Defenders of the Faith

by Williamson, Chet

  And now here she was, sinfully wishing that Peter Hurst would try to push her beyond that point, wanting to feel his strong body naked against hers the way God must have intended for them to be. Maybe Rand was right. Maybe it was all right if you loved each other. She loved Peter, and she could tell that Peter loved and respected her. How then could it be wrong?

  They went out to dinner that evening at The Horseman's Inn, and had a quiet, candlelit supper. Then they went to see a romantic comedy, shared popcorn, and Peter kept his arm around her for most of the film. The movie put her into a romantic mood, and they walked arm in arm to the car.

  When he asked her if she wanted to go anywhere else, she said, "It's such a great night, why don't we just go for a drive -- maybe out to Rockford Park?"

  She and Rand had often gone there, mostly at Rand's suggestion. It was an ideal parking spot. A remote lot that only a few people knew about overlooked the city of Buchanan. She and Rand had never seen a police car there, and, although there were occasionally other cars, they had never been hassled.

  Peter didn't say anything in response, and she put her hand on his shoulder and kissed his smoothly shaven cheek. "Please?" she breathed into his ear.

  He chuckled and started the car. "Whatever milady wishes," he said, kissed her warmly on the mouth, and started driving.

  When they got to the park, she told him about the road. "I went hiking a lot up here when I was a kid," she said by way of explanation, but she wasn't sure if he bought it.

  He took the turns as she directed, and they were soon on the small gravel lot. Peter stopped the car at the edge of the creosote coated logs that formed the lot's boundary, and turned off the engine. When he rolled down the windows, the only sounds they heard were night insects and traffic noise coming thinly from far below.

  Jessica moved into the circle of Peter's arms, and they kissed each other, their tongues teasing and exploring. As their bodies pressed together, she could feel the evidence of Peter's growing excitement. She thrust her breasts against him, moaning breathily, took his hand, and pressed it into the hot space between their two bodies. His hand found and cupped her right breast, and she heard him give a small gasp of surprise to find that she was not wearing a bra.

  He did not pull his hand away, however, but began to rub her breast, not as gently as she had thought he would. Still, the pressure against her nipple hardened it and excited her further, so that she thrust her tongue deeply into his mouth. He sucked hard on it, too hard, so that she cried out and pulled away from him, falling back onto the seat. She felt his weight on top of her, following her down, and struggled to breathe. But despite the discomfort, the knowledge that she had such power over him to make him finally lose control in this way electrified her, and she wanted him more than ever.

  He had a knee between her thighs now, and she parted them, feeling his leg rub against her. As he settled between them, his body on hers, she almost wept at the pleasure of it, at the sensations that moved from her groin and her breast throughout her whole body, so that even her toes curled.

  But then the hot dream became fiery nightmare.

  Peter's hand went between her legs and grabbed her, the fingers driving into the delicate folds of flesh under the thin fabric of her panties, and she yelped in pain. Her cry only seemed to inspire him, and he kneaded her roughly, his breath coming in great puffs against her neck.

  The prongs of his insistent fingers tugged away the small bit of fabric and probed her, touching her where she had never been touched, and had never wanted to be touched like this, with this crudity, this thoughtlessness, this...

  Rage.

  And with a shock she realized that rage was what was coming off of Peter's sweating body in nearly palpable waves. Not love, but anger, as though he were punishing her for some slight she could only imagine. She tried to say his name, to tell him to stop, but the pain and humiliation were so great that she could hardly bring herself to speak, as though mentioning her degradation would be to recognize it, and admit it from the other world this car had suddenly become to the real world, where things like this were not supposed to happen.

  But when his fingers finally sank into her and his nails scraped the tender lining, she screamed.

  He stiffened, and his fingers stopped moving, as though he had been caught and was being watched by alien eyes. Everything was quiet and still in the car except for his small and regular grunts that echoed the pulsing that she felt against her inner thigh as he ejaculated, his penis pressing snugly against the leg of his pants.

  It seemed to go on forever.

  And when it stopped, he took his face from the hollow of her neck, and his fingers from her vagina, slowly and carefully, and pushed himself up so that he was looking down on her like a dark moon whose face she could not see. When he spoke, his words came in a harsh whisper.

  "Why did you do that?"

  The question chilled her. She did not know what to say.

  "Why did you make us sin?"

  "I...I..." She was short of breath. She would have given anything to be anywhere else, to have his thigh out from between her legs, to feel anything but the growing, sticky dampness against her skin.

  "I would've waited, Jessica," Peter said, and his voice was growing ever colder. "I would've waited until we were married. I would've done that."

  Married? What did he want her to say? "I'm sorry, Peter, I'm sorry..."

  He pushed himself off of her then, and sat up on the seat, looking out the window as though the sight of her lying there with her legs spread disgusted him. "I wouldn't have done anything, you know, if you hadn't. But you tempted me, Jessica. Eve and the apple, making man sin."

  Jessica sat up, pulled her panties back over her hips, smoothed her skirt, trying not to touch the wetness where his semen had sopped through the fabric of his pants and moistened her thigh.

  "I shouldn't even have come out here," he went on, "should have kept us out of temptation's way." Suddenly he whirled on her. "Did you want me to have sex with you?"

  "No...yes...I don't know, I wanted you to..." Her words sounded apologetic, pitifully small. "...make love to me."

  "Making love," he said as if he were cursing. "That's for married people. And I was willing to wait, Jessica, to wait until we could make love, unashamed, with God's blessing. But you lured me out here, you dangled the apple in front of me, and you made me sin."

  Anger shot through her. "It takes two, Peter, in case you haven't noticed. And you were just as worked up as me -- more! You hurt me!"

  He said nothing. Then he spoke, and his tone was duller, flatter, colder than ever. "Well, maybe that was just God working through me."

  Now she was truly scared of him. The boy she thought that she had loved inspired only terror in her, nothing more. But she tried to keep the fear out of her voice. "Peter, would you please take me home."

  For a long minute he just sat there, looking at her in the darkness that kept his face in shadows. Then he reached out and turned the ignition key. When the engine started, he flicked on the headlight switch, and the lights of the dash lit his face with a sickly, green glow. He was still looking at Jessica, and she thought she had never seen so much hatred in a human face.

  ~ * ~

  The bitch.

  The little, godless, blaspheming whore.

  He hated her. Looking at her he could see the tears in her eyes that punishment for her sin had put there. She had tempted him, and he had given in. Then he had hurt her, and now he wanted to hurt her more.

  But he would not. He would think of something else, and he would take her home, and then, later and alone, he could think about what he would do next.

  He tried to play hymns inside his head, the old ones that he had learned when he was a little boy, the ones that he had filled up his head with so that he could be good, and would never have to think about the bad things that had happened.

  By the time they reached Jessica's house, Peter had put down the rage to a pla
ce far within him, and turned and smiled at her. She winced. "I'm sorry the evening went so badly," he said silkily. "I wasn't much of a gentleman."

  She opened the door. "That's okay," she said, but he knew it wasn't, knew that she blamed him for her own sin of lust.

  "Do you want me to walk you in?"

  "No," she said coldly, sliding out of the car.

  "Jessica?" He leaned over toward her, and she crouched so that she could see him. "May I ask you just one question?"

  "What?" Her tone was flat, as though she just didn't care anymore.

  "Are you a virgin?"

  Animation came back into her face then, and she looked at him as though she could not believe what he had just asked. She shook her head in disgust, then turned and walked through the darkness to the front door of her house.

  "Are you?" Peter said softly, the words floating on the warm night air, but Jessica did not turn around, and gave no answer.

  You're not, Peter thought as he reached over and shut the passenger door. You're a little whore. You gave it to Rand and who knows who else.

  You are a harlot and a fornicator.

  He drove home angry and went to bed angry, sloughing off his parents' questions about the evening, and successfully hiding the wet stain on his pants from them. In bed, he lay awake for a long time, thinking about Jessica and how everything should have been. They should have dated for several years, until they both graduated from college, and then they should have gotten married, and then Jessica would have been his, all his, to do with as he liked, to live out the fantasies that he had been playing over and over again in his mind.

  But now that would never happen, because now he knew what kind of person she was. If she had been willing to do it with him, surely she would have been willing to do it with that greasy-haired rock and roller, who, Peter was sure, would not have refused the offering.

  No, she was impure. She was soiled. And he wanted so very badly to make her pay for what she had done to him, for the sweet dream she had taken away, for the future that would never be.

  But how could he? He could not kill her, no matter how much she might deserve it. He would be the prime suspect, and once they started investigating him, there was no telling where it might stop. They could find out about Douglas Ryan, or Rand Evans. No, he couldn't take that chance.

  But Peter was angry with a killing anger. God had been mocked, and if Jessica herself couldn't pay, some other sinner would have to.

  Some other sinner...

  Robert Reinhold.

  Chapter 48

  The thought of Reinhold brought Peter bolt upright in his bed, and as soon as it entered his mind he knew that he would have no rest until it was done. He looked at the clock beside his bed. Its green numerals dimly read 2:15. Reinhold might be at Keppy's. He'd spent one Friday night there, so why not another?

  Peter got out of bed quietly and got dressed in the darkness. He didn't have a gun, since Paul had taken the .45, but that was all right. Reinhold lived in a town house, and any gunshots would be easily heard. So he crept down to the kitchen, got an old filleting knife from the back of the utensil drawer, and drove out to the truck stop.

  Reinhold's car was in the parking lot, and Peter doused his lights and coasted in, parking at the far end of the lot. He could see Reinhold through the window, sitting in the same booth he had occupied before. His head was down, and Peter suspected he was looking at his laptop computer. Peter sat in his car and waited.

  Several trucks pulled in and out of the lot, and the drivers walked in, had a cup of coffee and a sandwich or a piece of pie, then walked out again. At four in the morning, a trucker went over to Reinhold and talked to him for a few minutes. Reinhold smiled and seemed friendly enough, but finally the trucker's face puckered, and he shook his head and walked away. Reinhold watched him go all the way out to his truck before he turned his attention once again to his laptop.

  A half hour later, Reinhold rose and stretched, closed his computer, paid his bill, and came out into the parking lot. Peter put the knife under his seat, got out of his car, and walked toward the diner. When he neared Reinhold, he looked up and said, "Mr. Reinhold?"

  The man stiffened, then peered at Peter in the darkness. "Do I know you?"

  "Peter Hurst, sir. I had you for bio a few years ago."

  The man looked again, then smiled, though it looked more like a smirk to Peter. "Oh yeah, sure. I remember you. We had a few...interesting discussions, as I recall."

  Peter made himself chuckle. "I guess I must've seemed pretty fanatical to you, huh?"

  "Maybe a little. But I admire people with strongly held beliefs, even if they don't gel with mine."

  "Well, mine sure didn't. At least then."

  Reinhold cocked his head at Peter. "I thought you were going to Bible school."

  "The Bible College, yes sir. But I don't know. I'm thinking about transferring."

  "Why?"

  "I don't know, maybe I'm just...growing up. Seeing that everything isn't as simple as I thought it was." He smiled sheepishly. "I guess I'm kind of glad I ran into you. You might know what I mean."

  "I think I do. I'm a lapsed Catholic myself. My beliefs fought with my rationality for a long time before they finally died. But I've never been sorry for the change."

  "I can't talk about it to the people I know. They think I'm, I don't know what -- a Judas, I guess. Just because I have doubts."

  Reinhold shrugged. "So you want to talk to me about it?"

  Peter grinned and nodded. "I'd like that."

  "Fine. I write every Friday night in there," he said, holding up his laptop. "Another hour won't kill me."

  "You mean...go in there and talk?"

  "Why not? You were going in anyway, right?"

  "Yeah, I couldn't sleep, and this is the only place I know open this time of the morning. But I...well, I don't like talking about this around other people, you know?"

  "What, you think the truckers take night courses at the Bible College?"

  Peter laughed. "No, no, but I'm...well, I just wouldn't be comfortable."

  Reinhold seemed to think for a minute, then made a decision. "All right, look, why don't you come back to my place? I'll cook us up some eggs or something, and we can bullshit till the sun comes up, huh? You can pour out your soul -- or whatever it is you've got up here..." He tapped his head. "...as much as you like, with nobody else listening. Just the two of us."

  Peter felt enraged at Reinhold's final words, and the hint of intimacy that the man put into them. But he choked it down. "That'd be great. I'd appreciate it."

  "Okay, why don't you follow me in your car. I'll be careful not to lose you."

  It was going perfectly, Peter thought as he walked back to his car. He couldn't have killed Reinhold there in the parking lot. There was too great a chance that a truck would pull in just as Peter was pulling out the knife. But going to Reinhold's town house was perfect. And he would make sure that his car didn't get too close to Reinhold's place.

  The man drove well within the speed limit, and Peter remained a safe distance behind. When they were only a few blocks from Reinhold's town house, Peter pulled his car next to the curb and turned it off. Reinhold, true to his word, saw Peter stop, turned around, and drove back to where the boy sat in his car, pretending to turn the key.

  "Nothing's happening," Peter said through the window. "It just went dead, and I managed to pull it off."

  "You want to jump it?" Reinhold asked.

  "No, this same thing happened once before, and it was one of those electronic modules. I'll just have to call a garage."

  Reinhold nodded. "Hop in then. You can call from my place when you're ready to leave."

  Peter slipped the knife from underneath the seat and slid it inside his jacket. The streets were still dark, and he locked his car and got into Reinhold's Prius. In another minute they pulled into the narrow driveway at the side of his town house. Peter looked around as they went from the car to the back doo
r, but felt sure that no one saw them enter.

  "Wilkommen," Reinhold said as they stepped into the kitchen and he closed the door behind Peter. "You want some eggs? Coffee?"

  "Coffee's fine," Peter said, looking at the windows and finding to his relief that all were curtained so that no one passing by would be able to peer in.

  "Can I take your jacket?" Reinhold held out a hand invitingly. Peter was holding the knife beneath the jacket between his arm and his body.

  "No thanks," he said. "I'm a little chilly."

  "Suit yourself." Reinhold slipped off his own light jacket and turned to hang it on a peg next to the door.

  Peter tensed, slid his hand under his jacket, and touched the hilt of the knife. But just as he was about to pull it out, he heard a skittering noise above his head and froze. Reinhold turned around, his eyes glancing upward, and Peter brought his hand back out, without the knife. "What was that?" he asked.

  Reinhold smiled. "Oh, just Rolf."

  Rolf? The man had a roommate?

  "Rolf!" Reinhold called. "Come on down and say hello."

  This ruined everything. He couldn't hope to overcome two men, and even if he did, how could he know that this Rolf deserved killing? He waited for the sound of footsteps on the stairs, but there were none, and in a few seconds a dog scuttled into the kitchen, its claws tapping the vinyl floor.

  "Meet Peter, Rolf," Reinhold said, and Peter laughed in spite of what he was going to do. He laughed because he now knew that he could do it, and bent down and patted the little dog. It was a Yorkshire terrier, and it panted dryly as he stroked the wispy fur of its head.

  "Why don't you two go into the living room and get acquainted while I make some coffee. But I warn you, Peter, Rolf will give you no rest now that he's discovered you like him."