off the highway, onto the desert.
The wheels had sunk into the soft sand, and she’d turned over, still doing a good eighty per. By the time we could get near the car, close enough behind wet tarpaulins, close enough for me to burn my arms and face dragging Zamira from the wreckage, they were both pretty far gone.
They dragged Cobb out and laid him down on the sand. I didn’t know what to do with Zamira. I was going crazy! The fire had burned off her hair, her face was black and blistered. I found myself rocking back and forth with her head in my lap, crying like a child.
Raines told me later—though I didn’t hear her—she’d spoken my name before she’d died.
After they took her and Cobb away, and I’d sunk into the encircling arm of Raines, I stared at the car. It seemed to be a symbol. No phoenix would rise from those flames. After a while the fire died away and I could see the Golden Virgin lying amidst the wreckage, slowly melting into a puddle of golden beauty.
Raines sat across from me in the diner, nursing a thick coffee mug. His eyes were very sad and very solemn.
“Want to tell me what you did, just for the record, Killian? What made her do it? She was in the clear all the way, we couldn’t have pinned a thing on her!”
I wiped at my eyes and leaned back. The burns on my hands still hurt, even through the ointments, but I hardly felt it. I’d just come back from the morgue and seen what was left of Elsa Zamira. If I’d known she would have wound up that way, I’d never have done it. I’d have thrown myself into a fire first!
“If you check,” I said, quietly, “you’ll find they were in debt quite heavily. In Vegas. Fullmoon was probably in hock already, and they were getting desperate.” I choked up then, and Raines carried the story on.
“They planned to steal the Virgin, but Bentley heard them breaking the glass, setting up the deal, and came downstairs. One of them shot him, then they called us. They hid the Virgin, figuring to get both the insurance and the value from the statuette itself, later. Right?” I nodded.
He was looking at me strangely again.
“But what made her break and run, Killian?” he asked, doggedly. His tone was hard.
“I gave her a spot announcement on the radio with that hook-in mike. She had to get away from Fullmoon quickly, and took the most valuable things she had.” I couldn’t talk much more, I knew. I hoped he was through asking questions.
He had just one more.
“What did the announcement say, Killian?”
I frowned again, the picture of Zamira coming to me. First Zamira in Fullmoon, then Zamira in her bed with the moonlight washing her, then Zamira in the morgue. I slammed my face into my palms.
“What did the announcement say, Killian!” Raines snapped.
“I reported they’d miscalculated at the testing grounds. She thought they’d exploded an a-bomb just over the mountains. She was terrified of the things and got away as fast as she could.”
He stood up, shoving the table away from him. The coffee mug teetered and fell, spilling its contents all over the floor. “How would I know she’d try to run the barricade?” I asked him, and I felt my throat choking again.
“No way, Killian,” he answered. But he said it so cold, I knew what he was thinking.
“She was a murderess!” I almost screamed.
“Yeah, murderess,” he answered, staring at me with ice in his eyes. “She loved you, Killian.”
“No, no! No, she didn’t! She was making a fool of me because I’m small and ugly and she had…”
He looked down at me, and I could read all the things that were on his face. “You’re a sick boy, Killian,” he said.
“The job got done, didn’t it?” I said, half in defense.
He looked at me, and the words came out slowly, an eternity between them. “Yeah, done,” he said.
He walked away. I heard the screen door slam.
It was all right for him to pity me. He, at least, could walk away from it.