Flesh

CHAPTER THIRTY

After hearing the toilet flush, Roland counted slowly to sixty. He made the count again and again. Then his mind wandered. He pictured Alison in her attic room taking off her clothes, getting into bed. In his fantasy, she wasn’t covered by a sheet. She wore only a pajama shirt. He saw himself standing over her, carefully unfastening the buttons as she slept, spreading open the shirt. Her skin looked like ivory in the dim light from the window. He reached down to touch her and suddenly she was obese, she was Helen and she was dead, and she grinned up at him. He lurched, bumping his forehead against the boxsprings.

He lowered his head to the floor.

And held his breath, listening, half expecting Helen to moan or turn on the mattress above him, awakened by the jolt.

Don’t be ridiculous, he told himself. She’s dead as shit.

But I’m right under her.

He listened and heard nothing. Helen’s eyes were open, though. He could see them open. She knew he was under her bed.

Roland must’ve spent hours in the narrow space only a couple of feet beneath her corpse. It seemed unfair that his mind should start turning against him now, when he was almost done with the wait.

He still heard nothing.

But Helen was listening as she gazed with dead eyes at the ceiling, and she could hear Roland under the bed—his quick heartbeat and shaky breath.

“You’re dead,” he whispered.

Helen rolled over, got to her hands and knees, ripped open the mattress with crooked fingers and tore out great clumps of stuffing. Then she was staring down at him through the mattress tunnel. She bared her teeth. She snarled and thrust her hand down the hole, clawing toward his face.

It isn’t happening, he told himself.

But he trembled and gasped. He had to get out. He felt as if spiders were scurrying over his body. He scooted sideways over the carpet, but stopped just beneath the side of the bed frame. Helen was waiting up there. Waiting to grab him when he emerged.

With a stifled whimper, he thrust himself into the open and rolled clear. He sat up. In the dim light from the window, Helen was a motionless mound beneath the covers of her bed.

Watching her, Roland got to his feet. He kept his eyes on her as he sidestepped to the bedroom door. He opened the door, stepped out, and pulled it shut. He backed away from it.

No longer in the presence of the body, his fear slowly subsided. He felt angry and embarrassed for letting his imagination torment him.

Why, he wondered, had his friend allowed him to lose control that way? Certainly, it could’ve stopped the horrid thoughts—given him a nice zap to remind him of Alison. Did it enjoy his suffering? Or did it simply not care?

He touched the bulge at the back of his neck.

I’m doing it all for you, he thought.

Then he felt ashamed. This was his friend, who had turned his secret fantasies into reality, who had led him into a new life even more bizarre and thrilling than his most lurid dreams. The fear was his own fault. He had no right to blame his friend.

As if stirred by the reassurance, or perhaps only to remind him of what lay ahead, his friend sent a small tremor of pleasure through Roland.

Had enough time gone by? He wanted Alison to be asleep before he went up to her. Otherwise, she might cry out. Her window had been open when Roland went exploring after he’d finished cleaning the mess in the living room. She wouldn’t have closed it; the house was still too hot. With the window open, a scream might be heard by someone outside or even by the people who lived downstairs.

Roland needed to catch her asleep. Then, there would be no scream or struggle.

He went to the sofa, sat down, and waited.

He savored the waiting. Last night with Celia had been incredible. But Alison had stunning beauty along with an innocent, alluring quality that Celia lacked. She would be…overwhelming.

It would be like a dream.

All night with her.

But he needed to wait. Settling back on the sofa, he folded his hands behind his head and stared at the dark screen of the television. He called up an image of Alison in the mall wearing the jumpsuit with the zipper down the front that he longed to slide down. She’d had a bag in her hand. So had Celia. He wondered what they had bought that day.

Roland grinned. Whatever they’d bought, it cost plenty. It cost their lives and Helen’s too. If he hadn’t seen them at the mall…

He would’ve chosen someone else, not the Three Musketeers.

Big enough to share with a friend.

His stomach growled.

Desire pulsed through him. Roland writhed, gasping, until it faded.

Okay, he thought. I get the message.

Leaning forward, he pulled off his shoes and socks. He pulled off his shirt and spread it on the top of the table. Standing, he slipped the knife from its case and placed it on the shirt. He removed his handcuffs from a front pocket of his jeans. Digging into the other front pocket, he took out a smashed and flattened roll of duct tape.

He touched the handcuff key which dangled from a thin chain around his neck.

His hands shook badly as he peeled off a six-inch strip of the broad, metallic tape and sliced it off the roll with his knife. He stuck one end of the tape to his chin. It hung down like a strange beard.

He lowered his jeans and stepped out of them.

This time, there would be no problem of blood on his clothes. He would leave them down here and put them on again after showering. He would be clean when he left the house.

I’m learning, he thought. I’m getting good at this.

He sat on the sofa again, picked up his jeans, and pulled the belt out of its loops. He put the knife case back onto the belt, then stood and buckled the belt loosely around his waist. He folded the knife, slipped it into its case.

Now, he would have both hands free for cuffing her and taping her mouth.

He liked the feel of the cool belt and the weight of the knife against his side.

A naked savage.

Drape a cloth over the belt, and he would have a loincloth.

Better like this, he decided.

He slid a hand down the length of his engorged penis, then picked up the cuffs. He stepped around the end of the sofa. His feet were silent on the carpet. He heard only his thudding heart. He began to tremble. With each step, the tremors grew. He wasn’t cold; he wasn’t frightened. He was shaking with excitement, with delicious shivers of anticipation.

At the bottom of the staircase, Roland shifted the cuffs to his left hand. He curled his right hand over the railing. Slowly, he began to climb.

The staircase was black. But a patch of gray showed at the top.

A step creaked under his weight.

He stopped and listened.

His throat was making an odd, dry clicking sound with each heartbeat. He swallowed, and the sound went away.

He began climbing again. After a few more steps, his eyes were level with the floor of the attic room. The blanket lay heaped on the floor at the foot of the bed. The top sheet hung off the side of the mattress, almost at the end, but still on the bed, ready to be pulled up in case Alison should grow chilly in the middle of the night.

Roland was still too low to see Alison. He climbed. The bed seemed to descend, and there was Alison, sprawled on her back.

He crouched until he could no longer see her. Staying low, he made his way up the final stairs. On elbows and knees, he crawled over the carpet. He stopped close to the side of the bed.

He listened to Alison’s soft, slow breathing until he was certain she was asleep. Then he stood and looked down at her.

She was bathed in a glow of moonlight. Her nightie seemed glossed with silver except for the areas over her breasts. There, it had no sheen but was transparent. He could see the creamy skin of her breasts, the dark flesh of her nipples.

Roland licked his dry lips.

He could almost feel the nipples in his mouth, almost taste them.

Alison’s pillow rested crooked against the headboard as if she had found it too hot under her head, and shoved it away. Her face was turned toward the window. A few wisps of her hair curled over her pale ear. Her left arm was extended toward Roland, her hand at the very edge of the mattress, palm up, fingers curled. Her other arm lay close to her right side. Her long, bare legs were spread, feet tilted outward. The moon-slicked nightie clung to her thighs.

He bent over, caressed the slick fabric between her legs, pinched a bit of it and lifted, drawing it gently upward.

A hot surge suddenly ripped Roland’s breath away. He shuddered with an agony of need, tugging briefly at the gown before it slipped from his fingers. Alison moaned. Her head turned.

Roland, quaking and fogged but somehow alert in spite of the ecstasy, made a quick grab for her left hand. He slapped the cuff around its wrist. Her arm jerked, yanking the other cuff from Roland’s grip. Gasping, she rolled for the other side of the bed.

He grabbed her shoulder and hip, stopping the roll, pulling until she was on her back again. He threw himself onto her. He straddled her hips. She bucked and writhed beneath him. He caught her right hand as it lashed at his face. He pressed it to the mattress. He tore her tight left hand away from his throat and forced it down. She flung her head from side to side. She crashed a knee into his back. Roland grunted from the impact.

He jerked her cuffed hand down, pinned it under his knee to free his right hand, and punched her hard in the face. She jerked rigid beneath him, then stopped struggling. She made soft whimpering sounds as she gasped for air.

Roland peeled the duct tape off his chin. He pressed it across her mouth. The sounds of her breathing changed to a frantic hiss as she sucked air through her nostrils.

He should cuff her other hand now.

But Alison wasn’t fighting anymore, and he could feel the mounds of her breasts between his thighs. He put his hands on them. The fabric felt like netting. Her skin was hot beneath it.

He no longer heard Alison’s hissing struggle for air.

She was silent.

Roland squeezed her breasts.

Her right hand rose off the bed slowly. Suspicious, he watched it. It pressed his hand more tightly to her breast and held it there. She squirmed a little and moaned.

My God, Roland thought. What’s going on? Does she like it?

Her hand moved upward, caressing his arm, curling gently over his shoulder. She stroked the hair on the side of his head. She stroked his cheek.

The shriek drove spikes into Alison’s ears. Her wrist was grabbed and forced down and her thumb popped out of his eye socket with a wet sucking sound. He didn’t try to hold her. He clapped a hand to his face and swayed above her.

Alison thrust his knees upward. He tumbled onto the mattress between her legs. She rammed her feet against him, turning him and shoving him away, then kicked a leg high over his body and flung herself off the bed.

She ripped the tape from her face as she backed away. In the moonlight, Roland’s naked body looked gray and cadaverous. He was writhing, clutching his face, digging his heels into the mattress and thrusting his pelvis up as he squealed.

Alison whirled around. She grabbed the railing and rushed down the dark stairway. At the bottom, she tried to call out to warn Helen but her voice came out like a choked whisper. She ran through the hallway, rounded the corner, threw open Helen’s door and slapped the light switch.

“Helen!”

Helen, under the covers, didn’t move.

Alison hurried toward her. “Quick! We gotta…Roland’s upstairs…attacked me!” She jerked the covers down and Helen stared dull eyed through crooked glasses. Her face was torn, scraped, and swollen. Her chin had a crust of dried mess. Alison squeezed the dull, gray-blue skin of her shoulder.

“Helen!” She shook the shoulder. Helen’s head wobbled slightly. Her huge breasts quivered. “Helen, come on!”

Alison let go of the shoulder. The skin stayed dented where her fingers had been.

Numb, Alison backed away.

He’d killed Helen.

No. This was some kind of a sick joke. Helen isn’t dead. Not Helen. It’s a joke.

She’s dead.

Alison backed through the doorway. She looked toward the dark hall. “You bastard!” she cried out.

And heard quick thuds of footfalls on the attic stairs. They triggered a blast of white-hot fear that sent Alison running to the door. She flung it open, lunged outside, slammed it, and fled down the stairs. The painted wood of the steps was wet with dew and slick under her bare feet, so she slowed down, dreading a fall that might give Roland a chance to catch her. Four steps from the bottom, she leaped. She dropped through the chill night air, her nightgown bellowing up, and landed staggering over the flagstones and grass.

She looked back. Roland wasn’t on the stairs. Stepping sideways, she saw that the door at the top was still shut.

She hurried past the stairs to Professor Teal’s door. His kitchen was dark beyond the glass panes. She tried the knob. The door was locked, so she pounded the wood hard, shaking the door. “Dr. Teal!” she shouted. Then she yelled, “Fire! Fire!” She hammered the door. The kitchen still was dark. With a flick of her right hand, she caught the dangling cuff, clenched it in her fist like a knuckle duster and smashed the glass. She reached in, being careful not to rip her arm on the pointed blades of glass, and turned the knob. With the door ajar, she eased her arm out.

She glanced toward the stairway. Still no Roland.

She shoved the door open. The glass shards on the floor clinked and scraped as the bottom of the door swept over them. Clinging to the doorjamb, Alison swung inside and stretched out a leg as far as she could before placing her foot down. She felt no glass under it. With her weight on that foot, she pivoted and found herself clear of the door. She bent over, fingered its edge, and whipped it shut.

A sudden light blinded Alison.

Squinting, she whirled around.

Under the entry, cane raised like a club, stood Dr. Teal. His white hair was mussed. He wore baggy, striped pajamas. Frowning, he blinked and his mouth started to move.

“Turn off the light,” Alison commanded in a sharp whisper.

He didn’t ask questions, just hit the light switch.

Alison turned away from him and stared out the door windows.

Still, no Roland.

“He killed Helen,” she said. “He…I hurt him but he’s up there.”

“Oh my dear God.”

Alison heard a quiet clatter. She looked over her shoulder. Dr. Teal’s cane was clamped between his knees. He held the pale handset of the wall phone and spun the dial. “Police emergency,” he said, his voice as firm and vibrant as if he were standing at the lectern in a hall packed with enthralled students. He waited a few moments, then said, “We have bloody murder at 364 Apple Lane, and the cur is among us. Get here immediately.” He hung up the phone.

“Come away from the door,” he ordered.

Alison backed away, unwilling to take her eyes from the windows. She halted when the professor’s hand curled gently over her shoulder.

“It’s all right now, darling. He won’t hurt you. The police will be here shortly, I’m sure.”

“He killed Helen,” she said. Her voice came out squeaky and tears filled her eyes.

Professor Teal patted her shoulder. “Stay here.” He slipped past her. He walked toward the door, his cane swinging at his side like a nine iron. Glass crunched under his slippers. He eased the door open.

“Maybe you shouldn’t do that,” Alison whispered.

Ignoring her, he leaned outside. His head turned, tilted back. Then he brought his head back through the opening and looked around at Alison. “You say that you injured him?”

“I…gouged one of his eyes.”

“Bully for you. Perhaps you incapacitated the rotter, I’ll bash his head to pulp if…what about Celia?”

“She’s not home.”

“Thank God for that.”

“I don’t know. I’m…I think maybe he got her last night.”

“Dear God, no.”

“She went on a date with his roommate and never came home.”

“Two of my girls. Two of my sweet, darling…oh, he shall pay dearly, dearly…” Professor Teal threw the door open wide and stepped out.

“No!” Alison yelled.

She ran after him, leaped the area of broken glass, and came down on the flagstone outside the door. Professor Teal was already at the bottom of the stairway. “Wait inside,” he told her.

“Wait for the cops!” Alison cried out. “Please!”

Ignoring her, he began to trot up the stairs. Alison darted beneath the stairway, reached between the risers, and grabbed the old man’s ankle.

“Unhand me!”

“He’ll kill you, too!”

“We shall see about that.” He tried to shake his foot free.

Alison almost lost her grip. She wrapped her other hand around the man’s bony ankle and hung on.

Brakes screamed. Through the gap in the stairs, Alison saw a squad car lurch to a stop, red and blue lights spinning. A man raced around the front of the car. He pulled a pistol from his holster and he ran straight over the lawn toward Alison.

“You win,” the professor said.

She didn’t trust him. She kept her grip on his ankle until the policeman jangled to a stop, crouched, aimed at him, and shouted, “Freeze, cocksucker, or I’ll blow your fucking brains from here till yesterday!”

“He’s not the one!” Alison yelled.

She stepped out from under the stairway.

Professor Teal turned around slowly. “I am the owner of this house,” he said. “We have every reason to believe that the killer is upstairs.”

“Who’d he kill?”

“My roommate,” Alison said. “And he tried to get me.”

“Is he armed?” asked the burly policeman.

“I don’t know. Not that I saw.”

“He’s still up there?” Without waiting for an answer, he started up the stairs. Professor Teal stepped out of his way and came down as the officer continued to the top.

Alison went to the professor’s side and put an arm around his back.

“Silly old bear,” she said.

He smiled sadly.

They both flinched as a gun blast shocked the night. Alison’s head jerked sideways. She saw Roland at the top of the stairs, arms out. The policeman flopped backward over the rail, yelling with alarm, flapping through the air. His yell stopped short when he hit the ground. For a moment, he seemed to be performing a weird headstand, legs kicking at the sky. Then he toppled. He lay on his back, twitching. There was a knife in his chest.

Roland, at the top of the stairs, turned slowly. He was no longer naked. He wore jeans and an open shirt. The left side of his face was slicked with red from his empty socket, red that dribbled onto his shirt and chest. With zombielike slowness, he lifted his left hand to study it with his one eye. The policeman’s bullet hadn’t missed Roland completely. Alison saw that his forefinger was gone entirely. His middle finger dangled by a strip of flesh, swinging like a pendulum. He clutched it with his other hand, tore it loose, and sailed it down at Alison like a blunt dart. It dropped into the grass at her feet.

He began to descend the stairway.

Professor Teal pushed Alison away and stepped almost casually to the foot of the stairs. He raised his cane overhead, prepared to strike when Roland came into range.

Alison rushed toward the policeman. He looked dead. She pictured him falling. Had he been holding the revolver? She didn’t know. But it was not in either of his hands. She scurried around his body, trying to find the gun.

Where is it!

She looked toward the stairway in time to see Roland leap. He dove from high above Professor Teal. The old man swung his cane at the flying body. It missed Roland’s head and broke across his shoulder. Roland slammed the professor to the ground.

Alison jerked the knife from the policeman’s chest, whirled and ran at the sprawled, struggling men. Roland hammered the professor’s nose with a fist. He rolled off. He was on his back, pushing himself up with his right arm. He raised his injured hand as if signaling Alison to halt.

Alison flung herself onto him. He fell back. He tried to push her away, fingers and stumps thrusting at her face. She drove the knife down hard. Roland squealed. Then his right hand clubbed her ear. Stunned by the impact, she felt herself being shoved off him. On her side, she saw Roland grab the knife handle. The blade had pierced his left nipple, but it hadn’t gone deep. A rib must’ve stopped it. Roland yanked the knife free.

His ravaged hand reached for Alison.

She rolled, scurried to her feet, and ran.

She ran for the street.

The dewy grass was slippery, but she ran all out, sprinting, flinging her legs out with long quick strides, pumping her arms. The loose cuff on the end of its chain whipped across her knuckles, her forearm, sometimes lashed her side or breast.

She heard Roland gasping and whimpering behind her. Not very far behind her. She didn’t dare to look.

Faint white plumes puffed from the exhaust pipe of the police car.

One foot pounded the sidewalk. The other foot landed in the grass at the other side. She sprang from the curb, rushed past the front of the car. Turning, she glanced over her shoulder. Roland hit the hood belly-first and slid across it, teeth bared, ruined hand reaching for her, knife clenched in his other hand. Alison spun away from the reaching hand. Its two fingertips grazed her belly. Stumbling backward, she grabbed the handle of the driver’s door.

She jerked open the door, leaped inside, and slammed the door shut while Roland was squirming off the hood. The window was open. She started to crank it up. Roland stumbled toward her. The glass slid higher. He stabbed. His knife blade pounded the window and skittered down with a grating whine like fingernails on a chalkboard.

Alison released the emergency brake.

Roland opened the door.

Alison cried out, “No!” How could she not have locked it.

She rammed the shift lever to Drive and stomped the gas pedal to the floor.

The car surged forward.

Roland yelled.

The door bumped against its frame.

Alison swerved away from the curb to miss a parked Volkswagen.

She looked at the side mirror.

Roland was sprawled facedown on the pavement, half a block away.