Free The Anatomy of Violence by Charles Runyon Page B

hired him once to follow me.”
    “He isn’t trying, Jules.” I felt his right hand move down onto my hip, and I put my hand over it. “Jules …”
    He moved his hand lower. “You’ve got electricity in your hair, Laurie,” he said in a dreamy voice. “I can feel it tingle against my hand.” His arm slid under my neck and turned my face toward his. I saw his smoky gray eyes only an inch from mine; felt his right arm slide around my waist and pull me tightly against him. Our noses touched, then he found my lips.
    For an instant I didn’t move. I felt his lips part slightly; his leg moved, forcing my knees apart. Suddenly my stomach churned as though a huge bird were trapped inside, flapping its wings and trying to fly up my throat. I twisted free and jumped up, clawing my way through the vines. Outside, I arched my back and threw up the picnic lunch.
    When I returned to the car, Jules was sitting with his hands on the wheel. He didn’t look at me as I got in; and didn’t speak until we reached the highway. Then he spoke in a low, contrite voice. “I shouldn’t have tried that. For a minute there I forgot what happened to you last night.”
    I watched him open a pack of cagarets with his teeth, then grip one between his lips. I stabbed the lighter. “I’d like one, Jules.”
    We smoked and drove in silence the rest of the way to town. By the time we reached home the bitter taste had left my mouth. Jules stopped the car and spoke without looking at me. “I hope you get over that … illness.”
    I paused with my hand on the door. “So do I, Jules.”
    “It doesn’t change my offer, though. I’d still like to take you to New York.”
    “The answer is still no, Jules.” I put my hand on his arm and felt the hard muscle slide beneath the skin. “But ask me again—after I find the man.” Then I got out and watched him drive away. I wondered what it would cost me if he took me to New York.
    In our drive I saw the black car with the words CURTRIGHT OILS encircling a gushing oil derrick painted on the door. Daddy was home. I felt guilty and apprehensive.
    He met me at the door with a frown on his drawn face. “Laurie—”
    “Have you found out anything?” I asked quickly.
    “Where’ve you been?” He sniffed, and I realized I must reek of gunpowder. I started past him, but he caught my arm and my heavy purse swung against him. “What have you been doing?”
    “Shooting,” I said. I let go of the purse as he took it.
    His face was pale and set as he took out the gun. “Laurie …” He sniffed the barrel and shook his head slowly. “Laurie, do you plan to do it all by yourself, including execution?”
    I watched the gun disappear into his pocket. “I have to protect myself.”
    “I tried to arrange for that.” He rubbed his hand over his face and ran his fingers through his hair. “But apparently he got drunk and wandered off.” His jaw knotted. “From now on you’ll stay home unless I’m with you. Is that clear?”
    “Daddy, I’m nineteen years old—”
    “And there’s a man trying to kill you!”
    I was tired and sick and didn’t feel like arguing. I whirled and started pounding up the stairs. I heard him call from the bottom of the stairs. “Laurie, there’s something else. Koch wants me to sign a complaint against Richard.”
    I stopped and turned. “Did you see Rich?”
    “They haven’t found him. But they found the stolen car with Richard’s fingerprints all over it.”
    My hand tightened on the banister. The case was beginning to look like the outline in Koch’s notebook. In the silence I could hear the clash of kitchenware as Gwen cooked supper. “If they haven’t found Rich, how’d they know they were his fingerprints?”
    Daddy propped his leg on the step and leaned forward. “Rich was in the army, so they had his prints in Washington.”
    “I suppose Koch got his shiner the same place—Washington.”
    “He told me he was attacked by one of the drunks they