Out Are the Lights (7 page)

    One of them approached. 'How can I help you, this morning?'

    'Is Dal here?'

    'No, but I am. I'm Ken.'

    She'd heard tales of Ken. He looked as slick and artificial as Dal described him.

    'Has Dal already gone to lunch?' she asked.

    'No. As a matter of fact, he didn't come in today. He's down with a bug, as they say. I'm sure that I can be of service, though.'

    'Thank you,' she said, and turned away.

    

    

    Outside, she walked. She gazed straight ahead. Her stomach hurt. She felt like curling up, and hugging her belly, and shutting her eyes tightly. She wanted to close out everything-the whole damn world.

    First Dave.

    Now Dal. She'd lost him. She knew she'd lost him because why else would he call in sick to work, and keep it a secret from her?

    God, she thought they'd been happy together.

    Someone grabbed her arm, jerked her backwards. A car flashed past, inches away. She turned to the man, who still held her arm.

    'Are you okay?' he asked. His blue eyes looked gentle and concerned.

    'Guess I'd better watch where I'm going, huh?"

    'Unless you've got ambitions to be a hood ornament.'

    She laughed. 'Well, I owe you one.'

    'I'm ready to collect.'

    'Oh?'

    'What did you have in mind?' he asked. 'One what?'

    'How about a Bloody Mary?'

    'Accepted.'

    'I'm Connie,' she said, and offered her hand.

    He shook it. 'I'm Pete.'

    

    

    'Come on Wednesday.' Elizabeth had told him, Friday night.

    'I don't know,' Dal had said.

    'Wednesday,' she repeated. 'That will give us time to miss one another.'

    'But there's Connie. I can't just take off, Wednesday night, without some kind of excuse.'

    'If you don't wish to arouse her suspicion, come during the day when you're supposed to be at work.'

    'I only get an hour for lunch.'

    'Take the whole day off. Spend it with me.'

    He shook his head. 'I don't know, Elizabeth. That's… it's taking a big chance.'

    'If you don't wish to come, don't come.' She kissed him lightly on the mouth, I'll be here Wednesday, waiting.'

    For days, he'd thought about her offer. He didn't want to go. He had a decent job, and a good set-up with Connie. He could lose both, if he kept on with Elizabeth.

    Also, she frightened him.

    If a woman could enjoy screwing men in front of her paralyzed husband… God, no telling what else she might do, no telling what she might want Dal to do.

    He decided, finally, to stay away. He would be much better off if he never saw Elizabeth again.

    He was pleased with his decision. He felt clean and honest and relieved.

    He was halfway to work, Wednesday morning, when he changed his mind. He called Lane Brothers from Elizabeth 's house. When Ken answered, he explained that he'd come down with a bad case of diarrhea.

    'Don't give me that shit,' Ken had said, and laughed outrageously.

    'I should be able to make it in tomorrow,' he said.

    Elizabeth unzipped him.

    'Have yourself a nice vacation,' Ken said.

    Her hand reached in and fondled him. 'Vacation, my ass.'

    More laughter from Ken.

    Elizabeth freed his penis. 'Okay, see you tomorrow, Ken.' She put it in her mouth.

    'See you then, buddy. Keep your shit together.'

    Dal hung up. ' Mission accomplished,' he said with a trembling voice. Elizabeth moaned. As she sucked and licked. Dal stroked her soft hair. 'No audience?' he asked.

    She didn't answer. Her mouth worked. Her hands unfastened his pants, and pulled them down, and clutched his bare buttocks.

    He saw Herbert off to the right. Outside by the pool. Wheelchair against the glass door. Watching him with shiny, wide eyes.

    Dal didn't care. Too late to care. Only Elizabeth mattered: her probing fingers, the slick tight hole of her mouth.

    Herbert didn't matter till afterward.

    

    

    'Does he have to watch?' Dal asked.

    'Of course.'

    'It's sick, Elizabeth.'

    She smiled. 'I know. Isn't it delicious?'

    They sat by the pool, Herbert facing them, and drank Burgundy. Dal wore his boxer shorts. Elizabeth wore nothing.

    'Can he hear what we say?'

    'Indeed he can. He hears, sees, and thinks. He breathes, swallows, and defecates. And that's about the extent of his achievements. Isn't it, Herbert?' She pinched his cheek. Her fingers left white marks that turned red.

    'Could he feel that?'

    'Could you, Herbert? Don't be shy, speak right up. Aw, what's the matter? Cat got your tongue?'

    'Doesn't he have a nurse, or anything?'

    'Heavens no. He has me. I see to his needs. It's a terrible burden, sometimes, but I feel it's the least I can do for him.'

    'You ought to get him a nurse.'

    'Ought I? Oh, I don't think so. We don't want to fritter away our fortune on such luxuries, do we? There won't be nearly as much left for me, if we do that. Herbert, after all, is not going to live forever. I hate to say this in front of the poor dear, but I think his time is limited. No, I don't imagine Herbert will be with us much longer.' She finished her glass of wine. 'Let's go in for a dip. And for Godsake, take off those silly shorts.'

    

    

    'How long have you been deaf?' Pete asked.

    'You noticed.'

    'Is it supposed to be a secret?'

    Connie swirled her Bloody Mary with the celery stalk. 'Not exactly,' she said, 'I don't broadcast it to everyone I bump into, but I get around to it pretty quickly. I can't pick up everything that's said. If people don't know I'm deaf, they might think I'm just stupid.'

    'I wondered which it was.'

    Connie laughed.

    'It isn't every day you see a woman walk out in front of a honking car.'

    'It was honking? I'm surprised I didn't notice.'

    'You're not completely deaf?'

    'Just about. There's still some conductive hearing. You pick up vibrations of sounds, at least if they're loud enough. Something like a car horn, definitely.'

    'I suspected you didn't hear it,' Pete said. 'As we walked over here, I said a couple of things with my head turned away.'

    'You ought to be a detective.'

    'I am.'

    'You're kidding.'

    He took a business card from his wallet.

    Connie sipped her drink. It was heavy on the tabasco sauce, and made her eyes water. Blinking, she read his card. 'Pete Harvey, Private Investigations.' It gave his address and phone number. 'Can I keep it?' she asked.

    'Sure.'

    'Never know when I might need a private eye.'

    'Let's hope you don't. Not in my professional capacity, at least.'

    She tucked the card into her pocket book, briefly considered giving one of her cards to Pete, and decided not to. She didn't want to start talking about her work. Not right now.

    'When did you lose your hearing?' he asked.

    'It's been five years.'

    'An illness?'

    'Accident.'

    'Tough break.'

    'Could've been a lot worse.'

    'How'd it happen?' he asked.

    'A knock on the head.'

    'Some knock.'

    'I'll say. I was in a coma for three weeks.'

    Pete shook his head.

    'Well, I came out lucky. Even being deaf-it's not as bad as it could be. At least I had twenty-one years of hearing. I know how the world sounds, and I can talk.'

    'You talk just fine.'

    'Thank you.'

    'And you read lips like a pro. I could use a gal like you on my staff, except for one thing.'

    'What's that?'

    'I have a strict rule: I don't get involved with people who work for me.'

    'What?' she asked, feeling heat rush to her face.

    'I don't want this to end when we walk out of here.'

    'Oh.' She grinned. 'Neither do I.'

    

    

    

    

    She is strapped to a chair in the center of a bare room, squinting into the brilliant light as if trying to see who is behind it.

    Her young face is frightened.

    'Who's there?' she asks. 'Please, I know someone's there. Who are you? What do you want with me?'

    'I am the Grand Inquisitor. I wish to ask you a few questions.'

    She groans. 'Please, what's going on?'

    'You have information I need.'

    'Who are you?'

    He steps from behind the light. He wears a black, hooded robe.

    'Oh Jesus.'

    'Take not the name of the Lord in vain, heretic.'

    She cranes her neck, trying to look past him. 'Ted, are you here someplace? Ted? Is this some kind of…'

    'Who is this Ted? One of your heretic friends?'

    'What's this heretic stuff?'

    'Tell me about the Coven.'

    'Oh God…'

    His hand flashes out. It smacks her cheek, the heavy blow knocking her head to the side. She begins to cry. 'Tears will do you no good, witch.' Grabbing her hair, he jerks her head backwards. 'Tell me about the Coven.'

    'What Coven?' she cries out, her voice shrill.

    'Ah, you will play your games.' He raises a handful of her long, black hair. 'Do you wish to lose your precious hair?'

    'No!'

    He removes shears from his robe pocket. 'The names, then, of those in your Coven.'

    'I don't know anything about a Coven.'

    She screams, as if in pain, when he cuts through the hair. He cuts close to her scalp, and tosses great handsful into the darkness beyond the small area of light. Though she yells and pleads and flings her head about, he works feverishly and doesn't stop until nothing remains but short, choppy bristle.

    Schreck steps back, and nods with approval. 'Are you prepared, now, to give me the information?'

    'You bastard!' she shrieks. 'Goddamn you to hell, you goddamn fucking bastard!'

    'You dare speak tome of Hell and damnation? You? A sister of the Devil?'

    'Fucking pervert!'

    A grin curls his lips.

    The rage suddenly leaves her face, 'I'm sorry,' she mumbles. 'Please, I'm sorry. I'll do what you want. I'll tell you anything. Just don't hurt me. Please.'

    'Tell me the names.'

    'John Brown, and…'

    'You take me for a fool?'

    'No!'

    'I could tear off your fingernails. Would you like that?'

    'No,' she sobs.

    'Perhaps you would prefer me to bum out your eyes, or snip your nipples off.'

    She shakes her head, crying softly.

    'There are so many ways to make you speak of your hellish brethren: breaking bones, burning holes in your tender flesh, slicing it with a knife, shredding it with a whip, tearing it off inch by inch with my teeth. I've done it all. Crude methods, but effective. What shall we do with you?'

    'Let me go,' she pleads. 'I promise. I'll never tell anybody anything.'

    'You must tell me something, first.'

    'I don't know about any Coven. If I knew, I'd tell you. Honest! I don't know anything about Covens or witches or heretics-'

    'Then you shall suffer.'

    She is on the floor, naked and spread eagled, her wrists and ankles bound to nails in the hardwood.

    Schreck crouches beside her. 'See my little friends?' He holds ajar in his hand. 'Yes, they are spiders. Three dozen spiders. Do you like spiders, my little witch?'

    'Please, don't.'

    He slowly unscrews the lid. 'Tell me what I need to know, and I shall spare you the discomfort.'

    'I don't know anything!'

    'Unfortunate.'

    Schreck removes the lid. He shakes out spiders. The girl shuts her eyes tightly and shakes her head as they drop onto her face. They fall, floating down like dark flakes, dotting her pale throat, her breasts, her belly. They creep over her tangle of pubic hair. They scurry on her thighs.

    The girl screams and writhes.

    Schreck, crouching beside her, watches with bulging, wet eyes.

    'I shall leave you now, and give you a few hours to enjoy your playmates.'

    'No! Get them off me. Get them off!'

    He leaves the room.

    

    

    A small, black spider crawls along the girl's forehead. It climbs the ridge of her eyebrow. She shakes her head wildly, trying to dislodge it. It halts as if to hang on. When she stops shaking her head, it moves down onto her eyelid.

    Her scream is interrupted by the crack of a gunshot.

    A man rushes into the room. He drops to his knees beside her. 'My God, Susan.'

    'Get them off!'

    The man sets his revolver on the floor. His hands work quickly, flicking and brushing the spiders away.