by Edward Lee
Which was something she felt certain of now.
It just made her so mad sometimes.
Sometimes she didn’t know how she felt about anything. Or how she should feel.
You should only feel how you want to feel, Alice, she told herself then. Convoluted logic, yes, but she believed that now. For too long—for her entire adult life, in fact—she’d been too busy worrying about how others perceived her. Now it was time to perceive herself, her own way.
“I’m sorry this is taking so long, Alice,” John Suit said. “It’s just that the house is so beautiful, I can’t take enough pictures. I want the feature to be perfect.”
“Oh, go ahead and take your time. I’m not in any hurry tonight.”
“Just a few more, though, okay? I need some with you in them. We want to run one picture of each owner.” He looked around then, trying to envision the best location. “Now, let’s see…”
“How about the watch room?” Alice suggested.
“Perfect,” he agreed.
They went back into the watch room, Alice in the lead. He’d already taken a few photographs here when she’d been filling out a questionnaire about the house itself, for the use of the person writing the article.
“Right over there would be fantastic,” John Suit said, pointing. “By the vanity. How’s that sound?”
“Fine,” she said. But all of a sudden she didn’t feel fine. Not exactly. She felt prickly, momentarily dizzy. For her vanity she’d purchased a half-moon-lidded Demuline table of mahogany, with tulipwood and white holly inlays, the hinged lid raised and leaning against the wall. To her right was a high, narrow window with the drapes sashed back, to give light. She stood by the table, placed her hand on it, and tried to strike an appropriate pose.
But still…
Has he noticed? she asked herself. He hadn’t said anything, so he must not have. She felt flushed, nearly wobbly. And she couldn’t stop noticing him…
“Ready?” John Suit asked, most of his face hidden now by the camera.
Her eyes struggled not to comb down the length of his body, and she wasn’t sure if she’d won the struggle. “Yes, go ahead,” she consented.
John snapped the picture.
Then he lowered the camera and said, “A beautiful woman in a beautiful house.”
Alice’s throat seemed to be tightening, her breath growing thin.
««—»»
Seducer. Deceiver.
That’s what they’ve always called me.
I ascend to the blinding light of utter darkness.
The black moon.
The lake of blood, bubbling.
Yes, I see wonders.
I hear the music of myriad screams.
I feel the hot clenches of orgasm, spurting without end in the clenches of mindless pain.
When I open my eyes I see it all—
Yes!
—in all its glory…
««—»»
The ushers of His Majesty, fallen in glee, the Lord of the Air.
Sammael. Eblis…
The Morning Star.
The ushers rise from the steaming lake to serve him. Here is recompense. Here is truth.
Truth on squat, corded legs. In gorged erections and squashed, muscled chests.
Black mouths hang open, serpent tongues loll.
And from smoking crevices older than time, God’s little niche for us, the naked horde is thrust forth as though the ancient rock itself is vomiting stale flesh in moving, screaming clumps.
The blessed ushers are dutiful in their tasks, to serve their lord, their master, and to shit in the faces of the pious. Thin, bladelike teeth are bared, meticulously slitting limbs to isolate arteries, bite them in half, and suck out all the blood like wine through a reed. Breasts are riven, sucked of their fat. Scrotums are twisted round and round, then quickly jerked out of groins like tomatoes off ripe vines. History’s most acclaimed figures are nothing here, nothing but fodder for the human mill. Bodies are gleefully pressed down upon the hot rocks, to cook. Some of the more articulate ushers prize screaming skulls apart, pluck them of their pulsing pink brains, and the brains are set aside to cook also. Brains, when cooked just right, taste like salty scrambled eggs—delectable! The women, as through history, are the first to be more actively pursued. So lovely in their vulnerability, so quick to offer anything to be spared.
Fools.
Gravid bellies are shorn open, yanked of their little human parcels. Placentas swallowed whole, entrails sucked out in gusto. And the innocent parcels? Free from the sins of their mothers?
Eaten whole, as appetizers.
Turgid members throb, too, and seek any human purchase. Wombs are routed and filled up with cold seed. Rectums are turned inside-out in the fervency of the ushers. Jaws are pulled down till their seats tear, and the open throats are fed with more eager members, to gush still more of the seed into clenching stomachs.
Yes!
Here is recompense!
Here is truth!
And the ushers will always be there.
Waiting for the falsely exalted.
Waiting for those who think of themselves as the servitors of the other.
Waiting, I pray, for you.
««—»»
Seducer, yes.
Deceiver.
Me.
Since time immemorial…
My blonde little sweetmeat.
Go, my precious little cunt.
Go.
Do my bidding.
««—»»
Time stood still, or at least it seemed to. Alice felt caught in a whirlpool of irrestibility.
“I… I can’t,” he panted.
“Why?” she breathed back. “What’s wrong?”
“I’m-I’m married.”
Alice didn’t even feel like herself when, on her knees now, she looked up, grinned, and said, “I don’t want to steal you from your wife. I just want to fuck you.”
“I-I have…children, Alice.”
“Your children will never know. But if you want me to stop, just say so.”
A pause floated in the air, then dissipated. He made no further response.
It was nearly midnight now. At about seven he’d claimed he had to leave, to turn in his film to his editor at the paper. “Well, why don’t you come back then?” Alice had suggested subtly. “Go turn in your film and come back for a drink. By then it will just be dusk. You should see the view at dusk. It’s like nothing you’ve ever seen.”
“Well, maybe,” he’d said with obvious reluctance. Alice had never had a doubt. About an hour later his knock was heard at the door, and she’d let him in…
Alice sighed happily now.
They’d sat and talked for a spell. She’d poured him some wine, an ’83 Montrachet, while she herself had had spring water and lime. They’d talked about harmless things.
Until the coming of dusk.
And a splendid sunfall it was, just as she’d promised.
“I really—I really shouldn’t,” he said now.
“Well, then, as I said, if you want me to stop, say so and I’ll stop.”
No answer…
So here it was, was it not? His silence was the only answer necessary. How could it be denied? Here was the truth, the real truth of his deceiving heart.
The handsome photographer yielded, took his hand away from the front of his pants. The downward slide of his zipper sounded like wallpaper tearing. Alice pulled the metal tab to its lowest limit, and then extracted John Suit’s already hardening genitals. He was leaning against the rim of the mahogany Demuline table, moaning in the back of his throat. And then he told her, in a gust of breath, in two words as light as morning fog: “Go ahead.”
— | — | —
29
Steve walked down to the City Dock. He hadn’t been on a job for the last several nights, so he was getting out early. It was going on four in the afternoon now. He just wanted to buzz around. Sometimes it was nice to walk
the docks, to cherish the beauty of the world, so to speak, to view the natural miracle of the sea meeting the land, and all that good shit.
Tied boats floated on the pristine water. Most of the boats were clearly expensive, six figures each. He stood there by himself and gazed along the row of transoms at the names. Some were absurd. High Seas, Captain Salty, The Nemo. Others were more imaginative: We’re Aweigh, Catchin’ Crabs, Bottom Dweller. Still, though— That’s a lot of money for something that won’t even take you to 7-Eleven, he reasoned. Even though he planned to be rich some day, he would never own a boat. Too much maintenance, too much hassle.
A cute girl—a dockhand—meandered down the wooden pier, checking riggings. Long straw-colored hair.
Cutoff shorts, fluorescent-red bikini top. Long, long tanned legs.
All of seventeen.
I’d give her a tumble, Steve thought. Where you live, sweet thing? Maybe I’ll do you a big favor and stop by one night when Mommy and Daddy are out. I’ll show you some rigging, that’s a fact. I’ve got a nice big yacht to dock in your slip…
The dock was busy with people, lots of couples walking about, but, surprisingly, an equal number of young, unattended women in an array of scant attire. Lots of shorts. Lots of halter tops and string bikinis. Steve appraised each one and gave them equal time in his thoughts. He decided what he would do to each of them, once he got them tied down and gagged, once he got their clothes cut off.
Then another thought surfaced.
Alice.
Some dumb bitch, for sure, but what a sucker. Shit, she’d still be supporting me if I hadn’t been stupid enough to let her catch me ass-fucking that bar-whore. Oh, well, he’d been getting sick of her anyway. She wasn’t much in bed, that was for sure, but she gave great head once he’d told her how. He wondered about her now. What was she doing? Was she dating guys? Was she going out, getting it on?
Doubt it, Steve determined. She was a headcase to begin with, and with a peg leg? Shit. Who wants to fuck a girl with a stump?
Christ, Steve couldn’t think of anything that would make his dog go down faster. She’s probably even fatter now, probably nuts. But, hey, that wasn’t his problem, was it? It wasn’t his fault she’d decided to snoop on him that night. It wasn’t his fault it was snowing and some shitface ran into her while she was trying to change a tire. Fuck it, he thought.
And fuck her.
It was fun sometimes, though, to think about her, about the very special job he’d do on her if he got the chance.
But it would never happen. Shit, after she got her leg lopped, she moved, got an unlisted number; he didn’t even know where she lived now.
But, boy, what he wouldn’t give to find out…
He bought a pack of fried chicken livers in the Market House, then milled around as he munched them, appraising more women. Here was a chubby redhead behind the fish counter: big rack of tits, nice caboose. She was gutting rockfish and flounder. Every time she’d bend over to toss a handful of guts into the waste can he could see her cleavage. Man, I would cream those big hooters something fierce, he envisioned. Get the first nut off fast so I could give it to her pussy for a good long time. And here was a slim, beat-looking redneck ditz shucking Chincoteagues behind the oyster bar. I’ll bet she’s been sucking guys off in pickup trucks since she dropped out of junior high, probably had it up the ass so many times you could drive a bus through it. I’d fuck her so hard, her uterus’d fall out.
But these thoughts were just diversions. He meandered on, finished his livers. It was odd, but for some reason he couldn’t get his mind off Alice. It was hilarious; for the entire time they’d “dated” she was never the least suspicious about what he did for money—what he really did, that is. Women are so stupid. When the brains were being passed out, they must’ve gotten in the wrong line. Yeah, the shit line.
Funnier still, for all that time, she’d actually believed that he loved her! You bad boy, Steve. You’re such a con man. Next to burglary, Steve prided himself above all on his ability to deceive women, to lie to them wholesale in order to get what he wanted, and to get away with it. Women were definitely a different mold. He’d bamboozled so many in his time, it was ridiculous. How can they be so dumb? he wondered.
Alice was a prime example. A money-maker, a hotshot lawyer. You had to be smart to be a lawyer, right? How could she be that smart, to be a managing partner of a law firm, and be that dumb at the same time?
He’d maintained the poor-boy con for, what, over a year? Shit, she’d been taking him out to fancy restaurants three times a week, paying his rent and making his car payments half the time, and all the while he’d been hauling several grand tax-free every month on the burgle circuit.
But that was all over and done with. So why am I thinking about that over-the-hill pig? he questioned, strolling out of the cool market back into the dockside sun. Fond memories? I guess it’s just because I’m a sentimental kind of guy!
And, yeah, he was still a bit curious about her, and he wouldn’t mind getting a quick gander at her. For a while he’d staked out her firm from the parking lot across the street, but she’d never showed. Probably quit after winning that big motherlode of lawsuit money after the accident. Wish I knew where she lived, he mused. Just to catch a quick glance, see what she looks like now, limping on that peg leg.
It was getting close to happy hour; the City Dock was getting crowded, and Steve didn’t like crowds. The more women he saw, the more boned up he got, and all that would do was tempt him to go out on another job. He knew he’d have to lay low for a while if he had any brains. Don’t let the split-tail get your dander up, Steve, he warned himself. He didn’t have his next job staked out yet anyway. In this business the guys who went off half-cocked were the guys who landed in the stone motel.
He was about to cross the street and head back to the parking garage on Main when he noticed some squirrely kid in a Yankees hat getting out of a van with an armload of newspapers. Then the kid went to fill up a paper vendor right in front of McGuffy’s. Might as well improve my mind, Steve reasoned, keep up on world events. He had no new jobs to read about since he’d snuffed the lovely Mrs. Mullins and her niece, but there was still a lot of jibe about it in the local section. Terror in the streets. The big bad city rapist/murderer. Lock your doors, keep your kids home. When will the monster strike again?
Yeah.
“Hey, kid, how about a paper?” Steve asked the kid in the Yankees cap, whipping out a ten spot.
“Ain’t got change, man.”
“Keep the change. Everybody knows the Yankees are the only team that matters.”
The kid copped the sawbuck, handed Steve a paper, then got back into the van without even saying thanks.
Steve tucked the paper under his arm. Fuckin’ kids these days, I’ll tell ya. No sense of gratitude. Must’ve been raised wrong; no manners, no respect. Steve laughed, crossing the Circle for the garage. The little fucker’ll probably grow up to be a criminal.
««—»»
With regard to anything that had to do with Alice, Holly tended to worry.
But now…
She was really worried.
It had been three days since she’d last seen Alice. She’d missed her next session and never called. Since then Holly had left half a dozen messages on Alice’s machine.
No response to any of them.
She’d driven by Alice’s house at least a dozen times. A few of those times, Alice’s car had been parked out front, but when Holly had knocked on the door—
No answer.
I know she was home, Holly thought. So why didn’t she answer? What’s wrong?
And then the worst possibility occurred to her.
Maybe Alice simply doesn’t want to see me, doesn’t want to talk to me. Maybe—maybe…she knows.
Holly had always feared this possibility, but the psychiatrist in her felt certain it was just blind paranoia. It had to be.
But if it was just paranoia, then—<
br />
Where the hell is she? How come she’s not returning my calls?
Today she’d gone looking for her. Holly had checked out the malls, the antique shops, and some of the craft stores.
No Alice.
Then she’d pulled into the City Dock and checked the shops there. This made sense, didn’t it? She’d run into Alice down here just last week. So Holly had walked in and out of every shop on the Dock, and then every bar. Still no Alice.
Lost cause, she determined, and finally gave up.
And she felt lost herself now, back in the Maserati, pulling out of the Dock. She had to wait at the corner of McGuffy’s; a newspaper van was parked there, The Evening Capital; some kid selling a guy a paper on the street. Holly honked her horn, and the guy smiled, then gave her the finger. Same to you, asshole! she wanted to shriek at the top of her lungs. She was letting things get to her, practically having a nervous breakdown because of a newspaper van, and that simply wasn’t like her. Calm down, girl, she told herself then. Don’t blow a gasket. She took a breath, waited for the van to move on, then proceeded out of the Dock.
She drove around aimlessly for the next several hours.
Her only comfort now, her only companion, was the pint bottle of Dewar’s she kept wedged between the center console and the passenger seat. She’d been nipping at it all day, since her last patient had left at noon.
And there wasn’t much left.
By dusk, the steady buzz was hazing her; she knew she shouldn’t be driving—she should get off the road, go home, sleep it off. The police were out in force, more so now than ever since this rash of burglary/murders. All she needed was to get pulled over—or worse, have an accident—and that would be it. The journalists were printing your name in the paper if you got DUI’d or had an alcohol-related accident. Her practice would be ruined; she’d lose her patients. She’d have to move, start from scratch all over again…
