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From: kellis <kellis@dhp.com>
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Subject: {ASSM} Pandora's New Box (MF extremely-violent) {Kellis} [1/3]
Date: Thu, 20 Jul 2000 02:10:30 -0400
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Pandora's New Box
a Story by Kellis
Copyright (C) July, 2000, Kellis
Part 1 of 3
The explosion was muffled with distance but compelling in a
silence seldom broken except by storm or coyote howl. Del
hastily switched the portable computer to *Standby Mode*, took up
his rifle and dashed out of the cabin. The orange hills and
irregular formations of the badlands basked in sunlight and their
usual morning tranquillity. Motion aloft attracted his eye to
the source of the disturbance: a ball of black smoke half-way up
the western sky and a dark streak connecting it to a flaming
object directly overhead that was moving swiftly to the east.
Another moving object glittered in sunlight below the smoke ball,
falling free and trailing no smoke. Except for the second object
Del would have thought he was witnessing the close approach of a
meteoric bolide. But clearly an aircraft had blown up in mid
air. The larger portion was in flames, descending past him to
the east, while the smaller part, a wing or perhaps the tail
assembly, was falling to the northwest.
He stepped to the side around the hilltop behind the cabin and
watched the fast-moving gout of bright flame. It was tumbling,
occasionally throwing off a black particle, descending at an
accelerating rate.
The spectacle was soon complete. The burning object disappeared
behind High Rock Mesa, leaving its black trail across most of the
sky. Almost immediately an orange ball of fire blossomed above
the mesa, only to turn into another puff of oily smoke. Del
began counting: "One thousand, two thousand ..." He had reached
17 before the sound arrived, a second muffled explosion. So the
crash site was over three miles away -- and remarkably close to
the Antonville road that skirted High Rock Mesa.
He hurried to the battered old pickup, jerked open the door and
hung his rifle on the back window brackets. Flipping the special
toggle switch installed last year when the ignition switch
failed, and crossing his fingers, he turned the key that had not
been removed from the dashboard in months. To his pleased
surprise the battery still had enough energy to crank the engine,
which finally caught after a few seconds' grinding. Sputtering
and emitting blue smoke, the old engine agreed to run.
The truck still held most of a tank of fuel. He paused long
enough to decide where the silvery part was likely to reach
ground -- much nearer his cabin -- then dropped into gear and set
out bumping around the hill toward the fiery crash.
Finally he rounded High Rock Mesa and laid on his brakes. The
plain ahead of him was a sea of burning fuel. Peering between
his fingers, he could see wrinkled black metal faintly through
the flames. Two darker masses were probably the aircraft
engines. He shook his head. No one could have survived this
impact.
His cracked windshield creaked from the radiant heat. Snapping
into reverse, he backed the pickup around and sped off toward the
other site. Clearing the mesa, he saw that the silvery piece was
no longer in the sky, but as the trail began to wind up his own
hill, he discovered it in the distance, perhaps half a mile off
to the right, and recognized the swept back tail fin and
elevators, apparently intact as a subassembly, of a commercial
jet plane, a medium sized type with engines under the wings
instead of the tail.
He veered down into a familiar dry arroyo. Bumping over the
stones that he could not steer around, he finally reached a point
where the truck could climb back out onto level rock within a
hundred yards of the silver metal shape. He drove right up to it
and turned the vehicle around before switching off the improvised
ignition.
He shook his head again. This was a small part of the aircraft.
The fuselage had sheared off just forward of the elevators'
leading edges. He walked around in front of the oval opening and
found himself looking directly into the rear of the passenger
cabin. One row of seats remained, fixed against the lavatory
bulkhead. About six feet of aisle terminated in a bin, now
empty, that might have contained carry-on luggage. Aside from
sheared metal skin, structural stringers and numerous straggling
wires and cables, the tail assembly seemed completely intact and
undamaged, perched at a slight angle on the foot of a hill.
The corner of a paper peered out from between the remaining seat
cushions. Del stretched forward to retrieve it. The heading in
large boldface announced, *Treasury Department / Office of the
United States Marshal*. Centered below that in slightly smaller
type was the phrase, *Prisoner Transport Manifest*. Below this
were four columns of printed names -- women's names -- each
followed by a number. Quickly he counted the names in the
left-most column: 24. Two other columns held the same number,
two less in the last: 94 women's names.
At the bottom of the page was a date and someone's initials.
That of the guard who had been sitting in this seat? He folded
the paper and tucked it into his shirt pocket while looking
towards the distant smoke column. Had 94 or more women just died
three miles to the east? "Damn!" he muttered sadly, thinking of
94 opportunities forever lost to all men everywhere.
He looked up at the sky. It was too early yet for investigating
helicopters, but he was confident they would not be long delayed.
An air-force base lay only a hundred miles to the south. Time to
move on. He was just turning away when something caught his
attention, something he had noticed but passed over. The
lavatory door ... something about it. He studied it again, with
widening eyes as the indicator above the latch registered in his
mind. It read *Occupied*!
-- Meaning that it was locked from the inside. An effect of the
crash or the explosion? Or did a body remain inside?
He caught a ripped stringer and swung himself up onto the aisle
floor. He stood in front of the lavatory door and pounded on it
with his knuckles, shouting, "Hey! Is anyone in there -- in the
lavatory?"
He tried to rotate the latch but only verified that it was locked
from the inside. He remembered a crowbar under the seat in the
truck and was just about to turn away when once again he was
brought up short.
With a thunk the indicator changed to *Vacant*.
Hesitantly Del reached again for the latch. Apprehension filled
his chest as he pressed it down. Now it rotated freely. He
backed away, pulling the door open.
And found himself staring into a female face. Its owner winced
at the light, a hand flying up to shield her eyes. But he had
received a glimpse of blue eyes in a pale countenance, enough to
suggest attractiveness under other circumstances. The hand did
not conceal chestnut hair, nor the orange jump suit, wetly
stained over most of her chest. The source of the stain was only
too apparent to his nose.
"My god!" Del exclaimed.
"God?" repeated the woman. "Am I dead?"
Del took a breath and regretted it but said, "If you can ask
that, you're not."
She stared at him between her fingers. "If you're an angel, I
sure hope not."
Vomit dripped from her chin. Nevertheless it was apparently a
smoothly dimpled chin. At that instant Del reached a momentous
decision. He said, "Give me your hand. We have to *move*, if
you're going to get out of this!"
Her hand thrust out without hesitation. He took it to lead her
out of the lavatory and discovered that her feet were tangled in
the bottom half of the orange jump suit plus cotton panties once
white, now stained in several biological colors.
"Lift your feet out of that," he ordered.
She did, walking completely out the mess. Her white socks and
sneakers were equally stained.
"Pick it up," he directed further. "We can't leave it here."
She stooped and obeyed. He led her to the edge of the floor,
jumped down, then lifted her down by the elbows. Her eyes were
huge as she looked right and left at the bare red rock of the
badlands.
"Come on," he urged, taking her elbow. "The choppers will get
here any minute."
Her soiled orange tunic dangled just below her buttocks. She
held her retrieved bottom clothing before her in a sodden ball
and stumbled along as his hand directed.
"What ... What ..." she stuttered.
"No time. I'll explain when we get out of here."
They reached the tailgate of the pickup. "Give me that," he
ordered, taking the soiled bundle from her and stuffing it into a
cardboard box left lying in the truck bed. "Everything you've
got on stinks," he noted succinctly. "Take it all off, even your
shoes and socks."
Her hands rose to the buttons on her tunic. "What ... What'll I
wear?"
"Nothing. You can wrap in this blanket." He lifted and
straightened a dusty blanket that had been wedged behind the tool
box. "Hurry, damn it! We've got to get out of here."
She shrugged out of the tunic, leaving a cotton brassiere as the
only article of clothing on her torso. He had a glimpse of
narrow waist, well padded hips, thick reddish pubes and unshaven
legs. She jerked the sneakers and socks off her feet. All went
into the cardboard box. He closed its flaps and turned it upside
down in the truck bed, then held the blanket open for her. She
turned her back into it and he wrapped it around her, guiding her
hand to hold it at the overlap.
"Now into the truck. Here, let me move the seat back first."
When she was seated, he slammed her door and dashed around to his
own side. The warm engine started immediately and he drove it
down into the arroyo.
"If anyone stops us," he instructed her, "before we get to my
place, you drop down into the floorboards. I've moved the seat
back enough for you to fit. You understand?"
"Yes."
He dodged an outcropping of rock. "Damn!" he declared.
"What?"
"We're leaving a dust cloud. Now much we can do to avoid it, is
there? ... Uh-oh! We've got company."
The girl peered where he pointed. Two helicopters, tiny with
distance, were moving from right to left across their path, just
visible above the rock walls.
"What will they do?" she asked.
"Nothing about us right away," he explained. "But they must have
seen my dust. Not much point in hurrying now." He slowed the
truck to a less frenzied dash.
"Where are they going?"
"To check on what's left of your friends."
He glanced at her. Her returning glance held horror.
"What's your name?" he asked.
"Theresa. Tessy."
"Tessy. That's pretty. Call me Del."
"Del," she repeated. She took a deep breath. "What happened,
Del?"
He grunted. "You tell me."
"But I ... I don't *know*!"
"You went to the bathroom, right?"
"Ye-es."
"And what happened?"
"A terrible noise. The lights went out. I was just ... doing my
business. The wall hit me on one side. I tried to stand up but
something was pressing me back onto the seat. The seat started
going around and around, at least that's how it felt. I got sick
and puked my guts out. It went on and on and ... I don't know
what happened next. Maybe I passed out. When I could think
again, I thought I was dead. It was pitch dark and I couldn't
hear a thing. The seat was tilted but at least the spinning had
stopped.
"I don't know how long I just sat there, waiting to see if I
really was dead. Then I heard you hollering and beating on the
door. Now I could stand up! I found the lock and pulled it
back. You know the rest. But what was it, Del? What happened
to most of the plane?"
"It blew up in midair, Tessy. All of it but the very tail end
caught fire and crashed about three miles from here. Your part,
the tail, fluttered down like a falling leaf. That was the
luckiest dump anybody ever took!
"I drove over to the other site first, long enough to understand
nobody survived that one. They'll never even find all the
bodies. If you had any friends in that crowd, I'm sorry. We're
there really 94 prisoners on that flight?"
"94? I don't know. Nobody on it was a friend of mine. You got
anything to drink, Del? My mouth tastes awful."
"I'll bet it does. Hang on. Not much further and I'll give you
a cold beer."
"Oh, god, I would do *anything* for a cold beer!"
He chuckled. "Would you!"
"After a bath. Can I get a bath?"
"Well, sort of. Got to be careful of the water."
He glanced at her. She was studying him. "Where are you taking
me, Del?"
"I've got a little place on a hill. You'll see in a few minutes.
You do know what's happening, don't you, Tessy?"
"Tell me."
"You were right the first time. You're dead."
"I'm ... wh-what?"
He chuckled again. "Don't get me wrong. You're dead as Theresa,
but your new life with a new name and no record is just
beginning. All you have to do is make sure you don't leave
fingerprints anywhere that matters."
"I ... Oh. I see."
"Tell me about the flight."
"It was ... They were taking me east. To a different prison."
"Why?"
Her eyes wouldn't meet his. "Who knows why? The feds do things
like that. Maybe to balance the load between prisons. We were
going to Wash-- to Virginia."
"That far back east!"
"So they said."
"What was your original crime?"
"Tax fraud."
"No kidding!"
"I'm a federal prisoner, Del."
"*Was*, Tessy. How long were you in for?"
"Twelve years. I have -- had -- another ten to go. But the
worst is the $10 million fine. Not admitting your debt really
throws the IRS into a tizzy! But if I'm dead that's settled."
"Mind telling me how old you are?"
"28. Hmm. I think I'm going to be 22 from now on, at least for
the next few years."
He laughed. "You're beginning to see the possibilities."
"Yeah... All kinds of possibilities... Problems, too."
"I'd like to hear what problems you foresee, but here's where we
get out of the gully. Stay low until we know who's watching."
He guided the truck over the arroyo lip, but as they turned onto
the trail, a blue helicopter appeared, growing steadily larger as
it descended toward them.
"Now's the time for you to hit the floorboards!" he called. She
obediently slid forward off the seat. He added, "Tuck your legs
under and keep your face down over your knees."
When she was settled, he pulled an end of the blanket over her
chestnut hair. Then he patted her arched back. "You'll be all
right. Just keep still. This truck is such a mess, nobody will
question a blanket wadded up in the floorboards. They'll
understand I'm a bachelor."
The helicopter hovered not far off the trail, crabbing backward
to stay at the same distance. Its national insignia and U. S.
Air Force markings were fully legible.
"What're they doing?" Tessy hollered over the noise.
"Looking us over. I'm giving them a thumbs-down." As he spoke,
Del put his hand out the window and gestured several times with
thumb turned down and extended. "Now the pilot's waving...
There they go!"
The helicopter lifted over them towards the fallen tail section.
After a moment the woman called, "Can I get up?"
"Just a minute." Del scanned the sky carefully. "I see three
more choppers, but it looks like they're all heading for the main
wreck... We're in sight of my place. Okay, come on up. Just be
ready to hop back down."
The woman rose up cautiously and perched on the edge of the seat.
The truck was climbing up the hill that was mostly Del's
property. Near the top was a low, weathered building, hardly
more than a shack, except she saw as they neared, it sported a
front porch with a single battered chair. Behind it, further up
the hill, were some constructs of similar size, one quite shiny.
On the very top of the hill were affixed two small parabolic
reflectors, one pointing into the sky, the other along the
ground.
"What's all that?" she asked with raised eyebrows.
He chuckled. "You may not be familiar with what it takes to live
out here away from all municipal services, where even the ground
water is half a mile down. The shiny thing is my solar power
generator. The tank is my cistern. Most of it is buried in the
rock. And those reflectors on top are my link to the rest of the
world."
"Cool!" she said admiringly.
"It gets me by. All right. I'll pull right up under the porch.
When I say 'Go,' you dash into the house. The door's unlocked.
Make sure you close it behind you while I go park the truck.
Understand?"
"Yes."
"And try not to touch anything. We'll get you a bath first
thing."
Several helicopters hovered beyond High Rock Mesa. Another was
moving low and slow towards the tail site as if it were scanning
the ground. Del stopped the vehicle with its right side up
against the porch floor, threw it in *Park*, opened his door and
stood up, checking out the rest of the sky.
"All right, go!" he called.
The woman was quick, but the blanket caught in something on the
truck just as she reached for the house door knob. She looked
back at him with huge eyes.
"Shrug out of it! Get inside *now*!"
She let the blanket fall as she threw open the door. He had a
glimpse of pale round buttocks before she slammed it closed
behind her. Immediately he returned to his seat, put the truck
in gear and drove away from the cabin. When he had parked in his
customary place and switched off the ignition, he walked around
to the passenger side, gathered up the blanket, which proved to
be caught in the door handle, and stuffed it back behind the
tools. He considered the box with her soiled clothing. It
remained upside down in the back of the truck. He would have to
bury it, he thought, but not just yet.
He took his rifle down and strolled back to the house, surveying
the sky thoroughly. A heavy lift helicopter was approaching the
main crash site, where several others hovered, marked by a
thinner but still rising column of smoke over High Rock Mesa.
The ground scanner had disappeared, presumably having reached the
tail section, which was concealed from the cabin by a minor rock
peak.
He found her waiting, standing in the middle of the floor with
back turned towards him, in the front room of the two-room cabin.
Her shoulders were hunched protectively. She looked
apprehensively over one. "Do you think they saw me?"
"No sign of it. Whew, Tessy, you need a bath right now! Go on
through that door. You'll find a rag and soap next to the sink.
You'll have to take a sponge bath. I don't have enough water for
a shower."
She obeyed and closed the door behind her. But he opened it
again and followed her. This room was his kitchen, containing a
white enameled sink, a gas stove and a small state-of-the-art low
power refrigerator. At one side a curtain concealed an alcove
with a toilet seat built out over a pit. On the other side was a
doorless pantry, well-stocked with canned goods.
Standing before the sink, she sighed pointedly as he moved past
her toward the pantry.
He explained, "I need to show you something."
She said with heavy irony, "I was tired of privacy anyway."
"Look here. See this raised nail?"
He wrinkled his nose as she bent beside him, looking where his
finger pointed at the molding between wall and floor.
"Yes."
"When you stomp it --" He demonstrated. "-- that handle pops
up." With a click a section of floor board, seemingly a
foot-long fitted fill-in, popped up a couple finger widths
between the pantry door jambs.
"Watch." He leaned in front of her, slipped his hand under the
raised board and lifted. The floor of the pantry came up on
hinges in the rear, exposing a dark hole suddenly illuminated by
an interior light as the floor rose to the limit of the shelves
above it. She was looking down into a room extending back under
the kitchen floor. The rungs of a ladder were attached to the
descending wall.
"A storage room?" she asked.
"More than that. The guy who built this place meant it as a
refuge and a fall-out shelter. Look at the bottom of this
handle. When you start down the ladder, stop, let the door back
down and pull the handle down, too, until it latches. Then
nobody can tell what's here -- at least not if they're in a
hurry."
"You want me to go down there?"
"Not now. But sooner or later, probably sooner, they'll come
here to ask me some questions. I want you to scamper down there
at the first news of them and stay till I let you out. You
understand?"
She hesitated, then looked up at him anxiously. "You *will* let
me out?"
He grinned slowly. "What do *you* think? But it's the handle
that latches, not the door. You can also open it from the inside
just by pushing up. Now get busy and clean off that stink." He
turned away from her and threw open both windows, letting in the
slight breeze, then paused at the door. She continued quartering
her back toward him, watching him over her shoulder. Her skin
was almost as pale as her brassiere straps.
He asked gruffly, "You need any help?"
"Uh, n-no thanks." She placed the stopper in the sink. "I see
what I need."
"Good. Yell and I'll bring you one of my shirts."
He sat down in the single porch chair, leaning his rifle against
the shingled wall beside him. He took a deep breath, shook his
head and murmured aloud, "God, I surprise me!"
The customarily silent desert air was filled now with the distant
roar of engines. After a while one of them grew louder and added
the distinctive whop-whop-whop of an approaching helicopter. A
blue Huey with air-force markings settled on the trail about a
hundred yards from the cabin, throwing up a cloud of dust that
quickly dissipated.
Without turning his head, Del called, "We've got visitors,
Tessy!"
He heard a feminine response, "Got'cha!" followed shortly by a
thump felt through the porch floor.
As the rotors slowed, two men dropped down from the open
passenger compartment and came to the porch. They wore blue
military fatigues. The one with captain's bars on his collar
carried a clipboard, the other a blue flight bag.
They halted at the edge of the porch. The captain asked, "Are
you Mr. Delbert Forrest?"
Del grinned. "Ain't computers wonderful!"
The captain grinned also. "I take it that's a *yes*?"
"I am Delbert Forrest. Who're you?"
"Jameson," the man replied, which agreed with the name tag above
his shirt pocket. "We're with the air force."
"So I gathered."
"What did you witness here this morning, Mr. Forrest? Turn it
on, Airman."
The silent man reached into his bag and flipped something.
"I heard an explosion," Del recited. "I saw the tail of an
airplane fall over there while the rest of it fell burning behind
High Rock Mesa. I went to investigate. When I got beyond the
mesa, I could see only a sea of flames and some twisted metal.
No sign of survivors. So I checked out the tail section, found
no one and came back. By that time your people were arriving."
"You say the front part fell *burning*?"
"That's right. It must have caught fire from the original
explosion. It left a black streak of smoke behind it all the
way."
"That's good information. Thank you. Did you see any human
remains?"
"No, not to be certain."
"What does that mean?"
"As the burning part was coming down, it threw off pieces. I
thought one of them might have a human shape."
"One."
"Well, it threw off more than one piece. Three or four, I guess,
but only one looked like it had ... arms and legs."
"Where did that one land?"
"Well, I don't really know. About half way between the two
sites, I would guess. Say, would you guys like a cold beer?"
The officer smiled. "You have cold beer?"
"Sure." Del stood up. "Did you think I was just a lonely
hermit, Captain?"
"You'll permit us to come inside, Mr. Forrest?"
"Yes, of course." Del opened the door. "After you, gentlemen."
As they passed through, he added, "I'm rather proud of this
place, actually. It doesn't look like much on the outside,
except you must have noticed my solar generator and --"
"Yes, we did. What type is it?"
"Mercury vapor. The light condenser boils mercury and the vapor
passes through an ion stripper. In the summertime I can get six
kilowatts from it."
"That's impressive!"
"I keep thinking I'll replace it with one big enough for
air-conditioning, though here in the mountains it's not so hot as
your base down in the valley. Come on in the kitchen to the
refrigerator."
They followed him into the next room. Tessy had allowed the sink
to drain, but her wet washcloth perched beside the bowl, and he
saw that she had helped herself to a bottle of beer, also
standing on the sink. The breeze had blown the room clear of her
sour odor. Thanking providence for dry desert air with no
moisture to condense on the cold bottle, he opened the
refrigerator and took out two additional brown bottles. "I only
have Coors," he said apologetically.
The captain held up his hand. "No, thank you, Mr. Forrest. It's
very kind of you to offer it, but of course we're on duty."
Del allowed himself to frown. "Then why did you come in?"
The captain's chin rose. He said firmly, "To see if there was
any other witness."
Del put the bottles back, then asked, "Well, in that case how
about answering a question for me?"
"What's that?"
"Did 94 women actually die in that crash?"
The officer started. "94 women? What makes you think that?"
Del took a breath. "I found a paper wedged in the seat that was
still left in the tail section. It said this was a federal
prisoner transport and gave the names of 94 women."
Both men stared. "Could I see that paper, please?" asked the
captain.
"Why not?" Del took it from his shirt pocket and gave it to the
officer, who opened it and scanned quickly.
He said, "Look down here. This is yesterday's date. That plane
was owned by the U. S. Marshal's Office. It was probably often
used for prisoner transport."
To Del's surprise, he handed the paper back. Taking it, Del
asked, "But today could have been another big shipment?"
The officer shrugged and said in a confidential tone, "I'll tell
you one thing: that was a damned bad crash, so bad, they say,
that the black boxes were smashed, too. I think everyone aboard
bought it. We won't know exactly who they were until we see the
passenger manifest."
"I guess not."
The captain hesitated, then took a breath. "Mr. Forrest, would
you do something to help us out?"
Del straightened his shoulders. "Do what, Captain?"
"I noticed that one of your parabolic reflectors is aligned
horizontally. Do you have microwave telephone service into the
nearest town? I guess that would be Cayman."
"Yes, I do, as a matter of fact."
"Very good. This is what we want you to do." He handed Del a
business card. "If anyone comes to you with questions about this
or behaving suspiciously, please call this 800 number, ask for
that name, 'Frank,' and report it."
"What kind of suspicious behavior?"
"Wearing orange clothing, for example."
Del's eyes narrowed. "You think somebody survived that crash?"
"I don't know. I'll admit it seems unlikely. We're just
covering all the bases. The government transports some pretty
desperate people on these flights sometimes -- desperate *and*
dangerous."
Del took the card and cocked an eyebrow. "Were such people on
this one, Captain?"
"Maybe."
"Yeah, 'maybe.' I just realized something. I assumed the air
force was investigating this because your base is the closest
source of choppers. But now that I think about it, *all* the
choppers are *blue*! Where's the TV crew, Captain, and the
reporters? What's going on?"
The captain smiled slightly. "Turn it off, Airman."
When the silent man had obeyed, the officer added, "You'll see a
lot of olive drab ones in about a half hour. A special forces
battalion is going to examine every square inch of this area.
Call that number, Mr. Forrest, if anything interesting develops.
It's for your own protection." He jerked his head toward the
door. "Let's go, Airman."
Del followed them out across the porch and onto the rocky
hillside. He scanned the sky in all directions while they
reboarded their machine. He counted five blue helicopters aloft,
two passing slowly over the ground between the two sites, still
searching. Then the one in his yard lifted to join them. He
waved good-bye to the men in the passenger compartment, one of
whom returned his gesture.
He returned to the kitchen and raised the pantry floor. "Come on
out, Tessy. They've gone."
She appeared and climbed the ladder as he held the door open. He
took her hand and helped her stand beside him before lowering the
door and pressing the handle down until it latched. He raised up
to find her facing him, one arm across her breasts, the other
hand inadequately covering her pubes. Her face was still
anxious. "You didn't tell them?"
"No, of course not. You look better. Did you finish your bath?"
"I was just drying off with your dish towel. I need to wash my
hair, too."
"I'm sorry. I'm short of clean towels. Where's your brassiere?"
"Left it in the cellar. It stinks, too."
He turned away. "Wait here and I'll get you a shirt."
He went to the clothes closet in the next room and took down a
long-tailed white shirt. Turning around he found her immediately
behind him. He grinned. "No longer so modest, Tessy?"
She shrugged and grinned at him as she took the shirt. "Modesty
is a habit, one that prison wears down. I really just hate for
you to see me with all my body hair. I have such a lot of it."
"You don't believe in shaving?"
"Huh! They wouldn't let me have a razor."
"Not even an electric one?"
"A guard told me they had a prisoner once who made a radio
transmitter out of his electric razor."
He grunted. "That's ridiculous."
"You know that and I know that, but guards are very credulous
about some things."
He paused thoughtfully. "Now that I think about it, I suppose
you could make a primitive arc transmitter."
"Are you technically trained, Del?"
"I was an electrical engineer. Saw the handwriting on the wall
and took early retirement before my job got merged out of
existence."
"What are you, about 50?"
"58, thanks."
She had buttoned the shirt most of the way up the front. With a
grin she held up her hands, the cuffs dangling past them. "Think
I'll start a new fad?"
"No. Girls have been wearing men's shirts for a long time. I'll
admit it looks cuter on you than on me."
"Despite my hairy legs?"
His eyes dropped below the shirt tails and he shook his head.
"Who said hair on a woman is such a bad thing? I like that
reddish tint." He chuckled. "I'll bet it would be fun if we
were all furry as apes."
Her eyes sparkled as she studied him. "Living out here in the
desert all alone ... with a secret refuge under his cabin, I'll
bet you're an iconoclast, Del."
He grinned. "Worse than that. I'm a closet anarchist."
"Really?" Wide eyed, she shook her head. "God, this is *fate*!"
He laughed. "You were looking for an anarchist? Well, why not?
Tax fraud? If I had my way, that wouldn't be a crime."
"No, Del," she objected softly. "I wasn't looking for anything.
One minute I was in trouble at 30,000 feet and heading for more,
and the next ..." She took a breath and straightened herself.
"If you'll let me borrow your razor, I'll shave my legs and
underarms."
"Razor? Do I look like a man who owns a razor?"
Her eyebrows lifted. "Well, your beard is pretty neat and I'd
say you've had a haircut in the last month."
"Right. I take my laundry into town once a month and stop by the
tonsorial parlor."
"The what? Is it that old-fashioned?"
"I think so: shower, shave and haircut -- or as much of that as
you want. Not too old-fashioned. They have a beauty parlor next
door. But I don't have a razor, Tessy. I'm sorry."
She sighed. "I've been living with it for two years. If you can
stand it, I guess I can."
"Well, I didn't notice your underarms, but you're a pretty woman,
Tessy, hair or no hair. Speaking of that, you still have some
vomit in it. There's shampoo in the pantry. You can fill
the sink again for that, if you want."
"Are you really short of water?"
"You didn't see any clouds in the sky, did you? It'll rain here
in December, but that's a couple months off."
"You get all your water from the winter rains?"
"I usually get a truckload delivered in July, but of course I
don't want to order another one now."
"My hair stinks, doesn't it?"
"Yes."
"All right. I'll wash it." She turned to the kitchen door.
"Need any help?"
"I'll have to take your shirt off."
"Oh. Okay. Look, that investigator said the army was sending
troops to comb the rocks. I want to see if they've arrived."
Indeed several of the promised olive drab machines were hovering
near the tail section site. In the other direction two of them
had actually landed atop High Rock Mesa. The roar of distant
engines had grown louder. He counted 18 of the greenish
helicopters, about half on the ground. In a few places between
the rock fingers he could make out dark figures, tiny with
distance, apparently spread out in search formations.
His porch was on the wrong end of the cabin from the main crash
site beyond the mesa, but most of the activity appeared centered
around the tail site anyway. He took his seat and watched for
awhile. The soldiers were making a good job of it. They were
spreading out from the tail site as a center. In another hour or
so they would reach Del's hill.
He heard the woman's voice unintelligibly through the closed
door. He got up and pushed it open. "What is it?"
She was standing naked in the middle of the room, wet hair
covering her shoulders. She twitched tensely sideways, then
sighed and deliberately relaxed her posture. "Do you have
another towel?"
"I think there's one left."
He went past her to the closet, withdrew the towel and passed it
to her. She immediately applied it vigorously to her hair. She
stood frankly before him, eyes clenched shut, while working the
towel. He stood silently watching. Her breasts were ample, as
he had already understood, well-rounded and crowned with small
pink nipples, bouncing in response to her lively arm motions. He
took a deep breath.
She asked, "My skin doesn't bother you, does it?"
He chuckled. "What's the matter? Could you *feel* my eyes?"
She smiled. "So to speak."
"No, it doesn't bother me. But I'm certainly not indifferent to
it."
She lowered the towel, folded it and passed it to him. Her hands
went back into her hair. For the first time he saw the heavy
chestnut tufts in her armpits. She stared into his eyes. "And
I'm not indifferent to you seeing it. You're the first man who
has, in over two years."
He licked dry lips. "Tessy ..."
She combed her damp hair back with spread fingers. "Were there
any soldiers looking for me?"
"Quite a lot. Looking for something."
She nodded. "Me." Her hands settled to her hips. She drew her
shoulders back, watching with a twinkle as his eyes dropped to
her outthrust nipples. But she asked, "Will they come here?"
"Maybe. It'll take them a while at the rate they're going."
She took a step toward him. "How long a while?"
He shrugged. "An hour."
"That's long enough." She smiled slowly. "I'll bet ten minutes
is long enough."
He drew a shaky breath. "Tessy, I ... I don't want to take
advantage of you."
"Then why did you bring me home with you?"
"Well, yes. I hoped you might feel grateful."
"I do, Del. And what's more, I've been without a man longer than
you've probably been without a woman."
His clothing was quickly removed. She came readily into his
arms, pressing her soft body against him. She smelled of soap
and shampoo. Their lips met and she accepted his tongue. He
tasted the beer she had drunk. When he threw back the tattered
blankets on his bunk, she fell into it backward and pulled him
down atop her. She was a well-fleshed woman with broad hips and
narrow waist. Her skin was untanned, underlain most noticeably
in breast and thighs with a network of veins. He saw no sign
either of cellulite or stretch marks.
The hair on her legs tickled curiously when she wrapped them
around his buttocks. Her hips rolled in vigorous response to his
thrusts.
"Oh, god, Tessy!" He lasted about a minute.
Breathing heavily, he raised up off her on extended arms, looking
into her open eyes. She had developed a slight flush. He said
contritely, "I'm sorry, Tessy. I promise I'll be better for you
next time."
She smiled lazily. "I'm sure you will. Think of that one as a
first expression of gratitude." The patted the pillow beside
her. "Lie down, let me snuggle, and tell me about yourself,
please, Del."
He obeyed her, still feeling apologetic. "I'm afraid I'm out of
the habit of pleasing my partner. But I do want to please you!"
She grunted. "Your tonsorial parlor gives full service, does it?"
"Well, no, not the parlor. But there's a woman down the street
that, uh ..."
"Only once a month, Del?"
"I guess I'm getting old."
"Nothing old about what you just did."
"You bring it out in me, Tessy. God, I'm glad ... I mean, ah ..."
She chuckled. "So am I, Del."
She moved her head onto his shoulder and a leg over his hips.
She discovered that he was chuckling and asked, "What's funny?"
"I was just remembering. The second thing you said."
"Huh?"
"You first asked if you were dead. When I said no, you said, 'If
you're an angel, I sure hope not.'" He laughed aloud.
She smiled. "I was pretty confused. I thought I ought to be
dead, but the paintings show *devils* with beards!"
"Are you religious, Tessy?"
"I was once. Five years of marriage to a nuke head and two years
as a government guest pretty well leached the fuzzy thoughts out
of my head. At least I thought they had until the rubber met the
road this morning."
"A 'nuke head?'"
"That's what he called himself. You would call him a nuclear
physicist."
"Is he waiting for you, Tessy?"
She sighed. "Don't get me wrong, Del. I *am* grateful for your
help. You're probably saving my life right now, and I'll thank
you again as soon as you're able. But if Craig was waiting for
me, I wouldn't be in this bed with another man."
"I understand. You still love him."
"Make that past tense, Del. He's dead."
"I ... I'm sorry." His hand fondled her breast.
She chuckled. "You are and you aren't." She patted his cheek.
"Life goes on, even for us federal convicts."
"An interesting point. Just how could the wife of a nuclear
physicist be guilty of tax fraud?"
"*Anybody* can be guilty of tax fraud, Del! Would you believe I
endorsed a million dollar personal check from a fictitious
company but declared only a tenth of it on my 1040? That I then
signed a document agreeing to dispense with a jury at my trial?"
"Are you saying you were framed, Tessy?"
"Oh, the signatures looked like mine, all right. They looked
exactly like mine! But I never saw either document."
"The government forged your signatures? Why would they do such a
thing to a sweet -- What's your full name?"
"Theresa Jane Smithers Grable, widow of Craig Melrose Grable,
Ph.D. Don't search your memory, Del. I promise you've never
heard of either of us."
"'Grable.' Like, what's her name, *Betty* Grable?"
"No relation. Those movie stars all had made-up names anyway."
"Okay. So why did they frame you, then?"
"That's easy. I knew way too much. The alternative was to kill
me, but lately we've been short of men in high office with that
kind of guts. Fortunately for me. Until today, anyway."
"You mean --"
"That explosion was no accident, Del. For two years I've been in
solitary confinement with guards under orders not to let me say
anything in their hearing except answers to the simplest
questions. But they don't care what *I* hear. Right after we
took off this morning I overheard the marshal in charge tell
another we'd be lucky to get her -- meaning me -- delivered."
She grimaced. "Funny how luck works out, isn't it!"
He grinned. "So you know some terrible nuclear secret?"
"Exactly." She glanced up into his skepticism, smiled and
nodded. "Your tone of voice is what has kept me alive until
today. John Arnold said no one would believe me if I did blurt
it out. Still it was a near thing. Devkrit drew his pistol and
aimed it at me in the NSA offices. He almost had guts enough."
"Devkrit? You don't mean the FBI director!"
"But I do. Del, I'm amazed you even know who he is."
"And John Arnold is ..." He closed his eyes. The name was
familiar.
"Director of National Security. He was my boss's boss."
"You worked for the NSA?"
"As a systems analyst. I may still know more dangerous trivia
than all but a dozen people in the whole country."
He thought about it for awhile. "Then you were the only prisoner
on the plane?"
"Yes."
He took a breath. "I found a manifest showing 94 prisoners
aboard. I'm glad it was for yesterday."
"So am I." She kissed his shoulder, then chuckled. "Did you
think you could save *94* women, Del?"
"No. But I was thinking that 93 would be a terrible loss."
"Were you? So tell me, what does a man who loves women so well
do all alone in the desert?"
"Write novels."
"Novels?" She raised her head. "What's *your* full name, Del?"
"Delbert Maurice Forrest. I've only published --"
"But I've heard of you. They did let me read in my lonely cell.
You wrote *Last Man Standing*! My god, you *are* an anarchist!"
[End Part 1 of 3]
--
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reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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