by Robert Bloch
As the evening wore on, Kessel could see that this party was not destined to be as big a success as its predecessor. Although they scarfed down the free food and drinks, the guests seemed bored and restless. Perhaps they were taking cues from Kessel himself, who kept brooding about absent Catherine and the engagement ring in the velvet box.
At quarter past ten, Kessel dispatched Brian Levesque to the airport. And after making chitchat for the next half-hour, he decided it was time for the piñata, before the party died completely. Catherine would be disappointed to have missed it, but it served her right, Kessel figured. He would make it up to her with the ring.
The cute little actress from the last party wasn’t present, so Kessel found another fetching volunteer, a busty brunette model. Since the night air was brisk, Kessel blindfolded her with a scarf, rather than with one of her undergarments. The other guests clapped and hooted as he gave her the broomstick and spun her around.
A servant approached Kessel with a cordless phone. “It’s Mr. Levesque,” he said. “Says it’s very important.”
Sticking a finger in one ear to muffle the party noise, Kessel took the phone. “What’s up?”
“She wasn’t on the plane.” He sounded scared, and it took a hell of a lot to throw a fright into Brian Levesque.
Kessel felt his stomach twist and his nuts contract. “What do you mean?”
“Someone used her ticket, but she didn’t get of? the plane.”
Christ. . .oh, Christ. “You check with New York?”
“Yeah. Never checked out of the hotel. She ordered room service last night but somehow split before it arrived.”
All around him, partygoers laughed, stamped their feet, called out directions and hints. Kessel felt as if it were he who was blindfolded and spinning around.
“Warm!” the guests shouted. “Warmer! Hot!”
“Dennis?” said Levesque. “What do you want me to do?”
“Shit. I don’t know. I don’t know.”
Kessel hung up.
The phone rang in his hand.
“Hello?”
“Happy holidays,” said a voice with a trace of a German accent.
Kessel’s tongue felt three sizes too big for his mouth. “Fleischer? Is that you?”
“I warned you, didn’t I?” said the voice.
Kessel twirled around, scanning the darkened hillsides that surrounded his patio. Nothing. No lights, no sign of anything.
“What have you done?” Kessel said.
“Do you know what my name means?” said the voice.
“Huh?”
The whisper of a broom handle cutting through the air.
“It means ‘butcher,’ Mr. Kessel. In German, the word means ‘butcher.’”
The sound of shattering pottery.
“Too bad all of her wouldn’t fit,” said Fleischer.
A dial tone in Kessel’s ear.
The night filled with screams.
Him, Her, Them
William F. Nolan
Him
He walked in darkness.
He was quite tall, with startling blue eyes and a sleek, strong body that he was proud of, that he worked on constantly, the way a mechanic works on the engine of a fine automobile. All the stomach muscles were sharply defined, and the biceps were terrific. (That’s what one of his women had told him: “You have terrific biceps.”)
He liked women, enjoyed the thrill he got out of them, but he didn’t respect them. Women were, by nature, cheats and liars, and you could never dare to trust one. They never say what they really mean. Men are usually more honest and direct. Real men, that is. It disgusted him to think of Rock Hudson. The rugged actor had been one of his top favorites, especially in Westerns. He liked Westerns. Lots of shooting but very little blood.
He hated blood.
Blood made him sick, the sight of it. You want to kill a chicken, you wring its neck. Hands are extremely effective instruments. Strong, muscled hands.
He had become very angry at Hudson when he found out that the Rock (the way he used to refer to him) was actually a homosexual. Doing it with other men! A real shock, finding out a thing like that about the Rock. Well, at least Hudson was dead now. God’s vengeance. The fruits of perdition. Ha! Double meaning there.
He didn’t actually believe in any particular God, just God in general. He could envision a kind of white-bearded old gentleman in a flowing robe seated on a golden throne with lightning bolts coming out of each extended hand, out of the fingertips. Blue and silver lightning that kills. Without blood. You don’t screw around with the Old Man.
He liked to walk at night. Darkness soothed him; it was soft and inviting. Really exciting things happen in the dark. Daylight was harsh and unforgiving; the sun stabbed at his pale blue eyes. (“You have eyes just like Paul Newman,” a woman told him at a motel in Detroit. She was really attractive, but quite stupid. And she’d doused herself with cheap perfume that made him want to throw up. But he got the thrill out of her, so it was okay. Getting the thrill was all that counted.)
He always wore his shades in daylight to protect his delicate eyes—but at night he was like a hunting cat; he could see extraordinarily well in the dark. One of his gifts. From the Old Man. From God. Ha!
He had weights in the back of his van and he worked out with them for at least an hour each morning. This way he was able to build muscle mass and maintain the basic strength of body necessary to survive. He needed strength in his arms to handle the big, cross-country rigs he’d driven. And in his shoulders and back for construction jobs. And in his legs for warehouse work. And in his hands. . .
Men are strong. Women are weak. His mother used to tell him that. She was an invalid. Stayed in bed most of the time. He’d go into her room that smelled of medicine and dead flowers and she’d read to him from the Bible every day when he was a kid. Now he couldn’t remember a single word from the Good Book. She’d never held him or kissed him or told him she loved him; she read all those Bible words to him instead. Her way of expressing love. God’s love, through the Good Book. That’s when he began thinking of God as the Old Man. When she was gone the Old Man would be looking out for him.
His own father had never looked out for him. His father was a cold bastard. Never spoke to his mother, once she got sick. Blamed her for it. His parents were like two strangers living in the same house. And they died in that house without ever saying goodbye. To each other, or to him. No goodbyes.
He was thirty-six and had never been married. Never in love, so why get married? Women had always been attracted to him, to his smile and intense blue eyes and muscled body. And he was good at telling jokes. Could make a woman laugh like a loon. (“Guy couldn’t afford to buy any cheese for his mouse trap, so he cut out a picture of some cheese and used that in the trap. Guess what he caught? He caught a picture of a mouse!”) Trouble was, they were ugly when they laughed, their red mouths too wide. You could see their repaired teeth and their fat tongues all coated with saliva. He’d never liked to tongue-kiss. Exchanging saliva. Ugh!
But he liked them for the thrill. They gave him that, each of them—in hotel rooms across the country, in their bedrooms, in motels and the backs of vans and sometimes in their cars. The place didn’t much matter, so long as it was at night. In the dark, always, with the lights out and his hands on them. . .
Then he saw her, crossing at the far corner and heading for an all-night drugstore. He knew right away that she was the one. It was an instinct he had, a kind of gut reaction that he always trusted. Never doubt your instincts. His mother had told him that.
His pale eyes studied her as she entered the drugstore.
She was young, maybe twenty or so. With a good, firm body and a lovely soft fall of blond hair along her back-like burning gold.
He went in after her.
She was standing near the front counter, her back to him. The overhead lights shone on her hair. “Do you have Cosmo?” she asked the clerk. He hardly glanced at her. Pr
obably a homosexual.
“We’re all sold out,” he told her, fiddling with something behind the counter. “New issue comes in next week.”
“Then I’ll just take a pack of Camels,” she said, handing him a five-dollar bill.
He was over by the candy display, watching as she got her cigarettes and change. Smoking was really bad for he/she was a fool to smoke. But then, he thought, with a faint smile, most women are fools. This one was a lovely young fool with burnt-gold hair and all he wanted from her was the thrill. So it didn’t matter if she smoked Camels. He disliked those billboards with a camel all dressed up like James Bond in a tux, smoking and trying to look super-cool. A camel was ugly; it could never look like James Bond.
The suave secret agent was a passion of his. The way 007 handled women excited him. Bond was rough with them. Just took what he wanted and left them flat. He had never read the books, but he’d seen all the movies. His favorite was Goldfinger, had seen it four times. He liked the way the girl died, all covered in gold paint. That was very exciting.
Now she glanced in his direction as she moved toward the door with her cigarettes. He could tell she was instantly attracted to him. There was sudden electricity in the air between them, sparked by his Newman-blue eyes. Hers were brown, like the eyes of a fawn.
He followed her outside. She looked back at him as he approached her.
“Pardon me, but I know where you can get a copy of Cosmopolitan,” he said.
She looked amused, standing by the door of her orange Honda Civic. “You heard me ask for it?”
He nodded, smiling. (He had a terrific smile.)
“It’s got an article on Meryl Streep,” she told him.
“Probably the best actress in films today,” he said.
The young woman shrugged. “Well, do you?”
“Do I what?”
“Know where I can get the latest issue?”
“Oh, sure. Sure I do.” He moved closer to her, close enough to detect the subtle fragrance of her hair. The scent excited him. “All-night newsstand. On Jonathan at Fifth.”
“I’ve just moved here,” she said. “Afraid I don’t know where—”
“I can show you. It’s really not far.”
She hesitated, then unlocked the passenger door. “Climb in. After I buy the issue I’ll drive you back here again. Will that be all right?”
“Fine,” he said. “That’ll be fine.”
As they drove away into the darkness, he was thinking how simple it was for him to deal with women, once that initial attraction was established. It was always so easy, picking them up. He’d read in the papers about how careful women were being these days, with all the rapes and murders happening in the big cities, and maybe some women were like that, very careful about meeting strange men. But he’d never had any problems along this line. Maybe it was his smile.
“You live here in town?” she asked, flicking her soft brown eyes at him.
“No, I’m just passing through,” he told her. “I like to keep on the move. Natural traveling man.”
“A salesman?”
“I’ve sold things. But not often. Mostly I just work at whatever comes along. Guess you could say I’ve done a little of everything.”
What he’d said made her suspicious. “If you’re just passing through town, how do you know where the all-night newsstand is?”
“I read a lot of newspapers—from different cities,” he said. “So I check the phonebook. I always look up the biggest newsstand when I come to a new place.”
“Why do you read so many papers?”
“I just like to keep up with things,” he said. “Habit I got into.”
“Don’t you watch the news on TV?”
He shook his head. “No. It’s too thin and superficial. Newspapers cover things in depth. Television goes for surface sensationalism.”
They were moving along Jonathan when he pointed ahead. “There’s Fifth Street, at the next corner.”
She pulled the Honda to a stop in front of Al’s All-Night Newsstand, cut the engine. She smiled at him. “This is real nice of you. I’ll only be a minute.”
“Take your time. I got nowhere to go.”
He watched the way she walked, watched her buying the magazine, watched the way her body moved under the tight blue dress, smooth and silky-sexy. The dress was snug across her buttocks and he watched the play of muscle. Tight and fine. Her legs were firm, long thighed, the way he liked.
This one would give him a real thrill, all right. All he had to do was play it cool. Guess the Old Man was still looking out for him.
When they were driving down Jonathan again he said, “Where you from? Before you came here.”
“Indianapolis. Native Hoosier. Love basketball, but I hate Indiana winters.”
“Yeah, I know what you mean,” he said. “Cold cuts right through you like a knife. Chicago’s even worse.”
“That where you’re from. . .Chicago?”
“I grew up in Waukegan. Guess you could say it’s part of Greater Chicago.”
“I’ve heard of it. Wasn’t Hemingway born there?”
He laughed. “No, that’s Oak Park. But you’re close. They’re both part of the same general area. And the winters are murder.”
“So we’re both summer people,” she said, smiling. Her teeth were white and perfect in the faint reflected light from the dash. He liked perfect teeth.
“What do you do?” he asked.
“I’m a legal secretary. Just started this new job, but it looks like it’s going to be a good one. Kind of a challenge. I like challenges.”
So do I, he thought. What he said was, “You’re not married then? I mean, you don’t sound married.”
“Nope. Mr. Wonderful hasn’t stopped by to tap on my door yet. Someday, maybe.” She flashed her brown eyes at him. “You?”
“The same. I never met a woman I wanted to marry.”
“Maybe we’re both too particular,” she said.
“Listen,” he said, leaning across the seat as she drove, close enough to catch the scent of her brushed-gold hair. “I’ve got a challenge for you.”
“What’s that?” she said.
“I challenge you to have a drink with me. You’re fun to talk to.”
“So are you,” she said, turning her head to look into his eyes. “Where?”
“There’s bound to be a bar along here if we keep driving.”
“I hate bars,” she told him. “They’re always too noisy and I wind up with a headache. Why not have a drink at my place?”
“Great,” he said. And his lips curved in a faint smile of triumph. This was working out just the way he hoped it would. Her place. Perfect.
Just perfect.
She stopped the Honda on a side street next to a tall pink stucco two-story building with a clipped hedge. Town house. Classy.
They got out, walked up a short flight of outside steps, and she keyed open a side door, waving him inside. A light was on in the kitchen and it made her skin seem phosphorescent.
Once the door was closed, she turned to him, pushing back her hair. Her forest eyes were shining. She raised her hand, gently touched his cheek.
He leaned forward to meet her, took her confidently into his arms. The kiss was deep, intense. He could feel her body tremble.
She was his.
He felt the soft pressure of her full breasts pressing into his chest. Heat seemed to shimmer from her skin. She wants it, he thought. She can’t wait for it.
Like most women, she didn’t turn on the light in the bedroom. They undressed in darkness. Not total darkness; he could see the white of her curved body as she turned to him.
“Wow,” she said softly, her voice a deep cat-purr. “You must work out.” She traced a slow finger along his muscled shoulder. “You must work out a lot.”
“I do,” he said. “My body is my temple.”
He picked her up, walked to the bed, lowered her onto the soft flowered sheets. She was r
eady.
Vulnerable.
Open.
Ready.
He entered in a single, deep, hard-thrusting movement, igniting the sensual thrill that only a willing woman could provide.
A deep guttural sound issued from her throat, exciting him. “Wait. . .before. . .” She thrust up against him, her seeking, greedy. “I have something. . .be good for us both. . .” Her right hand was fumbling in the drawer of the night table next to the bed.
Drugs, he thought. She has something to give us an extra jolt.
“Try this,” she said—and plunged the slim silver ice pick solidly into his back, skillfully penetrating his central heart muscle.
He heard three more words from her before he died.
“You were easy,” she said.
Her
The next afternoon, a Saturday, she went to a horror movie. Got in for the matinee price. She had a genuine passion for horror on the screen, an addiction that began when she was ten and her mom had taken her to see Vincent Price in a movie about a wax museum where really frightening things happened. There was a fire and all the people melted, their skin boiling and blistering and rippling away, glass eyes sliding down their cheeks, hands and feet shriveling and curling. . .That film had given her nightmares for a month, and she had felt her own skin melting from her bones in the darkness of her bed. She’d wake up screaming, heart pounding.
Daddy was furious with her mom for taking her to see such a scary movie. They had a terrible, shouting fight over it, one of the many fights they had. Daddy always—because he could shout louder—and once he pointed a loaded gun at her mom. It was that one time, with the gun, that made Mom divorce him.
That afternoon she was scanning the local news in a coffee shop downtown when she saw the announcement. In the entertainment section:
MEET TERRY CARTER!
Today
From 1 P.M. to 5 P.M.
B. Dalton Book Store
In the Magic Mall
TERRY CARTER
will be on hand to sign
copies of his new book.
Come and join us.
