The best I ever had, Tully Fairchild told himself contentedly, the absolute fucking best. He lay prone for several seconds, awash in the euphoric sea of satisfaction and drained as he had never been before in a sexual encounter. At last he moved, heaving his big frame clumsily off the bed to reach for his hastily discarded clothing. In the process, he half-turned around and he halted right there in a grotesque position, and stared at the trio of men filling the doorway. Shit … they'd fooled him good … he'd never figured on putting on no peep- show. That cussed Blodgett and his brother-in-law had followed him over here to gawk at the action … well, 'tween him and the dog he guessed they'd seen enough to raise a couple of good hardons! But by God, the other guy – he was the fucking bitch's husband!
Tully stepped backward, caught in the classic low-comedy position of having his pants down … which sure as hell wasn't too funny, after all. He expected the guy to bust him one, or let fly with a load of buckshot at any second … and if he had a gun it was all over, because Tully hadn't … his shotgun was out there mounted across the rear window of the pickup, damn it all. So he tensed himself and waited … one foot in his pants. Around here if a guy caught someone screwing his wife, folks considered he had a perfect right to shoot.
Ray Denham had no gun, though, and Blodgett and Quigg were restraining him from leaping on Tully.
«Best thing you can do, son,» advised his boss, «is pack up and get out of town. Take her along, if you still want her after seein' this … ain't no future for you here. I reckon you see now what we were talking about?»
Sally had pushed herself up from the tumbled bed on hearing their voices and now, propped on one bare arm, she was staring in terror at the figure of her husband.
«Oh, Christ,» he muttered brokenly, «S-Sally … my God, Sally, how could you do it?»
She wanted to cry out to him that she could explain, but what would have been the use? After he'd seen, watched her suck a dog's cock while at the same time a man had fucked her in the ass … and her begging for more … there could be no explanation that would ever satisfy him, there was no explanation for her disgusting, unnatural behavior. God knew, she herself was puzzled even as she did it, puzzled as to what perverted compulsion had taken hold of her and guided her body against her very own will … all she knew was that at the time, she had to have cock or go out of her mind! Even now … even now when she'd had her fill of more fucking than any normal woman could take … her cunt still burned and twitched. Oh, yes, God help her, but it was true … she would gladly take on another man right now, right this very minute! What husband could understand that? She'd lost him, lost everything … she was ruined.
And then, her eyes widened in absolute disbelief as yet two more figures pushed their way into the boxy little bedroom. Lauralee Blodgett, looking like the wrath of God with her blonde hair tumbled and no makeup on her ravaged face, and behind her a voluptuously lovely black girl in a crisp white uniform. Lauralee reached into the little straw purse she carried and there was a gun in her hand when she brought it out, a small but very lethal looking blue-black revolver.
«You son of a bitch,» the gun barrel came up slowly and leveled unmistakably at her husband. «You low down white-slaver. No, don't you move – you're not going anywhere … no one in this room leaves until we hear the whole story! Now, John, who did you feed the Spanish Fly to?»
«Lauralee, honey,» Blodgett's voice was a pleading, ingratiating whine, «you're sick. You shouldn't be out of bed! For God's sake put the gun away and let's talk sensible.»
«You sent Tully to town with Spanish Fly, John,» his wife ignored his remarks. «It was for Mrs. Denham, wasn't it? You see, I know … but I want to hear you say it …» the gun barrel wobbled noticeably and she moved closer to her husband, close enough for him to smell the odor of liquor and know she'd been on the bottle again. He looked down the little hole that was no more than a half-inch in diameter and he knew there was only the thinnest of threads separating him from death.
«All right! Yes … yes, I – we gave her just a little … didn't do her any harm, she's all right … see? She's all right!»
«Maybe,» Lauralee said cynically, «and are the others all right, too, John? All the teenage girls and the young brides, like Eula here? Did you leave them all in good condition when you got through with them? You filthy bastard – I ought to kill you right now and make an end of your miserable existence. You – dragging my family name through the mud and disgracin' us all … corrupting my brother, making him do your dirty work for you … you lowdown white trash!»
John Blodgett's handsome, confident features seemed to dissolve under his wife's venomous onslaught. He saw the imminent collapse of everything he had built up so painstakingly over the years … his influence destroyed … and then, a white-hot pain knifed through his upper arm and seared into his shoulder. In seconds the muscles of his chest were constricted with it … strangling his life breath … he thought she had fired the gun, shot him down … but then he knew it was something else squeezing him with agony.
Before their shocked eyes he crumpled to the floor, gasping, «Get Doc! Get Doc!»