The interval was short-lived. Ned scrambled forward and tackled her around the knees. She fell on one side and he sat astride her, his weight sufficient to immobilize her. Desperate for a weapon, I grabbed the chain used to tether Killer to the tent stake. I whipped the chain over his head and around his throat, crossing one hand over the other to tighten the noose. He thrashed and then jerked forward abruptly, which flipped me over his body and onto the ground.
Pearl snatched up one of the fallen crutches and delivered a sharp thrust to his solar plexus, then plowed into him before he could regain his balance. She whacked him twice in the side of the head with the support end of the crutch. He dropped to his knees and groped the dirt around him, searching blindly for the knife. His fingers made contact and he swung his arm in an arc, prepared to plunge the weapon into any portion of her he could reach. She caught his hand midair and they arm-wrestled for control. She sank to her knees, bringing her face to a point level with his. The two strained. Her arm was shaking from the effort. In this, the two were equally matched, his upper-body strength pitted against her bulk. There were a solid twenty seconds of stasis. Then Pearl growled low in her throat and prevailed, forcing his hand down, pinning it to the ground.
I crossed the yard, closing the distance between me and the garage. I jerked Henry’s shovel free from its designated location and swung it like a baseball bat, blade parallel to the ground and traveling at a speed that made the air sing. If I’d caught him in the neck, I might have severed his head. As it was, he raised an arm and deflected the blow. The sharpened edge sliced his shirt and cut deep. Blood welled in a fast-spreading blossom of bright red.
I was charting the progression of pain that threatened to overwhelm me. What our self-defense instructor hadn’t spelled out was how focused such a fight could be and how debilitating. Pearl dragged herself to her feet again. Her face was a hot red, and sweat was pouring down her cheeks. He scuttled to a point a few feet away from her, creating a neutral zone in which he could rally his forces. He stood up again, calling on reserves of strength that surprised me. His right arm was of little use to him now. He was sweating heavily and his renewed blows lacked conviction. When he paused to assess the situation, Pearl gathered herself and drove at him, her fist back. When she connected, there was a sound like a waterlogged bag of cement dropped from a height. He went down like a board, as stiff as a 2-by-10. She landed in the middle of his back. I was on my feet by then and I put my hands on my knees, winded and panting from the effort.
My lungs burned. My energy was depleted. I noticed bodily injuries, but couldn’t remember how or when they occurred. I glanced at Pearl’s face, which was a mask of bruises. One eye was black, one tooth was missing, and a cut at the corner of her mouth oozed blood. She’d positioned herself in the middle of Ned’s back, and gravity was sufficient to hinder the rise and fall of his chest.
She said, “Shit. I think I broke my hip again, but right now I’m numb and it doesn’t feel like nothing.”
She bounced a couple of times and I heard an oof of air escape Ned’s lungs. She bounced again, though she winced as she did so. “What’s this here? What I’m doing. You’re a smart girl. I bet you know.”
“As a matter of fact I do. It’s called ‘compressive asphyxia,’ which is mechanically limiting expansion of the lungs by compressing the torso, hence interfering with breathing.”
“Hence. I like that. I’m setting here bouncing on Ned, hence making it impossible for him to draw breath. That’s what he did to them little girls, isn’t it?”
“That was his method of choice,” I said. “He also pinched their noses and mouths shut, which probably speeded the process, a flourish referred to as ‘burking.’”
“How long does it take?”
“Pearl, sweetie, before we go on, let’s just get one thing straight. You do know you’re killing him.”
“I get that,” she said.
“Well, I’m not sure it’s smart. Suppose one of the neighbors heard the ruckus and dialed 9-1-1? Barring that, Henry will be home shortly and he’ll call them himself. If the police find you like this, your actions won’t look good.”
“You let me worry about that.”
“You don’t think your actions are extreme?”
“Are you seriously going to set there and argue mercy for this guy?”
“No.”
“Then shut your pie hole and let me get on with it.”
She looked down at Ned, her expression almost affectionate. “You know what I love best about my queen-size self, Ned? Turns out I can squash you like a bug.”
She rapped her knuckles on the top of his head. “You still with us? You don’t have to say nothing, but if you could move one finger, then I’ll know you’re still on board.”
She studied his right hand first and then checked his left. “There you go. Good boy. He moved his pinkie,” she remarked in an aside to me. Then to him, she said, “I want to make sure you’re awake for this because I have one final word of advice. You don’t never want to mess with women, son. They will take you down.”
EPILOGUE
So here we are in March of 1990, five months after the events that make up the bulk of this report. Jonah is currently in the process of divorcing Camilla, who clings to him like a barnacle. Anna’s baby is due in two weeks and she still hasn’t quite decided what to do. She’s trying to talk me into taking the little tyke, but I reminded her I had my hands full with Killer and Ed, the cat. Besides which, I’m not exactly a maternal type, though I suppose I could fake it in a pinch.
Phyllis Joplin, Ned’s ex-wife, has recovered from his vicious attack on her. She’s since moved to a community with tight security and she’s begun to sleep through the night without jumping at every sound. The two of us don’t have much in common except for the psychopath we shared for a time. I doubt we’ll ever be close friends, but we have drinks together now and then, during which we make a point of not discussing him.
The medical examiner attributed Ned Lowe’s death to compressive asphyxia—the same method he employed in killing an unknown number of young girls. Pearl should have been held accountable, but when she was questioned by the homicide detective, she looked him straight in the eye and said, “Well, hon, he knocked me out cold and I fell on top of him completely unconscious, inadvertently squeezing the life out of him. You can’t even imagine how terrible I feel.” That was the position she took and she refused to budge. She wept so noisily at that point, the detective had to hand her a tissue and leave the room. Under the circumstances, he decided to accept her explanation as adequate. I’ve searched the California penal code and nowhere is there mention of penalties for sitting on a man to death.
As of this moment, in the interests of rehabilitating her reputation, she’s employed at Rosie’s restaurant part-time and she’s officially apprenticed herself to Henry, working toward certification as a baker, which will take her another two and three-quarter years. Assuming she has the patience.