Seeds Of Fear (11 page)

As if on cue, a short, overweight, sweaty man with thick glasses in a dirty Grateful Dead T-shirt walked up to them, glass of beer in one hand, business card in the other. He handed the card to Chris.

"Oh shit," Vickie said as her friend read aloud: "'The Handyman.'"

The man nodded eagerly. "That's me. I couldn't help hearing you mention how horny you are."

Christine put up a hand to silence him. "Well. . . Matt," she said, exaggerating his name, "I'm sorry, but I've already read that book."

She laughed as she dropped the card into his glass of beer and turned away from the man. A look of disappointment spread across his face.

"Shit," he cursed. "I just can't get lucky."

Vickie eyed him for several seconds before responding, "Mister, you don't know just how lucky you are."

T
ar baby don't say nothin'.

Where the hell did
that
come from?

It took a minute, Larry Gaskins thinking hard, before he got it. Uncle Rastus. No, that wasn't right, but it was close.

Forget it. He had work to do.

The thing that made him think of Uncle What's-his-name just then was Sucky Suzee. Not that she was black or anything. To hell with
that
noise. But you couldn't beat her when it came to keeping secrets. She was Larry's favorite kind of woman when it came to noise, in fact. Bitch never said a word.

Of course, she couldn't, really, since she had no tongue, no vocal cords, no lungs.

At that, she was a bargain. Fifty-seven ninety-five, plus tax, and Larry never had to feed her, never had to buy her drinks or clothes or gifts or any other fucking thing.

Because the lady was inflatable.

She wasn't absolutely lifelike, granted, but the industry had come a long way since the fifties, when you paid your ten or fifteen dollars for a blow-up doll that looked like Howdy Doody, with the tits and features simply painted on, no hair and precious little satisfaction for your money.

Sucky Suzee measured five foot six when Larry stood her up, and she had blond hair cut to shoulder length. He favored blondes, and if the hair was artificial, what the hell could anyone expect?

She had a nose, eyelashes, curly pubic hair, and perky little tits with half-inch nipples. Anything beyond a mouthful's wasted, as the old man used to say, and Larry liked them slim, young, blond.

For dress rehearsals, he decked Suzee out in sexy underwear he bought from catalogs. The size had been a problem, to begin with, but it helped that he had samples, pilfered over time on visits to the Laundromat. The blouse and skirt were strictly K Mart, chosen for economy instead of style.

The only reason that he dressed her up at all, in fact, was so that he could practice for the main event, when clothes got in the way.

He used a rubber knife for their rehearsals, to avoid the risk of damaging his silent partner. Hold the floppy blade against her throat with one hand, while he cranked the left arm up between her shoulder blades. She had no joints per se, and you could twist the limbs at crazy angles, but he tried to keep it reasonable. Nothing that would knock her out or cripple her right off, if she were flesh and blood.

It got a little awkward sometimes, since he only had two hands and liked to grab her from behind. The knife helped, though, and Larry practiced speaking with authority.

"Don't fight me, bitch! You scream or try to get away, I'll cut you!"

Make believe she whispers
No, please don't,
all panicky and teary-eyed, the way he likes it.

Larry didn't fuck around with buttons. Rip the blouse and feel around a little bit, enjoying silk against her skin before he yanked the fancy bra up to expose her tits and pinch the nipples. Foreplay. Use the knees to force her legs apart and ruck the skirt up on her ass. No panties on a trial run, since he doesn't like to shred the good stuff, but he still goes through the motions. Snatch and grab. An awkward moment with his zipper, but he always manages to get it with a little fumbling, bring the one-eyed monster out to play.

The rest of the scenario is flexible. Sometimes he nails her in the ass, bent double, with her head down on the floor. He rolls her over sometimes, so that he can watch her face while he is fucking her. Sometimes he forces Suzee to her knees and lets her live up to her name. The blade beneath her chin reminds her not to bite.

The only drawback with a mute is that she can't provide the sound effects that Larry craves: the sobbing, pleading, whimpering, that go with fear and pain. No matter. He makes up for the deficiency by talking to her while he works.

"You love it, don't you, bitch? I know you love it. Let me hear you say it.
Say it!"

Stiffening, Larry shoots his load in Suzee's ass, cunt, throat, whatever. Sweating with his eyes closed. Winding down. Sometimes he takes her through the paces more than once, imagining that he has time to change positions. You can never really tell, before the Main Event.

When he is done, each time, he has to practice killing her, a slash across the throat.

No witness means no case.

Their sessions always leave him slumped across his conquest, whipped and sucking wind. It takes a while for the sensations raging through his mind and body to recede, like murky water swirling down a drain. It still needs work, the bounce-back, just in case he has to flee in haste.

No problem. He has time.

The Main Event would only fly when Larry felt that he was ready. In the meantime, there was Sucky Suzee. They would whip each other into shape.

Relaxing as he helps his playmate back onto the bed.

"You know you love it."

Watching Karen is his second favorite pastime. Five weeks into the surveillance, he can spot her from a distance, on a crowded sidewalk, by the way she squares her shoulders, flicks her hair back, swings her hips with each long-legged stride. If struck blind on the spot, he reckons he could track her by her scent.

Obsession. The perfume, that is.

Her hair is different from the style she wore in court, more casual, a bit provocative. She doesn't have the haunted look that he remembers from the trial. More self-assurance these days, thinking she's invincible.

But Larry means to wipe that smug look off her face, and soon.

She had been lucky number seven, and the first to offer serious resistance. Screaming. Kicking. Scratching. Putting him to flight. The pigs came out of nowhere, cruising on routine patrol. He was about to ditch the ski mask when they pinned him with a spotlight, ordered him to freeze.

And Larry froze, all right. It didn't stop the older of the two pigs wading into him with fists and boots, a macho cowboy, landing half a dozen solid blows before his partner pulled him off.

It was enough.

The DA talked about an airtight case, but that was for the cameras. Karen never saw his face, and in the darkness, the excitement, she could not describe his clothes. It was a winter night, and cold: the ski mask easily explained. The beating muddled any references to scratches on his face. On top of everything, the pigs forgot to read him his Miranda rights.

Case closed, but not forgotten. Larry learned from his mistakes. Stay clear of parking lots. Immobilize the bitch, first thing. No witness means no case.

Sweet Karen is the one who got away . . . but not this time.

No fucking way.

She works on Wilshire, at a travel agency, concocting getaways and dream vacations for a clientele that is predominantly forty-plus and upper middle class. Nine-hour days, with lunch from noon to one o'clock. Two days a week, on average, Karen skips the meal to use her free time window-shopping, anywhere within a half-mile radius of work.

Today, a Friday afternoon, is one of those. He spots her coming out. The clinging slacks and frilly blouse are businesslike, yet somehow still provocative. The scary part, for Gaskins, comes when Karen looks straight at him, blue eyes burning into his from less than thirty feet away.

She made me, Jesus!

No. She breaks the contact, heading south, without a backward glance. It was a fluke. No recognition in her eyes ... or was there?

Larry gives her half a block before he falls in step behind her. Karen never seems to hit the same shop twice, and that suits Larry fine. He treats it as an education, concentrating on his quarry, working hard to shake the sense that she has spotted him.

The witchy shop is a surprise, no place that he has seen her go before. Two blocks off Wilshire, tucked between a tattoo parlor and a pawnshop, with assorted books and jewelry in the window. Larry watches from across the street, as best he can, with sun glare on the window. Glimpses Karen talking to an aging hippie type behind the counter, plain-Jane in a tie-dyed peasant blouse. He can't hear what they're saying, natch, but Karen makes a purchase, giving up a few dead presidents. Receives some object in return and tucks it in her purse.

Emerging from the shop, she hesitates once more and turns to look across the chrome-bright traffic flow, direct at Larry. Blue eyes fixed upon him like the laser sighting mechanism of a Hellfire missile.

Shit!

He turns away, the sudden panic burning in his chest like Texas chili with an extra shot of jalapeno. Twice, that is, in half an hour, and he has to watch his ass from this point on. If Karen doesn't know he's dogging her by now, a third time will erase all doubt.

Goldfinger speaks: "We have a saying in Chicago, Mr. Bond. The first time is coincidence; the second time is happenstance; the third time, it's enemy action."

Fucking-A.

Cheeks flaming, Larry walks due east, away from Wilshire and the travel agency. Too risky, trailing Karen back to work. She doesn't have a thing to tell the pigs, so far, but he cannot afford to have her on alert.

Surprise is half the battle. Half the fun.

Anxiety propels him toward his car, the long way round. Frustration broods beside him, in the shotgun seat.

No sweat.

He has the Little Lady waiting for him, back at home.

"You love it, don't you, bitch? I know you love it. Let me hear you say it.
Say it!"

Pumping into Suzee's rubber rectum like some kind of robot, piston-powered. Feeling Karen. Listening to Karen cry for mercy. Shooting deep inside her, just because she begged him not to.

Later, he can always make her lick him clean.

The handcuffs are a new refinement, $16.95 at The Survival Store, on Sunset. They are loose on Suzee's wrists until he clamps them down, and cold against his belly as he reams her ass. It adds a little something extra to the dress rehearsal, this time.

Better.

He can start to work on new positions, for the main event. With both hands free, all kinds of new refinements come to mind.

The very thought of Karen, helpless, stiffens Larry's cock. Say no to
this,
you snotty cunt. Just try.

He rolls her over, stubby nipples pointed at the ceiling. Blue eyes staring up at him. A captive audience.

"You love it, don't you, bitch?" He smiles. "Cat got your tongue? Okay. We got all night."

* * *

The old apartment house stands one block south of Pico, sturdy willows ranked outside the six-foot wall of cinder blocks that rings the parking lot. A nod to privacy. No sweat for Larry, scrambling up the middle tree of five with leather gloves on, cheap binoculars around his neck. The now familiar perch is waiting for him, on a level with the second floor.

The drapes are open wide, as usual. No sign of Karen on the first sweep, but the lights are on, and Larry knows the bitch is home. He cannot see inside her bedroom, but the broad glass sliding doors provide a clear view of her living room and tiny kitchen. The binoculars put Larry right inside there, like a cockroach on the wall. With any luck, he may catch Karen in her bra and panties, like the last time, wandering around the flat, oblivious to prying eyes.

A private show.

He spends a moment checking out the empty rooms and taking inventory. On his right, directly opposite the couch, a Sony Trinitron, the twenty-six-inch console model. Copper knickknacks hanging on the kitchen walls. Above the couch, a reproduction of a painting Larry knows he ought to recognize by name, but doesn't.

Something different, on the glass-topped coffee table, wrapped in plain brown paper, resting on a saucer flanked by stubby candles. Are they black or navy blue? No telling, from a distance, and he doesn't really give a shit. The knife seems out of place, though. Something from the kitchen, maybe, six or seven inches long.

He is considering the items, frowning to himself, when Karen makes her entrance from the hallway on his left. She wears a plain white terry robe, hair tumbling loose around her shoulders. Getting ready for the shower, maybe, since her hair is dry, feet bare of slippers.

Larry curses when she kills the kitchen light and blacks out the apartment. Wasted time and effort, if she turns in now, without a single glimpse of flesh.

But no.

He tracks her silhouette as Karen moves into the living room and kneels before the coffee table, with her back to the TV. The bright flare of a match as she leans forward, lights the candles. Soft light on her profile, like a trick shot from the movies.

Larry feels his Jockey shorts begin to shrink as Karen slips the robe off, dropping it behind her. Candlelight and shadow on her perfect body, breasts defying gravity, strong muscles rippling on her flank and thigh each time she moves.

He finds it difficult to focus on her hands as Karen reaches for the parcel on the coffee table, peels the wrapping back, distributing the contents. Nothing he can recognize, offhand: some kind of gnarly root thing; reddish powder in a tiny glassine envelope; a six-inch strip of something that resembles jerky. Karen sprinkles powder in the saucer, spreads it with her fingertips, then slices little flakes of root and jerky into it. The knife looks sharp.