by phuc
"Okay."
"But I want to ask you something..."
But what could she really ask? This was now an intricate problem as well as a legal one. Spence would be furious that she even touched the envelope much less read it. Did the killer expect her not to notify the police? She knows where I live, and she knows I know that. Was this a proposition of some bizarre kind of trust?
Maxwell sat on the edge of the couch, his eyebrows propped up as if to say "Well?"
"Never mind," she said. What she really wanted to say, though, was Maxwell, should I conceal evidence from the police? Spence could put her in jail, she supposed, and with good reason. By not showing him what the killer had sent, she was hindering the investigation.
"Can they find fingerprints on paper?" she idly asked.
Maxwell frowned. "I think so...but that's not what you were going to ask, is it?"
"No," she feebled. "How's the poetry coming?"
"Fine. What were you going to ask me?"
She couldn't ask. She couldn't even think about it, not any of it. It wasn't the ale that weighed her down as much as the imagery. He must think I'm a pouting, flighty airhead, she realized.
Suddenly she felt so desperate for distraction she was nearly shaking. She jumped up off the couch and walked away.
"Where are you going?"
"Wait."
The windows framed the city's dark. She walked around the apartment turning off all the lights one by one.
"Kathleen?"
"Just wait, you'll see. You might like this," she said. Then again you might not. You might just think I'm some horny weirdo. She'd left the radio on in the bedroom, the volume way down. It was the radio shrink's show. A female caller was saying, "...but I keep going back. I don't know why, but I keep going back every single time. Sometimes I go back even before the bruises go away." "Battered Wife Syndrome," the radio shrink replied, "is all too evident in most developed societies. Psychiatrists believe its symptoms the repeated willful return to physical abuse are deeply rooted in the wife's uncentered concept of identity. Sadly, on a subconscious level, being beaten is a reinforcement of identity, which is why such a great percentage of battered wives never press criminal charges and always return to the abuser. I've counseled many women who claim that they'd rather be beaten than be alone."
Kathleen frequently received letters herself about the issue, and she always strongly advised the reader to escape the brutal spouse at all costs. Was loneliness that powerful? If I were married and my husband beat me, she thought, I'd hit him in the head with a brick.
But she turned the radio off. It reminded her too vividly of the killer's dizzying first chapter. She remembered the exact words: Daddy beat her up a lot because he knew men who liked to have sex with women who were beaten up or unconscious.
"Kathleen?" Maxwell called out. "It's dark in here. What are you doing?"
"Just one more minute!"
Yes, she needed distraction badly. Was that all Maxwell was to her? A physical object? A distraction? She lit the candle on the dresser. She turned out the bedroom light and quickly skimmed off her clothes.
She walked back out to the living room, holding the candle. She needed it to be dark. She didn't want him to see her.
"What the " he said. "You're naked."
"Um hmm." She took his hand, led him away. The candlelight roved eerily on the walls. When they were in the little bathroom she set the candle down and turned on the shower. "I'll be waiting," she said and got in.
The candlelight turned the bathroom to a shifting grotto. Moments later a naked Maxwell stepped in with her. When he embraced her, and kissed her, she felt he was already erect. "Why can't we have the lights on?" he said. He was fumbling for the soap. "I want to see you."
"I don't want you to see me. I'm fat."
"Kathleen..." He turned her back to him, was sliding the bar of soap over her breasts. "You're not fat..."
The slick suds and cool water felt delicious.
"...you're beautiful," he finished.
Was he just saying that? Don't be insecure, she ordered herself. She just closed her eyes and let him wash her. Soon he had slickened her into a lush suit of lather, his hands sliding slowly everywhere.
This was the distraction she needed. It plucked everything from her mind and left only the moment. In the flickering orange light, and in the hiss of water, she forgot it all: the killer, Spence, the excerpt of tribal rites, and the heinous first chapter of "the story."
He turned her around again, and knelt. He picked up each foot and soaped it. Next his hands were sliding up and down each of her legs. And next
He lathered her pubis. She looked down and saw a nest of suds. His face hovered down there, and then the bar was sliding back and forth between her legs as attendant fingers played with her sex. She parted her feet to the edges of the shower floor. One hand came around, received the bar, and guided it up the cleft of her buttocks. When she was sure he wasn't looking, Kathleen caressed her breasts, rolled her nipples between her fingers, which pushed a gust of sensation like something electric to her loins. Meanwhile, one of Maxwell's fingers rubbed up and down over her anus. This felt strange, even mildly shocking she'd never been touched there before. The hot gust quadrupled then, a luscious tenseness, when the tip of Maxwell's tongue began to very tenderly probe her clitoris. "Mmmmmmmmm," she went.
Each time an ugly image tried to surface, she obliterated it with a sexual thought. When words of the killer's narrative began to appear, she concentrated on the feel of Maxwell's mouth, and then the words were gone. When Spence's face threatened to form, she thought of sucking Maxwell's penis, of letting him come in her mouth, and the face dissolved. She thought crudely and pornographically: Eat my pussy like you did last night. Stick your tongue all the way up my pussy. Stand up now so I can suck your cock, etc. When the first digit of Maxwell's pinkie entered her anus, and when his lips took her clitoris into his mouth, she stopped him. She didn't want to come yet. "Stand up now," she said, "so I can..."
Now she knelt before him, soaping his groin. His fingertips tensed on her shoulders. She rinsed his erection off quickly; she could taste soap when she began to fellate him. One hand rubbed the soapy testicles, the other stroked up and down the back of his thigh.
More words tried to rise, the killer's narrative
Daddy made you watch sometimes. He made you touch him while he watched the men in Daddy's Room through a trick mirror in the closet.
so she shut her eyes, sucking harder.
And lots of times his work friends would come to the house and Daddy would let them do things to you...
"Kathleen," Maxwell moaned.
...and your mother, sometimes at the same time...tie her up and stick things in her...
Kathleen's eyes squeezed shut harder, as she tried to let Maxwell's erection go all the way into her throat, but she gagged, thinking Go away! She relaxed, and tried again, then found her lips pressed against his wet pubic hair. "Oh, Kathhhh..."
It glows like huge beautiful white fire.
"Come on," she whispered.
She didn't bother turning the shower off. They stumbled out, clumsily embracing and kissing, to the bed.
You always see it in Daddy's Room.
She lay back on the bed gritting her teeth. She spread her legs as wide as she could. "Maxwell, please " His mouth was right on her sex; her buttocks lay in his hands. His tongue slithered down, flicked over her anus.
It reminds you of something but you never know what.
She pinched her nipples so hard it hurt. "No, I want..." She was pulling him up. "Ffffff...now. Oh, please " She heard the packet tear open. She felt rigid, locked up by the words. Tears squeezed out of her eyes.
There. He was in her. Her nails clawed his back. She wrapped her legs around him. "Harder," she insisted into his ear. Her legs wrapped tighter.
It's The Cross that changes you.
"Harder!" He was hammering her. His testicles slapped
her.
It's The Cross that changes you.
"Jesus, Kathleen." His thrusts slowed, then stopped. "You're crying. What's "
She burst into open sobs, convulsing.
It's The Cross that gives you your power.
"I'm so sorry, Maxwell," she sobbed. She felt like something in the sky falling apart into pieces.
She could barely speak through her sobs. "I don't know what's wrong with me."
Maxwell withdrew from her at once. He put his arms around her, rocked her, tried to comfort her.
She was shivering, her throat hitching. Tears ran down both sides of her face.
"It's all right, it's all right "
She turned her head to one side. The words were gone.
"Everything's fine, Kathleen."
She swallowed, tried to nod.
The candlelight flickered in the bathroom.
The water hissed like rain.
She was staring into the bathroom doorway.
Uncle Sammy was staring back.
Almost, almost. Alm Here.
The cat clock's eyes switched back and forth.
Kathleen screamed and passed out.
| |
Chapter 11
(I)
The Dome was just the way Brad Weston liked his hunting grounds. Cavernous. Jammed.
Chaotic music pulsed around blood colored, dark throbbing lights. In baggy gray slacks, a black phony silk shirt and black tie, Brad looked into the pit and immediately thought: Meat market.
In the bathroom some guys were doing cocaine as they traded jokes. "What's the difference between Michael Jackson and potato chips? Michael Jackson comes in a can." In the stall, Brad did a line of his own toot himself, to perk up. It's a jungle out there, he thought. The blow shot an instant spark into his brain and groin. On the wall someone had written: One last ride before the end of it all
Joy Division
Brad was hopping. He was ready to go. He prowled the outer circle of tables and spotted a few. A blonde with a bad complexion smiled at him, but he pretended not to see her. Forget it, Craterface. A lot of girls in black, slim, with long hair. A lot of guys trying hard to look like Mickey Rourke. Brad danced to Faith No More with one girl who must've thought she was Morticia on the Adams Family. She had a snitty smirk he didn't like so he bagged her. Depeche Mode beat out "Master And Servant"; Brad spotted some class cleavage, a brunette in sequins with earrings that looked like shower curtain rings. Once he got out on the floor with her, though, he noticed she was fat. She might be good for some head, but... Not tonight, he determined. He wanted tough stuff tonight. Are those thighs, he thought, dancing, or pontoons? He bagged her after the next cut.
This was fun. It was like tasting wine. Did these girls actually think they were going to meet Mr.
Right on a dancefloor of a singles bar? It was a farce that he could exploit, and he had many times. Brad had quite a sexual resume: 42 one night stands since he quit college a couple years ago. He discovered that playing the right game, and playing it well, could get him just about any girl he gunned for. It was all lines and looks: wearing the right clothes in the right place, saying the right things...
He had no problem coming to terms with himself and his desires. I'm going to fuck a girl tonight.
Barring technicalities, it was that simple. You did what everyone else did. You lied. You made false gestures. You feigned common interests. It was easy.
Here came a tall one huge hazel eyes, slim like Julia Roberts in a tight white dress and black fishnet stockings. Brad wouldn't mind licking up those long legs right to her snatch. Do you shave your pussy? he wanted to ask. I'll bet you do. He shouldered off the dancefloor past a group squeezed together, and ran his finger right up some streak blonde's crack from behind. "Hey!" she yelled, jerking her gaze back and forth. "Who the hell " Brad smiled. Thanks for the feel. He wished he could just walk up to any girl and yank her tits out, or rub his cock against their asses.
"Wanna dance?" he asked a trim honey blonde leaning against the middle bar. She'd decked out in a gorgeous strapless silk dress, fiery orange. "Oh, no thanks," she said. Then I guess an ass fucking is out of the question, huh? he thought. I wouldn't fuck you with a dog's dick anyway.
Bitch.
The Dome had an anteroom just off the entrance, a small figure eight shaped bar. People came out here either to get a break from the loud music, or because they were sick of striking out on the floor. A barkeep was juggling shot glasses for three spellbound flirts. Too bad your brains aren't as big as your tits, Brad thought, or your asses. He wanted to laugh out loud. Christ, baby, you got a pair of feedbags under that dress? The coke had him sharp; it focused his senses and his cynicism to a razor line. It had his cock feeling like raw current. Down boy! Down! You go busting out of my slick slacks and all these girls'll think Godzilla just walked into the joint. A pair of yups were trading jokes. "You got 25 women with PMS, and 25 women with yeast infections," one guy asked. "What have you got?" "What?" the second guy asked. The first guy burst out laughing. "A whine and cheese party!"
"Hey," Brad cut in. "What would Cindy Crawford be if she was dead and buried?"
"What?"
Brad shrugged. "Worth digging up."
That got a charge out them. Two drunk fat guys drinking Heinekens were blabbering over Redskins preseason. Something about Ferrotte having a bag of pasta for an arm.
But the only playing field Brad cared about was the female body. Women weren't people to him, they were arrangements of sexual parts. They were warm things with an array of places for him to put his penis. He slapped down four bucks for a Coors, tapped his foot to the distant music "If Love Was A Gun" by the diVinyls. The coke made his grin feel carved onto his face. As he watched more women saunter through the brick arched medieval entrance, his thoughts remarked upon each. You, Blondie, I'd fuck you dog style on the floor, and you there in that silly ass looking parrot green dress, I'd yank that shit off you and give it to you sideways up the ass while you frigged yourself with your finger and hey! Leather Pants! How ‘bout I pull that sleazy halter over your empty head and fuck those Dolly Parton sized tits of yours, huh? Blow a big Brad The Man wad all over your neck and spunk up that bargain rack herringbone necklace, yeah, spunk it up real good and then maybe wipe my cock off in your fucked up looking hair...
And then he noticed
Jesus Please Us!
the splittail standing by herself on the other end of the bar. Brad Weston's coke locked grin transmuted to an intent incision. The girl stood erect over a glass of wine, something dark like port. The music out on the floor changed "Dancing Like A Gun" by John Foxx. An angel with tits and a cunt, Brad mused. Who needs wings? He idled around for a better gander. The closer he got the more electrified he became; he was thrumming. She looked tall, real tall, like maybe even six feet. A sideglance afforded him the most erotic silhouette he'd ever witnessed. This dish makes Elle MacPherson look like the back of a gorilla's balls. Black heels, black stockings, short suede black leather skirt. Her blouse was white veil, see through it was like looking at her topless in fog. Her tits belong in the National Gallery, Brad thought. High, large, like a primo implant job, only he could tell they weren't implants by the way they minutely jiggled as she tapped her foot to the John Foxx oldie. All that kept her nipples from being revealed to the world were dual white embroiderments which descended from her shoulders...
This is the best looking hunk of girlflesh the Bradster has ever seen in his fucking life, he realized.
You don't ask, you don't get...
The distant music changed again "The Girl At The End Of My Gun" by ASF. He finished his beer quickly, an excuse to order another, drawn by densest and most mystical enticement. The girl stood sleek and trim as a wild beast; it was beckoning: the line of her back, the lines of her shoulders and neck, and the long perfect lines of her legs. A power seemed to rage in the air, a force... He saw her face in slices, as though it were too beautiful to look at al
l at once. Lightly glossed, perfectly formed lips. Crystalline, liquid eyes, huge, greenish, bluish, perfect in their indefinability. And the perfect cheekbones, the perfect angles and lines of her face.
He could calculate her in no other way.
She's...perfect, he thought.
And as he walked the rest of the way around the bar, he noticed that she was looking right at him, and she was smiling.
(II)
"...like he was looking right at me, and he was smiling," Kathleen muttered into the crook of Maxwell's neck.
He stroked her hair, held her. "You don't have to talk about it any more if you don't want. Jesus, Kathleen, I had no idea."
She'd told him everything about Uncle Sammy. Everything.
