The car had been left in an unobtrusive place, parked on the roadside far down from the elegant mansion that sat atop the hill. Although some passer-by on the highway might see it, no one would pay any particular attention to it.
Less than a mile away, Joan Stevens and Phil Gattis walked across an open field under the late afternoon sunshine. "Joan, are you sure?" Phil was asking as they walked. He carried a large leather- covered bag in his right hand. "Really sure?"
"Yes," she answered. Her face had a hard set. "Coulter isn't getting away with all this, Phil. It doesn't matter what it takes, it doesn't matter what happens to me. He isn't getting away with it!"
"But Joan..."
She glanced at him. "You've already tried to talk me out of it, Phil, we've been all through it. I've made my plans, and I'm going through with it. With your help or without it!"
He sighed. There was, he knew, no point in arguing with her, not once she'd made up her mind. "Okay, Joan. Whatever you say."
An old split-rail fence alongside a line of trees came into sight as they topped a small rise. "Here we are," she said, stopping at the fence. She looked around, caught her lip with her teeth, "Might as well get started," she said. "Might as well not put it off..."
Phil said nothing. Her eyes on his face, she began stripping off her clothes, hanging each article carefully on the fence as she removed it. Joan had a beautiful face, and her body complemented it perfectly, her legs long and smooth, her waist small, her breasts large and smoothly rounded. A trace of a smile on her lips, she posed herself carefully against the fence, leaning back with her right arm atop it, her thick dark hair pushed behind her shoulders.
"Let me have it, Phil," she said quietly.
With a sigh, Phil opened the case he was carrying and drew out a four-inch double-edged dagger. It had a very ornate hilt, jewels inlaid into gold. Staring at Joan, he moved as if he were about to hand it to her; but then, changing his mind, he stuck it into one of the fenceposts.
When he did nothing else, she looked at him curiously. "You could leave the case and go, come back a little later," she said softly. "You don't have to stay here and watch me do this."
He shook his head; he was standing very close to her. "I'm not going to leave you now, Joan," he answered. "It really doesn't matter much whether I'm here or not, I'd know what you're doing anyway."
She smiled faintly. "Thanks, Phil. I hope it isn't too hard on you." Then, with a deep sigh, she pulled the knife free from the old wood. She examined the blade, carefully cleaning away a few bits of wood adhering to the tip; then looking down at her body, she pointed it toward herself. Moving it very slowly, she brought it closer, finally touching her left side with it, right at her waistline. She pressed the point into her skin, seating it firmly. For a moment she paused, staring at it, evidently considering what she was about to do. She looked up at Phil. He'd stopped arguing, but he was still pleading with his eyes.
"I have to..." she said softly. "I have to do this, Phil."
"I know," he answered, resignation in his voice. "Just make sure you don't mess it up, you only get one chance. Be careful, do it right."
"I will." Her eyes were very wide, very bright. "Step away from me now, Phil. I don't want... I don't know, the blood might splatter..." She took another breath, very deep, looked back down at the knife, and started pushing on it, harder and harder, indenting her abdomen deeply. Her eyes widened and her face took on a strained look, but she kept right on, pressing it hard into her abdomen.
A moment later she gasped and drew up her right leg; blood made its appearance, a thin trickle of red running quickly down from the valley she'd pressed in her belly. She paused, held her hand still, and trembled for a moment. Gradually, the strained expression on her face cleared.
Phil, his face a mask of shock in spite of the fact that he knew what she'd planned to do, took a step toward her. "That's not deep enough, you aren't going to get--" he started to say.
"No," she said, interrupting him. "No, I know it isn't." She stared at it. "I have to get it all the way in, all the way in..." She looked back up at him. "I can do it, Phil. I'm sure I can. Stay away from me, far enough away that the blood doesn't accidently get on your clothes. I told you it might come squirting out..." Still leaning against the fence, to all appearances relaxed, she took several more minutes to study the knife that was now piercing her abdomen.
Then, after taking yet another deep breath, she cupped her hands over the end of the hilt and started rocking it and pressing it inward at the same time. With audible ripping sounds it began to slip slowly on in, deeper and deeper. The stream of blood thickened; her face was tight and pale, but she continued to lean on the fence and she continued to work it slowly and methodically on into her body.
When only a sliver of the blade remained visible, she let go of it and looked up at Phil again. "You see?" she asked, her voice ragged. "You see? I knew I could do it, I told you I could do it..."
He nodded. "I never doubted it for a minute, Joan." He started to come to her, but she waved him off. Wrapping her fingers around the handle again, she slowly pulled it out. She grunted and trembled as it came; blood spurted, splashing on the ground in front of her and streaming down her leg. Her lips tight, she waited for a moment, until the spurts had stopped, until the bleeding was just a steady flow. Phil came closer again, and this time she didn't object. She laid the knife atop the fencepost.
"You think it's a fatal wound?" she asked as Phil studied the neat hole in her abdomen.
He nodded slowly. "I'm sure of it," he answered. "It'll take a while, but..."
"That," she reminded him, "was the idea." She gasped suddenly. "Oh, damn, Phil, it hurts...!"
"I can imagine," he said drily. "Look, Joan, why don't you just..."
"No, I'm not going to stop," she told Phil firmly. "I'm not. I don't want there to be any question about it. When the police find my body, I don't want the slightest question, I don't want it to even occur to them that I might've committed suicide. I want them to be sure that Coulter murdered me!"
"Tying your hands after you're dead," Phil reminded her, "like you asked me to do, ought to be convincing."
"I want more than that." She picked up the knife again. "And I'm going to have more than that! I've already proven I can do this now, that I can make it look like I was being tortured..." She waved the knife at Phil, almost threateningly. "Back off," she warned. "Be sure you don't get splashed." Holding the knife almost at arm's length, she let it rest on her palms, holding it with her thumbs, and aimed it generally at herself.
He did as she said. "You want Coulter's coat and pants now?" he asked.
She stopped. "Good idea," she admitted. "Yes, just put them on the ground here and then get back."
He did that too, removing them from the case and laying them out so the fronts were facing her. Then he moved back several paces. Joan knelt on the ground, still holding the knife in the same position. Gazing at it steadily, she moved it forward slowly until the tip touched her belly just to the left of and below her navel. Even more methodically than before, she increased the pressure gradually until her skin yielded to the sharp steel. Trembling, she looked up at the sky and bit her lip as she kept pushing, as she kept slipping the blade slowly and carefully into herself. When only about an inch of the blade remained visible, she stopped. For several long minutes she did nothing, she kept staring up at the sky, kneeling on the ground with the blade imbedded in her belly.
Then, at last, she looked down at it again. Gripping the handle very tightly, she started pulling it out and to the right. At this point she couldn't suppress a little cry; she bent forward as her belly started opening. Blood squirted out, showering the clothing that Phil had carefully laid out. Pulling herself up straight, she paused for a moment, looked up again, and, with a steady hand, pulled the blade right back into her abdomen. Blood streamed out, coating her thighs red. This time she didn't pause, she pulled it back out and further across, widening the slit in her belly. Phil could see her internal organs through the gap as it widened, glistening wetly.
"I'm gonna run outta time," she murmured, her voice thick. "Gotta do more..."
"Joan, there's no reason to..."
"No, Phil, gotta do more..." She raised the knife and looked at the bloody blade, again holding it on her palms with the point turned inward. Moving in near slow-motion, she brought it back until the point was resting just under her right nipple, and she pushed until her breast was flat against her ribs. Once again she looked up, this time arching herself backwards a little. Her mouth slightly open and her eyes wide, she pushed on, rocking the blade from side to side when her skin put up unexpected resistance. Blood suddenly spilled down from the deep indentation the knife had made, and Joan pushed even harder. There was a sound like ripping cloth, and the blade suddenly sank into her chest.
Her body jerked; she swallowed hard a couple of times, then forced the knife on in a little deeper. The flow of blood was now steady. Closing her eyes tightly and cupping her hands over the butt of the knife's handle she pushed hard. The blade sank on in, all the way to the hilt. She coughed, and a fine spray of blood shot from her lips, followed by a quick flow that ran down over her chin. She started to wobble, lost her balance, and toppled over onto her side, the knife still sticking in her chest.
Phil moved closer to her, looking down at her. Shaking her head, she grabbed the handle of the knife and pulled it out; a stream of blood ran from her breast. She tried to lift it again, but her strength was gone.
"It isn't enough," she mumbled. "Isn't enough..."
Phil crouched beside her. "Look, Joan," he said. "I wouldn't agree to kill you, but now that's changed--you've killed yourself, you're not going to last long now. I don't mind sticking that knife in you a couple of times more now. If that's what you want."
Looking up at him with tormented eyes, she nodded. "Be careful," she murmured. "Careful of the blood... don't forget fingerprints..."
"I won't," he assured her as he picked up the bloody knife. Holding her shoulder, he touched the point to her back, near her shoulder blade.
"Oh, yes," she sighed. "That'll be good... do it, Phil... thank you..."
"Least I could do," he grunted. He hesitated for an instant, then plunged the knife into her bare back.
She gasped and trembled as the blade bit in. Slowly, carefully, and methodically, Phil slipped it on in, deeper and deeper. "I'm sorry I have to do it this way," he told her. "It'd be easier on you if I could put it in fast, but..."
"I... know..." she grated. "Uhh...! Don't worry about... hurting me..."
"Sorry, but I do," he answered. Even so, he continued to slide the blade on in until it was buried. Then he pulled it back, just as slowly, and out, pausing whenever the blood rushed. "More?" he asked her.
"More," she insisted. "More. Mess me up, Phil, really mess me up...!"
"Whatever you say." He located the knife against her lower back, to the right of her spine, and shoved it back in. In spite of her weakened condition, she squealed with pain as the knife pierced her kidney. He kept going anyway, pressing the knife slowly in. Blood started pooling between her legs.
After burying the blade again, he extracted it and rolled her over. Her eyes looked very bright; there was blood all over her, and her internal organs were visible through the slit in her belly. She managed to nod weakly, and he pressed the knife in down low in her abdomen, well within the triangle of her public hair. She jerked, but he ran it into her anyway, and blood mixed with urine began pouring from her bladder. Drawing it out again, he went to work on her still-uninjured left breast, pushing the point squarely into her nipple and then forcing it down and in.
He'd only gotten it halfway in when she suddenly stopped breathing. Her body arched, relaxed, arched again; she fought for air and could get none. A little more quickly, he ran the blade on in, as far as possible. She stared at him with an expression of confusion--and then, abruptly, her eyes glazed over. Her body twitched a few times, then became very still. Leaving the knife sticking in her breast, he walked a few paces away and sat down in the grass for a while.
Eventually, though, he went to work. Returning to Joan's corpse, he pulled the knife out, rolled her over, and used duct tape from the case he'd brought to firmly tie her wrists and ankles. Once that was done, he dragged her body into the bushes, concealed it carelessly, and left it there. Coming back, he packed up her bloody clothes and the knife--carefully wiped clean of fingerprints--into two separate plastic bags, also taken from the case.
At that point, he took his leave. Tonight, he'd finish this; tonight he was to be a guest at lawn party at the Coulter estate. There'd be an opportunity, he was sure, to stash the bag containing the clothes in the barrel Coulter used to burn refuse from his flower garden. There'd be a chance, too, to return the knife Joan had stolen from Coulter a week earlier, the antique classic he was so proud of. Then, an anonymous tip to the police--and the rest should take care of itself.
It was going to work out, he was sure. There wasn't a way that Coulter, having been in Europe until a few hours ago, might've noticed the absence of the classic dagger, and he'd certainly be too busy preparing for his party to notice it now. His casual destruction of Joan's just-blooming Hollywood career wasn't going to go unpunished. The next casting-couch that producer would lie on, Phil told himself with a little grin, would hopefully be a gurney on death row.
He shook his head as he walked. The life of an agent was hell, he told himself. You had to do all
sorts of weird things for your clients.