Wade eyeballed after the De Ville until it was long gone. It can’t be, he mused. Winnifred was centerfold material; Besser was a fat dolt. No known logic could explain an affair between the two of them.
The student shop sat at the far end of campus. It existed solely as an ill conceived courtesy; not many rich kids tuned their cars up themselves, but there were a few diehard hot rodders on campus, and Tom McGuire was one of them. He owned a flawless white 1968 Camaro in showroom condition. The “Eat Dust” vanity plates said it all—this was the fastest vehicle on campus.
“Well, shit my drawers,” Tom yelled, looking up from the custom rebuilt 350 smallblock. Some old Deep Purple song boomed through the bays. “Since when does Wade St. John go to school during the summer?”
“Since Wade St. John’s father lowered the boom.”
“Bummer.” Tom wiped sweat off his brow. He tossed Wade a bottle of Spaten Oktoberfest. Tom was beefy, broad shouldered, with forearms thick as softball bats. His hair was dark and short, as conservative as his political views. Straight leg jeans and a white T shirt gave him the appearance of a sixties motorhead. He had a fondness for old music, German lager, and bad jokes. “Classes start in a week,” he pointed out. “We’ve got some serious partying to do in the meantime.” Then he paused, a force of habit. “Hey, Wade. Here’s an old one. Did you hear Nixon, Hart, and Kennedy started their own law firm?”
Tom’s notorious jokes were indeed old. “Oh, yeah?”
“Yeah. Prickem, Dickem, and Dunkem.”
Tom roared laughter. Wade shook his head.
“But seriously,” Tom went on. “It’s good you stopped by. I need to tell you about—”
“Jervis,” Wade finished.
“Yeah. You been up to the dorm already?”
“I just came from there. Jerv wrecked his entire room.”
Tom gave a grim nod. “I heard him trashing the place this morning, and throwing up. I tried to calm him down but the lunatic started throwing bottles at me. I guess he just flipped when it happened.”
“What?” Wade asked. “When what happened?”
Stone faced, Tom said, “Sarah dumped him.”
Wade slumped in place at the revelation.
“She dumped him right after the spring semester.”
Now Jervis’ destitution made sense, Jervis was far more impressionable than most; he was nuts about Sarah Black, head over heels in love. His whole life revolved around her; she was his life. “But I thought they were getting married,” Wade said.
“She’s getting married, all right. But not to Jerv. It’s some German guy she dumped him for.”
“A German guy?”
“Some kraut developer’s son, richer than shit. That’s all Jerv knows. And you’re probably thinking the same thing I’ve been thinking.”
“Yeah,” Wade verified. “That he might go right over the deep end, try to kill himself or something. Could he be capable of that?”
Tom’s laugh was stout and hearty. “Capable? You know how much he loves that smug bitch. This is the absolute worst thing that could happen to him. Right now he’s probably capable of just about anything.”
“Yeah, but suicide?”
Tom shrugged. “He’s got a gun.”
“What!” Wade exclaimed.
“Sure. He keeps it under his bed, some big old British revolver his grandpop gave him. I took the bullets out of it this morning when he was throwing up, and I swiped the rest of the ammo box.”
“Yeah, but he can always buy more. What are we going to do?”
“We’re gonna have to pull him out of this ourselves.”
“You’re right,” Wade said. “He’s got no one else.”
“I’ll meet you back at the dorm later,” Tom said. “We’ll clean him up and drag his ass down to the inn, get some food in him. He’s probably been living on Kirins since this whole thing went down.”
“Kirins and Carltons,” Wade added. “See you tonight.”
Wade took off in the Vette, cranking up an old Manzanera song called “Mummy Was an Asteroid, Daddy Was a Small Nonstick Kitchen Utensil.” Thank God for alternative radio; where would he be trapped in a world of bad rap and Madonna? He checked the rearview, then pitched his empty Spaten bottle into the Circle. With the campus this empty, at least he didn’t have to worry about getting pulled over.
Halfway through the Circle, he got pulled over.
That’s just fucking grand, he thought. But where had the cop been? They must have cloaking devices on their cruisers. Get ready, he primed himself. Wade wasn’t much of a student, but when it came to sweet talking police, he made straight A’s. He put on his innocent-face as the cop walked up, boot heels clicking.
“Good afternoon, Mr. St. John. My name is Officer Prentiss. I’d like to see your registration and operator’s permit.”
Astonished, Wade looked up. The cop was a woman. Girlfuzz, he thought. A dickless Tracy. “Who are you?” he asked.
“I just told you. I’m Officer Prentiss and I’d like to see your—”
“I know, my registration and operator’s permit.” Lenient cops asked for your license; but only hard asses called it an operator’s permit. This might take some work. “How come you know my name before seeing my li—I mean my operator’s permit?”
“I know all about you, Mr. St. John,” the cop said. “Chief White has properly familiarized me with all of the campus troublemakers.”
Wade laughed a chumly laugh. “Good old Chief White, always joking around. If you want to know the truth, my—”
“Your police file is the most extensive in the history of this campus.”
Wade paused. It was probably true. “Sure, Officer, I’ve had a ticket or two, but I’m no troublemaker, I assure you. And my father happens to be a significant contributor to the Exham Office of Donations, and is a close personal friend of the dean’s.”
“Which is the only reason you haven’t been kicked out.”
Wade paused again. This girl must work part time on a rock pile, he considered, and she’s using my balls for the rocks. Disgusted, he gave her the cards. He examined her as she began filling out his tickets. She stood well postured and medium-tall, very storm trooperish in her black boots and tailored tan uniform. Bright, straight blond hair was tied in back in a short tail, like a whip, and her eyes were a cold mystery behind mirrored shades. Wade supposed she would be cute if not for the inhuman police traffic stop set of her mouth. Her prettiness and her cop aura were a marriage of opposites: she invited to be looked at, yet revealed nothing to anyone who looked.
But there was something. Just…something.
“I’m citing you for doing thirty four miles an hour in a fifteen zone,” she told him.
“What, the Circle?”
“Yes, the Circle. And you get another one for depositing hazardous material on campus common ground.”
“What hazardous material!”
“The beer bottle you just threw.”
“Oh, you mean that Coke bottle?”
“It was a beer bottle, Mr. St. John, but of course you’re welcome to testify in court under oath that it was not. And since possessing an opened alcoholic beverage container in a moving vehicle is also against the law, you get a third citation.”
Wade was getting bombed worse than Pearl Harbor. All these tickets would cost three bills in fines and three more points, which his insurance wouldn’t tolerate.
Okay. B.S. time, he thought. He put on his best poor boy look, which probably was not very convincing while seated in a car that cost $75,000. “Officer Prentiss, I’m ashamed of myself. There’s no excuse for the thoughtless immaturity that I’ve demonstrated in your presence, and I humbly apologize. But the truth is, Officer, these tickets might cause my car insurance to be dropped, and that would make for some major trouble between me and my father. So I’m at your mercy. I’m going to ask that, in your generosity, you overlook these infractions, and in return you have my word and my personal guarantee
that I will never violate the law on this campus ever again. My word.”
“I’ve heard better bullshit from Sterno drinkers,” she replied. She bruskly passed him the ticket book. “Sign, Mr. St. John.”
Wade was getting ticked. It wouldn’t kill this broad to give him a break. “What if I refuse to sign?” he dared ask.
“Then I will arrest you for ignoring a state summons.”
Wade laughed. “You wouldn’t dare. Maybe you don’t fully realize who I am. I’m Wade St. John. My father—”
“Sign the tickets or get out of the car,” Officer Prentiss said, then withdrew a shiny set of Peerless handcuffs.
Wade, boiling, signed the tickets. The cop tore off his copies and rather roughly stuffed them in his shirt pocket. “And if I ever see you throwing anything out of that car again,” she said, and smiled, “I’ll toss your rich boy behind in my jail in less time than it takes to say collegiate expulsion. Oh, and have a nice day.”
Officer Prentiss then drove off in her cruiser, leaving Wade slack mouthed. Have a nice day? he thought. Baby, they don’t get any nicer than this.
—
CHAPTER 5
The women stirred, moaning out from endless dreams. Their lair was a labyrinth; they lay deep in it. The labyrinth was silent and black, like death.
They lay together naked, their big eyes suddenly, inexplicably open. Something had waked them. Something—a word.
—Who are we? they wondered in unison.
But then they remembered. The labyrinth’s buried blackness began to move. They remembered who they were. They remembered the word, the holy, loving word.
Supremate.
—WAKE!
—Hello! one said.
—Hello! cried several more.
—We love you! We remember now!
They giggled together in their box. In joy, they kissed.
Then, like love, the voice caressed them.
—MY DAUGHTERS, MY LOVE.
The labyrinth was coming alive. Their lair grew warm. The dark and holy light felt beautiful on their white skin.
Memory crept closer. All things to serve their god! But first came an impulse. Sustenance. Hunger. Filling themselves up. The women remembered. They were hungry.
—Eat!
Yes, to eat. To make their bellies swell. Warm meat. Blood.
—We want to eat, please!
The Supremate’s voice was like a promise in the wind. —SOON, DAUGHTERS. SOON YOU’LL EAT. YOU’LL FEAST ON THE NEW PIGS.
Their loins tingled. Their red mouths drooled.
—Blood!
—Meat!
—New pigs!
They fidgeted in their box, reveling in the promises, like kisses. New blood to bathe in, and meat. They giggled and grinned.
—PRECIOUS DAUGHTERS…ARISE.
««—»»
The Old Exham Inn was an antediluvian brick and mortar catacomb full of dully clashing decor. Upstairs was the pub, downstairs the stage. The inn served pretentious “light fare” only and imported beer. The town, after all, knew who it was catering to—spoiled, rich college kids—which was how they got away with astronomical prices. Only “diverse” bands were billed, to keep out the local riffraff.
They filed down the stone steps to one of the small dining coves far off from the stage.
“Feeling any better?” Tom asked.
Jervis nodded like a wooden puppet. They hadn’t let him shave—his current hand and mentality could not yet be trusted to hold a razor to his throat. But they’d gotten him cleaned up and walking.
“I’ll have a beer,” he eventually said.
“You’ll have coffee, you dumb schmuck,” Wade corrected.
“And food,” Tom said.
Jervis groaned.
Wade ordered from a waitress whose frilled bräuhaus dress exposed enough cleavage to dry dock a runabout. Tom and Wade glanced warily at each other, contemplating a strategy to open Jervis up. Tom recognized the fragility of the situation. Wade, however, preferred a slightly more direct approach.
“So she dumped you, huh?”
Jervis wailed. Tom shook his head.
“Look, Jerv,” Wade said, “you can’t hide from this thing forever. You’re gonna have to face it, grab it by the balls.”
“Life’s got its ups and downs,” Tom said. “This is one of the downs.”
Jerv’s forehead was on the table. “But I still love her!”
Some can of worms, Wade thought. “Take my word for it, buddy. You’ll get over it. You got your whole life to look forward to.”
“Not without her,” Jervis told the top of the table. “We were gonna get married. I even bought a ring. It was going to be perfect.”
“Jervis, no girl is worth getting this bent out of shape over,” Tom offered. “When things don’t work out, you find someone else.”
“But I don’t want someone else. I want Sarah. I want my Sarah back!”
Wade tried to reason. “She’s not your Sarah anymore. That may sound cold but it’s the truth. Women can be treacherous, cunning monsters. One minute they’re telling you they love you forever; the next minute they’re in the sack with someone else, balling like there’s no tomorrow.”
Jervis jerked upright, pop eyed. He began to make croaking noises. Then he jumped up from the table and staggered away.
“Good going, Wade,” Tom smirked. “You really have a way with words. Why not just buy him a bus ticket to Lover’s Leap?”
Perhaps the direct approach had been a bit harsh in this instance. Wade had blown it.
The waitress with the St. Pauli Girl cleavage brought their orders, a Spaten Oktoberfest for Tom, a Samuel Adams for Wade, and coffee and gumbo for Jervis. “I knew he was serious about her,” Wade said. “But I had no idea it was this bad.”
“Bad isn’t the word. Jerv’s a sensitive guy. He keeps a lot of things to himself.”
“Too many things,” Wade concluded. “I warned him not to go falling silly in love with that girl. I never liked her anyway.”
“You just never liked her ’cause she’s the only girl on campus who never made a play for you.”
Wade rolled his eyes. “Just because I’m the sharpest looking dude in the state doesn’t mean I’m conceited.”
Tom laughed out loud.
After some time, Jervis returned, holding two bottles of Kirin Dry, one of which was already close to empty.
“Jervis, I didn’t mean to shake you up,” Wade apologized.
“Don’t worry about it.” Jervis sat down. “You guys are right. I’ve got to put this whole thing behind me.”
“Now you’re talking,” Tom said.
Wade pointed to the bowl. “Eat your gumbo. It’s good for you.”
Jervis dumped the gumbo into a potted plant. Then he began: “She dumped me by letter, during the break. She told me about the German guy, about how they’d been friends for a while, about how caring and ‘sweet’ he was, and all of a sudden she didn’t love me anymore. She’d stopped loving me months ago, she said, but hadn’t realized it till then. That was it, that simple. She said she didn’t want to see me anymore. And the last line”—Jervis gulped—“the last line of the letter was ‘Have a nice life.’”
“Serious bummer,” Tom commented.
“Oh, man,” Wade said. “That really sucks.”
Jervis continued, as if speaking from the grave. “I made mistakes, sure. I’m not perfect. But true love is supposed to make up for man’s imperfections. Love, real love, is supposed to be enough.”
Ordinarily Wade wouldn’t have been too concerned; this was just more of Jervis’ rhetoric. But although the words were the same, the spirit in which they’d been spoken was entirely different. The spirit was finality—total loss. This was not just another girl dumps boy story. This was dissolution of self.
But Jervis slapped his hands down as if to prove he’d roused himself. “Anyway, enough of my moaning and groaning,” he asserted. “There’s nothing wor
se than a sad sack feeling sorry for himself. Things just got out of hand for a few weeks. But I’m okay now, really.”
“You sure about that?” Wade questioned.
“Positive. Time to get back to my life.”
“That’s the spirit!” Tom said.
But Wade felt sad; he could see through this. Jervis’ smile was as false as one carved in clay. Despite the smile, there was nothing left for him but his loss. Wade could see it in an instant: Jervis was never going to get over this, no matter how happy he tried to act.
««—»»
• A student named Nina McCulloch lay awake. Above the bed hung a crucifix. Nina believed fervently in God, and she believed that Jesus had died for her sins. In the next room, through the wall, she could hear her roommate, Elizabeth, who clearly didn’t believe in God. Elizabeth had invited friends over to do drugs. They did drugs most every night, and this bothered Nina. Drugs were a manifestation of Satan, and people who did them became incarnates of the devil. Nina found that she could not easily sleep when all that separated her from the Lord of Darkness was one mere dorm wall. All night long Elizabeth and her friends inhaled the satanic white powder while Nina tossed and turned and prayed in snatches for God to protect her from evil.
• A man named Czanek waited in the vacant parking lot. Eventually his client pulled up in a silver Rolls Royce. The headlights flashed. Hokey, Czanek thought. He got into the Rolls. “Good evening,” the client said. “Has the matter returned to normal?” “No,” Czanek said. “Same guy, same moves, and I keep picking up weird stuff on the bugs. They keep mentioning trances.” “Trances?” “Trances. I can’t figure it.” “Keep on it,” the client said. Czanek handed him the manila folder, which contained pictures. The client thumbed through them and remarked: “Amusing.” Why would a guy want to keep seeing pictures of his wife fucking another man? But, hey, it was his money. The client passed him an envelope full of ten hundred dollar bills. “Next week,” the client said. “Yes, sir,” Czanek replied, “and don’t worry, nothing will happen to you. If they try to make a move on you, I’ll know. I’ll protect you.” “Do you really think that’s what’s happening? The insurance, the inheritance?” “Could be,” Czanek said. Suddenly the client was hugging him, sobbing. “Protect me! I’m afraid!” This was embarrassing. Czanek tried to console the old man: “Don’t worry, if that fat scumbag tries to move on you, I’ll blow his shit away from a thousand yards.” “Would you really do that? For me?” Of course he would. What, kiss all this money goodbye? “I’ll protect you,” Czanek repeated, and patted the client’s shoulder. He went back to his own car. The Rolls drove off. The client’s name was Saltenstall.
Coven Page 3
