From the wall she took a long peacock feather and, waving it in front of him, she began to speak. "You must stay away for a while." The feather touched his cheek, his forehead, the eyelids, the nose, the mouth. "I want you strong. I want both of us to heal." The feather swept his neck and stung the wound.
He shook his head.
While beating his chest with the feather, she demanded that he not talk back. The feather roamed down his abdomen and over his belly. His wrists were manacled together behind his back, but his legs were free. He drew his thighs apart, and she circled his cock with the light touch of the feather and dragged the feather down the inside of each thigh.
La Maîtresse leaned forward to whisper in his ear.
"Come back to me bloated with life, with fresh blood. Ready to feed the desires of Maîtresse la Présidente. Your perverse blood shall feed me afresh."
Chapter 15
Marie drove onto Keith's property. It had been several days since she had seen Wil, and she meant to change that. In her arms she carried a straw basket filled with scones and preserves. Her special peace offering. She shifted the load in order to rap on the door.
"What do you want?" A yellow tinge on Keith's right cheekbone reminded her of their last meeting. He did not open the door wide.
"I brought some food."
"We're not hungry. They have a soup kitchen in the next town over, give it to them."
"Even managed to collect enough blueberries to make a favorite spread of mine." She lifted the white linen cloth covering the basket and attempted to move closer to Keith. He merely closed the door another quarter inch.
"Dad hasn't had much of an appetite since we last visited you."
Marie turned and saw Wil leaning against the front fender of her car. He stood shirtless, with a tuft of hair rising above the waist of his low-cut jeans. Grass clippings speckled his bare feet.
"It's been several days, and I wanted to invite you back."
"For what?" Keith's voice rasped behind her.
"I'm afraid there was a misunderstanding." She turned back to the father.
"This 'old fart' got the message," voiced Keith gruffly.
"I was over-playful."
Loud laughter spilled from Wil's lips.
"See! Your son understands it was a joke."
"My son gets off on people sticking needles in him. Not to mention the tattoos covering his hairy legs. Christ, he comes out of the shower looking like a walking mural."
"Dad's jealous. He'd like some color on his legs other than the bulging purple knots of his veins."
Marie placed the basket on the tattered pillow of the porch rocking chair. She took a deep breath and turned to face Keith.
"I apologize if I frightened you. And really, I didn't mean to hurt you. I see the bruise is practically gone." She reached out a hand, and Keith pulled back. She joined her hands and steepled her fingers to her lips. "Dinner. This Saturday evening at, say, eight o'clock. I'll invite my granddaughter. She always manages to keep me in line." She smiled. "I do owe it to you both. Lord only knows what your son thinks of me."
"Whatever he thinks would be right," Keith said.
"I think you're a lovely, stylish woman. My father and I accept your gracious offer."
Keith groaned.
As long as Wil showed up, she didn't care what the old man did. Already she had projected her strong desire for Wil onto a client. A client who was too willing to accommodate her lust and blood hunger.
Marie descended the steps.
"I look forward to seeing you both." She started for the door of her car. "And oh! Do dress casually. Shorts are fine." She winked at Wil and then entered her car.
* * *
"I'll wear my oldest boxers. Just see how much casual she can stand."
"Dad, calm down."
"Maybe you don't mind that she wants to jump your bones, but... well, you'd sleep with anything."
"You're jealous."
"Huh?"
Wil pulled out a kitchen chair, swept it between his legs, and sat.
"I think you've got a crush on your neighbor."
"Shit, I don't need that kind of woman hanging around me." Keith moved to the stove. "Damnit, the soup's boiling away. It'll take another half-hour for it to cool. It's her fault."
"Because you happened to be heating up soup when she knocked on the door? Or because you were too attracted to her to remember the soup?"
"Wilbur, I've got a single bed, just big enough for me. I don't have any room for a woman."
"That wasn't true when I was a kid."
Keith looked at his son.
"I may have had a lady stay over once in awhile."
"Whole weekends you'd be romping around in your bedroom. That's when I learned to do for myself. You and your whores would swat me out of the way when you came out for air."
"They were ladies. I never had to pay for it. Paying for sex is a sin."
"If you had gone to church on Sunday, you would have learned that sex without the blessing of marriage is a sin."
"You certainly didn't learn anything on Sundays."
"I learned lots, Dad, without having to leave my own home."
"You didn't learn to be a fag in this house." Spit sprayed the air in front of Keith.
"I'm bisexual."
"The only kind of woman chasing you is a perverted old lady." Keith grabbed a bowl off the Welsh dresser and brought it over to the stove to pour his soup. "Besides, if your mother hadn't died, there wouldn't have been any other women in this house." He slowly poured the soup into the bowl.
"God, it would have meant sleazing around cheap motels." Wil shook his head in sympathy.
Keith slammed the pot down on the stove.
"I loved your mother. I wasn't about to get married again and go through the loss of another good woman just because her maternal instinct kicked in." He placed the bowl of soup on the table and sat on one of the vinyl-covered chrome kitchen chairs.
Wil listened to his father slurp down the soup. The jiggling of his father's false teeth fascinated him. Dad's too cheap to even pay for a decent set of teeth.
"What?" Grasping his soup spoon just above the bowl, Keith looked at his son.
"When's the last time you got laid?"
Keith dropped the spoon back into the bowl, causing a light splatter of tomato soup.
"That's why you're so grumpy, Dad. Let me treat you."
"What the hell are you talking about?" Keith's eyebrows seemed to crouch down over his eyelids.
"You still wouldn't be paying for it. I would. You're all clogged up. Let me call my favorite Roto-Rooter girl."
"Disgusting. You made me lose my appetite." Keith stood and walked to the sink with the bowl in his hand. After dumping the soup down the drain, he pulled open the dishwasher and shoved the bowl inside the machine. "You and the Wicked Witch of Rathbone deserve each other." Keith started to exit the room.
"Don't forget to mark Saturday down on your calendar. If her granddaughter's cute, we might be able to have a foursome.
Chapter 16
He had the face of a young man. Liliana guessed him to be in his mid-twenties. His features, while coarse, still had some fine detail through the mouth and in the shape of the nose. His slicked-back hair gave only the faintest hint of red, while his brows and beard stubble glistened with the color. The frame of his body indicated that he had been a dedicated athlete. A dusting of reddish-brown hair covered his chest.
Young. Too young to be lying on the stainless steel table.
She poured kerosene into the knife wound on the lower abdomen. The maggots shriveled and died. While sponging down the body with a disinfectant, she wondered about this man's life. So short, unlike hers, which was never-ending. Would death be preferable to her existence?
Stomach fluid bubbled between his lips. Quickly she rolled over the body to drain the purge from the corpse's mouth. Later she would have to remember to tie off the trachea and esophagus before exposin
g the arteries of the neck for embalming. Her fingers left tracks on his discolored back. After returning him to the supine position, she swabbed out his mouth and nose.
When she grasped the palm of his hand, she felt the rough calluses marring his flesh. Gradually she flexed the arm several times, then continued on to the other arm. After bending his legs to relieve the rigor mortis, she started to massage the thick thighs as a lover would, allowing her fingers to sink deep into his crotch, pushing aside his balls. The erection caused by the settling blood stood useless; she touched it softly with the tips of her fingers. It had been so long since she had tasted the smooth tip and ridge of a male organ. Closing her eyes, she remembered the salty chlorine flavor of seminal fluid. Her hand circled the erection and moved up and down.
The sound of a moan pulled Liliana back into the reality of the embalming room. She checked his gaping mouth, but no sound had been emitted from there. A shiver and a smile acknowledged her own senseless fear. It had probably been her fantasy that had caused her to moan with forgotten pleasure.
She extended his legs and arms over the gutter circling the table. While elevating the head, she rubbed the back of her hand across his stubble. The beautician would shave him later, but for now he had the look of a sleeping lover.
Visually she sought his left and right carotids for the arterial embalming she was about to perform. No beat existed to assist her search; experience and the leanness of his body made it easier. His odor and the coolness of his flesh were familiar to her. Her own body carried the same chill, and often she awakened in her coffin to the scent of her own reposal decay. Her body healed fast, so that by the time she stepped from the casket her flesh had sweetened to the reality of life. The same could not be said of her clients, who stretched out into eternal decay.
After closing off the trachea and esophagus, she exposed the carotids and inserted hollow metal tubes in order to inject the formaldehyde and methyl alcohol mix. Before using the solution, she cut a major vein to drain the blood.
The commingling odors of the embalming fluid and the blood always made her feel light-headed. Her mouth watered at the sight of the blood dripping into the surrounding gutter. The temptation to drain the body with her own lips passed quickly. Once she had tried, and the rancidness of dead tissue had roiled her stomach. Uncle Donatien was right. They were meant to feed from the living. Vampires were not scavengers, they were game hunters. Not vultures picking at the remnants of nature.
Her fingers massaged the young man's cold flesh, helping to spread the embalming fluid that would firm up muscles that never would be used again.
Often she felt intrusive, preventing the body from taking on its final state, saving the body shell to satisfy the whims of the living. A final prep. A final farewell. The final façade with which each man must face friends, relatives, and sometimes enemies.
Intently she watched his face and hands, waiting for evidence that the fluid was entering the visible areas. And she continued to massage, feeling the ribs and hip bone dig into her palms.
"Freedom from the bonds of humanity will come. I promise," she whispered, knowing that her own blood bond was too addictive to vanquish.
When the hands showed evidence of the embalming fluid she quickly moved to apply Superglue to conjoin his fingers. The nails were ragged, and some were split. The fingers were short, the knuckles knobby with the indication of early arthritis. A white scar circled his right thumb. His palm had a congestion of lines. She kissed the palm and brushed it against her cheek.
"If only I were brave enough to join you."
Gently she placed the hand over his chest.
Chapter 17
From his bedroom window Louis watched Cecelia helping her mother in the garden. He had not bothered to tell Matilda that it didn't matter whether the vegetables were organic or loaded with insecticides. But he did notice a difference in flavor. So maybe organic was better, even if the ugly vegetables had to be inspected for infestations. Louis still enjoyed an occasional meal of vegetables, meat, and fruit, although his life-long hemorrhoid problem dictated temperance.
Cecelia wore denim cut-offs cut off as high as she could go without revealing a completely bare bottom. For hours the girl would kneel on the fertile earth, leaning over frequently to plant, trim, fertilize, or weed with her glorious ass saluting his window. He thought he noticed a slight pinkish sunburn creeping up each cheek. Not as pink as he could make them if that emmerdeuse mother would disappear.
"Ah!" he sighed as the girl jerked the spade back and forth into the ground.
He could stand here all day regardant fixement la jeune fille. However, he had a project to complete, and it must be done soon or his own dear jolie fille would continue to waste away.
Louis blew a kiss to Cecelia and crossed the room to his bonheur-du-jour and sat down to write out his shortened list. He had looked up the name of David Petry in every reference he could obtain. He believed he did know something very important about Monsieur Petry. The young man had said that his niece needed a psychiatrist more than an accountant. Therefore, Louis had narrowed the list of David Petry's down to three listings. One lived in Fort Lee, New Jersey, a possibility since they had met on the Jersey side of the Hudson. Another lived in Astoria, Queens, and the least promising lived on the God-forsaken tip of upper Manhattan. Since the first two had not answered their home phones, it was the third with whom he had the evening appointment. As it turned out, the individual answering the telephone was an accountant.
* * *
At seven-thirty Louis climbed a staircase to the neighborhood called Park Terrace, which sat upon a hill overlooking the drudgery of working-class life. He had driven around the middle-class enclave for fifteen minutes before giving up and finding a parking space at the bottom of the hill. Dinner time on a weekday was the worst time to park in a New York City residential neighborhood. He had noticed an obvious difference in the age and brand of the cars he had viewed. On top of the hill cars seemed to be less rusted, newer; more cars retained their hubcaps. At the bottom of the hill he had parked between an orange Pinto and a dented Chevette. He doubted that his feminine-voiced alarm calling for help would attract anyone, but he made sure it was turned on. Besides, the frail voice crying out his name, asking him to "Please stop the rogue," turned him on.
At the top of the steps an elderly woman tugged a miniature mutt out of his way. The dog gnashed his teeth and yanked hard on his collar.
"Bad dog," the woman kept repeating without much enthusiasm.
One of the dog's back legs seemed paralyzed, and Louis wished he could put the animal out of its misery. Despite the warmth of the evening, the woman wore a knit hat and black raincoat. He hoped flashing was not one of her sports. Her brittle stick-like figure waved him on. Annoyance added additional lines to her already well-creased face.
"Move on, for heaven's sake. I can't be walking Ginger all night. She can't shit while strangers are watching. Move on. Hurry!"
Louis halted. The dog's gray muzzle shivered around its yellow teeth, and the gravelly growl inspired little fear.
"Perhaps your dog needs a purgative."
"She needs privacy while she takes a good shit. That's what she needs."
He noticed that the woman's eyes were a cloudy gray-blue. Her nose was long, thin, and pointed, while the lips caved into her mouth. He had seen many of these kinds of women huddled around the guillotines of the French Revolution. Matter of fact, this particular woman had an uncanny resemblance to a Madame Charlotte Chénier, who sold fruits and vegetables to the voyeuristic crowds.
He didn't like either woman, but his errand took precedence over a petty grudge. As Sade moved on to his destination, the dog began yapping. Sade's ears rang with the timbre.
The heavy doors leading to Petry's lobby did not silence the sound but did at least muffle it. Sade checked the names listed on the intercom. David Petry's apartment was on the fourth floor, and he answered Sade's ring immediately with a long buzz.
Sade opened the inner door and headed to the elevator.
Out of service, a four-by-six yellow index card informed him. On the way up the stairs, Sade hoped that this would not be the David Petry he was looking for, since he felt a bit famished from all the exercise.
Petry's door was painted the same dark green as all the other apartment doors, except his had a coat of arms pasted directly under the peephole. A coat of arms Sade recognized. But it would be too coincidental, too simple, too pretentious to be Stuart.
Suddenly the door opened. Cet espèce de crétin, Stuart.
"Hello, Mr. Sade?"
"Oui."
David extended his hand. "I'm David Petry." The handshake was limp, not surprising to Sade.
"Is it getting chilly out there?"
"Pardon?"
"Your hand feels cold. But come in."
"The coat of arms?"
David laughed. "A souvenir of my trip to England. I don't know why, but I liked it, even though I know it's kind of kitschy."
"Sometimes the past haunts us," Sade said.
The apartment seemed to be full of souvenirs and yard sale items. The Persian rug was well-used and fake. The sofa was draped in a deep purple Afghan that barely hid the tattered material beneath it. Two uncomfortable director's chairs faced the couch. Sade sat on the center pillow of the sofa, away from the stained and dirty armrests.
"Excuse the place. I spent four years in the armed services and then went back to school, so I'm a little strapped for cash. Not that my business isn't picking up, but I do have some hefty loans to pay off."
"Armed services? Monsieur, let us hope you do not repeat all your follies."
"I never thought of serving in the army to be a folly."
"It depends on what side you are on."
"I suppose you're right. Have we met before?"
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