Bicycle Shop Murder 39

John X was unconscious on the cabin floor. A red, liquid tri­angle had formed between his legs from his crotch to his knees.

Greg and Cynthia struggled to break free from the duct tape that bound them to their chairs and each other.

“Ouch. That hurts,” Greg said.

“What?”

“I’m getting my left arm out, but the tape is pulling off all the hair.”

“Men can be such little girls.”

“What do you mean?”

“Try getting a bikini wax.”

“No, thanks. Hey—if somebody put wax down there, I’d have to go sit in a hot tub until it melted off.”

“Greg, what if he wakes up?”

“Hopefully, by the time he wakes up he’ll already be dead.”

“What if he’s not?”

“Then we’re in trouble. There—I got it. Now, for the right arm.”

“Greg, I think I saw his head move.”

“I’m going as fast as I can. Left leg done.”

“He is moving!”

“Right leg done. Now, my chest.”

John X opened his eyes, and looked directly at Cynthia. He tried to get up, but then he remembered how he had blown off his manhood, and that he was bleeding to death. “I’m going to hell tonight. But I’m not going alone!”

He turned his head to the left, and saw the semi-automatic pistol a few feet away, in the corner. He began to use his arms to drag himself toward the pistol.

“Greg, he’s going for the gun!”

Greg pulled the last piece of tape off his chest, hopped on Cynthia’s bed, rolled to the other side, and jumped to his feet.

John X grabbed the pistol, and pointed it at Greg.

Greg dove for the bathroom doorway.

John X fired, and barely missed him.

Greg’s legs felt numb from the tape cutting off his circula­tion. He saw the .44 Magnum on the bathroom floor, and picked it up.

The size and weight of the weapon was stunning. Greg didn’t own a gun. He had never even fired one. But he would tonight. He cocked it using both thumbs.

“You’re pretty smart, Greg—hiding in there where I can’t see you. So, while I’m waiting for you to come out, I’ll just shoot a few holes in your girlfriend’s face.”

Without thinking, Greg screamed, “No!” and ran out of the bathroom, holding the revolver with both hands. He would be a hero or a corpse. Maybe both. But he would not let any harm come to Cynthia.

No sooner than he had taken the first step, his rubbery legs gave way, and he began to fall. There was no time to aim. He squeezed the trigger. The recoil was ferocious. He fought with all his might to keep the gun barrel from coming down on his forehead like a baseball bat.

At the exact same moment, John X fired at Greg. A slow motion replay would have shown the two bullets passing each other in midair. Greg’s body slammed to the floor, up against the side of Cynthia’s bed.

The huge bullet from Greg’s weapon flew like a heat-seeking missile into the mouth of the killer, breaking off front teeth, and exploding out the back of his skull. He would not wake up again.

“Greg? Greg, are you okay?”

**********

Everything was hazy. Greg didn’t know whether he was dead or just dreaming.

Cynthia knelt beside him. “Are you okay, Baby?”

“I think so,” he heard himself say. Did she just call me Baby?

“I was so worried about you.” Cynthia leaned over to kiss him.

What is she doing? he thought. She’s going to kiss me. Oh—this is fantastic. I must be dreaming. It couldn’t feel this good when you’re dead. He wanted her lips on his forever. If this was a dream, he would gladly dream the rest of his life away.

“I thought he shot you,” she said. “I thought you were dead.”

“No, I’m fine.”

“Wait—what’s this? Your arm is bleeding, Sweetie.”

“It is?”

Cynthia lowered her head to his arm. Her mouth was open, revealing teeth that were beautifully white and straight—and sharp. She bit him with all her might, and ripped a chunk of flesh out of his arm!

**********

Greg jerked violently and woke up.

“Greg? Greg, are you okay?” Cynthia’s voice trembled.

“I’m okay, Cynthia.” He sat up to a throbbing headache, and saw the pile of red goo in the corner that had been a human head. He stood up slowly, and walked to Cynthia.

“I was so afraid you were dead,” she said.

“Yeah, me too.” Greg began to tear off Cynthia’s tape.

“We need to call 911.”

“I don’t think they can help him,” Greg said with a fiendish smile.

“Greg, you’re bleeding.”

“Where?”

“Your arm.”

Now he understood the dream. “It’s not that bad. I’m sure it’s just a flesh wound.” He pulled off the last piece of tape and stood up. “There you go.”

Cynthia jumped to her feet, and put her arms around him. She held him tightly for twenty seconds. “I thought I had lost you.”

You’ll never lose me, he thought. And I hope you never want to.

**********

“Come on. Get up.”

“Where are we going, back to the hot tub?” Angie really just wanted to sleep. But she would go along with whatever Buford wanted.

“No.”

“What? The kitchen table again?”

“No. I don’t want any more sex tonight.”

“Then where are we going, Bufee Baby?”

“I’m not going anywhere. You’re going out the door.”

“Aw, come on, Honey. I was all comfy cozy. I won’t charge extra. You were my last tonight anyway.”

“Look—I only brought you here because my wife is out of town, and I gave the servants the night off. But they’ll all be back tomorrow. And you can’t be here when they show up. Besides, if you wait until daylight, the neighbors will see you leaving. So, get up.”

“Fine.” Angie got out of bed, and began to gather her things.

He led her to the door.

She was already talking on her cell when she walked out. “Yeah, Joey. Can you set me up with another john tonight?”

Buford locked the door, and walked back to the bedroom. He picked up his cell phone. He knew he should be using one of his throwaway phones, but he was too tired to walk down the hall to his study to get one. He would sleep better if he knew Greg Tenorly and Cynthia Blockerman were dead.

John X, where are you? he thought. Why aren’t you ans­wering your phone?

**********

The crickets and the bullfrogs could be heard from miles away. And some of the residents had been awakened by the gunshots. But nobody heard the cell phone ringing on the front seat of the Mustang.