A/N: Yet more story.

Big Swamp

Chapter Twenty-Two: Slow Show

Here's the thing — sometimes you guess wrong.

Here's the thing, part two — it's amazing how fast your thoughts can move with there's a gun resting against the back of your skull. I should have not just put on my gun; I should have had it out. But I hadn't expected anyone to be here once I got close. Bill Peppers' rusty pickup is nowhere to be seen. I used the only space to park other than the empty one in front of the cabin.

Who else would know about this place?

I glance down at the hand on my shoulder. Yeah, wrong. Guessed wrong. Seriously wrong. But then again, I knew something was going on in all this I still didn't understand. I should've paid more attention to that and less to what I do understand, I guess.

I glance at the hand again. Glance, part two. Red fingernails. I peer down, partly in confirmation, partly to relieve the pressure of the barrel on my neck. Red toenails. I know what's, who's, between.

Patty Peterson.

She pushes the gun barrel harder against my neck. "Walk to the end of the bed, Bartowski."

Not 'Barshonski'. I've been played — played by the TFYWIF. Funny how trophies have cropped up in the last few days. Bryce mentioned one, a participation trophy. I suspect Patty's going to give me my non-participation trophy.

She pushes on me and I do as she says. When I'm a step from the bed, she stops. I take the last step alone and turn, sit.

Yeah, Patty Peterson. She's in nothing but a bikini. White with red polka dots. Polka dots must be her thing. The top and bottom are each so tiny that there's barely any background for the polka dots, other than Patty. Lots of Patty is showing. Her hair's up, a messy bun. Her tan looks darker than it did on my porch.

She has on her sunglasses indoors. She smiles beneath them but the smile lacks the vacancy it sported when I saw it before.

"So, it's Bartowski now, not Barshonski?"

Her grin becomes worrisomely predatorial. "It was never Barshonski, Chuck. Not in my head." After mentioning it, she shakes it. "I'm surprised but not unhappy to see you, Chuck. I was getting bored out here. There's only so much a girl can do for herself. Only so many fingers and toes."

Toes? She's got the gun so I don't ask. She smirks. "Bill left me out here to go and see about you and that trashy blonde. He had no idea you knew about this place."

Who's calling who trashy? But my next reaction is more fear than thought. Sarah!

"You and Peppers are lovers?"

She smiles and it's like she's peeling her teeth. "We fuck. I do what he wants in the bed, he does what I want out of it." She takes off her sunglasses, puts them down on a small table.

"What you want?"

My mind races too fast through the corners. Tires screech.

I'm sure, despite my current predicament, that Wade Peterson used Bill Peppers to kill his mother. I think I know how Peppers did that. But how could Patty be involved in that and be here, in Peppers' cabin, be...doing what she's evidently been doing...with Peppers?

"It'll be a while before Bill gets back, a good, long while..." she looks at me during her pause, and her eyes climbing up me from feet to head, as if measuring me. They linger for a moment in the middle. The look in her eyes is cold, withdrawn, self-involved, and I understand, at last, the look I've seen in Sarah's eyes. It was not a dissector's gaze — Patty's is that, absolutely — it was not self-involved — not all about Sarah's advantage, her desires — Patty's is that, completely — it was self-protective, a way of hiding herself while remaining in plain sight. What I thought was contempt in it was shame, self-directed. But I don't have time to work this out, not all the way. Patty continues. "...and he'll help me decide what to do with you, finally do with you." She shrugs as if this were some carefree beach moment on a date. But she shrugs with a gun in her hand, steadily aimed at me.

She lets her eyes sweep along me again, again with the lingering delay in the middle. "But since we have some free time, why don't you take off those clothes. I've wanted to see you naked since you came to the house. I'm curious about the caliber of the gun you're packing under the clothes."

For a moment, I must gawk at her. She giggles a little-girl giggle then her face hardens. "Not kidding, Chuck. Start with the gun I can see, and be slow and careful with it — actually with everything. I wish I had some music to turn on. But I'm sure you'll do the turning on."

I suppose this is my penalty for guessing wrong today, for being soft-boiled every day. She waves the gun, motioning for me to begin. She's been careful. She's far enough from me to respond to any attempt I might make to take the gun, rush her. She has me seated on a soft mattress — I've sunk a little — and that would slow the rush. All I can think to do is play for time. And that means doing what she wants.

And, now, seeing her eyes for real, I don't have any doubt she'd kill me.

I slowly take off my shoulder holster, keeping my hands away from the gun. I drop it on the floor, as she gestures for me to do. I have on my regular detecting gear. T-shirt, jeans, Chucks. There's not a lot to come off. I should've dressed for deadly Strip Poker. She gestures for me to continue. After she does, she readjusts herself in her chair. She rests the gun on the arm of her chair, still carefully aimed at me, but then she slides her other hand up one of her long, dark thighs, to the small red polka dot between them. I must gawk again, because her face fixes in what I can only describe as a cold leer. She sighs. "Go on; I'm all ready now. And don't get any ideas — I'm very good at multitasking."

I try to stretch out the moment, delay. I am naturally modest. And I haven't been naked in front of a woman since college. I hoped that Sarah would be the first — and last. — — God, I do hope that, don't I? I'm in trouble, and not just in this cabin. — Patty sinks a little further in her chair, spreading her legs, angling herself so that I cannot overlook her polka dot. She doesn't just want to watch me, she wants me to watch.

My stomach turns when I understand that my humiliation will make this better for her.

There's nothing for it. I take off my t-shirt. She lets out a small moan.

I've never considered myself any kind of lady-killer. I suppose that should've made me more suspicious of Patty from the beginning. I'm tall, curly-headed. I have a nice, uncalculated smile. Neither brawny nor feeble, I'm lean, stronger than I look. But I keep my shirt on, habitually. Unlike, I'm guessing, Bryce, I don't hunt opportunities to disrobe, habitually. I don't want to do this. The stained, cheap furniture of the cabin, the drone of the air-conditioner, Patty's moan, it all makes this seem impossibly seedy.

I couldn't, I wouldn't, write this scene.

I sit for a moment, chest bare. Patty licks her lips, making a slow show of it. I decide to make my show slower, and then, insanely, that song by The National sounds in my head. I look down at my pants as Patty gestures toward them.

My leg is sparkles, my leg is pins
I better get my shit together, better gather my shit in
You could drive a car through my head in five minutes
From one side of it to the other

I put my hand on my belt and Patty mews. I can't believe this is happening. The only sort of advantage I have is that she seems to want me to go slow; she wants this to last. It's partial repayment for turning her down on the porch.

I undo my buckle and she wriggles in the chair but the damn gun remains steady. I pull the belt through the buckle then let go of both the buckle and the belt. Her eyes narrow, but I'm trying a different tactic. I'll try to get her to talk. She believes I'm at her mercy.

If Peppers is out after Sarah, it's almost got to be because we found David Diamond. And then I begin to suspect my mistake, why I guessed wrong.

"So, you and Peppers. You're not just sleeping together, are you?" My brain's working like a detective's for the first time since Patty's barrel was pressed to my neck. It's moving fast but not racing. No screeching. "You're blackmailing your husband, blackmailing Wade…" I'm careful not to say anymore. A small smile lifts just the corners of her mouth. She sighs, for now, willing to elongate my striptease. She likes the feeling of having fooled me.

Her tone gloats. "Of course we are. Wade's a piece of shit. Being married to him and living in that temple of tastelessness is about as bad as it gets. And that damn vanity plate he made me buy. His damn vanity. All I am to him is a poseable trophy. But the damn prenup he made me sign — I'm stuck with him if I want access to his money, and all the money he inherited from that mad bitch, his mother. So, when Peppers started coming around and started sniffing around me, I cultivated him, satisfied certain peculiar wishes, and got him to tell me about Wade. All about Wade and his mother. We worked it out, worked out that Wade had killed Daddy Diamond. When we sent him the first note, and he cashed-up, we knew we had him."

She doesn't know Wade killed Jane. Or that Peppers was involved. This is the opacity in things I couldn't make out. Peppers. He's double-dipping. Sorry, gallows humor. Peppers had been playing Patty against Wade, no doubt getting money both ways, from blackmailing Wade and from whatever payment he got for killing Jane. And he's been, well, fucking Patty. Peppers must think he's making out like a bandit. Sorry, again. Gallows humor plus punning cliche. — But hey, I'm in a fix here.

A Chippendale life sentence.

I was right about one thing. Peppers is the key to all of this, my proof of all that's happened, Wade's patricide and matricide.

Patty continues, her hand now touching herself. She must find this story-telling stimulating. — God! Her voice is getting husky. "So, we've been milking him and cuckolding him all at once. It's been very satisfying." She readjusts in her chair, wriggles, trembles a little.

"Get back to work. Take off that belt. I'm ready for the pants-drop." I try not to think about what that means. She can't really be planning that multitask.

"So, Peppers came to you?"

She leers at my wording but spares me the pun we both think. "How could he not? I was bored and couldn't face a lifetime with Wade. Bill's a sick son-of-a-bitch, too much almost for me." She pauses then, moves her hand from between her legs. Sits up a bit.

"You know, Chuck, I'd much prefer you to Peppers. You're out here, you've got your gun, you found Diamond," Bingo, I think, "and you could just kill Bill, and take his place…Bill already has holes dug deeper in the woods. Put him in yours." Her hand snakes up her thigh again and meets the polka dot. She sighs, the sigh is lengthy and moist. "I'd be happy to trade up."

Detectives have a bad reputation, a stereotype. Not on the up-and-up, down with whatever. I blame the books and movies. Too much noir. Too many are detectives seem to prefer the broad path. — She actually expects me to consider this. She makes sure I can see her moving hand.

"So, you're proposing...I kill Bill for you?"

She nods, mews a little. I pull my belt out of my pants very slowly. I give her a look, trying hard to show interest, even desire, although my stomach turns a second time.

I make myself look at her, mimicking her looks at me, sliding my eyes up and down the length of her, forcing my eyes to ingering on her working hand. I lift my shoulders, deciding to play to her stereotype — and her thin, tanned ego. I'm sorry, Sarah.

"Look, I see what's on offer, but frankly, if you know about the blonde, you must know that I'm curvy miles from hard up. Satisfied. I'm not confident I'd be trading up."

She frowns, her hand stops.

"Oh, believe me, you'd be trading up. I can do things to you that you've never even imagined, expand your horizons, raise your consciousness. With me, Chuck, God's dead; nothing's forbidden."

She stands up, the gun still on me. She gestures for me to take off my pants. I do, again trying to look like I've gotten interested in this slow, dumb show. She runs her free hand over her breasts, licks her lips again but not self-consciously. Her breathing is ragged, fast. Her green eyes appear deep, dilated.

I lift myself from my bed seat enough to slide my pants down. Slowly. Very slowly. She's now so invested in each movement that she's not paying attention to anything else. I've never used a woman's desire, twisted or not, against her before, and doing so adds to my disgust. But she's the one with the gun. It's her show.

I decide to delay us once more with talk. "But wait..." I stop, my pants around my ankles. I hope she hasn't noticed that not all of me is on board with the desire I've tried to show. I need to distract her from that for a moment, anyway. I go on: "...does Peppers have any proof that Wade killed Diamond?"

She grins. "No, but Wade's been paying, and Bill knows where Wade keeps proof. Bill's left it alone because he doesn't want Wade to suspect us. I know where it is, too."

I need to know as well. I hadn't expected this bit of luck and I don't deserve it, given the fix I've gotten myself into. I need to get out of it. But the only way to do that, it seems, is to convince Patty I want what she wants.

I reach down slowly, to pull my pants off. She's so invested in what's happening that she forgets that my gun's on the floor. When she stood, she also decreased the distance between us, a mistake of anticipation. I need to actually take my pants off to move. I am careful to pull them off my shoes with my hand away from the gun.

Many things happen almost at once. Patty moves her eyes up to my boxers as my pants come off. I roll toward my gun, reaching for it, to pull it from the holster. Outside, there's a crunch of gravel, the roar of an engine, the sound of a sliding stop.

Patty barks, "Shit," as I roll forward, freeing the gun while shouldering her hard in the stomach as she looks toward the door. She falls backward and her gun goes off, a bullet into the ceiling. She lands awkwardly on her chair, then bounces off, knocking over the table and sending her sunglasses airborne. She slams to the floor.

I have my gun on her, standing in my boxers and Chucks, Patty's gasping and I'm gasping, when the cabin door bursts open. Bill Peppers comes flying in, headlong, and crashes on the floor beside Patty. Sarah rushes the door behind him, a pump shotgun in her hands.

I think about the water fight at Jill's.

But then Sarah looks at me, shock and...anger. "What the hell, Chuck?"

A/N: Crazy, polka-dotted chapter.