Free To The Grave by Steve Robinson

Montalvo!”
    Mena kept struggling.  Montalvo’s grip grew stronger.  He began to laugh in a condescending way that reminded her of how Mary would laugh at her when she wanted to let her know what a silly girl she was being.
    “Easy there!” Montalvo insisted.
    Mena began to shake her head as if trying to tell herself that this was not real.  Words formed and caught in her dry throat.
    “Danielson’s no good for you,” Montalvo said.  “The bum stood you up last minute for some other broad.”
    Mena didn’t believe a word of it. 
    Montalvo laughed again.  “I felt kinda responsible on account of it was me who gave him your note.  I came along in his place so’s you weren’t disappointed.”
    Mena didn’t believe he’d even given her note to Danny.  She thought now that he probably never intended to.  She pulled away again and Montalvo’s upbeat tone changed.
    “Hey, what’s with all the fuss?  We got on just swell across the camp fence, didn’t we?”
    She felt his fingers press into her skin as he pulled and jerked her closer.  His arms were suddenly around her like a clamp, holding her to him so tightly that she couldn’t move.
    “I thought you’d like to see old Vic again,” he said.  “I even brought you something.  Look.”  He fumbled in his pocket and produced a small paper parcel, tied with string.  He held it in front of Mena’s face.  “There’s nylons in there, lipstick and candy, too.”
    The sour reek of whisky was strong on his breath.  Mena struggled again and the package fell to the ground, but Montalvo regained his hold.
    “What’s the difference anyways?” he said.  “We’re all airborne, right?  All American!  All the way!  That’s why you went to the camp ain’t it?  That’s why all you broads go there.”
    Mena couldn’t breathe; the combined effect of Montalvo’s arms squeezing her tighter and tighter and the anxiety that seemed to paralyze her.
    “Come on, honey.  Whaddaya say?”
    Mena felt his mouth on her face, fighting to find her lips.  She thrashed her head from side to side and in her mind she began to scream but no sound came out.
    Why is it so dark? she thought.  Where’s Pop?  Where’s Mary?
    She felt a hand fumble through her hair.  Then her head snatched back and his lips were suddenly hard on hers, his tongue stabbing and writhing.  A hand was suddenly firm around her throat, his coarse thumb scratching up and down, up and down.
    “Take it easy,” Montalvo whispered.
    Mena felt another hand cup around her breast and when he squeezed it she began to shake like a deathly fever had taken her.  When his hand moved lower over her dress and his mouth returned to hers, she gave no fight.  All she could think about was last Christmas morning and how good it felt when Mary was drawing that comb slowly through her hair.  How soothing it was.
    “Now that’s more like it,” Montalvo said, and he was kissing, kissing, kissing - drawing circles down her neck with his tongue.
    Her submission must have relaxed him.
    Mena felt the restraint from his arms and hands gradually lessen as they continued to discover her body.  Paralyzing fear turned to rage and she seized her chance.  With as much strength as she could muster, she brought her right knee up until it connected with Montalvo.  She heard a groan and in that instant she twisted herself free and she ran.

 
      
      
      
    Chapter Nine
      
    T he taxi Tayte had picked up when he got off the train at Leicester station had brought him out of the city to the east, through suburban villages and beyond to a stretch of open countryside, wide and lifeless in the winter grey.  It had stopped at the end of a gravel drive by a low, open gate, and Tayte could clearly see the Lasseter house through the bare trees that would otherwise have screened it.
    It was a crooked old house of red herringbone brick, framed in squares of exposed beams like something from Shakespeare’s time: