HCC 115 - Borderline Read Online Free PDF
Author: Lawrence Block
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buttons bounced crazily on the pavement. He cupped her breasts with his hands, squeezed,
then tore her bra in two. The breasts sprang out with rosebud nipples at their tips.
He was the panther now. He slapped a hand over her bleeding mouth and banged her head
against the pavement. He sprang at her, and his teeth found her breast, and his teeth
closed in the grip of a vise. A black panther striking his prey—
The girl screamed against his hand. He bit her breasts, drew blood from the tender
flesh. His hands tore her skirt upward, reduced her cheap white cotton panties to
scattered remnants of cloth. He grabbed her with one hand and tugged at the tenderest
part of her body, biting her breast flesh all the while with his chipped yellow teeth.
He fumbled with his own clothing. He undressed himself as much as was necessary and
threw himself upon her. Whenever she tried to moan, he slapped her head against the
pavement. He took her, forcing himself into her, and while he violated her his teeth
found her throat.
He was the panther no longer. He was the vampire, now.
One of Tulsa’s newspapers called him the Cannibal Killer. The other referred to him
as Dracula. Both described how the girl’s flesh had been literally eaten away in sections,
how there were toothmarks in her throat, how the back of her head was a pulpy mess
from the beating he had given her. Both reported quite honestly that she was very
very dead, and that she had not died pleasantly at all.
He left fingerprints behind. His fingerprints were on record, from before, and the
police knew who he was. He left Tulsa, running like a frightened rabbit rather than
a lordly panther. He left on a Trailways bus and headed for Mexico. He had seen criminals
run for Mexico to escape the law. It seemed as good a place to go as any. He ran like
a rabbit, and he found a rabbit warren hotel in El Paso, and he was there now.
Because it was not so easy to run to Mexico. The men at the border had his picture
and his description and his fingerprints, and they would be waiting for him to try
to get across. As long as he stayed in Cappy’s Hotel he was reasonably safe, at least
until the police followed him to El Paso and made a door-to-door check for him. The
minute he tried to cross the border, they would grab him.
He had already given up. He’d developed a fatalistic attitude about it all. Soon—in
a week or two—he would run out of money. Soon he’d be a rabbit flushed from its burrow.
Then they would catch him. And beat him. And strap him in the electric chair so that
he could smell his own flesh burning.
Now it was only a matter of staying alive as long as he could, of living each day
as it came and waiting for the police. He had been at Cappy’s Hotel for almost a week.
He stayed in his room as much as he could, leaving it only to eat at a lunch counter
down the street or to buy comic books at a newsstand. The comic books were horror
comics, the only kind he cared for. Right now there was a huge stack of them on the
cigarette-scarred bureau. He had read them all twice through.
He stood up. There was a sink in the room, its porcelain bowl stained yellow where
the water from each tap ran to the drain in the center. He ran water into the bowl,
dipped a towel into it, and wiped the sweat from his ugly face. He got his hair wet
and combed it down over his forehead, the way he liked it. He looked at himself for
just a second in the cracked mirror over the bowl.
He had to go to the bathroom. His room was a cheap one, two bucks a day, and it did
not have a private bathroom. He put on a shirt and walked out of his room, leaving
the door ajar. He headed down the hallway.
The girl was leaving the bathroom just as he was approaching it. He looked at the
girl. She looked at him, then averted her eyes. Women seldom looked at Weaver for
any length of time. He was, really, very little to look
buttons bounced crazily on the pavement. He cupped her breasts with his hands, squeezed,
then tore her bra in two. The breasts sprang out with rosebud nipples at their tips.
He was the panther now. He slapped a hand over her bleeding mouth and banged her head
against the pavement. He sprang at her, and his teeth found her breast, and his teeth
closed in the grip of a vise. A black panther striking his prey—
The girl screamed against his hand. He bit her breasts, drew blood from the tender
flesh. His hands tore her skirt upward, reduced her cheap white cotton panties to
scattered remnants of cloth. He grabbed her with one hand and tugged at the tenderest
part of her body, biting her breast flesh all the while with his chipped yellow teeth.
He fumbled with his own clothing. He undressed himself as much as was necessary and
threw himself upon her. Whenever she tried to moan, he slapped her head against the
pavement. He took her, forcing himself into her, and while he violated her his teeth
found her throat.
He was the panther no longer. He was the vampire, now.
One of Tulsa’s newspapers called him the Cannibal Killer. The other referred to him
as Dracula. Both described how the girl’s flesh had been literally eaten away in sections,
how there were toothmarks in her throat, how the back of her head was a pulpy mess
from the beating he had given her. Both reported quite honestly that she was very
very dead, and that she had not died pleasantly at all.
He left fingerprints behind. His fingerprints were on record, from before, and the
police knew who he was. He left Tulsa, running like a frightened rabbit rather than
a lordly panther. He left on a Trailways bus and headed for Mexico. He had seen criminals
run for Mexico to escape the law. It seemed as good a place to go as any. He ran like
a rabbit, and he found a rabbit warren hotel in El Paso, and he was there now.
Because it was not so easy to run to Mexico. The men at the border had his picture
and his description and his fingerprints, and they would be waiting for him to try
to get across. As long as he stayed in Cappy’s Hotel he was reasonably safe, at least
until the police followed him to El Paso and made a door-to-door check for him. The
minute he tried to cross the border, they would grab him.
He had already given up. He’d developed a fatalistic attitude about it all. Soon—in
a week or two—he would run out of money. Soon he’d be a rabbit flushed from its burrow.
Then they would catch him. And beat him. And strap him in the electric chair so that
he could smell his own flesh burning.
Now it was only a matter of staying alive as long as he could, of living each day
as it came and waiting for the police. He had been at Cappy’s Hotel for almost a week.
He stayed in his room as much as he could, leaving it only to eat at a lunch counter
down the street or to buy comic books at a newsstand. The comic books were horror
comics, the only kind he cared for. Right now there was a huge stack of them on the
cigarette-scarred bureau. He had read them all twice through.
He stood up. There was a sink in the room, its porcelain bowl stained yellow where
the water from each tap ran to the drain in the center. He ran water into the bowl,
dipped a towel into it, and wiped the sweat from his ugly face. He got his hair wet
and combed it down over his forehead, the way he liked it. He looked at himself for
just a second in the cracked mirror over the bowl.
He had to go to the bathroom. His room was a cheap one, two bucks a day, and it did
not have a private bathroom. He put on a shirt and walked out of his room, leaving
the door ajar. He headed down the hallway.
The girl was leaving the bathroom just as he was approaching it. He looked at the
girl. She looked at him, then averted her eyes. Women seldom looked at Weaver for
any length of time. He was, really, very little to look