Intermusings

by David Niall Wilson

  As he hit the streets, the relentlessly pouring clouds parted, revealing a pale moon, fat and ghostly on the horizon, a bloated primordial god. Martin knew all about the crazies that come out to worship that god. Civilization might have removed the stone altars, but sacrifices were still being made.

  He thought of Tony's date then, remembered the fire in her eyes when he'd looked back at her that night outside Vicki's apartment. Another verse from Keats' "La Belle Dame Sans Merci" ran through his mind:

  I met a lady in the meads

  Full beautiful, a faery's child;

  Her hair was long, her foot was light,

  And her eyes were wild.

  The moment the beast seized control, I became a third party in the bedroom. A silent voyeur. A concerned bystander with no means of reaching the lovers tangled in sheets and sweat on the bed.

  The beast guided him in and he proceeded to pound and thrust with single-minded fervor. Her legs went around his waist, muscles strained and taut as she struggled to draw him deeper into her body. He seemed oblivious to the red welts her nails left across his back. There were no cries of pain like the one he'd uttered when I bit his lip.

  It lasted less than five minutes, then his back arched and he gasped. She clung to him and they both came up off the bed, he on hands and knees and she clinging underneath. Shuddering, she climaxed as well, her cries syncopated with little fits of laughter.

  The change came over her quickly, an instantaneous metamorphosis from Kat to cat. Because Tony fucked with his eyes open, he saw it all. I watched from the sidelines. Reflected amid the fear in his eyes, I saw the beast. She was sleek and black, sensuously beautiful. Her eyes were dark crescents, impossibly black, rivaled in hue by nothing save maybe her luxurious hide. Her teeth gleamed like slivers cut from the moon, the glistening canines long enough to reach the very heart of a man, strong enough to crush skulls.

  Tony tried to pull away, but the hands that had already been tearing at his back had become vicious claws that hooked deep into the muscle and sinew across his shoulders. Her jaws clamped around his throat, holding him in place. If he pulled away, he'd rip out his jugular. Her hind legs hooked in the meat of his hips and, though he struggled, she clung to him, riding out several more orgasms, her long black tail thrashing back and forth between his legs.

  Finally, she released his hips. Her legs slipped between their bodies, batting aside his still throbbing erection. That he'd maintained it throughout the transformation hinted at some darker beast within Tony Saucier. One waits there in all of us. There are no good and evil, no black and white, only shades of grey. Some of us carry little beasts, minor cruelties that amount to little in the end. Some carry darker demons that wait the right moment to belittle and backstab, to torture and destroy, to ride those with lesser demons like a dog rides a bitch. I carry a monster from hell.

  The beast's feet dug at the soft part of Tony's belly, having difficulty finding a foothold as he struggled. But find it she did. Then, with one mighty kick, she opened him up, spilling blood and viscera out across the bed and herself. He screamed, but it was short lived as her jaws clamped down. The crunch of his neck was like the sound of a trampled aluminum can. Blood sprayed, spotting her velvet muzzle and laid-back ears. His eyes glazed over and frothy red bubbles blossomed and gurgled from his lips.

  Then Tony managed an incredible feat. He tore away from the beast. Tumbling from the bed in a shower of blood and intestines, he scrambled across the floor toward the pile of clothing where lay his shoulder harness and revolver. He made it as far as the pile, almost managed to draw the gun, but then she was upon him. She drove him to the floor beneath her. Her claws and teeth ripped the flesh from his back in a shower that painted the walls. I saw gleaming pink scapula, articulated vertebrae, and the graceful splines of ribs before she flopped him over and went to work on the front.

  When it was over, she lay supine in the shattered shell that had been his chest, her sandpaper tongue rasping across the raw red edges of his ravaged throat, her stomach bloated with preferred morsels from his abdomen. The corner where he lay was one giant Rorschach pattern, a red, red rose blooming across the floor and up the walls.

  The beast purred with content.

  I came back with the horrible pain that always accompanies the reversion to humanity. Bones crackling, flesh stretching and reshaping to fit the new form, I shuddered and spasmed amid the carnage for five or six minutes until the beautiful woman Tony'd wanted more than anything lay blood-drenched and sated, naked and alone.

  In the shower I washed away the blood, tried to imagine my guilt spiraling down the drain with it. Immortality at a price. A hunger that had to be fed. I'm not responsible, I told myself. I haven't a choice. But the blood running from the walls whispered otherwise.

  There were rivers. There was the sea. There was a stronger god who'd wanted me for centuries. The shower spray invoked his unpronounceable name and invited me to plug the tub and lay back. That's all it would take.

  After the shower, I wrapped myself in a towel and went to find the bottle Tony'd brought. I walked through the bedroom looking to neither side, refusing to focus on anything but the doorway to the living room. I closed off the bedroom behind me and was crossing to the wine bottle sitting there with those damn imputing flowers, when someone pounded on the apartment door.

  Doctor Neff lived in a large, Victorian style home set well back from the road and surrounded by a high, wrought-iron fence. Martin scowled as he pressed the security buzzer and was admitted to the grounds. He's not doing too bad for an abortionist, he thought. He wondered briefly how many of the young ladies the good doctor had "helped" had been treated off the record. It didn't matter. He left the car at the curb in front and ran through the downpour to the front door.

  It opened before he could reach up to ring the bell, and a thin, twitchy little man stood there, a sheaf of papers in his hand. "Detective Zolotow? I'm Stuart Neff. I believe this is the list you wanted?"

  The man was nervous, scared even. Now what? Martin wondered. "Is there something wrong, Doctor?"

  "No, oh no, I'm sorry. It's just that, well, in my business and all, well . . . I'm sure you understand?"

  What a pathetic worm, Martin thought, all the time maintaining his plastic, servant-of-the-people smile. "Of course I understand. You just give me that list, and I'll be on my way. Thank you for your help, Doctor."

  "Oh, think nothing of it," the man almost twittered, relief flooding his features. "I hate to rush and all, but I have my work—patients, you know . . ."

  I know, Martin thought bitterly, I know just about too fucking well. "Listen, I hate to hold you up, but you said something earlier on the phone about this guy who blamed you for his son's death."

  "Yes?"

  "You don't happen to know the guy's name?"

  "Sure. It was in all the papers. British sounding name, though the guy had a typical west coast accent. Let's see . . . Underhill. No, wait. Underhall, that was it."

  "And do you by any chance remember what he did for a living?"

  "I believe he was in construction, Detective. Some sort of carpentry work. Why?"

  Not trusting himself to speak, Martin spun on his heel and got back into Tony's car, driving quickly back out the gate. He had the killer now. He had all the pieces except for connecting the victims to the list that had been stolen from Neff.

  As he sped away, he felt the weight of Neff's place drain away from him. It had reeked of corruption, and he'd wanted nothing more than to just be away. Vicki and Tanya and who knows how many other women he'd been with had been to see that worm . . . had opened their legs and allowed him to rip —

  "Shit," he muttered. He pulled into the first diner he saw, parked and went in to order coffee. All he needed was to find the victims on this list and he'd have enough to make an arrest. Johnny the Cross, a.k.a. Underhall, had to be stopped—before he made another kill.

  The coffee was old, burned, and bitter, but he sippe
d it anyway. The list was more extensive than he'd anticipated, and there was an inordinate amount of familiar names—familiar places. He skimmed quickly, ticking off each victim's name as he came across it.

  He almost passed it—right there in black and white—that fucking building. Room 3-C. Tony was probably in that room right now, but Nadine, the girl on the list, was not. Martin had taken her to the bus station himself, nearly six months ago, taken her to the bus station and sent her home to her mother and father with a big, wet kiss.

  Martin slammed down the rest of the coffee, threw a bill on the table without even looking to make sure it was a one, and headed for the street. As he was pulling away, the rain lessened to a slow drizzle, misting the road and wrapping rainbows about the streetlights.

  I opened the door, just a crack to peek through. "Who is it?" I asked tersely.

  "Ma'am?" came a muffled voice from outside. "Ma'am, they tell me a fellow can come here for a good time—you know, a date?"

  "Jesus," I cursed under my breath. Two hours earlier and he might have saved Tony's life. "I'm not available just now," I said quietly, pushing the door closed. "Maybe you could come back —"

  The foot that slipped into the crack of the door was encased in one of the oldest, filthiest boots I'd ever seen. As it wedged in place, a hand followed, gripping the edge of the door and preventing me from slamming it.

  "I'd really appreciate a little of your time," the voice went on, less controlled. Something in the air, I don't know if it was a scent or just an intuitive instinct, told me that this was no ordinary John. I thought perhaps I caught the scent of sawdust, white pine and birch dust mixed with rain and sweat. Before I could sort it out, he pushed the door in and slipped past, standing just inside and staring at me with dark seething.

  He was wearing a long rain coat with a hood, the kind construction workers wear. It was dripping wet with rain water. Rain water that ran in volatile streams to puddle at his feet where it spread across the carpet, inching toward me. I backed up a step. As it inched closer, I wondered who'd brought who to my door. Had he brought the rain or had the rain brought him? In one hand he carried a blue gym bag. It clanged metallically when he dropped it to the floor.

  "Look, I told you, I'm not available. I'm not even dressed. I need my beauty sleep, you know. Now suppose you get out of here; or should I call the cops?"

  Then he hit me, and not the vicious, put-the-bitch-in-her-place kind of slap men reserve for women. It was a bare knuckle punch, a barroom brawl of a haymaker that shattered my nose and slammed me to the floor. I started to cry out, but bit it back. With Tony's body in the next room I couldn't afford much noise. I tried to get to my knees, letting out a moan of pain. I was still drained from the transformation, and he was no weakling. With more fascination than fear, I watched as blood from my nose spotted the carpet.

  "Whore," he grated, moving in again and swinging a boot out at my head that I barely managed to avoid. "Damned baby-killing whore." I heard the rasp of the gym bag's zipper as he took something out of it. He reached down and grabbed me by the throat, pulling me back to my feet, and I just let him do it. I needed to rebuild my energy. One thing about being immortal, you feel the pain, but the edge is gone from the fear. He would be mine; it was just a matter of time and enduring the torture.

  His grip was unmercifully tight. He held me up on my toes, nearly lifting me from the ground, mumbling more of those catchy one liners about babies and whores. I felt the towel slip free and drop at my feet. He hurled me against the wall and for a moment things went dark, but in the center of that darkness shone something silver.

  As the periphery of my vision spun and refused to focus, that silver cylinder in the center remained painfully clear. It was a metal bucket, visible through the open throat of the gym bag. There was a screech that at first I didn't recognize. I knew what the sound was only when the duct tape went around my mouth. My vision came back in time to see him raise what looked like a weapon from a B-grade science fiction flick. I saw him bring it up, press it against my wrist, and then came real pain. Searing, nerve-rending pain like I've never felt. The gun left a nail head buried obscenely in the dimpled center of my wrist. I pulled, but it was no use, the nail was buried deep in the wall behind me.

  "Your studs are on twenty-four inch centers, whore," he grated. He tapped his temple. "These are things I know. Things of importance. Things that society values. Society abhors you and your kind."

  My own opinion must have been written in my eyes.

  "You think I'm crazy. No. I am society's redeemer. I am their god, their savior. I gave my only son that whores like you would no longer be suffered to live, that your kind would flush no more sons into the sewers of this city."

  He touched my face ever so gently, the tips of his fingers brushing my cheek above the tape but avoiding the blood running from my nose and dripping from my chin. His hand trailed down my neck, over my collar bone and came to rest on my breast. "Such beauty and yet such evil. You beget life only to destroy it, and thereby condemn us all for allowing your existence." I was wondering if he intended to rape me, when he raised the nail gun again.

  I bit back the pain and tried to rake at his eyes with my free hand, but my strength still wasn't back. The beast was sleeping off its kill, complacently silent, blissfully ignorant of the pain its host was suffering. The madman grabbed my other arm and extended it, slamming it home with the same brutal force he'd used on the first. As the nail sank through flesh and paneling, drywall and stud, I focused inward, attempting something I'd never tried before. I went looking for the beast.

  "Pray for your immortal soul, woman."

  As he reached for my leg, and I wound up for a kick, another knock came at the door, and he stopped, poised like a statue. He glanced briefly at me, as if to verify that I couldn't cry out with duct tape wrapped about my head, then he raised the gun and aimed it at the door as if it shot bullets rather than sixteen penny nails.

  Martin pounded again. "Tony? Dammit, Tony, open up! It's important."

  He waited several minutes, but no one came to the door. They were probably still out. Tony hadn't believed she was a hooker. The kid probably figured he needed to wine and dine her to get her in the sack.

  Despite Martin's ruckus, the hall remained empty. This was a building that had heard more than its share of shouts and door-pounding. Its tenants knew to stay inside and let curiosity draw them out after all the screaming and shooting was done and the police had arrived.

  Pacing before the door, Martin considered how much trouble he was already in. Charges of illegal entry and unlawful search would be more coffin nails for Internal Affairs to use.

  "Screw it," he said, and kicked in the door.

  He stepped inside quickly, shutting the door behind him before any of the neighbors caught him in the act. When he turned from the door he found himself confronted by a rain coated maniac with a leveled weapon and, hanging on the wall, the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen, disrobed. Tony'd had good reason to want her so badly.

  Phuft!

  "Agh!" Martin fell back against the door as pain lanced through his chest.

  Phuft! Phuft! Phuft! The nail gun coughed like a silenced nine millimeter. Martin went to his knees, turning to take the shots in his back, protecting his face with his arms. Daggers of pain went off in his shoulders, biceps and forearm. He drew his revolver from under his arm and raised it to fire, but pain lanced through his hand and the revolver thumped to the carpet. Looking down, Martin found a head of galvanized iron standing up from his knuckles.

  The nail gun coughed several more times, each phuft! bringing a stab of pain as the deadly missile burrowed in flesh. Martin screamed and surged to his feet, anger overriding the extreme pain of the nails embedded in his muscles. "You son of a bitch!" He lunged across the room and slammed into the carpenter, driving him back into the wall to Kat's left.

  Underhall was a big man, nearly as big as Martin himself. When the two men fell back f
rom the wall so did a sheet of paneling and a cloud of drywall dust. They went down in a tangle of grappling hands and wildly thrown punches. The nail gun thumped to the floor to one side and, for the moment, was out of the fight. Martin's attempt to get hold of Underhall was hampered by the slick raincoat. Underhall reached under his raincoat and there was a sudden flash of steel. Something wickedly sharp and hooked caught Martin across the cheek. He spun away, blood and saliva whipping away from his face in a bright shower. He tried to catch himself against a battered sofa, but missed. Then Underhall was on him again.

  Too late, Martin saw the barrel of the nail gun come to rest against his shoulder. Underhall had managed to retrieve his primary weapon, returning the abortion tool to its hiding place beneath the raincoat. There was a ka-chink! that sounded no more deadly than a stapler and a nail sank to its head in flesh and bone. Martin bellowed and tried to get away, but nausea and extreme pain had robbed all the strength from his legs. His right arm flopped useless at his side and there were half a dozen areas that burned like hellfire. He was unable to counter when Underhall raised the gun and brought it down with brutal strength across his head.

  A microsecond later Martin was aware of nothing except the fact that the apartment's carpet stank. He experienced the strangest sensation, the feeling that his head had been disconnected. Though he could see blood seeping from the gash above his right eye, running across his nose and out into the carpet, he couldn't feel it. Not even when the vision in that eye faded to red and went out as the eye filled with blood.

  With his good eye, he watched Underhall stoop before him and sensed, more than felt, the barrel of the nail gun when it came to rest against his forehead.

  It was dark and incredibly dry where the beast lived. The air took my breath, left me croupy and cotton-mouthed, blanched the tissue of my eyes until it was hard to focus. The confining corridors of its lair smelled of death and dust, memories decaying like week-old kills in the shadow-coifed fissures that marred the walls, untouchable things mummified in the desiccated rafters above. Ancient sorrows whispered in the cobwebs. Recently voiced screams trembled through the uneven ground beneath my feet.