by Wayne Tripp
She was back in a flash, pounding on the door, yelling both their names. Except for two muffled voices, no sounds came back. Hearing a burst of desperate crying, she banged harder. Hurting both her balled fists, she stopped, shaking her throbbing hands. The pounding kept right on though, coming from elsewhere. There was someone at the outside door.
Lacey flew to the door, and stopped, her hand halfway to the triple locks. What if it was the police? What would she say–Oh nothing much officer. Sorry for the noise. My lover is just slashing a werewolf child out of his pregnant fiancée. Why? Because he’s a werewolf too. Sure, that would work. Heart in her throat, she opened the door. And there they were.
Chapter 35
Abigail and Eric stood in the doorway, obviously surprised at finding Lacey answering Kat's door.
“Miss Rodriguez? Why are you here?”
“Hello Eric. You must be Eric’s sister, Abigail. Please come in.”
“Kat–Miss O’Hara. Is she all right?” Abigail couldn’t care less about the disheveled woman before her. Her friend Kat was obviously in trouble.
“Miss Rodriguez–is everything all right?” Lacey was used to being ogled and having men undress her with their eyes, but in spite of herself, she blushed. Eric was going to need a lot more practice at hiding it.
“W-we hope so. James rushed home to help her.," she lied. "She’s sick in the bathroom. We think she may be losing the baby.”
A shriek of extreme pain and overwhelming grief ripped through the apartment. All three raced to the bathroom door. They demanded to know what was taking place on the other side. There came a second scream; and one of rage, cut off abruptly.
And then, nothing but silence.
Abby thought she heard cries of pain, and something squishy being dropped with a distinctive plop.
Lacey heard gruff, concerned words of affection, and Kat’s whimpered reply.
Eric heard little, too busy getting ready to smash in the door. In his pants pocket, the Colt with five silver bullets began to itch.
Suddenly, the bathroom door burst open, Jamie standing framed in its blazing light. Covered in blood, he held an unconscious Kat in his arms. There was blood all over her clothes. It was obvious what Jamie had done. The baby was gone.
“Help me get Kathleen to bed. She’s pretty weak. She’s lost a lot of blood, but I think she’ll be all right.” He saw where their gaze had flicked to– the discarded knife and ominous bag he’d left behind. “Leave those. I’ll clean up. Help me with Kat.” He hefted the unconscious woman, struggled to clear her narrow doorway, and ease her into bed. Abby hastened to turn down the sheets. As he maneuvered, he glimpsed Lacey slipping out the door.
“Lacey, where are you going? Come back. I need your help.”
“I can’t. I don’t belong here. I never should have come.”
“Lace! Come back!”
When she didn’t stop, he looked at Eric, indicating the teen should go after his teacher.
“Eric, bring her back. We need her. Go! Please.”
Shooing Jamie out of the room, Abby got Kat out of her blood-drenched clothes. She gave her a quick sponge bath with warm water, and then slipped a clean nightie over her head. At that point, she called Jamie back in, and together they got Kat settled into bed and covered her up. Jamie bent over her and kissed her, first on the forehead, then on the lips. When he straightened, Abby stood facing him, glaring with naked disgust.
“You bastard. You get Kat pregnant, and then you run right out to screw your slut. Must’ve been good, because you couldn’t wait to come back here and murder your child. And you bring your bitch along to gloat! You disgust me!”
“Lacey’s not a slut! This had nothing to do with her.”
“No? Well, you’re a terrible liar, and the two of you aren’t very bright. Because your whore didn’t even have the good sense to wipe the grass stains off her ass! Unless I miss my guess, you’ve a dead child in that bathroom, and a woman who loves you way too much and needs you pretty badly right here. Stop thinking with your dick, MacLeod! I’m beginning to think one of the monsters you guys talk about is right here in this room!”
* * * *
Eric caught up with Lacey crying in her car. Without looking up at him, she shook her head when he rapped on her window and asked her to let him inside. Instead, she locked the doors, and yelled at him to leave her alone. He kept at her, and finally after a prolonged bit of pleading, she let him in. Their first minutes together were awkward. Lacey was obviously very upset, and Eric just didn’t know what to say. Finally, he just jumped right in, telling her that Jamie was concerned for her safety and had sent him to find her.
“Oh, if he’s so concerned about me, why couldn’t he come himself? He sends you, his errand boy.”
For the first time, Eric noticed that her usually precise English was tinged with a Hispanic accent. Her large teary eyes virtually flared with emotion. God, she must really love the guy.
“I’m sorry Eric–that wasn’t called for. It’s just that I threw myself at him, thinking it could be the way it used to be. I’m such a fool!” She turned away from her student, staring blindly out the window. When she spoke again, her voice was choked with tears. “I didn’t realize he really does love her. She was carrying his child, for Christ sakes; what was I thinking! W-when I saw them together in her bedroom; he was so gentle with her, his eyes so full of worry— I have no right to be here. I don’t belong. I-I never can again." She’d started to sob again, her narrow shoulders slumping in total defeat. “I feel like such an idiot. So ashamed of what I’ve done.” She tried to brighten, brushing the curtain of dark hair out of her eyes, and making a feeble attempt to brush away her tears. “And now I’m dumping all this on you, my student. I’m so sorry, Eric. You must think me a very foolish woman.”
“It’s okay, really. You know I’ll be your friend forever.”
She forced a smile and allowed a weak little laugh to escape. “Thank You, Eric. I appreciate that.” She wiped her eyes again, and sniffed. Her skin blazed a warm pink.
He thought she looked beautiful.
“You’re so sweet. Eric, but Hon, you’re too infatuated with me. We’ve talked about this before. The whole Teacher’s pet cliché thing. You need to find a nice girl your own age. I’m way too old for you to waste your feelings on.”
“You’re not that old, but I get what you’re saying. I don’t care. You've always been my favorite teacher, Miss Rodriguez."
“Thanks, Eric. But you still need a girlfriend your own age.”
She dried her eyes and tried to do something with her appearance, her hair. Giving up in frustration, she got ready to leave the car. Eric stopped her with a hand on her shoulder, forcing her to turn and look at him. When she did, he kissed her shyly on the cheek.
“Eric! What’s that for?”
“Because you’re the nicest lady I’ve ever known. I get the whole girlfriend my age thing, but you can always count on me. I'll always be your friend."
“That’s sweet, Eric.” She smiled, and almost managed a giggle. “I am flattered.” She took his nervous face in both her hands and lifted his lips towards hers, stopping just short of contact. “Just so you know this is because I care about you too. As my best student, a sweet young man, and my newest, dearest friend. As long as you know, it can never be anything more, Eric."
“I know it.”
She smiled at him then, and gave him his kiss.
* * * *
None of the friends knew exactly what happened when Jamie led Lacey into the bedroom and closed the door. When Eric returned with Miss Rodriguez in tow, Jamie looked up and scowled at Lacey. She flashed him a brief look of defiance, and quickly lowered her eyes. He walked over to where a weakened Kat sat wrapped in a couple blankets, gently rocking in her chair, her eyes missing nothing. Kissing her on the forehead, he whispered a few endearing words, an
d then grabbed Lacey’s wrist, leading her into the bedroom and slamming the door. No one heard everything said, but snatches of phrases like I Love You, Okay, I love both of you, and I just killed my tiny son drifted through the thin door. When the couple emerged, though the tears were drying on Lacey’s cheeks, confusion still raged in her eyes. Kat looked at Jamie, a private blaze of something sparking between them. Hiding behind her hollow smile, Kat motioned Lacey to her side. She grabbed the teacher’s wrist and pulled her closer. A very contrite Lacey knelt before her.
"You think you'll get him back—think you can take Jamie away from me?" Kat spit at her. "You threw him away, broke his heart! I picked up the pieces, glued him back together—now you think you have the right to just waltz in here and—"
"No. No, I don't Kat. I'm sorry. We love each other—I got caught up in the moment. I-I'm so sorry."
"I gave him a child! What've you ever given him but grief, you frigid bitch?"
Kat kept ranting at her with harsh whispers, punctuating each point with a cruel jab to Lacey's upper chest. Suddenly, Kat’s brittle smile soured and she spit directly in Lacey’s face. Quivering with rage, Lacey rose to her feet, wiped the spittle from her cheek, and returned fire with a volley of gutter Spanish. She turned on Jamie, her scalding look daring him to say anything in her defense, turned abruptly on her heel and stomped haughtily from the room. Jamie turned to Kat. She glared at him like Medusa, her icy defiance freezing him to solid stone. War had been declared.
Chapter 36
While Jamie’s crew was squabbling, the gulls and ravens at Lost Hope Park were having a feast. The night before, the rocky shore approaching the abandoned lighthouse had been eerily lit by a bloated moon. A couple strolled along the narrow stretch of stony beach towards the silent relic. Except for a few scavenging ghost crabs, they were alone, the only sounds their intimate whisperings and half-drunk giggles. Gentle surf provided a background rhythm; the clattering hiss of round pebbles and broken shells never changing as the surge pushed them in and pulled them back. In daylight, a beachcomber would have noticed other things mingled in with the rocks and shells; tiny fragments of bones and human teeth. But this wasn’t daytime, and the young lovers saw nothing but each other. Because the air was chilled, they scampered towards their goal. The harsh southwesterly wind had died, dragging the heavy surf and rip currents to an early grave. Its resurrection would not come for another five hours; the only weather was the damp fog slowly sneaking shoreward.
Escaping from college in Providence, the young couple had parked their gunmetal Audi in the empty parking lot a hundred yards back. They walked hand in hand, heads together, whispering and cooing in the still night air. She’d removed her strapped black heels; he carried scuffed biker boots, his worn jeans rolled to mid-calf. Their footsteps disappeared as soon as the gentle tide erased them from the gravely sand. She was hoping he’d ask her to go with him to that new play at Trinity; he was just hoping to get laid.
They reached the base of the brooding lighthouse, carefully picking their way up the rocks to the lonely sentinel. Close up, the stone lighthouse with its huddled out buildings was far less picturesque. It created a totally uninspired image, as though the house painters slapped the paint on as quickly as possible and escaped. The shoddy paint job was badly blistering and peeling. Years of neglect had chipped out chunks of crumbling mortar. The square stone tower itself appeared neglected and stark. Each of the three tiny windows dimly illuminated the inside as the twisting staircase wound its way toward the stone cold lamp. All three smashed windows fulfilled a greater role, playing host to parasitic bird nests. The probing fingers of the land-bound fog slipped through the broken windows, turning the abandoned lighthouse into a giant trap bursting with mist. The beacon light itself was dark and dead, brooding corpselike, waiting.
Stacy cried out and clutched a flaking rusted rail. She flopped to the ground, her foot cut on a piece of broken beer bottle. Her laughing date bent and brushed gritty sand off her foot, making her wriggle and giggle. Taking her foot in his hand, he licked at the tiny wound, and kissed it better. “Yuck,” she said, adding more giggles. Shoes back on and clothes straightened, they almost bumped into the broken stairs. Looking around, he made sure they were alone. He approached each of the cadaver white buildings with their flaking leprous paint and tested the locks. Finally, he approached the square stone sentinel itself. He shook the crusty rail and tested the rusted lockless door. It offered little resistance to a forceful shoulder. Once inside, he dragged his date in with him, and produced a small flashlight. Although its miniature beam barely penetrated the fog, it was enough to find the stairs. Reaching the base of the staircase, he tested the bottom three stairs. Filthy with rust and sea gull crap, but firm. Holding hands, giggles bubbling from her throat, they began to climb. To her, the phallic looking lighthouse was an obvious signal that a date at Trinity meant she’d better put out. To him, the huge cement and stone structure was just a reminder how painfully horny he was, how immediate his need. Why were there so many god-damned stairs, Stacey wondered? As they climbed, neither of them noticed he'd dropped his wallet at the base of the lighthouse.
Finally reaching the rickety platform outside the darkened light, the couple climbed carefully aboard the grates, overlooking their instability, and marveling at the fantastic view instead. There were the twinkling lights of Newport, far off in the east, and that must be Pt. Judith in the distant south. Was that closer light at Wolf Head still warning sailors to beware? For a second, each wondered why this light at Lost Hope remained dark. There were certainly still rocks and reefs; why no warning here of the dangers below? Neither thought more than a second or two, imminent sex quickly crowding out all other cerebral activity. Neither was to guess that the light stayed dark because no matter how many times electrical technicians made the endless climb, scratching their heads at the maze of tangled wiring, hoping to restart the beam flashing, within a night or two the warning beacon winked out.
None of this meant a damn to the amorous couple. They had bigger problems. She’d played it coy, egging him on with a little tease of flesh. He needed no coaxing, yet when the moment came, they discovered his wallet missing. With it, the all-important lovers’ safety chutes.
“Must’ve dropped it at the foot of this thing. Couldn’t we do it just this once without the damned rubber?”
Stacy’s obvious answer sent him scurrying back down the rickety stairs looking for his wallet. She only hoped he’d have enough energy left for lovemaking when he finally got back. Maybe after a small rest filled with kisses.
There was no way she could know that the sea bird’s cry she heard was really her would-be lover’s final words. Not until the fog crept in and tickled her with its icy fingers, did she feel irritation, and wonder what was taking him so damned long.
“P-Phil, did you find it? Oh Christ– never mind. Come on back anyway–we’ll do it just this once. But you better take me to that damned play, you cheapskate. Come on Phil. Do you hear me? I’m getting cold.”
Stacy waited another three minutes, really beginning to shiver. They’d been dating for a month; they’d slept together twice. If Phil didn’t hurry it up, there might not be a third time. When he didn’t answer her, she added another two minutes, growing more irritated with each fleeing second. She’d lost her desire as the creeping fog stole her body heat, and now she was really starting to lose her patience with Phil as well. Shrugging into her dress, she struggled with the back zipper, and looked down the rickety stairs. Nothing. In truth, the churning fog severed visibility about ten feet below the platform, but she should be able to hear him huffing and puffing his way up the stairs. She almost felt sorry for him. Almost. Putting on her heels, she eased herself onto the stairs, and clutching the rusty rail as though her life depended on it, started cautiously back down. Fifteen feet down, she looked around and almost let go in panic. The fog was so thick; sh
e couldn’t see five feet below her. Looking back up, she could barely see the stairs disappearing over her head. It's as if they aren't even there. She started back down as fast as she dared, almost losing her footing twice on the mist-slick stairs. She called out her lover’s name as she went, hoping to hear his answering call, his footsteps thundering towards her. Still thirty feet in the air, she decided to stop and listen. How would she know if he’d heard her and answered, if he was already coming, if all she heard was her own thundering step? Besides, she was fucking exhausted.
She listened, her wildly thumping heart shouting how tired she was. At first she heard nothing but her own heart and raspy breath. The rest was silent, unless you counted the distant teasing whispers that seemed to come from everywhere in the swirling fog. But then she heard the other sounds.
Footsteps, coming towards her. Up the stairs. Loud and purposeful.
“Phil, is that you? What’s taking you so damned long? Hon, did you find it?”
Silence.
“Phil, answer me. This isn’t funny. You’re not getting any if you don’t stop this right now. Phil! Come on. I’m getting cold.”
Dead Silence, except for the slow steady tread of climbing footsteps.
“Phil Stonington, you answer me right now. This has gone on long enough. I’m getting pissed!”
Still no answer, just the slow climbing steps.
“Come on, Phil honey. You didn’t slip, did you? Tell me you’re all right.”
The steps were much louder now, closer. Instinctively, she backed up a step, then two. She still couldn’t see anything, though now she thought she heard a strange dragging and bumping. She backed up a half dozen more steps, still unable to see anything. Then she heard a sound like sharp ragged nails scratching on raw metal; she heard her name hissed through lips unused to speech.
She froze as though fear was crazy glue binding her feet to the steps. The steps trudged closer; still she could not see through the swirling fog.
