by John Coyne
Sara shut off the shower and, wrapping a wide brown bath towel around herself, went back into the bedroom. She had made it to the middle of the room when she felt the sudden, hot flash driving through her mind, splitting it apart, and tumbling her into another frenzied orgasm.
Sara fell onto the bed, but this time she tried to fight it. She fought to disassociate her mind from what was happening to her vagina, to the rush of warmth flooding the center of her body. She concentrated on work, on the experiments she had done that week, and she rolled across the bed and tried to stand, but in the end, she could not resist the driving attack. She let the tide of passion overwhelm her and the sexual wave run its brief and intense course through her body. And when it was over, she sat up and, reaching for the telephone, dialed Tom at his apartment.
“I’m sorry,” she said, whispering into the mouthpiece, “I know it’s the middle of the night, but it just happened. Tom, please help me.” She started to cry and, overwhelmed and frightened, she could no longer stop the tears.
“Are you hurt? Have you hurt yourself?” he asked immediately.
“No, but they’re getting worse. They are more violent.” She remembered the blood then and touched her nose. “And I’m bleeding.”
“Sara, I’m getting dressed. I’ll be there within the hour.”
“Thank you,” she whispered. She found it hard to admit to him—or anyone—that she needed help, but she secretly was grateful that he was coming to her. She hung up the phone and it rang immediately, before she lifted her hand off the receiver.
“Sara!”
“Yes, Marcia.”
“It happened again.”
“Yes, I know; me, too. Are you okay?”
“I am now.”
“It must have hit us all.”
“Should we call?”
“Let’s wait. There’s no reason to wake everyone in the Village.”
“Sara, I’m scared.” There were no tears in the woman’s voice, just fear.
“It’s all right, Marcia.” Sara spoke confidently, as if she were sure there would be no more attacks that night. She wished that Tom weren’t an hour away. She would feel a lot safer, she realized, if he were with her, and she even knew that was odd. What could he do? What could any of them do? “Marcia, I’m going to walk over to your place. Would you feel better if I did that?”
“Oh, God, yes, but I can’t have you go outside alone. It’s the middle of the night. I mean, we don’t know what this is.”
“It’s okay, you’re less than a block away. Besides, I’d feel safer, too, if I were with someone. We’re not going to get any more rest tonight.”
“Stay on the sidewalk,” Marcia instructed. “Don’t take any shortcuts through the backyards.”
Sara smiled. “All right, no shortcuts.” She felt better knowing there was another woman sharing the same fear and worried about her safety.
She hung up and again the phone rang immediately. This time it was Kathryn Mackey calling to say she, too, had been struck.
“Let’s meet at Marcia Fleming’s,” Sara told her.
“Are there others?” Kathryn Mackey asked.
“There’s us, and I suspect there are others, but we should wait until daylight before telephoning them.”
“I see lights on in Rebecca Hunt’s house.”
“Call her. The two of you can go together to Marcia’s.”
Giving instructions made Sara feel better. It put her in control, and meant there were tasks to accomplish. The telephone rang twice more while she dressed, more women awake and frightened. She told them where to meet, and finished dressing. Then she went downstairs and, unlocking the front door, left a note for Tom, telling him where she was, and let herself out into the dark.
Sara was not dressed for the weather. The overcast sky had cleared, and the night was bright and cold. The wind chipped at her face, and she turned the collar of the raincoat up to shield herself. She thought for a moment of going back into the house to get the car keys, but then realized how silly that was: she could see the lights on in Marcia’s kitchen, and, instead of following the curving sidewalk from Petrarch Court, she cut through the backyard of the next lot and down the hillside.
Sara got as far as the property line, walking with her head bent against the wind and her hands burrowed into her light fall coat, and she never saw the young girl standing against the lone tree in Marcia’s backyard until Cindy Delp reached out and grabbed her as she passed.
Sara stumbled forward in sudden fright when she felt the child’s arm. Then, recovering, she grabbed the girl and shouted, “Cindy, what are you doing? Why aren’t you at home?”
In the bright moonlight, Sara saw her questions did not register. Cindy’s face was blank and her mind adrift.
“Cindy!” Sara demanded, but she realized that gaining the attention of an autistic child took time, and was often impossible.
Cindy did not respond, but she slid her hand down Sara’s arm and grabbed her fingers, then tugged and tried to make Sara follow her.
“Cindy, what is it?” Sara asked, resisting.
Cindy paused and stood perfectly still. She was concentrating and trying to speak. A word seemed to form on her lips and then it was gone, leaving only the anguish of the effort there on Cindy’s face. Impatiently, frantically, Cindy flung herself at Sara, screeching wordlessly. Then she grabbed Sara’s arm and pulled her. There was nothing Sara could do: she followed the child into the Village.
In the back bedroom of her home on Wycliffe Drive, Peggy Volt lay awake in the dark. The quick series of orgasms had passed and she had fallen asleep again.
It was a light, uneasy sleep and when she heard him leave the front bedroom, she woke immediately, alert and followed his footsteps through the house and into the basement. Now that he was working full-time on the project, he spent most of his time at home, downstairs with the new equipment.
Peggy had not asked him what it was. She knew better than to question him about his work. He wouldn’t explain, and he’d only become irritated by her prying. When she had married him, he had warned her about his job, telling her it was like his past, something which she would never know about.
She had accepted his explanation, and was even secretly thrilled that he had a mysterious background. It made him more romantic. But she had been much younger then, and in love. In time, she realized the secretiveness was only his way of protecting himself, of keeping her from becoming too close to him. It was his subtle way of controlling their marriage.
Peggy sat up and reached for her housecoat, then in the dark she went to the door and carefully opened it. He had turned lights on downstairs. She could see shadows in the hallway and knew already where Kevin was. He had turned on the lights in the kitchen and gone down into the workshop.
She went silently along the upstairs hall and then down the stairs, moving quickly through the dark living room to the kitchen. At the kitchen door, she hesitated and peeped into the room. It was empty and he had left the basement door open. He was being careless, she realized, thinking she was sound asleep in the back bedroom. Peggy continued across the kitchen and opened a drawer. Now she was frightened. She watched her hand tremble as she reached forward and picked up the butcher knife.
Cindy Delp led Sara away from Marcia’s house, out of the backyard and across the farm road. Sara went obediently, like a blind man following a guide, up the curving main road of the development, toward the Volts’ house. She did not question the child.
Peggy Volt pulled the knife from the drawer and moved slowly away from the counter, backing into the middle of the kitchen, feeling as if she were outside herself, watching herself as she gradually turned, went to the basement door, and stood there in the shadowy light. She was out of control, her mind told her, yet she felt perfectly calm and rested. All the agonizing guilt she had felt after Amy’s death was about to be washed away. She was going to revenge her death, kill him for destroying the mind of her baby. She moved quietl
y, the long butcher knife concealed in the folds of her heavy dressing gown.
Cindy Delp led Sara around behind the Volt house. She had begun to walk faster, and she tugged at Sara’s arm to hurry her. Kevin Volt had built a high metal industrial fence around his backyard, but Cindy expertly slipped her thin hand between the wire mesh and opened the gate.
“Cindy?” Sara whispered, but the girl did not hesitate. She pulled Sara after her into the backyard. It was darker here; the house blocked the moonlight and the yard was black. Sara moved carefully, trying to feel her way with her feet as Cindy, insistent now, dragged Sara to the locked storm door.
The girl kept directing Sara. Mutely, urgently, she signaled Sara to ring the doorbell. Sara could barely see the white, porcelain face of the child, but she saw that Cindy’s black eyes were still unfocused and empty, like burned-out lights.
“Why?” Sara whispered, hesitating. Peggy had not been one of the women who telephoned, and Sara knew she would be waking her and Kevin in the middle of the night “Come, Cindy,” she said gently, “let me take you home.”
Cindy jumped back, avoided Sara’s grasp. As if by a fierce act of will, she tried to speak, but her lips moved soundlessly, and in the end, she could only screech out into the empty night.
Kevin had encased the equipment along one wall of the basement, locking it away in metal cabinets so it was not visible. When the heavy, metal doors were closed it looked like a row of gray lockers.
Peggy had never seen it displayed and operating, and the shiny instruments, the several monitor screens, computers, and the rows of knobs and buttons looked beautiful, even thrilling. She felt as she did when she caught a glimpse of the control panel of an airplane’s cockpit.
Kevin had his back to her and was bent over a console. Something was wrong. He had the panel off one piece of equipment and was working on the wire. A collection of small tools, miniature tweezers, and screwdrivers was set out in rows on the counter beside him.
Peggy stood at the bottom of the steps and watched him work. He was so engrossed that he had not heard her come down the stairs. It was as if he were a surgeon in the operating room, she thought, watching the sureness of his hands and the economy of effort. It fascinated and repelled her, and then, quite by surprise, she was overwhelmed by a wave of intense hatred for the man. Her rage made her dizzy and uncertain on her feet. Again, she realized, she was watching herself. She saw herself lift the butcher knife with both arms, pausing with the knife held high above her head.
She knew how simple it was: a dozen steps across the well-lighted basement, a quick, violent slash. She would aim at the slope of his shoulder, cut neatly, diagonally into his heart. There would be no blood, she thought. She would simply slice through his heart.
Sara saw a brief flash of terror in the child’s eyes. They focused and froze and Cindy’s pale face rippled with a moment of awareness. The long-legged girl wheeled awkwardly to the back door and slammed the bell, then hit the storm door, pounded it with her fist.
Peggy never heard the bell. Her small, slight body charged across the room, swinging the butcher knife in one long graceful arc, sweeping it down toward the slumped shoulder of her husband.
The doorbell surprised him. He jerked back, startled at the sound, and Peggy’s knife missed his shoulder and smashed into the metal counter. She stumbled forward and he grabbed her before she fell to the floor. She had no strength to resist him, and she cried hysterically in his arms.
Sara grabbed Cindy. She wrapped her arms around the tall child and wrestled her from the back steps, afraid Cindy would wake up everyone on Wycliffe Drive with her pounding.
The girl resisted for a moment and then went limp. Instead of struggling, she turned to Sara and hugged her, burying her face in Sara’s neck.
Sara moved the child away, pushed her back, and looked into Cindy’s large, dark, vacant eyes. Then Cindy screeched and her face contorted in pain.
“What are you trying to tell me, Cindy?” Sara demanded. “Why did you bring me here?” But the child only stared blankly up at Sara, her mind once more adrift. “It’s all right, Cindy,” Sara sighed and hugged the hurt child to her breasts. “I’ll take you home.” She slipped her arm around Cindy’s shoulder, and led the young girl from the back door of the Volt home and down the farm road to her house.
In the basement, Kevin Volt kept his hand pressed against his wife’s gasping mouth. She tried to twist away and he merely tightened his grip, locking her against his body. For a moment he didn’t think about Peggy, but listened for more noise. The bell had stopped ringing and there was no longer pounding on the back door. He was curious about who it might have been, but not worried. His wife was his only worry, and she was now trapped in his arms.
TWELVE
“I’ve worked it out,” Marcia Fleming announced, coming back into the living room with several sheets of paper.
The women had turned on her television set while they were waiting and were silently watching an old black-and-white movie. It was after three a.m., and everyone was exhausted. The attacks were over and they wanted only to get some sleep. Still, none of them had left Marcia’s house. Without saying so, they were all afraid of being alone.
“There is some sort of progression,” Marcia continued. She moved in among the others, and they made space for her on the sofa so she could spread the sheets of paper on the coffee table.
“If we were all accurate in our reporting, then the times imply that the attacks happened in a sweeping motion.” Marcia raised her arm and showed what she meant. “Beginning first with the women closest to the river—Pam and Kathryn—and at the bottom of the development, the attacks have spread up the hill, and have hit Sara, who’s the last female in the Village, five to ten minutes after everyone else.”
“What does it mean?” asked Jill.
“It means we’re being hit by some sort of wave,” Sara replied.
“And there’s another pattern,” Marcia added. She shifted through the sheets and continued, “Since these attacks began last week we’re getting hit more frequently. Amy Volt was killed at ten o’clock on Tuesday. Sara said she experienced her first orgasm the next morning, around eight a.m. Debbie was killed at four p.m. that afternoon.
“Those first series of attacks,” she went on, “were ten hours apart. The next series were eight hours apart. And now the attacks are closer.” She stared again at the women. “By this calculation, some of us should be struck at ten a.m.”
“Some?” Rebecca Hunt asked.
Marcia nodded. “According to the times everyone gave me, it appears that we’re not all getting hit. Look, only half of us are here tonight. Peggy Volt, for one, told me she’d telephone Sara or myself if she had an orgasm. And Joy Lang never called. She said she would.”
“Joy’s not home,” Pam volunteered. “She had a date in D.C. tonight and she told me she was staying in town.” Pam glanced around at the others, her eyes wide-open and innocent. “She’s afraid of staying in the Village.” She sounded apologetic.
“We are all afraid, Pam,” Sara quietly remarked. Then she turned to Marcia and asked, “Where’s Peggy?” Sara had not mentioned to her or any of the women how Cindy Delp had dragged her across the Village to bang on the Volts’ back door.
Marcia shook her head.
“Do you think we should call her?” Now Sara was nervous. The behavior of Cindy Delp had baffled her, and suddenly Sara felt she had made a mistake. Perhaps she should have awakened Peggy and found out if everything was all right.
“I think we should telephone Peggy,” she blurted out.
“Sara, it’s the middle of the night,” Marcia protested. “She would have called if she was attacked.”
Sara stood. She knew the other women were watching, and that her nervous reaction bothered them. She realized they needed her to be calm and collected during this crisis, but she was worried about Peggy Volt.
“I’m going to telephone her,” she announced and, without hes
itating, she went into the kitchen and dialed. She needed only to hear Peggy’s voice, Sara reasoned, and she’d feel better.
Kevin Volt answered the phone on the first ring, as if he had been waiting. Sara excused herself for calling and asked to speak to Peggy.
“Peggy’s asleep, Sara,” Kevin answered coolly. “Is there anything wrong?”
“Well, no, not really.” Sara paced away from the wall phone, stretching the cord. “I’m not sure Peggy mentioned anything to you, Kevin: but some of us women have been experiencing rather bizarre attacks.”
“Attacks?”
“Well, no, not attacks really,” she sighed. “I think Peggy should explain this to you.” Sara felt flustered. She was not handling this well.
“Of course, Peggy has been having a difficult time. That’s to be expected after the baby’s death.”
“I know and I’m sorry to bother you.” Kevin was right. What was she doing checking up on Peggy?
“Sara, what is this about attacks?” He tried to seem merely curious, but his voice tightened.
“I really think Peggy should tell you, Kevin.” Sara tried to back off from giving an explanation.
“Sara, my wife is ill. The doctor has her under heavy medication. The woman isn’t rational most days. You say she—and the other women—are being attacked!” His voice rose sharply and now he was afraid. Perhaps something had gone wrong.
“Kevin, I’m sorry for being so vague, but I’d rather not say anything more.” Sara had gained control; she would not confide in him. “Ask Peggy,” she said quietly.
“Thank you, Sara. That’s exactly what I’ll do.” He hung up abruptly.
Sara’s hands were shaking when she replaced the telephone receiver. She stood for a moment, calming herself, and then she went to tell the women that Peggy Volt was all right, at home in bed and asleep.
Kevin sat a moment on the bed beside his wife and gradually suppressed his rage toward Sara Marks. This was not the time to be careless and imprudent.
