“Put your finger in her. That’s it. Very nice.”
After a while, Creem started to wish they’d brought a camera. The little beauty didn’t seem to have a single hair below her neck. He recorded it with his eyes instead, watching from the side while Bergman sat on the upholstered bench at the foot of the bed.
Over the course of several minutes, the two were undressed, and then eventually going at it, flagrante delicto. The girl reached up, pressing her hands against the headboard with her back arched and her eyes closed, while the boy did his thing.
When Creem had seen enough, he gave Josh a nod, to let him know he was ready.
Josh held up a finger. He wanted to see the boy finish. But he did take a pistol out of the briefcase he’d carried in, and laid it flat on his own bulging lap. The two little bunny rabbits on the mattress didn’t even notice.
It wasn’t such a bad way to go, actually.
Slowly, Josh got onto his feet. The thousand-volt look in his eyes was unmistakable. It was his killing face. Creem had only seen it once before—twenty-five years ago, in Fort Lauderdale. That was the last time they’d killed together.
“That’s it, kids,” Josh told them. “Exactly like that. Don’t stop now. Please, whatever you do, don’t stop.”
The boy probably couldn’t have if he wanted to. He thrust a few more times and then ground furiously into the girl, as she squealed underneath him. He squeezed his eyes shut, and threw his head back.
That’s when Josh went for it.
With a muffled pop, he fired one bullet straight into the crown of the boy’s head. It sent him collapsing back onto the girl, like a
naked rag doll, already dead. She didn’t even seem to notice what had happened at first.
By the time she did, Creem’s knife was out and it was far too late for her to do anything about it.
CHAPTER
77
IT WAS COMING UP ON THREE IN THE MORNING WHEN CREEM AND BERGMAN decided to call it a night. They sat parked in the deserted lot next to Fletcher’s Cove, looking out toward the river.
Both Richie and “Miranda” were on their way downstream by now. The bottle of tequila sat mostly empty on the car seat. Josh had even smoked a cigar with Elijah, though he’d clearly just pretended to enjoy it. Still posing, after all these years.
“There’s something you should know,” Creem told him. “I didn’t want to say anything before, and it’s not as bad as it sounds, but a detective came to see me today.”
Josh kept his cool, which surprised Creem a little. “A detective?”
“Cross. One of the ones who arrested us that night. He came to tell me my place in Palm Beach had been burgled. The neighbors are dead, too. Imagine that.”
“Why him?” Josh said.
“I have no idea, but it was all about the robbery. I’m not too concerned.”
“Whatever you say, Elijah.”
Creem was relieved to hear Josh speaking like this. Of course, he was also half-drunk, and still riding the high of the evening. He lolled back against the headrest and closed his eyes as the silence stretched on in the car.
“What would you do if the police were onto us?” Creem said finally. “If you knew they were coming after you?”
Bergman shrugged. “Whatever I had to.”
“Would you run?”
“If I could, sure. I hear Vietnam is nice. Cute boys, good food. Or Argentina.”
“And what if you couldn’t get away? What then?” Creem asked. “There’s still the trial to consider.”
“Believe me, I’ve considered it,” Bergman said. “And in the words of my alcoholic mother”—he stopped and put on a shaky, Katharine Hepburn voice—“always leave the party before the party’s over, darling.”