by Edward Lee
Careful, careful…
Now he was lowering his full body weight by the strength of his arms alone. The vault’s absolute darkness seemed to swallow him whole.
Lower…
Where’s the damn floorwall!
…and lower still. The total blackness leeched all sense of dimension; to some primordial part of his psyche, his feet could be dangling over a mile-deep shaft. That mental image—compounded by the darkness which now just seemed to get darker—caused his heart to buck again. He knew he wasn’t strong enough to pull himself back up into the confines of the sinkhole where at least he could brace himself. Now his arms trembled, and he realized his only recourse: let go and free-drop.
He didn’t have to command his hands to release the drop line. All strength in his gloved hands gave way, and he fell—
Please, God! Save me!
—all of maybe eight inches before his feet landed on the cenote’s floor.
Idiot. Crazy old fool.
But he thanked God nonetheless.
He stood still in the blackness, letting his heart beat down a little, regaining his true senses. I’m here. Finally. The impact of that fact eventually struck him:
I’m the first human being to set foot in this place…in ten thousand years…
He reached down, felt for the line he’d tied his flashlight to, then gripped it in his hands. He waited a moment, then—some tawdry sense of dramatics—the flashlight poised but still unlit. When I turn this on, I will see a fragment of what just might be the most arcane history ever discovered in North America…
Then: “Enough melodrama,” he told himself aloud. “Instead of standing here like some seventy-year-old retirement-home kook, turn on the goddamn flashlight.”
But a few more seconds ticked by, and he didn’t.
He could only guess. It was historical human nature to be afraid of the dark but right now, it seemed, Fredrick was afraid of the light.
Why?
There are dismembered bodies on the floor, he thought. Hierarchal Ponoye Indian priests. How did they come to be dismembered?
He was afraid.
What sheer horror went on here back when the last Ice Age was ending?
These were generally not the typical trepidations of an historical scientist. Men like Fredrick thought in terms of carbon dating, soil stratifications, of weights and measurements and core samples. His world existed in terms of objective features, not—
Not emotional, illogical notions like fear.
After all, what did he have to be afraid of?
Whatever had perpetrated the gruesome atrocity that had taken place here was surely long gone. There were no ghosts in Fredrick’s cold, sensible, scientific world. There were no devils. The Ponoye worshiped lower demons out of the same mechanics of formative superstition that influenced all species of early man. They believed in them, yes.
But demons did not exist.
When Professor Fredrick turned on the flashlight, he saw that he was clearly wrong.
Demons did exist.
And one such demon was reaching for him now…
Part One
— | — | —
Chapter One
(I)
It was always brightly lit. It was always so silent.
It was always the same.
Clare knew it was a dream but somehow that fact never occurred to her while she was having it, which made it all the more cruel. Being raped was like remembering your own murder after being resuscitated. Hadn’t enough things in her life gone wrong? Why did fate see fit to curse her with the damnable thrice-weekly dream?
In the nightmare she was as paralyzed as when it had actually happened: he’d injected her with something. She couldn’t move but she could feel everything. The most chilling words she’d ever heard resounded now in their slurring, retardate horror: “Duh-duh-don’t worry, Clare. I wuh-wuh-won’t hurt you till I’m done.” He grasped the scratch-awl in his bizarrely deformed right hand, just a thumb and forefinger—a birth defect, she’d been told. The left hand was normal. For some reason, the details of the event—in recollection—were never as disturbing as that single image—the deformed hand.
Then the hand did things to her, caressed her, prodded her in places—she just wanted to jump up and scream, fight back as viciously as any woman could, kill him, but of course none of that had happened. The drug had paralyzed her as effectively as a broken back.
She couldn’t flinch. She couldn’t even squirm.
All she could do was lie there and watch, see everything, feel…everything.
He’d chosen to rape her in the base autopsy suite, the examination lights bright in her face, the skin on her bare back shriveling against the cold steel table. Then…the simple, awful silence. The only thing she could hear was his lips smacking and her heart hammering. He’d bitten her several times too, each clamp of his teeth like electricity shooting through her flesh.
She’d been used as a piece of meat, her precious life and body vandalized for this pervert’s amusement. It didn’t matter that he hadn’t actually injured her—the bites had barely broken the skin—and it didn’t matter that after he’d had his way, the post guard had come in before he could start to work on her with the awl. What shocked Clare was the attitude of the JAG office, the look on all their faces that said “She was asking for it.” The rest of the outrage played out over humiliating months, with headlines in the base newspaper every week like: “Arraignment Testimony Suggests That ‘Raped’ Lieutenant Was Lying,” then “Judge Says No Rape Trial For Lt. Prentiss; Court Martial Instead.” The perpetrator had an alibi, the duty guard was paid off, the semen test came back negative, and she failed every polygraph.
It was all a set-up.
After “Tailhook,” the sex scandal at Aberdeen Proving Grounds, the “Rapist Drill Sergeants” of Fort Letterwood, etc., Uncle Sam would not tolerate any more damning national headlines.
And neither would Colonel Harold T. Winster, the research corp commander…because the perpetrator was Winster’s son.
Instead, good-old fashioned corruption and sexism had kicked Clare right off the scales of justice.
She sat up groggily on the narrow-mattressed bed. The barest traces of dawn were filtering in through bent window blinds. Another day, another hand-out, she thought. The room she awoke in didn’t smell very good; homeless shelters never did. The light snoring from the other bunks rose and fell in a constant flutter. Clare awoke like this every morning: in shock, in disbelief. And mad as hell.
That’s not me! she thought when she looked at the other women asleep in their racks. This isn’t me! I DO NOT belong here!
She didn’t. But she was here anyway, and had been for months now.
Sky-high SAT scores and a college education with a 3.9 GPA didn’t matter at all, nor did the military security clearance classification of Secret-SI. Her discharge from the U.S. Air Force, in fancy Gothic letters, read DISHONORABLE along the top. Any employer who ran a basic criminal-background and credit check was immediately greeted with her discharge status. Her degree in Criminal Justice was worth less than a roll of toilet paper now; no police department or security firm in the country would touch her. Her outstanding service record before her court martial was moot, and so were the commendations and the valor medal. In every way, shape, and form, Clare Prentiss’ name was proverbial mud.
Even the most basic minimum wage jobs were not available to her; the Tampa Bay area’s tourist-dollar economy was very competitive. Trying to get a job working in the popcorn stand on the St. Pete Pier required an application and interview process that would eventually unveil her dishonorable separation from the military. It was ridiculous. Janitorial positions, dishwashing, garbage removal—the jobs were out there, but no one would hire her. She’d applied for one job with a contractor that cleaned dumpsters. “Hiring you is asking for trouble,” he’d told her. “Why should I hire you when the next person in line doesn’t have a dishonorable discharge?�
�� The employer’s point couldn’t be denied, but— Dumpsters, for God’s sake! They won’t even hire me to clean dumpsters! The oyster-shucking job faired as well. “This is a job for morons, honey, but I need honest morons. Sorry, you’re too great a risk,” the boss had said. Clare had just about lost it. “What’s the risk?” she’d countered. “Because I have a dishonorable discharge, you’re afraid I’m gonna do what? Steal oysters? I’m gonna stick a few in my pocket every night and walk out with them? Sell them on the street for crack money? Jesus Christ, can’t somebody give me a break?” The proprietor just shrugged: “I’m a business man. I got no obligation to give you a break. The fact of the matter is you got a shitty background, so I’m not gonna hire you. Sure, it sucks a girl with your education can’t get a job shucking oysters…but you should’ve thought about that before you fucked up your life.” Clare wanted to take him down right then and there, three-point him on the floor till he started crying. Instead, she walked out.
“I did not fuck up my life,” she whispered to herself now, in the ratty homeless-shelter bed. “I was set up and I was ripped off.”
But no one wanted to hear that. That was the story for every woman down on her luck. It was someone else’s fault. They believed that one about as much as they believed that any convict you ask is really innocent.
That’s what the world was saying to her now: Tough luck, honey.
The sweat on her skin felt like slug slime. She squinted at her watch in the meager morning light: 04:57. The fine mil-spec chronomatic watch only reminded her that she’d have to give it up very soon. Four hundred dollars retail but she’d be lucky to get fifty for it from the St. Pete pawn-shop shylocks. Her security platoon at the base had given it to her when she’d made 1st LT…back when she was somebody, back when she was respected and liked. Back when she had a life.
The shelter staff would be coming in in an hour to wake them up. The nightmare had foiled any chance of a decent night’s rest, and there was no point in trying to fall back to sleep now—the deformed hand of her rapist would be waiting for her, she knew. Why give it the satisfaction? Time to un-ass this place, she thought. The buses wouldn’t start running out of Williams Park for another hour, and if she was lucky she could catch the Missionaries of Charity truck on 4th Street for a free sandwich. She grabbed her clothes off the metal fold-down chair by the bed and whisked herself quietly to the latrine. The Florida heat was bad enough, and the shelter was not air-conditioned. Clare felt gross, her bra and panties sticking to her. A nice cool shower was what she needed. Maybe that would improve her mood.
Then again, maybe not.
Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaw, damn it! she thought. The deodorant test!
True, she was a bum by any standard now, but with no drug or alcohol dependencies, she at least qualified for private product testing. The money wasn’t much but it was better than nothing. Today, of all things, she was testing a new roll-on deodorant, with an ungainly stipulation: she wasn’t allowed to shower for twenty-four hours. Charming. It’s going to be high nineties today. Another kick in the tail.
Don’t bellyache, she resolved. Just go with it.
She tried washing her hair in the sink but the faucet was too short and the basin too shallow. She had to settle for just a hand and face wash; then she pulled on her clothes and rushed out of the shelter onto the street.
Downtown St. Petersburg was beautiful in the morning…if you looked to the east, toward the water. Looking west provided an abundant display of stained-brick bum motels, pawn shops, and alchy bars. She clenched her fists so hard her nails nearly drew blood in her palms when she arrived in Williams Park and saw all the winos and transients sitting calmly in the grass eating sandwiches. The sandwich truck was driving away.
She stood at the corner, foot tapping, tempering herself, demanding of herself: I will not cry. I will not scream. I will not lose it. There are tons of women in the world a hundred times worse off than you, so…DEAL WITH IT, CLARE! It just so happens, for whatever friggin’ reason, that you’re having a bad day. Just…DEAL WITH IT.
Sometimes she actually believed it might be some defect in her spirituality, that some deity—God, Buddha, Whomever—was punishing her for squandering a life once rife with opportunities, for just not resolving to be a good person.
Yes, sometimes she actually considered that possibility.
“Damn it,” she whispered aloud. “I am a good person. There’s nothing wrong with me. I’m gonna pick myself up and fix my life.”
She had exactly five quarters in her pocket. That would get her on the No. 35 bus to 66th street. There were no transfers here so she’d have to walk the thirty blocks from there to the Hillover Products Testing building.
Fine. It would be hard but she was going to do it.
Just do it and quit griping. One step at a time.
Through the plexiglass of the bus shelter she gasped when she saw the scrawny, destitute woman with chopped blond hair and sunken eyes standing there. Scuffed jump boots for shoes, crumpled khaki pants several sizes too large, and the soiled olive-drab t-shirt that read U.S. AIR FORCE TOP PISTOL TEAM—MACDILL AFB. The woman, of course, was herself, her reflection in the plexiglass.
Clare’s lower lip trembled when she stared harder at the truth of what was really happening to her. She was starving, emaciated. Her whole life was going down the drain.
A tear glimmered in her eye.
In the garbage can she noticed a brown paper bag—carry-out Chinese food. The half-eaten egg roll in the opened white container looked mighty tempting, but she just wasn’t there yet. There were ants in it. I’m not going to eat garbage, she thought with conviction.
Wait, what’s—
She reached into the bottom of the bag and nearly squealed when she found several plastic packets of duck sauce and hot mustard. They hadn’t been opened. And, better yet, one cellophane-wrapped fortune cookie.
She felt ashamed that others were seeing her like this; nevertheless, the condiment packs tasted succulent. She crunched down the fortune cookie. Delicious.
Then she read her fortune:
SOMETHING VERY GOOD WILL HAPPEN TO YOU TODAY.
(II)
Kari Ann’s next climax seemed to flatten her. Yes, she was being crushed by her passion, she was being compressed by her need. A drop-out in the fourth grade, Kari Ann Wells wasn’t really educationally furnished with a clinical understanding as to why this might be…and she really didn’t care, either. For instance, it would never have occurred to her that the long-term crystal meth habit might have something to do with it. She preferred to think of herself, instead, as a passionate woman who pursued her physical desires in a feminine, natural way, not a societal urchin hopelessly addicted to variant amphetamines and subsequently given to rampant sexual excess due to a subjugating environment and a connected dependency to the unnatural stimulation of certain chemical receptors in her soon-to-be-if-not-already damaged brain.
Kari Ann was a trailer tramp, in other words, an “ice” junkie and a whore, whose facility for free will was long given over to the tragedy of substance abuse. In her own mind, though, she was a vibrant, happy woman who loved to be loved.
And right now, Jory Kane was giving her some formidable love indeed.
The woods were a cacophony, the crush of nightsounds almost tactile as Jory bulled into her. Caleb had sent them back to the boat for more tackle, but they weren’t heading down the path for two minutes before Jory’s hand had found its way down her cut-offs. The response was almost automatic, it was ingrained in her. She pulled off her top at once, dragged him down into the nearest stand of palm trees.
“Whatever you do,” she whispered, “don’t tell Caleb…”
“Shit on Caleb,” he muttered and crudely peeled her shorts off. He lowered his jeans just as quickly, then pushed her knees back into her face.
Kari was ready; she was always ready. But— “Aren’t you going to put on a—”
Ummph!
No, the n
ext gesture told her. He wasn’t.
“Bet Caleb don’t give it to you like this…”
Kari Ann sucked in a great breath through her teeth.
No. Caleb didn’t.
God, he’s huge, was all she had time to think, and then she was being skewered. But the discomfort was delicious, the abrupt penetration reaching right into her and turning on all her sexual senses at once. Like a light switch—snap!—and she was on and running, a hot, ticking appliance, ready to be used. Jory used her well.
The worst image winked in her mind: Caleb crunching down the path, wondering what was taking them so long, and—
Finding them.
It wasn’t that Kari Ann feared the likes of physical abuse—Caleb was pretty much just a fat pud who’d never been in a fight in his life and whose idea of violence was maybe swatting a skeeter—she simply didn’t want to lose the gravy train. Caleb had his own 24’ by 52’ trailer at Pelican Park that his parents bought him, and the trailer was fixed up real nice: window unit in every room, big Japanese TV and a VCR and a DVD, and one of those satellite dishes. He never had to work a job because he had some weird bone disease, made him walk a little funny, so he got $795 a month from S.S.I., plus a couple grand a month from his parents. See, Caleb was upper-crust white trash, the kind of man all women of Kari Ann’s breed wanted to settle down with. He didn’t smoke ice, he just drank beer and chewed tobacco, but he was sure happy to fork over a good helping of that monthly cash to his loving “girlfriend.” Caleb kept Kari Ann in crystal meth, and Kari Ann kept Caleb in a falsified state of self-esteem.
A perfect relationship.
Caleb was Kari Ann’s “gig,” and she sure as shit wasn’t going to lose it by being careless. Sure, she cheated on him at every reasonable opportunity, but she knew she’d have to be real careful with Jory. They were third cousins or something like that, and when Jory got out of jail the last time, he started sucking up to Caleb. Caleb, in all his insecurities, liked to be seen in public with a big tough redneck buddy like Jory. It made him feel good. So Jory had his game to play, too. And just as much to lose.
