7

Monday, August 22, 1977

AT NINE 0’ CL 0 C K Monday morning, Jenny came to visit the Annendale camp, and she brought with her a sturdy, yard-high canary cage.

Mark laughed when he saw her carrying it out of the woods. “What’s that for?”

“A guest should always bring a gift,” she said.

“What will we do with it?”

She put it in the boy’s hands as Paul kissed her on the cheek. Mark grinned at her through the slender, gilded bars. “You said you wanted to bring your squirrel to town this coming Friday. Well, you can’t let him loose in the car.

This will be his travel cage.”

“He won’t like being penned up.”

“Not at first. But he’ll get used to it.”

“He’ll have to get used to it sooner or later if he’s going to be your pet,”

Paul said.

Rya nudged her brother and said, “For God’s sake, Mark, aren’t you going to say thank you? Jenny probably looked all over town for that.”

The boy blushed. “Oh, sure. Thanks. Thanks a lot, Jenny.”

“Rya, you’ll notice there’s a small brown bag in the bottom of the cage. That’s for you.”

The girl tore open the bag and smiled when she saw the three paperback books.

“Some of my favorite authors. And I don’t have any of these! Thanks, Jenny.”

Most eleven-year-old girls liked to read nurse novels, romances, perhaps Barbara Cartland or Mary Roberts Rinehart. But Jenny would have made a serious mistake if she had brought anything of that sort for Rya. Instead: one Louis L’Amour western, one collection of horror stories, and one adventure novel by Alistair MacLean. Rya wasn’t a classic tomboy—but she sure as hell wasn’t like most other eleven-year-old girls, either.

Both of these children were special. That was why, although she had no particular affection for children in general, she had fallen for them so quickly. She loved them every bit as much as she loved Paul.

Oh, yeah? she thought, catching herself in the admission. You’re just brimming with love for Paul, are you?

Enough of that.

Love, is it? Then why don’t you accept his proposal?

Enough.

Why won’t you marry him?

Well, because— She forced herself to stop arguing with herself. People who indulged in extended interior dialogues, she thought, were candidates for schizophrenia.

For a while the four of them fed the squirrel, which Mark had named Buster, and watched its antics. The boy regaled them with his plans for training the animal.

He intended to teach Buster to roll over and play dead, to heel when told, to beg for his supper, and to fetch a stick. No one had the heart to tell him how unlikely it was that a squirrel could ever be made to do any of those things.

Jenny wanted to laugh and grab him and hug him—but she only nodded and agreed with him whenever he asked for her opinion.

Later they played a game of tag and several games of badminton.

At eleven o’clock Rya said, “I’ve got an announcement to make. Mark and I planned lunch. We’re going to do all of the cooking ourselves. And we really have some special dishes to make. Don’t we, Mark?”

“Yeah, we sure do. My favorite is—”

“Mark!” Rya said quickly. “It’s a surprise.”

“Yeah,” he said, as if he hadn’t almost given away everything. “That’s right.

It’s a surprise.”

Tucking her long black hair behind her ears, Rya turned to her father and said, “Why don’t you and Jenny take a nice long walk up the mountain? There are lots and lots of easy deer trails. You should work up an appetite.”

“I’ve already worked one up by playing badminton,” Paul said.

Rya made a face. “I don’t want you to see what we’re cooking.”

“Okay. We’ll sit over there with our backs to you.” Rya shook her head: no. She was adamant. “You’ll still smell it cooking. There won’t be any surprise.”

“The wind isn’t blowing that way,” Paul said. “Cooking odors won’t carry far.”

Anxiously twisting her badminton racket in her hands, Rya glanced at Jenny.

What a lot of schemes and calculations are whirling around behind those innocent blue eyes of yours, Jenny thought. She was beginning to understand what the girl wanted.

With characteristic bluntness, Mark said, “You got to go for a walk with Jenny, Dad. We know the two of you want to be alone.”

“Mark, for God’s sake!” Rya was aghast.

“Well,” the boy said defensively, “that’s why we’re making lunch, isn’t it? To give them a chance to be alone?”

Jenny laughed.

“I’ll be damned,” Paul said.

Rya said, “I think I’ll cook squirrel for lunch.”

A look of horror passed across Mark’s face. “That’s a terrible, rotten thing to say!”

“I didn’t mean it.”

“It’s still rotten.”

“I apologize.”

Looking at her out of the corner of his eye, as if he were trying to assess her sincerity, Mark finally said, “Well, okay.”

Taking Paul’s hand, Jenny said, “If we don’t go for a walk, your daughter’s going to be very upset. And when your daughter is very upset, she’s a dangerous girl.”

Grinning, Rya said, “That’s true. I’m a terror.”

“Jenny and I are going for a walk,” Paul said. He leaned toward Rya. “But tonight I’ll tell you the shocking story of the hideous fate that befell a conniving child.”

“Oh, good!” Rya said. “I like bedtime stories. Lunch will be served at one o’clock.” She turned away and, as if she sensed Paul swinging his badminton racket at her backside, jumped to the left and ran into the tent.

The stream gushed noisily around a boulder, surged between banks lined with scrub birch and laurel, descended several rocky shelves, and formed a wide, deep pool at the end of the hollow before racing on to spill down the next step of the mountain. There were fish in the pool: darker shapes gliding in dark water.

The surrounding clearing was sheltered by full-sized birches and one gargantuan oak with exposed and twisted roots, like tentacles, thrusting into the leaf mulch and black earth. The ground between the base of the oak and the pool was covered with moss so thick that it made a comfortable mattress for lovers.

Half an hour above the camp and the meadow where they had played badminton, they stopped beside the pool to rest. She stretched out on her back, her hands behind her head. He lay beside her.

She didn’t know quite how it had happened, but the conversation had eventually given way to a gentle exchange of kisses. Caresses. Murmurs. He held her to him, his hands on her buttocks, his face in her hair, and licked lightly at her earlobe.

Suddenly she became the bolder of the two. She rubbed one hand across the crotch of his jeans, felt him swelling beneath the denim.

“I want that,” she said.

“I want you.”

“Then we can both have what we want.”

When they were naked, he began to kiss her breasts. He licked her stiffening nipples.

“I want you now,” she said. “Quickly. We can take longer the second time.”

They responded to each other with a powerful, unique, and utterly unexpected sensitivity that neither of them had ever quite achieved before. The pleasure was more than intense. It was very nearly excruciating for her, and she could see that it was much the same for him. Perhaps this was because they had wanted each other so fiercely but had not been together for so long, since March. If absence makes the heart grow fonder, she thought, does it also make the genitals grow randier? Or perhaps this electrifying pleasure was a response to the setting, to the wild land’s sounds and odors and textures. Whatever the reason, he needed no lubrication to penetrate her. He slid deep with one fluid thrust and rocked in and out of her, down and down, filling her, tight within her, moving her. She was transfixed by the sight of his arms: the muscles bulged, each well defined, as he supported himself over her. She reached for his buttocks, hard as stone, and pulled him farther into her with each galvanizing stroke. Although she rapidly came into her climax, she coasted down from it so slowly that she wondered if there would be an end to it. Abruptly, when the sensations in her had subsided, he grew still, pinned by the power of his own orgasm. He softly said her name.

Shrinking within her, he kissed her breasts and lips and forehead. Then he rolled off her, onto his side.

She moved against him, belly to belly, and put her lips against the throbbing artery in his neck.

He held her, and she held him. The act that they had just Completed seemed to bind them; the memory of joy was an invisible umbilical.

For a few minutes she was not at all aware of the world beyond his shadow. She couldn’t hear anything except the beat of her own heart and the heavy drawing of breath from both of them. In time the voices of the mountain filtered back to her:

leaves rustling overhead, the stream splashing down the slope into the pool, birds calling to one another in the trees. Likewise, at first she couldn’t feel anything but the slight ache in her chest and Paul’s warm semen trickling out of her. Gradually,

however, she realized that the day was hot and humid, and that their embrace had become less romantic than sticky.

Reluctantly, she disentangled herself from him and rolled onto her back. A sheen of perspiration filmed her breasts and stomach.

She said, “Incredible.”

“Incredible.”

Neither of them was ready to say more than that.

The breeze had almost dried them when he finally raised up on one elbow and looked down at her. “You know something?”

“What’s that?”

“I’ve never known another woman who was able to enjoy herself as thoroughly as you do.”

“Sex, you mean?”

“Sex, I mean.”

“Annie enjoyed it.”

“Sure. We had a fine marriage. But she didn’t enjoy it quite like you do. You put everything you’ve got into it. You’re not aware of anything but your body and mine when we make love. You’re consumed by it.”

“I can’t help it if I’m horny.”

“You’re more than horny.”

“Oversexed, then.”

“It’s not just sex,” he said.

“You’re not going to tell me that you like my mind too.”

“That’s precisely what I’m going to tell you. You enjoy everything. I’ve seen you savor a glass of water like some people do good wine.” He drew a finger down the line between her breasts. “You’ve got a lust for life.”

“Me and Van Gogh.”

“I’m serious.”

She thought about it. “A friend at college used to say the same thing.”

“You see?”

“If it’s true,” she said, “the credit belongs to my father.”

“Oh?”

“He gave me such a happy childhood.”

“Your mother died when you were a child.”

She nodded. “But she went in her sleep. A cerebral hemorrhage. One day she was there—gone the next. I never saw her in pain, and that makes a difference to a child.”

“You grieved. I’m sure you did.”

“For a while. But my father worked hard to bring me out of it. He was full of jokes and games and stories and presents, twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. He worked just like you did to make your kids forget Annie’s death.”

“If I could have been as successful at that as Sam evidently was with you—”

“Maybe he was too successful,” she said.

“How could that be?”

Sighing, she said, “Sometimes I think he should have spent less time making my childhood happy and more time preparing me for the real world.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that. Happiness is a rare commodity in this life. Don’t knock it. Grab every minute of it that’s offered to you, and don’t look back.”

She shook her head, unconvinced. “I was too naďve. A regular Pollyanna. Right up through my wedding day.”

“A bad marriage can happen to anybody, wise or innocent.”

“Certainly. But the wise aren’t shattered by it.”

His hand moved in lazy circles on her belly.

She liked the way he touched her. Already, she wanted him again.

He said, “If you can analyze yourself this way, you can overcome your hang-ups.

You can forget the past.”

“Oh, I can forget him all right. My husband. No trouble, given time. And not much time at that.”

“Well then?”

“I’m not innocent anymore. God knows, I’m not. But naďve? I’m not sure a person can become a cynic overnight. Or even a realist.”

“We’d be perfect together,” he said, touching her breasts. “I’m certain of it.”

“At times I’m certain of it too. And that’s what I distrust about it—the certainty.”

“Marry me,” he said.

“How did we get around to this again?”

“I asked you to marry me.”

“I don’t want to be set up for another fall.”

“I’m not setting you up.”

“Not intentionally.”

“You can’t live without taking risks.”

“I can try.”

“It’ll be a lonely life.”

She made a face at him. “Let’s not spoil the day.”

“It’s not spoiled for me.”

“Well, it will be for me soon; if we don’t change the subject.”

“What could we talk about that’s more important than this?” She grinned. “You seem fascinated with my tits. Want to talk about those?”

“Jenny, be serious.”

“I am being serious. I think my tits are fascinating. I could spend hours talking about them.”

“You’re impossible.”

“Okay, okay. If you don’t want to talk about my tits, we won’t talk about them, lovely as they are. Instead—we’ll talk about your prick.”

“Jenny—”

“I’d like to taste it.”

As she spoke the soft center of him swelled and grew hard.

“Defeated by biology,” she said. “You’re a minx.”

She laughed and started to sit up. He pushed her back.

“I want to taste it,” she said. “Later.”

“Now.”

“I want to get you off first.” “And do you always get your way?” “I will this time. I’m bigger than you.” “Male chauvinist.”

“If you say so.” He kissed her nipples, shoulders, hands, her navel and thighs. He rubbed his nose gently back and forth in the crinkled hair at the base of her belly.

A shiver passed through her. She said, “You’re right. A woman should have her pleasure first.”

He lifted his head and smiled at her. He had a charming, almost boyish smile.

His eyes were so clear, so blue, and so warm that she felt as if she were being absorbed by them.

What a delightful man you are, she thought as the voices of the mountain faded away and her heartbeat replaced them. So beautiful, so desirable, so tender for a man. So very tender.

The house was on Union Road, one block from the town square. A white frame bungalow. Nicely kept. Windows trimmed in green with matching shutters. Railed front porch with bench swing and glider and bright green floor. Latticework festooned with ivy at one end of the porch, a wall of lilac bushes at the other end. Brick walkway with borders of marigolds on each side. A white ceramic birdbath ringed with petunias. According to the sign that hung on a decorative lamppost at the end of the walk, the house belonged to “The Macklins.”

At one o’clock that afternoon, Salsbury climbed the three steps to the porch. He was carrying a clipboard with a dozen sheets of paper fixed to it. He rang the bell.

Bees hummed in the lilac leaves.

The woman who opened the door surprised him. Perhaps because of the flowers that had been planted everywhere and because of the pristine condition of the property that seemed the work of a singularly fussy person, he had expected the Macklins to be an elderly couple. A skinny pair who liked to putter in their gardens, who had no grandchildren to spend their time with, who would stare suspiciously at him over the rims of their bifocals. However, the woman who answered the bell was in her middle twenties, a slender blonde with the kind of face that looked good in magazine advertisements for cosmetics. She was tall, five eight or nine, not delicate but feminine, as leggy as a chorus girl. She was wearing dark blue shorts and a blue-andwhite polka-dot halter top. Even through the screen door, he could see that her body was well proportioned, firm, resilient, better than any he had ever touched.

As usual, confronted with a woman like one of those who had peopled his fantasies all of his adult life, he was unsettled. He stared at her and licked his lips and couldn’t think of a damned thing to say.

“Can I help you?”

He cleared his throat. “My name’s—Albert Deighton. I’ve been in town since last Friday. I don’t know if you heard .

I’m doing some research. Sociological research. I’ve been talking to people—”

“I know,” she said. “You were next door at the Solomans’ yesterday afternoon.”

“That’s right.” Although the sun was hot and the air heavy, he hadn’t perspired during any of the first three interviews of the day; but now he felt beads of sweat spring up on his forehead. “I’d like to talk with you and Mr. Mackin, if you can spare me the time. Half an hour ought to be enough. There are about a hundred questions—”

“I’m sorry,” she said. “My husband isn’t home. He works up at the mill on the day shift. He won’t be home till five thirty.”

He looked at his clipboard for something to do. “I can always catch him some other time. If I could interview you and the children now, get that out of the way—”

“Oh, we’ve only been married a year. We haven’t any kids.”

“Newlyweds.”

“Just about.” She smiled. She had dimples.

He felt as if he were being dragged along in a dangerous current, swept inexorably toward a decision that could destroy him. “Is there anyone else living here? A relative?”

“Just Richie and me.”

“Richie’s your husband?”

“That’s right.”

Last Friday, in Ultman’s Cafe, he had risked exposing the entire project by using the code phrase to play with that waitress who looked like Miriam. He had gotten away with it, but he

knew he was a fool to allow his emotions to overwhelm him like that. As penance for his behavior, he was far more cautious on Saturday and Sunday than he needed to be. He used the code phrase two dozen times, interviewing the subjects in detail, searching for weak spots in their obedient mode; but he never approached one of them if there was the slimmest chance of discovery. Some of the women had been attractive, and he could have used them any way he wanted. But he had restrained himself. Having tasted total dominance when he opened Alice, that bitch waitress, with the code, he was anxious to make one of them undress and get down on the floor before him. Damned anxious. And this one, standing there in shorts and halter, seemed to radiate heat that evaporated his will power and his caution. He wanted to believe that, unlike the episode at the café, this situation contained no threat; and wanting to believe was the first step toward convincing himself.

“I am the key.”

“I am the lock.”

Relieved, he wiped his brow. “Are you alone?”

“Yes.”

He began to tremble, not with fear but with excitement. “Are you expecting anyone?”

“No. No one.”

“Is anyone expecting you? Were you planning to go visiting?”

“No.”

“Let me in.”

She pushed open the screen door.

He stepped past her into the air-conditioned foyer. There was an oval mirror and accessory table on the right, a small painting of a storm-tossed sailing ship on his left. “Close the door. And lock it.”

She did as she was told.

A short corridor, containing two more paintings of sailing ships, led from the foyer to the kitchen.

On the left the living room opened to the hail through an archway. It was neatly furnished. An oriental carpet. Two Crushed velvet sofas and a slate-topped coffee table arranged to

form a conversation corner. Matching crushed-velvet drapes at the three windows.

A magazine rack. A gun case. Two Stiffel lamps. To harmonize with the carpet, the paintings were of Western sailing ships docked in Chinese harbors.

“Draw the drapes,” he said.

She went from window to window, then came back to the center of the room. She stood with her hands at her sides, staring at him, a half-smile on her face.

She was waiting. ‘Waiting for orders. His orders. She was his puppet, his slave.

For more than a minute he stood in the archway, unable to move, unable to decide what he should do next. Immobilized by fear, anticipation, and the grip of lust that made his groin ache almost unpleasantly, he was nevertheless sweating as if he had just run the mile. She was his. Entirely his: her mouth, breasts, ass, legs, cunt, every inch and fold of her. Better than that, there was no need for him to worry about whether or not he pleased her. The only consideration was his own pleasure. If he told her that she loved it, she would love it. No complaints afterward. No recriminations. Just the act—and then to hell with her. Here, ready for the first time to use a woman exactly as he wanted, he found the reality more exhilarating than the dreams he’d had so many years to elaborate upon.

She regarded him quizzically. “Is that all?”

“No.” His voice was hoarse.

“What do you want?”

He went to the nearest lamp, switched it on, and sat down on one of the sofas.

“You stand where you are,” he said. “Answer my questions and do what I say.”

“All right.”

“What’s your name?”

“Brenda.”

“How old are you, Brenda?”

“Twenty-six.”

He took his handkerchief from his hip pocket, wiped his face. He looked at the paintings of sailing ships. “Your husband likes the sea?”

“Then he likes paintings of the sea.”

“No. He doesn’t care for them.”

He had only been talking to pass time while he decided how he wanted to proceed with her. Now, her unexpected answer confused him. “Then why the hell do you have all these paintings?”

“I was born and raised in Cape Cod. I love the sea.”

“But he doesn’t care for it. Why does he let you hang these damned things everywhere?”

“He knows I like them,” she said.

He wiped his face again, put the handkerchief away. “He knows if he took them off the wall, you’d freeze him out in bed. Wouldn’t you, Brenda?”

“Of course not.”

“You know you would, you little bitch. You’re a pretty little piece. He’d do anything to keep you happy. Any man would. Men have been running to do your bidding since you were old enough to fuck. You snap your fingers, and they dance. Don’t they?”

Puzzled, she shook her head. “Dance? No.”

He laughed bitterly. “A game of semantics. You know I didn’t really mean ‘dance.’ You’re like all the others. You’re a bitch, Brenda.”

She squinted. Frowned.

“I say you’re a bitch. Am I right?” Her frown vanished. “Yes.”

“I’m always right. Isn’t that true?” “Yes. You’re always right.”

“What am I?”

“You’re the key.”

“What are you?”

“I’m the lock.”

He was feeling better by the minute. Not so tense as he had been. Not so jittery. Calm. In control. As he’d never been. He pushed his glasses up on his nose. “You’d like me to strip you naked and screw you. Wouldn’t you like that, Brenda?”

She hesitated.

“You’d like it,” he said.

“I’d like it.”

“You’d love it.”

“I’d love it.”

“Take off your halter.”

Reaching behind her back, she slipped the knot, and the polka-dot cloth fell to her feet. The flesh beneath was white, in stark and erotic contrast to her dark tan. Her breasts were neither large nor small, but exquisitely curved, upthrust.

A few freckles. Pink nipples not much darker than her untanned skin. She kicked the halter out of her way.

“Touch them,” he said.

“My breasts?”

“Squeeze them. Pull on the nipples.” He watched, found her movements too mechanical, and said, “You’re horny, Brenda. You want to be fucked. You can’t wait to have me. You need it. You want it. You want it more than you’ve ever wanted it in your life. You’re almost sick with wanting it.”

As she continued to caress herself, her nipples swelled and turned a darker shade of pink. She was breathing heavily.

He giggled. He couldn’t suppress it. He felt terrific. So terrific. “Take off your shorts.”

She did.

“And your panties. You’re a real blonde, I see. Now, put one hand between those pretty legs. Finger yourself. That’s it. That’s good. That’s a good girl.”

Standing, her feet wide apart, masturbating, she was a stunning sight. She threw back her head, golden hair trailing like a banner, mouth open, face slack. She was gasping for breath. Shivering. Twitching. Moaning. With her free hand, she was still caressing her breasts.

The power. Good God, the power he had over them now, would always have over them, from this day forward! He could come into their homes, into their most sacred and private places, and once inside do whatever he wished with them. And not just with the women. Men too. If he ordered it of them, the men would mewl and crawl to him on their hands and knees. They would beg him to screw their wives. They’d give him their daughters, their girl children. They wouldn’t deny him any experience, however extravagant or outrageous. He would demand every thrill, and he would enjoy each of them. But on the whole, he would be a benign ruler, a benevolent dictator, more like a father than a jailer. No jackboots in their faces. He laughed at that last thought. Ten years ago, when he was still conducting lecture tours and writing about the future of behavior modification and mind control, he was subjected to extensive ridicule and vehement condemnation from some members of the academic community. In lecture halls, all but forcibly detained at the end of his speeches, he had listened to countless self-righteous bores droning through homilies about invasion of privacy and the sanctity of the human mind, They quoted hundreds of great thinkers, epigrams by the score—some of which he remembered to this day. There was one about the future of mankind amounting to little more than a jackboot in the face. Well, that was crap. Jackboots, and the cruel authoritarian state they symbolized, were only a means of keeping the masses in line. Now, with his drug and the keylock program, jackboots had become obsolete. No one would have a jackboot pushed in his face. Of course, for selected women, he had something else to push in their faces. Massaging himself through his trousers, he laughed.

The power. The sweet, sweet power.

“Brenda.”

Shuddering, gasping, her knees bending slightly, she climaxed as her index finger worked industriously between her legs.

“Brenda.”

At last she looked up at him. She was beginning to perspire. Her hair was dark and damp at the brow.

He said, “Go to that sofa. Kneel on it with your back to me, and brace your arms against the pillows.”

When she was in position, her white butt thrust up at him, she looked over her shoulder. “Hurry. Please.”

Laughing, he shoved the coffee table out of the way, sent it sliding off the carpet, across the hardwood floor and into the magazine rack. He stood behind her, dropped his trousers and his yellow-striped shorts. He was ready, the veins about to burst, hard as iron, bigger than he’d ever been, big as a stallion’s gun, a horse cock. And red. So red it looked as if it had been smeared with blood. He ran one hand over her buttocks, over the golden hairs on her back, along her side, under to the swinging breast, pinched the nipple, smoothed her flank, pinched her ass, slipped his fingers between her thighs, to her pubes. She was wet, dripping, far more ready then he was. He could even smell her. Giggling, he said, “You’re a bitch in more ways than one.

A regular little bitch dog. A little animal. Aren’t you, Brenda?”

“Yes.”

“Say you’re a little animal.” “I am. I’m a little animal.” The power.

“What do you want, Brenda?”

“I want you to screw me.”

“Do you?”

“Yes.”

“How bad do you want it?”

“Real bad.”

Sweet, sweet power.

“What do you want?”

“You know!”

“Do I?”

“I already said!”

“Say it again.”

“You’re humiliating me.”

“I haven’t even begun.”

“Oh, God.”

“Listen to me, Brenda.”

“What?”

“Your cunt’s getting hotter.”

She groaned softly. Shuddered. “Feel it, Brenda?”

“Yes.”

“Hotter and hotter.”

“I don’t— I can’t—”

“You can’t stand it?”

“So hot. Almost hurts.”

He smiled. “Now what do you want?” “I want you to screw me.”

See, Miriam? I am somebody.

“What are you, Brenda?”

“I am the lock.”

“What else are you?” “A bitch.”

“I can’t hear it often enough.”

“A bitch.”

“In heat?”

“Yes, yes. Please!”

Poised to enter her, dizzy with excitement, demoniac, electrified by the power he held, Salsbury had no illusions that his orgasm, deep within the silken regions of this woman, was the most important aspect of the rape. The spasmed outpouring of a tablespoon or two of semen was only the punctuation at the end of the sentence, at the conclusion of his declaration of independence. During the past half hour, he had proved himself, had freed himself from the dozens of bitches who had messed in his life all the way back to and including his mother, especially his mother, that goddess of bitches, that empress of ball-breakers.

After her came the girls who were frigid and the girls who laughed at him and the girls who whined about his poor technique and the girls who rejected him with unconcealed distaste and Miriam and the contemptible whores to whom he had been forced to resort in later years. Brenda Macklin was only a metaphor, written into his life by chance. If it hadn’t been her, it would have been someone else this afternoon or tomorrow or the day after tomorrow. She was the voodoo doll, the totem with which he would exorcise some of those bitches from his past. Each inch of prick he jammed into her was a blow to the Brendas of years gone by. Each stroke—the more brutal it was the better—was an announcement of his triumph. He would pound her. Bruise her. Use her until she was raw. Hurt her.

With every blade of pain he sent through her, he would be cutting each of those hated women. By mounting this lean blond animal, by battering relentlessly into her, tearing her apart, he would be proving his superiority to all of them.

He seized her hips and leaned close. But as the tip of his shaft touched her vagina, even before the head of it slipped into her, he ejaculated uncontrollably. His legs gave way. Crying out, he fell on her.

She collapsed against the pillows.

Panic took him. Memories of past failures. The sour looks they gave him afterwards. The contempt with which they treated him. The shame of it. He held Brenda down, weighed her down. Desperately, he said, “You’re coming, girl.

You’re climaxing. Do you hear me? Do you understand? I’m telling you. You’re coming.”

She made a noise, muffled by pillows. “Feel it?”

“Mmmmm.”

“Do you feel it?”

Raising her head she said, “God, yes!” “You’ve never had it better.”

“Not ever. Never.” She was gasping.

“Feel it?”

“Feel it.”

“Is it hot?”

“So hot. Oh!”

“Coasting now. You’re coming down.” She stopped squirming under him.

“Drifting down. It’s almost over.”

“So good …” Softly.

“You little animal.”

With that the tension drained out of her.

The doorbell rang.

“What the hell?”

She didn’t react.

Pushing away from her, he swayed to his feet, tried to take a step with his trousers around his ankles and almost fell.

He grabbed his shorts, jerked them up, then his trousers. “You said you weren’t expecting anyone.”

“Wasn’t.”

“Then who’s that?”

She rolled onto her back. She looked sated.

“Who’s that?” he asked again.

“Don’t know.”

“For God’s sake, get dressed.”

She rose dreamily from the couch. “Quickly, damn you!”

Obediently, she scuttled after her clothes.

At one of the front windows, he parted the drapes a fraction of an inch, just enough to see the porch. A woman was standing at the door, unaware that she was under observation. In sandals, white shorts, and a scoop-necked orange sweater, she was even better-looking than Brenda Macklin.

Brenda said, “I’m dressed.”

The doorbell rang again.

Letting go of the drapery, Salsbury said, “It’s a woman. You better answer it.

But get rid of her. Whatever you do, don’t let her inside.”

“What should I say?”

“If it’s someone you’ve never seen before, you don’t have to say anything.”

“Otherwise?”

“Tell her you’ve got a headache. A terrible migraine headache. Now go.”

She went out of the room.

‘When he heard her open the door in the foyer, he parted the velvet again in time to see a smile touch the face of the woman in the orange sweater. She said something, and Brenda replied, and the smile was replaced by a look of concern.

Filtered through the walls and windows, their voices were hardly more than whispers. He couldn’t follow the conversation, but it Seemed to go on forever.

Maybe you should have let her come inside, he thought. Use the code phrase on her. Then screw them both.

But what if you let her come in and then discover she’s got a weak spot in her program?

Not much chance of that.

Or what if she’s from out of town? A relative from Bexford, perhaps. Then what?

Then she’d have to be killed.

And how would you dispose of the body?

Under his breath he said, “Come on, Brenda, you bitch. Get rid of her.”

Finally, the stranger turned away from the door. Salsbury had a brief glimpse of green eyes, ripe lips, a superb profile, extremely deep cleavage in the scoop-necked sweater. When she had her back to him and was going down the steps, he saw that her legs weren’t just sexy, as Brenda’s were, but sexy and elegant, even without nylons. Long, taut, smooth, scissoring legs, feminine muscles bunching and twisting and stretching and compacting and rippling sinuously with each step. An animal. A healthy animal. His animal. Like all of them now: his.

At the end of the Macklin property, she turned left into the searing afternoon sun, distorted by waves of heat rising from the concrete sidewalk, soon out of sight.

Brenda came back into the living room.

When she started to sit down, he said, “Stand. The middle of the room.”

She did that, her hands at her sides.

Returning to the sofa, he said, “What did you tell her?”

“That I had a migraine headache.”

“She believed you?”

“I guess so.”

“Did you know her?”

“Yes.”

“Who was she?”

“My sister-in-law.”

“She lives in Black River?”

“Has most all her life.”

“Quite a looker.”

“She was in the Miss USA contest.”

“Oh? When was that?”

“Twelve, thirteen years ago.”

“Still looks twenty-two.”

“She’s thirty-five.”

“She win?”

“Came in third.”

“Big disappointment, I’ll bet.”

“For Black River. She didn’t mind.”

“She didn’t? Why not?”

“Nothing bothers her.”

“Is that so?”

“She’s that way. Always happy.” “What’s her name?” “Emma.”

“Last name?”

“Thorp.”

“Thorp? She married?” “Yes.”

He frowned. “To that cop?” “He’s the chief of police.” “Bob Thorp.”

“That’s right.” “What’s she doing with him?” She was baffled. She blinked at him. Cute little animal. He swore he could still smell her. She said, “What do you mean?”

What I said. What s she doing with him?

“Well… they’re married.”

“A woman like her with a big, dumb cop.”

“He’s not dumb,” she said.

“Looks dumb to me.” He thought about it for a moment, and then he smiled. “Your maiden name’s Brenda Thorp.”

“Yes.”

“Bob Thorp’s your brother.”

“My oldest brother.”

“Poor Bob.” He leaned back in the sofa and folded his arms on his chest and laughed. “First I get to his kid sister—then I get to his wife.”

She smiled uncertainly. Nervously.

“I’ll have to be careful, won’t I?”

“Careful?” she said.

“Bob maybe dumb, but he’s big as a bull.”

“He isn’t dumb,” she insisted.

“In high school I dated a girl named Sophia.”

She was silent. Confused.

“Sophia Brookman. God, I wanted her.”

“Loved her?”

“Love’s a lie. A myth. It’s bullshit. I just wanted to screw her. But she dropped me after a few dates and started going with this other guy, Joey Duncan.

You know what Joey Duncan did after high school?”

“How would I know?” “He went to junior college.” “So did I.”

“Took criminology for a year.” “I majored in history.”

“He flunked out.” “Not me.”

“Ended up with the home town police.”

“Just like my brother.”

“I went to Harvard.”

“Did you really?”

“I was always a better dresser than Joey was. Besides that, he was as dull as a post. I was much wittier than he was. Joey didn’t read anything but the jokes in Reader’s Digest. I read The New Yorker every week.”

“I don’t like either one.”

“In spite of all that, Sophia preferred him. But you know what?”

“What?”

“It was in The New Yorker that I first saw something about subliminal perception. Back in the fifties. An article, editorial, maybe a little snippet at the bottom of a column. I forget exactly what it was.

But that’s what got me started. Something in The New Yorker.”

Brenda sighed. Fidgeted.

“Tired of standing?” “A little.”

“Are you bored?”

“Kind of.”

“Bitch.”

She looked at the floor.

“Get your clothes off.”

The lovely power. He was filled with it, brimming with it— but it had changed.

At first it had seemed to him like a steady, exhilarating current. Part of the time it was still like that, a soft humming inside of him, perhaps imagined but nevertheless electrifying, a river of power on which he sailed in complete command. But occasionally now, for short periods, it felt not like a constant flow but like a continuous and endless series of short, sharp bursts. The power like a submachine gun: tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat … The rhythm of it affected him. His mind spun. Thoughts adance, no thought finished, leaping from one thing to another: Joey Duncan, Harvard, keylock, Miriam, his mother, dark-eyed Sophia, breasts, sex, Emma Thorp, bitches, Dawson, Brenda, his growing erection, his mother, Klinger, Brenda, cunt, the power, jackboots, Emma’s legs—

“What now?”

She was naked.

He said, “Come here.” Little animal.

“Get down.”

“On the floor?”

“On your knees.” She got down.

“Beautiful animal.” “You like me?”

“You’ll do until.”

“Until what?”

“Until I get your sister-in-law.”

“Emma?”

“I’ll make him watch.”

“Who?”

“That dumb cop.”

“He isn’t dumb.”

“Lovely ass. You’re horny, Brenda.”

“I’m getting hot. Like before.”

“Of course you are. Hotter and hotter.”

“I’m shaking.”

“You want me more than you did before.”

“Do it to me.”

“Hotter and hotter.”

“I’m—embarrassed.”

“No. You aren’t.”

“Oh, God.”

“Feel good?”

“So good.”

“You don’t look at all like Miriam.” “Who’s Miriam?”

“The old bastard should see me now.” “Who? Miriam?”

“He’d be outraged. Quote the Bible.” “Who would?”

“Dawson. Probably can’t even get it up.” “I’m scared,” she said suddenly. “Of what?”

“I don’t know.”

“Stop being scared. You aren’t scared.” “Okay.”

“Are you scared?”

She smiled. “No. You going to screw me?” “Batter the hell out of you. Hot, aren’t you?”

“Yes. Burning up. Do it. Now.” “Klinger and his damned chorus girls.” “Klinger?”

“Probably queer anyway.”

“Are you going to do it?”

“Tear you up. Big as a horse.” “Yes. I want it. I’m hot.”

“I think maybe Miriam was queer.”

Tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat .

At five o’clock Monday afternoon, Buddy Pellineri, just out of bed with seven hours to pass before he had to report to work at the mill, went to Edison’s store to see if any new magazines had been put on the racks. His favorites were the ones that had a lot of pictures in them: People, Travel, Nevada, Arizona Highways, Vermont Life, a few of the photography journals. He found two issues that he didn’t have and took them to the counter to pay for them.

Jenny was at the cash register. She was wearing a white blouse with yellow flowers on it. Her long black hair looked freshly washed, thick and shiny. “You look so pretty, Miss Jenny.”

“Why, thank you, Buddy.”

He blushed and wished he had said nothing. She said, “Is the world treating you right?”

“No complaints.”

“I’m glad to hear it.”

“How much I owe you?”

“Do you have two dollars?”

He thrust a hand into his pocket, came out with some change and rumpled bills.

“Sure. Here.”

“You get three quarters in change,” she said.

“I thought they cost more.”

“Now, you know you get a discount here.”

“I’ll pay. Don’t want special treatment.”

“You’re a close friend of the family,” she said, shaking a finger at him. “We give discounts to all close friends of the family. Sam would be angry if you didn’t accept that. You put those quarters in your pocket.”

“Well … thanks.”

“You’re welcome, Buddy.”

“Is Sam here?”

‘She pointed to the curtained doorway. “Upstairs. He’s getting dinner.

“I ought to tell him.”

“Tell him what?” she asked.

“About this thing I saw.”

“Can’t you tell me?”

“Well … Better him.”

“You may go up and see him, if you like.”

The invitation frightened him. He was never comfortable in other people’s houses. “You have cats up there?”

“Cats? No. No pets at all.”

He knew she wouldn’t lie to him—but then, cats turned up in the most unexpected places. Two weeks after his mother died, he was asked to visit the parsonage.

Reverend Potter and Mrs. Potter had taken him straight to the parlor where she had served homemade cakes and cookies. He sat on the divan, knees together, hands in his lap. Mrs. Potter made hot chocolate. Reverend Potter poured for everyone. The two of them sat opposite Buddy in a pair of wing-backed chairs.

For a while everything was so nice. He ate the gingerbread and the little cookies with red and green sugar on them and he drank the cocoa and smiled a lot and talked a little—and then a big white furry cat leaped over his shoulder, onto his lap, claws digging in for an instant, from his lap to the floor. He didn’t even know they had a cat. Was that fair? Not to tell him? It had crept onto the window sill behind the divan. How long had it been there? All the while he ate? Paralyzed with fear, unable to speak, wanting to scream, he spilled his chocolate on the carpet and wet himself. Peed in his pants right on the preacher’s brocade divan. What a stain. It was awful. An awful day. He never went back there again, and he stopped going to church as well, even if he might go to hell for that.

“Buddy?”

She startled him. “What?”

“Do you want to go upstairs and see Sam?”

Picking up his magazines, he said, “No. No. I’ll tell him some time. Some other time. Not now.” He started toward the door.

“Buddy?”

He glanced back.

“Is something wrong?” she asked.

“No.” He forced a laugh. “No. Nothing. World’s treating me okay.” He hurried out of the store.

On the other side of Main Street, back in his two-room apartment, he went to the bathroom and peed, opened a bottle of Coca-Cola, and sat down at the kitchen table to look at his magazines. First thing, he paged through both of them, search. ing for articles about cats and pictures of cats and advertisements for cat food. He found two pages in each magazine that offended him, and he tore them out at once, regardless of what was on the backs of them. Methodically, he ripped each page. into hundreds of tiny pieces and threw the resultant heap of confetti into the wastebasket. Only then was he prepared to relax and look at the pictures.

Halfway through the first magazine, he came across an article about a team of skin divers who were, it seemed to him, trying to uncover an ancient treasure ship. He couldn’t read more than two words out of five, but he studied the pictures with great interest—and suddenly was reminded of what he had seen in the woods that night. Near the mill. When he was taking a pee. At a quarter of five in the morning, on the day he’d so carefully marked on his calendar. Skin divers. Coming down from the reservoir. Carrying flashlights. And guns. It was such a silly thing, he couldn’t forget it. Such a funny… such a scary thing.

They didn’t belong where he had seen them. They hadn’t been hunting for treasure, not at night, not up in the reservoir.

What had they been doing?

He’d thought about that for ever so long, but he simply couldn’t figure it out.

He wanted to ask someone to explain it, but he knew they’d laugh at him.

Last week, however, he realized that there was someone in Black River who would listen to him, who would believe him and wouldn’t laugh no matter how silly the story was. Sam. Sam always had time for him, even before his mother died. Sam never made fun of him or talked down to him or hurt his feelings. Furthermore, so far as Buddy was concerned, Sam Edison was easily the smartest person in town. He knew just about everything; or Buddy thought he did.

If there was anyone who could explain to him what he had seen, it was Sam.

On the other hand, he didn’t want to look like a fool in Sam’s eyes. He was determined to give himself every chance to work out the answer first. That was why he had delayed going to Sam since he had remembered him last Wednesday.

A while ago in the store, he finally was ready to let Sam take over his thinking for him. But Sam was upstairs, in rooms that were unfamiliar to Buddy, and that raised the question of cats.

Now he had more time to puzzle it out on his own. If Sam was in the store the next time Buddy went there, he would tell him the story. But not for a few days yet. He sat in the patterned late-afternoon sunlight that came through the curtain, drank Coca-Cola, and wondered.