In terrible agitation, each one began to shake her head, protesting, but with a raised hand he silenced them and continued, “It will be a countdown, starting at ten and going to one. The word after one is what we move on.”
All three stared at him, waiting.
“Ten!” he said; the sound was low but cut from steel. A pause, and then he continued speaking very quickly in a whisper to all. But his eyes fixed on Swat.
“Start mobilizing your bodies. Tense them. Move in close together. I want a solid mass.”
They drew close and he watched them, and when he was satisfied he spoke again.
“Nine!” Again in that urgent whisper, still directing himself to Swat. “Harden your muscles. Tighten the skin around them and aim your bodies forward.
“Eight!”
Now he turned and nailed his eyes on Pinky who reeled slightly at his words. “They’re going to be sleeping. Both of them soundly sleeping in their bed.”
And then to Imogene, “Seven!”
And over to Swat and back to Imogene again, “We’re a sharpened wedge of power and we’re pointed at those doors and we’re going to crash them open and rush in!
“Six!
“And with all our might we’re going to send our bodies flying across the room and dive onto them!
“Five!
“And hold them down and bury their bodies into the bed with our hands and our knees and smother their heads with their pillows and they will be so stunned by the suddenness of our attack that for the first moment they won’t resist.
“Four!
“And in that instant of our advantage,” he said, making each word stand alone, “we shall strike!”
And as he spoke, Swat’s body stiffened, pounding under the restraint, and Imogene’s, too, her normal lethargy transformed into a passion that made her quake with excitement. Only Pinky’s breath came at normal speed. Like an automaton she would respond.
Sweat glazed Avrum’s face to a high shine. His whole body was charged with an energy that fused his muscles and made them swell and strain against the thinness of his T-shirt, and the hardness of his erection pressed his jeans to near bursting. The panting sounds that rushed from his chest forced gusts of air into his whisper, giving it a staccato beat that set the rhythm of their passion and brought Swat and Imogene to the threshold of orgasm.
“Three!”
His whisper had become so hoarse and fast that they had to bend in close.
“Strike!” he said. “Slam the steel into their bodies. . . .” And with his knife he slit the air. “In and out and in and out! In their backs, in their sides, in their heads. Pound at their squirming bodies with all your might, stabbing, driving, slicing into them!
“Two!” he spat and pulled the hand that clenched the knife back behind his shoulder in a strike position.
“One!”
Avrum bent his knee up and drew his powerful leg back, hugging it against his stomach, and as he shot it forward crashing open the doors, he screamed the word, and the word was, “KILL! KILL! KILL!”
I have to stop! I stare at the page, then at my hands still resting on the keyboard. They are trembling. I clasp them together. They are icy. I read the last words I have written, and a small tremor runs through my body with a spasm. Where have I taken Avrum and his avengers and what are they avenging, or is it I myself who is bent on some hellish course? What is my purpose? A sudden but profound fear seizes me, and I shake my head, searching for some new clarity of meaning to my work, and as I do I hear, out beyond the door, a small sound.
David. It has to be David. Thank God. I need someone to talk to. Someone to hold me. I rise from the chair and stagger. The room spins. In the fierce, unbroken concentration of my writing I have drunk too much wine, swallowed too many Dexis, Oxycontin. I inhale deeply, hoping to clear my head, and lurch toward the door. “David,” I call out. My trembling fingers struggle with the latch until I hear the bolt open and step back, ready to collapse into David’s arms.
The door swings open violently. I gaze into the blackness beyond. “David,” I whisper, “is that you?” An outline emerges from the shadow. Then another. I utter a low animal groan as four ghostly and grisly figures stride through the door. Oh, no. Oh, God.
My mind gropes for some explanation. I know I am hallucinating. I have to be. If I close my eyes for a moment, they’ll be gone. But they aren’t. They are still there. Staring at me, their eyes are as fixed and deadly as a cobra’s.
“What do you want?” I say, and I feel half foolish because I know I have to be talking to empty air, but they look so real. . . .
And then they move, the man I call Avrum in the center, Swat and Imogene on either side, and behind them my friend Pinky. I remember the knives and look quickly at their hands, but they’re empty. Some of my terror quiets.
“Johanna.”
Avrum’s voice. I struggle desperately to bring some order to my mind, and then it comes with the answer. He’s escaped from prison. And the reason he’s come here is because of my book and probably because I’m his only link to the establishment, at least the only one who pretends to understand him at all. Logic wins, and my fright begins to give way to a growing excitement. This man, standing not five feet from me, has ruled my life for nearly a year now. I’ve spent hours interviewing him, months methodically researching every detail of his life. I’ve taken him apart and then re-created him again in my book. I’ve given him a part of my own life at a terrible sacrifice, given him a higher reality in my mind and in my fantasies, and now he’s come to me and is now, in this wild moment, fulfilling all the imagined intimacy of those months. I find myself unbelievably tantalized by the thought.
“Johanna, come here.” He speaks softly, yet it has the tone of an order, and I feel the compulsion, the need, to obey.
“Come here,” he repeats, and I move toward him. The others have faded to light shadows lurking on the side somewhere. It is only Avrum now. Avrum and me.
Finally.
As I come closer to him the aroma of sandalwood thickens the air between us, and I feel myself transmigrating to him. His arms are extended in front of him, fingers outstretched, holding me at a distance. Deliberately his eyes move over my body, and the skin under his gaze is atremble and flushed. My body begins to ache with a powerful longing, a hunger for contact with him. I want to press hard against him, lean my thighs against his, feel the length of him touching me. I move into him but he stops me, holding me back with his hands on my shoulders, as his fingers, thinner and longer than I expected, bite into my flesh.
He lets his hands drop from my shoulders and, skimming over the front of my blouse, moves them across to the buttons. Slowly he opens the buttons, and with each touch I feel an exquisite heat deep within my thighs. The last button is opened, and the light play of his fingertips teases my skin as he spreads the blouse apart. I feel the cool air on my nakedness.
I have forced the others out of my vision, but I know they are there, and I feel a flash of embarrassment and try to close my blouse. But Avrum stops me, pushing my hands firmly down to my sides and holding them there. Again he captures me with his eyes, and all else vanishes. He unsnaps my jeans, pulls the zipper down and stops. In that moment I know how much I want him. As he puts his hands flat on the sides of my waist and moves them slowly along my skin and works the jeans over my hips, I pull my blouse off and drop it to the floor. Again for an instant my nakedness overwhelms me, and I have to close my eyes to ease the shame. Can this be me?
Without looking, I can feel the heat from his body and know he’s drawn closer to me. His fingers caress my breasts and lightly squeeze the nipples. Now his hand slides over my stomach and holds the mound below, and I can feel his fingers slipping between the lips. I open my eyes and am caught instantly in the steel of his stare. And I am held with a powerful energy that arrows into my brain, and his fingers are gliding easily in my vagina, over my clitoris, and up and down the insides of my thighs. I reach out for him
, but he shakes his head, no. My hips begin to sway and move slowly, grinding into his hand. I hear my gasps change to moans, and the hunger becomes unbearable. Suddenly he takes his hands away from me, and the emptiness disconcerts me.
“Avrum, please don’t stop . . . I want you.”
He unzips his pants and quickly slips them off. Once freed, his erection juts out, hard and straight. I wait for him to take me in his arms, but he makes no move toward me.
“Get down,” he says, pointing to the spot in front of his legs, “get down and suck me.”
The tone of his voice startles me, and I retreat a step.
“Johanna!” This time the voice is warm and caressing. “Take me in your mouth. . . .”
I’m lost. I cannot resist him. I don’t want to resist him. Kneeling, feeling the supplicant and not caring, I move my hands up along the insides of his thighs, my palms sliding over the bulging cords of tendons that line his muscular legs until I reach their roots in the moss of his thick black hair. My hands surround him, caress him, and now with fingers firmly encircling the base of his cock I slide my mouth over the slippery tip and as far down the length of it as I can. The power of this first touch of him creates an uncontrollable need in me, and I bury my face deep into him, and the odors of sandalwood and sperm and sweat fill my nostrils, and his wiry curls bite into my cheeks. I move my mouth up and down, sucking the long, hard silkiness of him and holding him tight between the roof of my mouth and my curled tongue, one hand overflowing with his fullness and the other thrusting deep within myself.
His hips begin to buck and his hands press down hard on my head, forcing me to take more than I can of him. I try to pull back, but his grip is iron. I dig my nails into his thighs, but still he pounds into me and then with one long last thrust releases himself in my throat. I gag, and he pushes me away.
With the aching and the longing still throbbing unsatisfied between my legs, I stand alone in the middle of the room, naked, bathed in sweat, wet with secretions, ready, waiting, hungry to pounce at the first sign of tumescence. It comes quickly, and then he’s stiff again and struts over to me, prodding me backwards against the wall. No words now, only touch and rub and slide, and then he is deep inside me and together our bodies begin to move slowly against each other, out to the end and in again to the beginning. I can feel his taut body, the light spring in his legs, his stomach hitting against mine and hear the sounds of the joining, the slap of our bodies against the wall, all these sensations, separately at first and then beginning to converge and grow and build until it becomes one powerful sweep of terrifying speed that shoots me up in its surge. Far up and finally over to another side.
“Get down on your hands and knees.” His voice cuts into my flight, sudden and cold.
It stuns me.
“Get down!” he shouts, grabbing my shoulder and throwing me to the floor.
I land hard on the wood floor, and a sharp pain shoots through my knees. “What’s wrong?” I ask. “Please . . . what have I done?”
“Shut up and crawl over there,” he says, pointing to where the others are standing.
“No,” I say and start to get up, but he kicks me sharply in my side, and I lose my balance and fall back onto the floor.
“I said, crawl!”
I start to move across the floor, creeping on all fours like a baby. Out of the corner of my eye I can see him pointing as he urges me on, angrily demanding that I move more quickly. I’m frightened and I hurry. My nakedness makes me feel childlike, small and powerless, and my terror makes me whimper like a baby being chastised by a stern and angry father. I stop in front of someone’s feet, but I don’t look up. I can’t. I wait on my hands and knees, chilled and trembling.
Suddenly I feel Avrum behind me, and he grabs my waist. I jump, but his grip tightens, and I feel him move up against my raised rump.
“No, no . . . please, don’t . . .” I plead, but he answers by digging his fingers deeper and ramming himself into me, ripping open the tightness and sending bolts of pain through my body. I scream and beg him to stop, but he pounds harder. I try to crawl away, but he grabs my thighs and lifts them up high against his sides. I claw at the floor, losing my balance and smashing down on my chin. Still I try to scramble away, but he holds me tighter. I reach out for the legs in front of me, but whoever it is steps away, and I’m left to submit to his painful assault.
Finally he comes out of me, drops my legs, and I lie there weeping.
Without a word, he walks to his clothes and calmly, unhurriedly, dresses.
While the others are watching him I crawl to my own clothes, but just as I’m about to reach for my jeans, Swat grabs them with the toe of her shoe and sends them flying across the room.
“Please,” I say, “I only wanted to get dressed.”
She glares down at me with fury. I look over to Avrum. “Tell her, please, I only want my clothes.”
But he’s busy going through a knapsack on the floor and doesn’t turn around.
As I start to stand, I’m overcome with a terrible dizziness and then a nausea so overwhelming that I have to sit down again. With my head still spinning, I lean over and reach again for my clothes. Swooping from above me, Swat grabs the whole pile and flings them behind her.
“Make her stop,” I beg Avrum. He’s silent, his back toward me, and then slowly he turns around, and my breath catches in horror. The knives! The knives!
A scream starts in my throat, but I choke it down. My only hope is not to antagonize them, to be silent and not move.
Avrum motions to Swat, and he hands her the huge butcher knife. She accepts it almost ceremoniously and moves back across the room. Then he nods to Imogene, and I watch as he hands her a knife. I half expect it to be the triangular one from my book, but it’s not. Stupid, but I’m relieved. The third knife goes to Pinky who takes it reluctantly, letting it dangle loosely from her fingertips.
Now Avrum buckles the knapsack and slips it on his shoulders. They’re going to leave. Thank God. I don’t care about anything, not where they’re going or what evil they’re planning, I just want them out of here!
All three women wait for his command, but he ignores them and stares only at me, ice in his eyes. Sheer panic freezes me. Agonizing moments pass and the room stops, becomes a still photograph, and then at last Avrum nods to the women and turns to leave. I can’t control a soft moan of relief.
But the women don’t move.
My voice is weak, and I’m drained from the fear and the pain and the shame. I want them out of here.
“You don’t have to worry,” I tell them. “I won’t call the police.”
They don’t move.
“Please, I swear I won’t. Just go.”
Still, they don’t move. I struggle to my feet, holding onto the back of my chair. As I do, I see Avrum stop at the door and tap Swat on the shoulder. She smiles at him, and the evil in it sends a shiver through me. She walks over to me, stopping inches from my face. I know she hates me. She always did, right from the beginning when I interviewed her in prison, but now it’s raging. I brace myself for her fury, for the vicious insults she will heap on me, but she’s silent. The ugliness of her face contorts with hate as the moments pass. Then suddenly I feel a hard punch in my stomach, and I double over. Bitch! She hit me.
My breath comes back quickly, and I’m about to slap her when my eye catches a black flash around my stomach and I look down. It’s the handle of the knife, and for an instant I can’t understand what it’s doing there; then, oh, my God, no!
It’s in my stomach. She’s stabbed me! But it can’t be. All I felt was a punch. There’s no pain, no blood. It’s some kind of trick, a stupid joke. “Get away from me, you stupid fool!” I shout at her. She looks surprised, but I’m furious now.
She reaches down, takes the handle, and pulls hard. I feel something drawing out of me, and the blade comes into view. It’s got blood on it. I look down. There’s a slit in my skin and blood coursing from it.
> “Help, Avrum!” I’m holding my wound with one hand and pushing Swat away with the other. I search frantically for some escape, but they’re blocking the doorway. The only other protection in the room is my computer, and I jump behind it.
Imogene starts coming toward me, screaming, “Bitch! Whore!” and Swat falls in step with her, and Avrum pushes Pinky behind them, and they’re all heading my way. I back up against the wall and push the chair in front of me, but Swat flings it out of the way and the two of them fall on me and start slashing me with their knives. I grab their wrists, but I can’t hold on. Swat is too strong, and the knives are too long. I kick and push and punch and ram my knee into Swat’s stomach and she falls back, but Imogene keeps coming, slashing back and forth at my face.
I cover my head with my hands and kick out barefooted. The blows aren’t strong enough to stop her and the knife cuts across my fingers, and then I feel the thump of blows in my breasts and I take my hands away from my face to protect my body. My blood is smearing all of us. I can’t stop her! Help me!
I feel the table behind me and dive under it, clinging to the metal legs. They pull at my feet, but their hands are slippery with blood and my legs slide through. I’m awash in blood, but I don’t know where it’s coming from. Nothing hurts me. I don’t know why. My tears blind me. They’re killing me, and I don’t want to die. “David . . . David . . . help me! Daddy, please, Daddy, stop. . .”
One of them gets behind my head and pushes while other hands pull at my feet. Still, I hang on. Then something starts to grind at my fingers. My God, they’re trying to cut them off! I let go in horror and bury my cut and bleeding hands tight against my chest. Now, with no resistance, they drag me out from under the table. For an instant I break loose and scramble to my knees, but someone’s hands still hold my feet and jerk me back hard, and I collapse. Other hands flip me over, and I roll up into a ball to protect myself from their slicing and stabbing.
A numbness starts to creep over me, and it’s hard to tell where the blows are coming from. A heavy exhaustion envelops me, unfolding my arms and legs. I lie there, open and unprotected against their blows, but the weight of them seems to grow lighter. Through the blood I see Pinky’s face and feel relief, safety. My friend Pinky will stop them. Our eyes meet, and I move my lips, “Save me, please save me.”
Save Johanna! Page 23
