unsteadily off the bed. He staggered two or three steps sideways, and then he sat down next to Susan and started to rip off the vinyl bag.
Her blonde curls were stuck together with sweat. Her lips were turquoise. Jack lifted one of her eyelids with his thumb and her eyes stared at nothing at all.
âSusan?â he said. He shook her, but her head lolled against the pillow like a puppetâs. âSusan? Come on, Susan, donât start fucking me around here, Susan.â
He shook her, and then he slapped her cheek, in exactly the same place that Jeff had slapped her. âSusan, this isnât fucking funny, all right?â He slapped her again, and then again.
He untied the black nylon rope that bound her wrists, and turned her over so that she was lying on her back. He pressed his ear against her bare breast but he couldnât hear her heart beating. He touched his fingertips against her carotid artery, the way that the Los Angeles Police Department advisor had shown him in
Deadly Heart.
He was still sitting beside her when his Chinese manservant Heng came into the bedroom to ask him if he wanted his usual nightcap. There was blood between her legs, and he had dipped his finger in it and daubed a cross on his forehead.
âSheâs dead,â said Jack. âSheâs fucking dead, and I donât even know who she is.â
The trial lasted five weeks and two days. Jeff sat in the public gallery every single day and every single day was another step toward Calvary. He didnât shave. He barely washed. He sat through thirty-one hours of hearings with his head bowed, folding and unfolding the same piece of paper. It was a message from Susan: Donât forget the Roach Motel. The last message she had ever sent him.
They check in
he thought.
But they donât check out.
Jack Amberson was unanimously acquitted of manslaughter. The jury had been persuaded by his attorney that Mrs Susan Pearce had gone to his house voluntarily and enthusiastically taken part in a sexual act which she must have known to carry a high element of risk.
âRestricting breathing during intercourse is known to intensify sexual feelings,â said Jack Ambersonâs principal defense counsel. âMrs Pearce enjoyed those intensified feelings with Mr Amberson â of that, there is no doubt. But regrettably, she paid the price. My client deeply regrets what happened, but his conscience is clear.â
Outside, on the courtroom steps, Jeff saw Jack Amberson surrounded by newspaper reporters and TV cameras. He elbowed his way through the crowd and snatched hold of Jackâs sleeve.
âYou bastard! You liar! My wife never did anything like that! You killed her! You murdered her!â
Jack gave him a look of deep, stagey sympathy. âIâm sorry for what happened, Mr Pearce. I really am. But it was something that your wife wanted to try ⦠and, well, I tried to talk her out of it, but she insisted. You know yourself what a strong-willed woman she was.â
âYou killed her,â said Jeff, quaking with loathing.
âWhoa, no. I didnât kill her. No way. You know who killed her?â â and here he leaned close so that the jostling press couldnât hear him. âShe was killed by the husband who slapped her and sent her out into the night looking for somebody who cared about her. Iâll tell you something, Mr Pearce: if anybody should have stood trial these past five weeks, it should have been
you.â
Jeff swung at him, but Jack turned away, as if he knew for certain that the blow would never connect. And it didnât, because Jackâsblond-haired bodyguard hit Jeff so hard in the chest that Jeff lurched back down the steps, missed his footing, and fell all the way down to the sidewalk. He lay there in agony, two ribs cracked, the cuff of his pants torn open.
A Carmelite nun came up to him and said, âAre you all right, sir?â
Jeff said nothing, but