‘Come with me,’ said “Mr Hillary”, and took hold of Michael’s arm with a clawlike grip, and pulled him across to the daybed.
Michael was enraged and embarrassed and deeply humiliated. There was Patsy, naked, so that everybody in the room could see her pillowy breasts and her pale pink nipples and the light blonde fuzz of her pubic hair. Patsy’s nakedness was private. Patsy’s nakedness was something they shared in bed together, when Jason was asleep, and the moon was pinned up in the bedroom window, and the sea was whispering them lullabies.
‘Patsy,’ he mouthed, trying to explain that he was sorry, that he had never meant this to happen. God almighty, who cared if the world were ruled by lily-white boys, and if presidents were shot, and wars were fought, and neighbourhoods were torn apart? Who cared, if the wife they loved was being shamed?
‘You’re going to enjoy this, Michael,’ said ‘Mr Hillary’. ‘I don’t know how much you associate pain with pleasure, but you will from now on.’
He beckoned to Joseph and Bryan, and they came forward carrying between them a crimson blanket.
‘Show him,’ said ‘Mr Hillary’, and they lifted the blanket to reveal a large circular wreath of blood-red roses, stripped of their leaves, but not of their thorns.
Michael stared at him. ‘What the hell are you going to do?’
‘I’m going to watch you make love to your beautiful wife, that’s what I’m going to do. And I’m going to taste you, Michael, so that you know what it is to atone for everybody else’s sins – so that you know what it is to suffer. You have Seirim blood already ... now you’re going to join us body and soul.’
He snapped his riding-crop in the air, and without warning Joseph and Bryan seized hold of Michael’s arms. He shouted out, ‘Get off me!’ and ‘Shit, get off me!’ But then ‘Mr Hillary’ stepped forward and cracked him across the cheek with his riding-crop, a fierce stinging blow that set the side of his face on fire, and then cracked him again, right across the forehead, almost taking out his eye.
‘You’re one of us, Michael. Never forget it.’
Michael shuddered with pain and shock. His knees felt weak, but two of the lily-white boys held him up. Another lily-white boy came around and dragged down his shorts, then lifted one heel after the other to tug them clear of his feet.
With great ceremony, Joseph laid the wreath of roses on Patsy’s bare stomach. Then he looked up at Michael and smiled mischievously. ‘Your second honeymoon,’ he said, in that arch, drawling, Marblehead accent. ‘Enjoy.’
‘Mr Hillary’ came forward. ‘All you have to do is make love to her. You love her, don’t you? Show her how much you love her.’
He slid his fingers into Michael’s hair, the way a woman might have done, and in spite of himself, in spite of his fear, Michael felt a thrill of erotic attraction. ‘Mr Hillary’ caressed his scalp, and twisted his hair, and then he leaned forward and kissed Michael on the mouth.
Michael tasted saliva, and flowers, and death. But he felt his penis rise, and there was nothing that he could do about it. From only two inches away, ‘Mr Hillary’s’ blood-red eyes stared into his – hypnotic, powerful, erotic, commanding – and he was almost tempted to kiss him back.
‘Mr Hillary’ stood away, just a little. He looked down at Michael’s stiffening penis, and he grinned. He teased the end of it with his riding-crop, and then ran the crop all the way down the underside of the shaft, and tickled and probed at Michael’s tightening scrotum.
‘Now you’re ready for her, aren’t you?’ he breathed, and his voice seemed like six or seven voices, one overdubbed on another. He held Michael’s erection in his left hand, and pulled him forward. Then he reached down between Patsy’s legs, and parted the lips of her vulva with his right hand. ‘Come on, now. Show me how much you love her! Show me how much she arouses you!’
Michael baulked, tried to pull back. ‘No! Don’t touch her!’
But Joseph knelt down beside the head of the daybed, and produced a long, sharp boning-knife, and held it close to Patsy’s cheek. Patsy was trembling and sobbing and her eyes were blurred with tears. ‘Michael, just do it, just do it, just do what they want.’
Michael closed his eyes for a moment, which was something the lily-white boys could never do. He didn’t say a prayer, he couldn’t think of any. But he asked God to keep Patsy safe, and Jason safe; and not to let ‘Mr Hillary’ hurt him too much. Then he climbed onto the daybed, and looked down into Patsy’s eyes, and asked God to kill him, now, on the spot. A heart attack, a stroke, a bolt of lightning. It didn’t matter. Kill me, God. Don’t let Patsy suffer.
But ‘Mr Hillary’ reached between Michael’s legs, and scratched his scrotum with his long, sharp fingernails, and took hold of his penis, and guided it into Patsy’s vagina. He even slid two or three of his own fingers into Patsy, alongside Michael’s penis, so that he could caress both of them. Michael felt Patsy stiffen rock-hard in revulsion, her pelvic muscles locked, but then ‘Mr Hillary’ snapped her thighs with his riding-crop, and she flinched, and relaxed.
‘You’re supposed to be enjoying this,’ breathed ‘Mr Hillary’. ‘All of the pain, and all of the pleasure.’
He drew the tip of his riding-crop down between Michael’s buttocks, and poked at his anus. ‘All of the pain, Michael, and all of the pleasure. Now – lean forward.’
Patsy’s stomach and breasts were completely encircled by the wreath of red roses. If he leaned forward, Michael would press them into her flesh, thorns and all.
‘I can’t,’ he whispered.
‘What?’ asked ‘Mr Hillary’.
‘I can’t, I can’t hurt her for anything.’
‘Mr Hillary’ stepped back, staring at Michael in feigned disbelief. ‘You can’t? Then we shall have to help you! Joseph – Bryan! Help him!’
Laughing, Joseph and Bryan came up to the daybed, and forced Michael down on to Patsy’s breasts. The prickling of the rose-thorns was agony. Their skin was snagged, their nerves lacerated. But that wasn’t the end of it. Joseph and Bryan forced Michael to ride backward and forward on top of Patsy, pushing him down harder and harder with every stroke. Patsy screamed in pain, and Michael bit the inside of his cheeks so hard that blood poured out of the sides of his mouth.
‘In! Out! In! Out! ‘Joseph and Bryan chanted, and forced Michael deeper and deeper down, until his penis was thrusting right inside Patsy, and the rose thorns were ripping both of their chests into bloody rags. ‘In! Out! In! Out!’
Now ‘Mr Hillary’ stepped forward again, and held out his hand as if he expected Jacqueline to know exactly what he wanted. She did: and passed him two thin tubes of metal.
‘In! Out! In! Out!’ chanted Joseph and Bryan. And in spite of his tears and in spite of his blood, and in spite of his anguish for Patsy, Michael began to feel a climax rising.
‘Faster!’ ‘Mr Hillary’ urged him. ‘Harder!’ He lashed at Michael’s bare buttocks with his riding-crop, and lashed at his scrotum, until Michael didn’t know what was pain and what was sexual ecstasy.
Michael felt a clenching feeling between his legs. His spine arched. Then he was climaxing in a way that he had never climaxed before. He felt as if his spine were being dragged out of his back, vertebra by vertebra, and spouted out of his penis.
He dropped heavily onto Patsy and Patsy screamed in pain. She thrashed and twisted and tried to push him off her, but the lily-white boys held him down. Held him down hard, and wouldn’t let him move.
They lay on the daybed, bleeding and shaking and crying, and the lily-white boys pressed them harder and harder together. ‘Mr Hillary’ walked around the daybed and stood over them, gently tapping his metal tubes together, so that they set up a high, tingling rhythm. ‘Now what do you think?’ he asked them, although Michael scarcely heard him. ‘Is it pain, or is it pleasure? Who’s to say?’
He reached down between Michael’s legs, and hooked his softening penis out of Patsy’s vagina with his curled finger. Then he probed inside Pats
y with obscene, obstetric curiosity, stretching her, watching the semen slide out of her with remote, blood-red prurience. ‘You’re beautiful, both of you,’ he murmured, and he ran his fingernails around Patsy’s thighs; and Michael’s thighs, too; and it was probably then that Michael really understood what ‘Mr Hillary’ was. A perfect being, perfectly corrupted. A connoisseur of all things beautiful – of which lovemaking was one – yet a connoisseur whose taste had become totally depraved.
‘Mr Hillary’ was an angel. Or, at least, the very reverse of an angel.
Patsy was biting her lips in pain, and sobbing. Michael said bloodily, ‘Let me up. In the name of God, will you please let me up?’
‘Mr Hillary’ ran the flat of his hand down Michael’s back, and across his buttocks. ‘First, Michael, I have to taste you. First, I have to contaminate you.’
Michael tried to wrestle free, but the lily-white boys were far too strong for him. He felt the tip of ‘Mr Hillary’s’ metal tube digging into the small of his back, and he clenched his muscles.
‘You’re going to enjoy this,’ said ‘Mr Hillary’, in an odd voice. Then he slid the tube into Michael’s back and Michael felt pain like he had never felt before – so much that he writhed and struggled on top of Patsy, and the thorns tore into her breasts even more savagely, and criss-crossed his chest with bloody scratches.
‘Don’t!’ he screamed, and he was crying like a child. ‘Don’t! Don’t! Don’t! Don’t!’
But ‘Mr Hillary’s’ ice-cold tube probed ever deeper, through muscle and connective tissue and nerve endings, until it prodded his left kidney, and then prodded higher, until it located his suprarenal gland.
He felt its sharpness deep inside his back. He didn’t even want to die any more, because he could no longer understand what dying meant. He lay on top of Patsy like a dead weight, while ‘Mr Hillary’ sipped and sipped, and then stood straight, his face transformed, his chest filling with satisfaction.
Jacqueline stood close beside him, stroking his arm, lifting her knee from time to time and caressing his thigh, touching him, nuzzling up to him. Hurt me, too. Take me, too. But he drew his metal tubes out of Michael’s back, and walked across the room, and stretched, and ran his fingertips down his chest, and down his stomach, and smiled, and looked complete.
The lily-white boys carefully lifted Michael off Patsy, and carried him over to one of the armchairs. They picked up the wreath of roses, and dropped it onto the floor. Then they untied Patsy’s bonds, and helped her up, as solicitous and gentle as if she had been involved in an automobile accident, instead of a deliberate act of sadistic perversion.
Patsy said nothing, except, ‘Clothes, please, get me my clothes.’
Without turning around, ‘Mr Hillary’ smiled, and said, ‘A true daughter of Eve. “Then the eyes of both of them were opened, and they knew that they were naked.” ‘
Patsy shrieked at him, ‘Don’t! Don’t! What kind of a monster are you?’
‘Mr Hillary’ swivelled around, his eyes on fire. But then he saw her, naked and scratched and bleeding, and he turned his face away.
‘I’m not a monster, Patsy. There are no monsters.’
She dragged on her jeans, shaking and weeping. ‘You’re evil!’
‘Mr Hillary’ said, with infinite quietness, ‘ “The sons of God saw that the daughters of men were beautiful; and they took wives for themselves, whomever they chose. And they bore children unto them. Those were the mighty men who were of old, men of renown. Then the Lord saw that the wickedness of man was great on the earth, and that every intent of the thoughts of his heart was only evil continually. And God said, “The end of all flesh has come before Me; for the earth is filled with violence because of them.” ‘
He was silent for a long time, and then he said, ‘Genesis, chapter six. Three thousand years before the birth of Christ. And yet, it seems like yesterday.’
It was then that they heard a high, distant wailing sound.
‘What’s that?’ ‘Mr Hillary’ asked Bryan.
Bryan went over to the library window and looked out. ‘It’s nothing,’ he said. ‘I can’t see anything at all.’ But then – ‘Wait, it’s the police. Four police cars. Five. They’re coming this way.’
‘Police?’ said ‘Mr Hillary’, incredulous.
Thomas banged on the door of the lighthouse and waited. ‘Can you believe this place?’ he asked David Jahnke.
David was combing his hair. ‘It’s isolated, it’s cheap. What more could a homicidal maniac ask for?’
‘Don’t get smart,’ said Thomas. ‘This guy Hillary is a lot more than meets the eye.’
He looked around and checked that his six uniformed officers were in position, as well as the two Essex County deputies that his old friend Sheriff Protter had provided – partly out of courtesy and partly to keep an eye on what he was doing. Then he banged on the door a second time.
‘There is a bell-pull,’ David pointed out.
‘Bell-pulls are for salesmen,’ Thomas retorted. ‘Cops knock.’
His knocking seemed to have been heard, because the door silently opened and two white-faced young men stood in the doorway, both of them wearing dark glasses, both of them dressed in black.
Sergeant Jahnke held up the search warrant. ‘Is somebody called “Mr Hillary” here?’
The white-faced young men shook their heads.
‘Well, even if “Mr Hillary” isn’t here, we have a warrant to search these premises, and that’s precisely what we’re going to do. So if you’ll stand aside, please.’
Without a word, the young men closed the door in Thomas’s face. Thomas and Sergeant Jahnke stared at each other in total astonishment.
‘They didn’t even slam it,’ said David.
Thomas tugged the bell-pull and hammered on the door with his fist. ‘ “Mr Hillary”! “Mr Hillary”! Or whoever you are! This is the police! P-O-L-I-C-E, police! And I’m warning you now! Open this goddamned door before I kick it down!’
He banged and banged and then stood back, panting. He was just about to bang again when the door opened and a tall white-haired man stood in front of them, with dark glasses and a long grey coat.
‘ “Mr Hillary”?’ asked Thomas. ‘I’m Lieutenant Thomas Boyle, Boston homicide squad. I have a warrant to search this house – uhnh, lighthouse.’
‘May I see it?’ asked ‘Mr Hillary.’ Sergeant Jahnke passed it to him, and he studied it carefully. Then he handed it back.
‘Well?’ asked Thomas.
‘Mr Hillary’ smiled. ‘That warrant seems to be genuine. Unfortunately, I can’t let you in. We’re all quarantined here. Meningitis.’
He had almost closed the door when Thomas jammed his foot into it. ‘ “Mr Hillary” – meningitis or period-pains, we’re still coming in.’
‘You can’t.’
‘You want me to force my way in? I have a whole lot of backup here. I wouldn’t like to see anybody getting hurt; would you?’
‘Mr Hillary’ looked testy. ‘Lieutenant Boyle, this is my house and I’m entitled to my privacy.’
Thomas held up the search warrant. ‘There’s an Essex County judge who doesn’t think that you’re entitled to your privacy.’
‘Mr Hillary’ was silent for a moment, and stood quite still. Then he beckoned Thomas to come closer, so that he could whisper in his ear.
‘Lieutenant,’ he breathed, ‘I have Michael Rearden and Mrs Rearden and young Master Rearden upstairs. I think they should stay alive and well, don’t you? So turn around, and go back the way you came. I’ll talk directly to Commissioner Hudson, and by lunchtime you’ll be able to drop this case, and carry on with something important, like who sprays all that graffiti on the Hancock Tower, and who’s been spitting into the harbour?’
Thomas looked at ‘Mr Hillary’ narrowly – looked him directly in the eyes, despite the fact that he was wearing dark glasses.
‘Are you threatening me?’ he wanted to know.
‘Mr
Hillary’ smiled. ‘Yes, I’m threatening you.’
‘What proof do you have that the Reardens are here?’
‘Mr Hillary’ gave a nod of his head, over towards the north-west. ‘There’s Michael’s car. What more proof do you need?’
‘I’d like to see him, talk to him.’
‘I don’t think so, Lieutenant. I think the best thing that you can do is to go. Let’s just put this down to a little misunderstanding.’
Thomas stood in the doorway and said nothing. But then he turned and waved to two of his uniformed patrolmen and called, ‘Officer Wilson! Officer Ribeiro! Come on over here, we’re carrying out a search!’
‘Mr Hillary’ stepped back, stiffening. ‘This is not a good idea, lieutenant. You could ruin your career.’
‘Well, that’s a risk I’m prepared to take,’ said Thomas. ‘Sergeant Jahnke – a top-to-bottom search, nobody leaves.’
‘Yes sir, lieutenant,’ said David, springing to attention.
But without saying anything else, ‘Mr Hillary’ closed the lighthouse door and locked it. Thomas looked at David, and David said, ‘Oh.’
Wilson and Ribeiro came hurrying up the steps with their guns drawn. Wilson was ruddy-cheeked and fat, Ribeiro sported a bushy black moustache. Thomas said, ‘We’re carrying out a search, okay, when we get this door open.’
‘We have a sledge in the car, sir,’ said Ribeiro.
‘This is solid hundred-year-old oak,’ Thomas told him. ‘We’re going to need more than a sledge, we’re going to need dynamite.’
‘Maybe we can starve them out,’ Wilson suggested.
‘Oh, yes? And how long is that going to take? They’ve probably got enough supplies to last them till winter.’
‘Maybe we should call in the fire department,’ said David. ‘They’re good at taking out doors. They’ll have ladders, too. We could climb up and take the roof.’
Thomas looked up and shook his head. ‘We have to think about this. If they really are holding the Reardens hostage, then we’re in serious trouble. Let’s take it a little at a time. Let’s set up phone contact first, and see where we go from there. There’s no point in trying a full-frontal assault: that lighthouse is built like a fortress.’
The Sleepless Page 43
