Deadweight

by Robert Devereaux

  Car, truck, whatever, was getting louder. He pushed off the floor, using the couch for balance. Marcie came back, carrying her silk robe over one arm, and tossed him his worn teal terrycloth robe, the one Susan had made for him a year before they married. He caught it but held it bunched against his chest and watched Marcie arch back to put hers on, wrap it over her breasts, cinch it around her waist. “What are you doing?” she asked.

  “Watching you.”

  She nodded below. “You’re not getting into the right mood for guests. The robe won’t be much good if you can’t lose that for a while.”

  “I guess I’d better stop looking at you then. Think of something sobering, some real turnoff. Kids starving in Ethiopia. A multi-car collision.”

  “Your wife.”

  “Ah-ah.”

  “Sorry, that was uncalled for.” She said it in a way that brought them closer into collusion, playing out the role of naughty lovers. But Ethan knew, and she knew, that Susan was a topic they’d have to discuss before the weekend was over.

  Time enough.

  An eternity already, and two more blissful days still ahead. But he knew one thing for sure: If it kept being this good, he’d have no choice but to go for it, no matter what the cost to him, to Susan, to four-year-old Sean and Ivan, whom he vowed he would treat with extra special care if it came to breaking up the family.

  He pulled on his robe, hearing the crackle of stones under the wheels of what was obviously a truck. It came in close to the cabin, sounded like maybe parallel to his car, and shut off. Ethan headed for the window. A truck door slammed, then another. A dog barked but like no dog Ethan had ever heard. This bark split the air, exploding in Ethan’s ears like the loud sudden popping of paper bags behind him. Made him start, swear under his breath.

  A woman walking past his car. Tanner’s wife! What was her name? Karin. Major battered-wife-syndrome case just before Thancher hired him. Then he recognized the truck too. Chance meeting at the Folsom Lake beachfront one weekend about a month ago. What the devil were Frank and his wife doing here? Maybe they were swingers, taking a chance coming out here, making their proposal to him and Marcie, Karin Tanner wasn’t a shabby-looking lady that was for damn sure, worst thing could happen was they got their no and left, Ethan wasn’t about to spread the news, not in his current situation, but Frank risked—

  Then he caught a glimpse of the guy. Not Frank. The guy smiled and waved. Ethan drifted back from the window. Big muscular jock-type. Rolled-up sleeves. Pecs out to here. What the hell was going on?

  “Who is it, Ethan?” Marcie from the couch.

  “Frank’s wife and some guy I’ve never seen before.”

  “You don’t think she—”

  “I’ll bet that’s it. Poor Frank. These two probably make a regular thing of it and he has no idea.”

  A knock on the door, three quick friendly raps.

  “Must be something else. She would have seen the car and had him turn his truck around.”

  “Not this guy. Probably thinks he can talk us out of the cabin. Don’t worry. We’ve got squatter’s rights, and you’ve got the best lawyer in town.” He unlocked the door and went for the handle, nervous about Karin’s discovering his affair. Wives hung together sometimes. But then, he figured, he knew her secret too; bit of mutual blackmail might suit them nicely. As for the palooka, he’d only got a glimpse of him, but the man would see reason soon enough under the onslaught of Ethan’s trained analytical mind, a gift that had sparked envy and admiration at Yale, lots of good-natured skull rubbings for luck. If it came down to it, he’d offer to pay half of their motel room, hell he’d give them the keys to his timeshare condo up at Tahoe with the built-in hot tub if they liked.

  He turned the handle and opened the door.

  The guy was taller than he’d thought. Ethan adjusted his gaze upward, noting the man’s odd stance: not square with the door, but right foot trailing the left, his body plane just the least bit askew. Strange pose: left hand thrust into his jeans pocket, right obscured at his side, the whole picture reminding Ethan of a long-coated Civil War vet leaning grandly on a cane. Then he fixed on the face, the flat grin, lips lying closed, not preparing to say a thing, the eyes too small and too close together to be handsome, they drew him, the thought flashed “a prison look,” but yes and no, not prison but something far worse, something Ethan wished he hadn’t opened the door to, felt the impulse to close it flash in his arm, muscles starting to tense, then saw the guy flex his knees a tad, drop his right shoulder, twist back and then forward, the right arm coming out of hiding, its hand impossibly long and narrow and Johnny Depp it was no hand. He made to back away, to raise his hands, but the steel parted the air in front of him, uprising past his chest, punching up through the soft meat just above and in front of his neck with such force that his teeth slammed on his tongue, his mouth went wet and foul with invasion, and his sinuses clogged up like a sudden cold, and he wanted to say Wait, no wait, but his head was full of random impulse, part dream, part memory, the time he filled his pants halfway to school, but he was there, the three-year-old’s agony warping his head, and he was a dozen other places, buzzing frantically from one of them to the next, seeking home, some stability, trying to breathe for starters, and it was then he began to fly.

  ***

  Hot damn! Fucking Roman Gladius short sword, ten hot inches of blade and enough pommel to feel absolutely in control—no wonder them fuckers had ruled the world! Danny didn’t know who this jerkoff in the bathrobe was, but his head skewered nice and easy, like a tender chunk of beef on a shish kabob. Thick skull though, eggshell of a roc. Danny could feel the beveled swordpoint stuck there like a dagger in an oak table. Fucker was twitching. Weird eye blinks. Musta never had his skull shanked by a lightning rod before. Little rooster boy, bantam weight, poor sap had lost his boxing gloves. Danny didn’t mind the blood dripping off the crouching lions on the guard, ribboning down his arm. Made him feel righteous, to tell the truth, warm and fuzzy inside like a crusader laying some defiant heathen low. But the red stuff wasn’t going to do wonders for his porch, and dammit he’d paid good money and put in a lot of sweaty weekends getting this cabin built. No way was he going to let this idiot bleed all over it.

  “Stand clear,” he said, but Karin and Wolf waited to his right on the porch, out of the line of fire. Flexing his knees, Danny tugged the fucker down and forward, then twisted about and shot his arm up and over his head, off toward the left, the twitching body coming after like an inflatable knock-me-down toy. He released the sword just past the peak of its arc, saw the Mohawk of blood glisten like rubies in the sun, watched the fool curve up into the air and break his bones against the roof of his shit-brown Celica. “Wolf,” he shouted, “snack time.”

  Wolf nearly knocked Danny off the porch, he streaked by so fast. A blur of steel-gray fur, black with Nona’s and Jimmy’s blood. Fucking beast was going to be needing another bath real soon. Maybe shave his ass next time, save himself a lot of trouble. Wasn’t much life left in Mister Celica there, but Wolf’s jaws digging for his liver set him twitching a few more times until at last he gave up living and got cozy with being dead meat.

  “Follow me,” he said, not looking at Karin, knowing she wouldn’t dare disobey him.

  He walked in. A girl. Hugging herself, trembling. Brown hair, big tits, shiny blue silk kimono. Guy’d been a rooster all right, stuffing his cock into this piece of chicken here. Sounded like a dandy idea. But she looked like she could use a little foreplay first.

  Danny strode over to her, not aggressive, casual like he could be trusted. But she backed away, blinking tears. She’d seen him trash her boyfriend, her husband, whatever. “Hey, where you off to?” He reached out, grabbed a lapel, felt hot breast against his knuckles. She stopped, unsure what to do. Danny could feel her thinking: Do I leave my robe in his hand, maybe rouse him more? Do I try to claw out his eyes or slam the heel of my hand against his nose, break it, drive the bone up into his brain?
Or do I stay and hope he changes his mind, wimps out, doesn’t rape the bloody fucking hell out of me?

  Her eyes shifted over his shoulder, to Karin, took on softness, relief. Another woman, a sister who might save her, comfort her, keep this maniac—him!—off her. Anger flared. He was no maniac. Just an ordinary joe trying to get by, trying to figure out this lousy world and do what he could to leave it in a better state than he’d found it. Not a daunting task. Couldn’t be much worse. “Don’t back away.” He drew closer to her.

  She gentled back, repelled by his nearness.

  “What did I just say? I said don’t back away from me. Didn’t I? Didn’t I just say that?”

  “Danny, for God’s sake, let her go.” Karin, inside the door.

  He ignored her, but she was getting him steamed. A year apart had wreaked havoc on her obedience. She would need punishment, that was clear. Lots of it. He released the girl’s lapel and prodded her—his five fingers splayed stiff against her chest—backward toward the couch.

  “Answer me, dammit, I asked you a question.” Fucking dummy looked like a dimestore floozy, brain or head-of-air not focusing very well, hoping maybe if she held still, he might mistake her for a mannequin. He slapped her, making it as hard as his slaps had been in life, holding back the reserves of strength boiling just below the surface.

  “What?” she said. A plead, drawn out and plaintive, as well as a request that he repeat the question.

  No matter. He had what he wanted: the sound of her. Incredible. Not Karin’s annoying whine, but a rich sultry voice that caressed him just below the gut. He shoved her over the back of the couch, the pivot point just above her ass. Her arms flailed, her white legs scissored past him. Danny caught her right ankle, stopped her wild tumble over the couch so that she slammed onto her back and struck her head on the cushioned armrest. Her left foot slapped loud against the floor. When she saw that he was staring right up her exposed leg into her hairy pink treasure, she tried to bring her thighs together, but Danny kept her right leg high and she had to content herself with holding a flap of blue silk over it with both hands.

  “Spoiling my fun,” he said. “I don’t like that.” He walked over the back of the couch, keeping her ankle high. Then, when he was kneeling inside her thighs, he let go of the ankle and vised her bird-bone wrists in his left hand, gripping them, trapping them at her groin. He yanked at the robe, left and right, exposed her breasts, red-tipped jugs just made for staring and sucking.

  A hand at his shoulder, tugging. “Danny, don’t!”

  He couldn’t fucking believe it: his wife, standing right behind the couch, her fucking face full of terror and alarm, daring to oppose his will. Maybe even less of a tremble in her voice. Instinct hauled back his right hand and let it fly with a slap that would have taken the flesh off her skull and snapped her neck; but at the last moment, he pulled it, sapped its strength and sent Karin sprawling across the room. “Shut the fuck up, woman, or I’ll fucking shut it for you.” He should have felt his usual triumph, but her look stayed with him, augered into his brain, the wasp-man suddenly reborn with a vengeance. The pounding was immense, a pneumatic piston coming down on both lobes, its violence battering outward against his skull. He fought back, overwhelming it with hatred. But still it throbbed and goaded, and he knew eventually he’d have to force Karin to heal his warp, to kill the wasp-man and free him from torment.

  Fuck the sex thing, he had better uses for this bitch than that. But first she needed subduing. He clamped his right hand over her mouth and pinched her nostrils closed between thumb and index finger. She thrashed beneath him, vacuuming his palm for air, a big wide death-hickey in the making. She clung to her puny little life almost as if it mattered, her hands spidering ineffectually over her pussy where he held them, her breasts faking passion’s rise and fall, her eyes wide and frenzied above his knuckles. He was sorely tempted, when she passed out, to keep his hand where it was and finish the job. But no, that would waste a golden opportunity to test Karin’s powers gradually, in stages. He lifted his hand from her face and felt the air immediately rush into her, the body’s involuntary seizure on survival.

  “Get garbage bags,” he said, “and masking tape.”

  Karin was standing there where she’d fallen, the old meekness once more on her face. She gingerly touched the bruise he’d raised. At his command, she began wordlessly to obey, meandering off toward the kitchen area.

  Wolf trotted in, muzzle dripping blood. He found a place near the door and sat there, eagerly watching.

  “You still got the cuffs?” asked Danny.

  “Yes, I . . . I never told Frank about them.”

  Good sign. Saved the swords. Kept the cuffs in that special box up in the closet. Fuck the house, fuck Frank. He could understand how that could happen, her old man six feet under, pussy unfucked for months, got herself a new boss and went along with his changes. But by God, she’d kept Danny’s memory green. She’d held onto the swords and hadn’t even told Frank about the cuffs. Never knew when they’d come in handy. Yeah, well that when was now.

  “Get them. And some good strong rope. Ought to be a length or two coiled up out back in the tool shed.”

  “But why do you—?”

  “Just do it!”

  She winced as if struck, and went off.

  Danny stripped the girl and tossed her robe aside. A fucking beauty. He stroked her flesh. Owned her with his hands. When Karin returned with the things he’d demanded, he had her cuff the girl’s wrists over her head, then rope them to the back couch leg. Her ankles he himself secured on the other side, the spread between her thighs a gradual one, but sufficient for the odd fuck if the mood took him. The handcuff key rested against his sternum when he looped its long leather thong around his neck.

  To Karin as he checked the ropes: “You remember the snuff film, right? I want you to tape three garbage bags together, then help me slide them under her. No sense in spoiling a good couch.”

  Karin seemed about to protest again, but he tightened his glare and that shit was history. She spread the shiny green bags out before the hearth and tugged wide widths of masking tape off with her hands. While they were putting the makeshift dropcloth in place, the girl came to.

  Woozy at first, then swimming into focus, she looked down at her naked body, felt the restraints. “Oh Jesus,” she said. “Fuck, I don’t believe this.”

  “Welcome to your worst nightmare.”

  “Look, mister, you want money, I’ve got some savings, you can have it. Just let me go, okay?”

  “That’s not how this plays out, sweetmeat, you know that. We both know you’re either going to get fucked or killed or some twisted combination of the two. So let’s pretend I’m your dentist and, oh dear me, I just ran out of Novocain, but you’re going to be brave and survive a series of root canals without it.”

  “Lady, please do something.”

  “I—”

  Danny grabbed the girl’s face. “She’s out of it. I make the decisions here. Don’t you forget it.”

  Tears of pain. Danny released her, saw fingerprints whiten and vanish on her cheeks. “You . . . you want it nice,” she said, her voice trembling, “I can . . . do you, but please let me—”

  “Same old song. Fuck for freedom.” A gleam of glass on the hearth caught his eye. “Ah, a bottle of wine, how romantic. Still a few swallows left. You want some?”

  “No, I—”

  “Sure you do. Now open up.” She struggled to keep her mouth closed, but Danny easily prised open her teeth and splashed a few glugs down her throat. He downed the rest while she sputtered and coughed. Lowered the empty bottle, stared at the vineyards engraved on the label, a farmhouse in the distance. “You got a name?”

  “Marcie.”

  He looked at her. “Pleased to meet you, Marcie.”

  She lowered her eyes.

  “Now, Karin—Marcie, this here’s Karin—you told me on the way up here that you were able to unwilt flowers, revive
flowers that were dead, and that you raised me up without even knowing it.” Straddling the girl’s waist, he reversed the bottle, held its neck like a club, a few last drops of white wine splashing on her breasts.

  “That being the case, it occurs to me that you should be worth a lot of money. But before we try you out on the marketplace, I think we need some heavy, in-house testing. Marcie here has kindly consented, well okay maybe I had to twist her arm a little bit, to be your guinea pig.” Danny went belt to tummy with Marcie, his left hand shoved under a cushion corner at her shoulder, his right hand arm-and-hammering down to the floor beyond the blankets, where he smashed the wine bottle and came up with a good clean jag, no label waggling any broken pieces like dingleberries on ass hair after an imperfect shit.

  “So let’s just see how good your healing powers are, Karin babes.” The bottle slid right in, blood welling and spilling immediately, and he twisted and scooped with it, the screams of both women mingling in his brain, making it shout and sting so fiercely that he struck out against the wasp-man with jags of smoky wet glass wrapped in rage.

  TEN

  SLEUTHWORK

  Frank was arguing a fine point of tort law with one of his more disputatious colleagues—a hemorrhoidal boy wonder who managed to win most of his cases while making everyone involved feel tainted—when Jeannine knocked on the door. The colleague, animate with peroration, ignored the urgency on her face and went on.

  “Hold it, Stan.” Frank cut him off. “What’s up?”

  “Joe Caldone’s on line three, Frank. He says it’s important.”

  “Thanks, Jeannine.” He followed her out of Stan’s office, ignoring the bluster aimed at his back, where you going Tanner, you can’t squirm out of a good argument that easy, ad nauseam. No gadfly, just a gnat, and one of the firm’s rare mistakes in hiring.