978155773676550450

PEEPHOLE
The man stared through the tiny hole in the
wall and watched the nude woman step into
the shower.
If she only knew, he thought. God!
She turned beneath the cool spray, gliding
the bar of soap over the trim belly and hips,
the milk-white thighs, the sleek, gorgeous
legs. Her lean body teemed in the water.
The man's heart raced. He peered harder
into the peephole.
Now she was stepping out. Her flesh
shined in the raw light—robust, radiant,
beautiful. Beads of water clung like jewels
between the high, swollen breasts . . .
Then the man's gaze roved up to her face—
Oh . . . my. . . God. . .
The face was not human. Slitlike eyes
blinked beneath the runneled forehead from
which a pair of tiny nubs jutted, like horns.
The black mouth, full of stalactitical fangs,
stretched to a heinous grin.
"Hello," she croaked into the man's frozen
stare. "Do you like what you see?"
"GROSS? SURE HE'S GROSS. BUT EDWARD LEE
HAS A HEART AS WELL ... HE KEEPS IT IN A JAR ON
HIS DESK."—Rex Miller, author of Slob and Stone
Shadow

Diamond Books by Edward Lee
coven
incubi
succubi

SUCCUBI
EDWARD LEE
DIAMOND BOOKS, NEW YORK

SUCCUBI
A Diamond Book / published by arrangement with
the author
PRINTING HISTORY
Diamond edition / March 1992
All rights reserved.
Copyright © 1992 by Edward Lee.
This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part, by
mimeograph or any other means, without permission.
For information address: The Berkley Publishing Group,
200 Madison Avenue, New York, New York 10016.
ISBN: 1-55773-676-6
Diamond Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,
200 Madison Avenue, New York, New York 10016.
The name "DIAMOND" and its logo are trademarks
belonging to Charter Communications, Inc.
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
10 987654321

For Betsey Steffen
and the verity of pine needles

The past is as silent
as the present is ancient
tirelessly evil
weary and patient
—Howard Devoto,
"Luxuria"

SUCCUBI

PROLOGUE
m
Succubus, the dreamer thought.
The women hurried to strip, touching themselves in the pre-
lude. Breasts were cosseted by intent, soft hands. Nipples were
plucked, pubes were stroked. The ring of naked flesh glistened
slickly in the heat of the midnight chancel.
Moans merged with the sacred litany. Before the great stone
dolmen, the orgy ensued—random sweating bodies conjoined
to form an entity of its own. Bare breasts jutted. Legs were
splayed and buttocks were parted. Sweat-sheened abdomens
sucked tensely in and out as genitals were bared to descending
mouths. Arms and legs were wrapped around backs; bare hips
fidgeted in a desperate plea to deepen penetration. The firelight
raged as the festival drew on, time proceeding not in seconds or
minutes but in rolling eyes, in gasps, and in the pulses of or-
gasm. Men's bleak faces were sat upon as dominant women
grinned in macabre glee ...
Succubus, the dreamer thought.
But was it really a thought? Thoughts were not corporeal,
they did not exist in substance, but this thought seemed differ-
ent. It seemed fraught, embodied. It seemed real. Yes—real as
liquid beads of wax running down the shaft of a taper made of
human fat. Real as lust. Real as blood ...
Succubus...
The dreamer writhed.
Were these really dreams?
They were painting him with blood. Brygorwreccan! The
dreamer couldn't breathe. Peow! You belong to us! Their mon-
strous grins held him down as surely as iron cuffs. They took
1

2
Edward Lee
turns with him, they always did—he was a new steed to be rid-
den, to be tried out by all. Slick hands prodded his genitals.
Sharpened nails drew scratches up and down his chest as teeth
bit into his nipples. One plopped her bushy sex right down onto
his face as others took turns impaling themselves on his erec-
tion. Their laughter, their sheer delight at his terror, felt thick as
blood in his ears.
If you come too soon, we '11 cut it off.
We might cut it off anyway, peow!
Little peow, little bug . . .
You belong to us forever. . .
No, these were not dreams, not really. They were vestiges
summoned to the future from a heinous past. They were reve-
nants. They were ghosts.
And the ghosts continued to beckon ...
The helots were cooking heads.
Crusted rods stoked the great flames of the fire pits. Sheets of
human skin were pinned up to dry. Hatchets rose and fell, adroit
blades sloughed scalps off screaming skulls. Long bones were
expertly cut out of satchels of muscle as organs were tossed
whole into roaring cauldrons of blood . ..
The orison drew on:
"Ardat-Lil, o Modor ..."
"O sweoster ..."
"Us macain wlhan, o Modor. Us fulluht with eower blud."
Fat hissed in the fire. Their slaves travailed toward the nave,
bearing baskets of smoking meat.
And deeper, deeper into the past, the vision lurched ...
The dreamer saw peasants fleeing in horror at the thunder of
hoofs, shadows descending, swords held high. He saw the inno-
cent butchered in place, torsos shorn and limbs severed in the
wake of horses and dust. Great blades glimmered, sinking into
random flesh as simple dwellings were set ablaze. The beautiful
women dismounted amid the terror, their bodies limber in
battledress. Dismembered corpses twitched in the dirt as heads
were cut off shoulders. Blood gushed. Screams wheeled into the
air. The conquerors directed blank-faced slaves to eviscerate the
dying and the dead. Still more such slaves held torches as
screaming figures were systematically sacrificed on blood-

SUCCUBI
3
slicked slabs of shale. The women, cloaked and hooded,
chanted praise as they joined in the demented feast. Later, as al-
ways, they shed their cloaks, to slake themselves of the groin as
well as of the belly. Their lust shimmered through their grins,
through their wanton eyes and open, wet mouths, and they de-
scended upon the helots, tearing off their sackcloth clothes and
dragging them down into the dirt.
The dreamer then smothered in the dream. He felt buried in
their heady musk. Breasts bobbed before his eyes. Anxious hips
straddled his groin, and legs wrapped around his head. When
they were finished, he watched exhausted as they knelt naked
before the altar of their most hideous god ...
"Dother fo Dother ..."
"Ardat-Lil..."
"Us macain wlhan!"
He roused from the dream as if crawling out from under a
corpse pile that had moldered for weeks. His heart chugged; his
breath revived him in snatches. He felt so sick he wished he
could die. Shapes seemed to dissipate in the dark, black points
of revolting outlines falling apart. They would always be there,
he knew, eager to drag him back into their evil bowels. All he
could do was stare up in the aftermath. The bed sheets beneath
him lay damp with sweat, and with the repeated nocturnal re-
leases of his semen.
"Succubi," he whispered to the dark.
The moon shone in the tiny window.
It's almost time, it seemed to answer back.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
m
Up ahead, shadows merged behind flashing red and blue lights.
Her headlights illumined the great orange sign: "State Police
field sobriety checkpoint. Prepare to stop."
Oh, goodie, she thought. By now, after all the hubbub at the
office, then Dr. Harold's diagnostic inexplicabilities, Ann
needed something to liven her up.
I am going to kick some ass.
Naturally, the police would pick the least convenient place to
conduct this infamous unconstitutionality: the city's main drag
during homeward rush hour. Ann stopped her Mustang GT be-
fore one state trooper's opened palm. Two more troopers, face-
less before the stroboscopic backlighting, approached the
driver's window.
"Good evening, ma'am," one said.
"It was," Ann replied.
"Pardon me?"
"I mean to say it was a good evening until you saw fit to bur-
dening me with this unwarranted and unreasonable deprivation
of my civilian right to vehicular transit."
"That's not a very good attitude, is it, ma'am?"
"Is it the prerogative of the state police to enforce attitudes,
Officer?"
The trooper paused. "Can I see your driver's license and reg-
istration, please?"
"I don't know if you can, Officer. I'm not an eye doctor.
Therefore, I'm in no credible position to determine what you
can see. May you see my driver's license and registration? Well,
I suppose so." Ann handed them over.
"Have you been drinking, Ms. Slavik?"
"Yes," she replied.
4

SUCCUBI
5
"How much?"
"I'm not quite sure. I didn't know it was a requirement of law
for citizens to inventory their daily intake of fluids. Is it?"
"How much have you had to drink today, Ms. Slavik?"
She considered this. "Probably half a dozen cups of coffee.
One diet Coke for lunch. And one bottle of Yoo-Hoo for the ride
home." She held the Yoo-Hoo bottle up for him to see.
The trooper paused. "Have you been drinking any alcohol to-
day, Ms. Slavik?"
"Alcohol? You mean the volatile and highly flammable hy-
droxyl compound commonly used in industrial solvents and
cleaners, a deadly poison? No, Officer, I have not been drinking
alcohol today. If you mean have I been drinking any alcoholic
beverages, the answer is no."
Again, the trooper paused. "Ms. Slavik, I'd like for you to get
out of your car."
"Why?" she asked. 'To make me touch my nose against my
will? To make me walk on ai line against my will? To make me
blow into a 1.0-mean Smith & Wesson Breathalyzer?"
"We call it a sobriety field test, Ms. Slavik."
"Is that what you call it? I call it police harassment. It's not
against the law to be uncoordinated, Officer, nor are you profes-
sionally qualified to determine my state of physical coordina-
tion. Nor can you guarantee the judge beyond a doubt the
accurate function and calibration of a breathalization device.
Now, listen to me, Officer. I'm thirty-seven years old. I stand
five feet and four inches, and I weigh 109 pounds. You're what?
Early twenties, six foot two, 200 pounds at least, am I right, and
your friend there, he's even larger. In other words you two con-
stables are big, strong, young men who can easily remove me
from my vehicle against my will on a city thoroughfare. And,
yes, I suppose, you could also force me to perform your ridicu-
lous sobriety field test. I would be helpless to stop you, consid-
ering the state of fear I would be in. In fact, I suppose any
woman would be helpless in such an instance against two big,
strong, young men with deadly weapons on their hips. What
I'm saying, Officer, is that if you want to forcibly remove me
from my vehicle on a city street and force me to perform your
embarrassing and grossly unconstitutional test, then go right
ahead. If you do, however, I will sue your department for lost
wages, future harm, and mental anguish, since such an instance

6
Edward Lee
would surely distress me to the point that I would miss work,
that my employment status would be compromised, and that I
would suffer mentally as a result. If, on the other hand, you
choose to arrest me, I will sue your department for all of the
above, plus false arrest."
The two troopers seemed to waver in silence. "You a lawyer,
Ms. Slavik?" the second one asked.
"Is it within the power of the police to forcibly extract the
employment status of random citizens? I think I will reserve the
right to remain silent from this point on, Officer, unless of
course the United States Constitution has somehow been re-
scinded since the last time I looked. Now ... let me pass."
The two troopers stepped back and waved her on.
Much better, Ann Slavik thought, and continued down West
Street. She knew they were only doing their job, but she needed
to play with them to get her mind off things. All right, so I'm an
asshole. I can't help it. I'm a lawyer.
The day had been the most unusual of her life, a great tri-
umph and a great confusion. She'd been waiting for this day for
seven years, she should be happy. But all she could think about
now was what Dr. Harold had said.
About the dream. About the nightmare.
She could hear Martin typing when she let herself in. Why
didn't he get himself a word processor? At least they didn't
make as much noise. She'd offered to pay for it, but he'd as-
sured her that he didn't want one. "I will not allow my muse to
be tainted by floppy disks and blips on a TV screen," he'd said.
Ann knew the real reason: he couldn't afford one on his "slave
wages" from the college. And his male pride would not allow
her to buy him one.
She came into the slate foyer and closed the door with her
butt. Then she groaned relief, setting down her litigation bag,
which weighed more than a suitcase. The lit bag was any attor-
ney's bane; you carried your life around in it, and a lawyer's life
weighed a lot. A professional studio portrait of her with
Melanie and Martin smiled at her when she hung up her Bur-
berry raincoat. My family, she abstracted. But was it really? Or
was it just her own weak compromise at normality? Often the
portrait depressed her—it reminded her of what her indecision
must be doing to Martin. She feared that as each month passed,

SUCCUBI
7
Martin grew more disgruntled with her reluctance to marry him.
She knew that he blamed himself, that he lived each day in
some inner dread wondering what it was about him that wasn't
good enough, and this only made her feel shittier because it had
nothing to do with his inadequacies at all. It was something in
herself that she didn't know how to express. What's holding me
back? her mind dimly asked the portrait. She knew it would
never answer.
She wandered to the living room and switched on the TV out
of habit. She expected the same dismal disclosures: deficits,
bank failures, murder. Instead, a newscaster with too much
makeup on was saying: "... the recently repaired Hubble tele-
scope. Last week astronomers at NASA reported the approach
of what is known as a full tangental lunar apogee, a full moon
that will occur at the same moment as this year's vernal equi-
nox. 'It doesn't sound like much of a big deal to the average per-
son,' John Tuby of MIT told reporters this morning, 'but to
astronomers it's significant news. The moon will appear pink at
times, due to a straticulate refraction. It's the first phenomenon
of its kind in a thousand years.' So get out your telescopes, star-
gazers, and get ready," the silly newscaster went on. "Up next,
poodles on skis!"
Poodles on skis. Ann turned off the set. At least it beat the
usual news. She'd been hearing about the equinox thing for sev-
eral days, like it was a paramount event. She didn't care what
color the moon was, nor why. All she cared about now was re-
laxing.
She turned to the hall. "I'm home," she announced.
Home was a luxury three-bedroom condo just off the Circle.
It was perfect, but for $240,000 it should be; that's what condos
went for on the water. Ann liked it. Melanie had the second bed-
room, and the third Ann used for an office. Martin had the little
den for his writing. It was a corner unit. The balcony off the
master faced the water, and the den faced State Circle, which
was beautiful to look at at night. Ann would miss the place.
When you made partner, you didn't live in a condo.
Martin was out of the den in moments, with his worrywart
eyes. Writers were weird, but Martin's weirdnesses were differ-
ent. At least once a week he threatened to quit writing in order
to strengthen their relationship, and she grimly believed him.
He felt guilty about his money situation, which was ridiculous.

8
Edward Lee
He taught literature part-time at the college and wrote the rest of
the time. Ann paid more federal tax than Martin grossed per
year. He was a poet, critically acclaimed. "Critically acclaimed
means you get great reviews and don't make any money," he'd
once told her. His poetry collections, four so far, and by a major
publisher, had been written up very positively in the Post's
BookWorld, the New York Times, Newsweek, and every major
literary magazine in the country. Last year his agent had sold
three of his short stories to Atlantic Monthly, The New Yorker,
and Esquire, and he'd made more money from those than the to-
tal royalties from his last book of poetry. "Write more short sto-
ries," she'd suggested. "No, no," he'd lamented. "Prose is
defectible. Verse is the only truth in the written word as an art
form." Whatever, she'd thought.
"What did Dr. Harold say?" he asked now, and put his arms
around her.
"The same. Sometimes I think I'm wasting my time."
"Christ, Ann, you've only had three appointments so far.
Give it a chance."
A chance, she thought. The nightmare had started two
months ago. She had it every night. Sometimes the details dif-
fered, but its bulk always remained the same. It bothered her
now to the extent that she was fatigued at work; she felt off
track. Martin had been the one to suggest seeing a psychiatrist.
"It's probably some subconscious worry about Melanie," Mar-
tin had proposed. "A good shrink can isolate the cause and then
find a way for you to deal with it." She supposed that made
sense. It wasn't the $200 per hour that bothered her (Ann's firm
routinely billed that much per hour for an average client), it was
that if she didn't get to the bottom of it fast, her career might
suffer, and if her career suffered, so would Melanie's future, not
to mention her relationship with Martin.
An abstract print on the wall showed the blotched back of a
person's head viewing a pointillistic twilight. Dream of the
Dreamer, it was called, by a local expressionist. She and Martin
had bought it at the Sarnath Gallery. Now, though, the warped
shape of its subject reminded her of the pregnant belly of her
dream.
She turned and kissed Martin. "Melanie here?"
"She's with her friends."
Oh, God. Melanie's "friends" worried Ann more than any

SUCCUBI
9
other aspect of her life. "The Main Street Punks," the papers
had dubbed them. Leather jackets, torn jeans held together with
safety pins, and hairstyles that might compel Vidal Sassoon to
hang himself. Ann realized it was a prejudice on her own part;
these "punks" were to her what the hippies were to Ann's par-
ents' generation. Martin had met some of them and assured her
that they were okay. They looked wild was all, they looked dif-
ferent. The protective mother in Ann didn't want Melanie to be
different, even though the term was not relative. She knew she
was being narrow-minded but somehow that didn't matter when
it was your own daughter. Other people's daughters, fine. But
not mine. She loved Martin more truly than she'd ever loved in
her life; however, all too often, his liberalism ate at her. They'd
argued about it many times. "It's a sensibility, Ann. When you
were her age you were wearing peace signs and beads and lis-
tening to Hendrix. This is the same thing. It's a trend that she re-
lates to. Maybe if you tried to understand her more, she
wouldn't be so unsure of herself." "Oh, I see," Ann had count-
ered. "Blame me. I must be a bad mother because I don't want
my only child hanging around with a bunch of people who look
like Sex Pistols rejects! Jesus Christ, Martin, have you seen
some of them? One of them has a purple Mohawk!" 'They look
different, so they must be negative influences? Is that what
you're saying, Ann? Have you ever heard of self-expression?
Maybe if they all wore loafers with no socks and had names like
Biff and Muffy, then they'd meet with your approval." "Eat
shit, Martin." "They're just innocent kids with a different view
of the world, Ann. You can't pick Melanie's friends for her.
That's up to her, and you should respect that."
Goddamn him sometimes. So what if he was right? Dr. Har-
old had proposed that her objection to Melanie's friends was a
defense mechanism. Ann felt so guilty about being away from
Melanie so often that she sought out another, easier avenue of
blame. "You work very hard," the doctor had said. "You've
made a tremendous success of yourself, but you use that fact to
attack the ones you love. Subconsciously, you feel that you've
been a neglectful mother, and you feel that that's the cause of
your daughter's lack of confidence. But rather than admit that,
and act upon it, you have chosen not to face it at all."
Goddamn him too. "I'm paying two bills an hour to be in-
sulted?"

10
Edward Lee
Dr. Harold had laughed. "To see into yourself more clearly is
no insult. If you want your daughter to be happy you have to
support the way she feels about things. Every time you take a
heated exception to her views, that's an insult to her. Things like
that can hurt a young mind."
"She's not a baby anymore, Ann," Martin told her. "She's a
bright, creative seventeen-year-old now. Don't worry about it."
Ann sputtered. The day had been just too confusing, and
Martin could see that. He glanced at his watch. "Ah, it's beer
o'clock." He poured her a Sapphire and tonic and got himself
one of his snob beers. Politely changing a bad subject was his
way of not rubbing her misgivings in her face.
"You get much writing done today?" she asked. The first sip
of her gin began to unwind her at once.
"All kinds. Would've gotten more, though, if it weren't for
the interruptions. Some guy kept calling for you. I'll bet he
called five, six times."
"Some guyT
"I kept telling him you wouldn't be in till early evening.
Asked if I could take a message, and he kept saying no."
"Someguy?" she queried again.
"It must be your other lover," Martin said.
"Yeah, but which one? I have dozens, you know."
"Sure, but why bother with them when you've got a charm-
ing, intelligent, and very considerate man such as myself? Not
to mention one of exceptional bedroom prowess."
"I hate to burst your balloon, honey, but the only reason I
keep you around is because you're a good cook."
"Ah, so that's it."
All jokes aside, this caller made her wonder. Perhaps it was
someone from the office calling to congratulate her.
"The guy had a real funny voice, like someone with emphy-
sema or something, or strep throat."
Ann frowned it off. Whoever it was, they'd probably call
back.
"I haven't started dinner yet," Martin admitted, and lit a cig-
arette. "I could thaw some—"
Ann's state of distraction finally occurred to her. She hadn't
even told him yet, had she? "Don't thaw anything," she said.
"We're going out. I already made reservations at the Emerald
Room."

SUCCUBI
Suddenly, Martin looked grim. "That's the most expensive
restaurant in town."
"It's also the best."
"Sure, but, uh, can we afford that?"
She wanted to laugh. Ann was rich by just about anyone's
standards, and much richer as of today. Martin's financial pride
always emerged at times like this. Ann essentially supported
him, and they both knew that. By saying can we afford that? he
was actually saying, I'm broke as usual, so you'll have to pay
for dinner. As usual.
"We're celebrating, Martin."
He tapped an ash suspiciously. "Celebrating what?"
"I made partner today."
This news seemed to numb him for a moment. He just stood
there, looking at her. "You're kidding?"
"Nope. They took me by complete surprise. Yesterday I
worked for Collims, Lemco, and Lipnick. Today I work for
Collims, Lemco, Lipnick, and Slavik."
"That's greatl" Martin finally rejoiced, and hugged her tight.
But Ann had to masquerade her own joy. She'd waited seven
years for this day, any lawyer's greatest triumph, and all she
could think about was the nightmare.
Martin had proposed to her twice. Ann had said no both
times, and even now she wasn't quite sure why. Backwash, she
thought. Her first husband had left over ten years ago. Those
had been hard times, and Mark hadn't made them any easier.
Ann was going to law school during the day, working at night,
and raising Melanie as best she could in between. Mark's fail-
ures hadn't been all his fault. Her parents hadn't liked him at all.
Mom thought he looked "shifty," and Dad assured her he was a
"layabout." Construction work paid well in this area so long as
you were employed by a reliable contractor. Mark had been
through several contractors who weren't. He always felt infe-
rior to Ann. At least all his time not working had saved Ann a
lot of day-care and baby-sitter fees. A week after she'd gradu-
ated from law school, Mark disappeared. I'm sorry but I can't
hack it anymore, the note read. Find someone more worthy of
you. Mark.
Her parents were actually happy about it, something for
which she'd never really forgiven them. She'd never seen Mark

12
Edward Lee
again. Melanie had been about five at the time; she barely even
remembered who her father was.
Ann's first years with the firm had been so harried she'd had
no social life at all. The few dates here and there were never al-
lowed to amount to anything, not as a lawyer and a single
mother. One day it dawned on her that three years had gone by
without her having sex once. She couldn't expect many men to
want to assume the role of husband to a woman who worked ten
to twelve hours a day six days a week and had a pensive teenage
daughter by another man.
But Martin had been different. She'd met him at the college;
the firm had purchased a computer system, and Ann had been
required to take a three-day word-processing course. Martin
had been sitting in the cafeteria, smoking over a pile of student
essays about the thematics of Randall Jarrell. He'd merely
looked up, made some small talk, and asked her out for a drink.
They'd had a nice, polite, and innocuous time at the Under-
croft, and that had been that. A week later they were dating reg-
ular. What helped was that his writing schedule conformed to
her work schedule. There was never any tension there, and she
never had to force herself to go out when she was too tired. Be-
fore he'd moved in with her and Melanie, he'd laid it all right
out. "I'm a poet, this is my only occupational aspiration. I write
six to eight hours a day, every day, and I teach part-time at the
college. I could teach full-time and take extra classes for more
money, but if I did that, my writing would suffer. I will never do
that. I'll probably never make more than twenty thousand a
year. Before we go any further with this, I want you to know
that. I want it all on the table so there won't be any misunder-
standings later. A poor poet is all I will ever be." Were all men
so money-conscious? Ann had never doubted her love for him;
she didn't care how much money he made as long as he loved
her. And she never doubted that either.
Martin was a good househusband. He taught two classes on
Tuesday and Thursday mornings. The other days he wrote from
morning to dinnertime. He liked routines; "psychical and crea-
tive order," he called it. He'd take Melanie to school every
morning, then he'd go home and write or go to school and
teach, then he'd write some more and pick Melanie up. He
cooked all their meals (all writers were good cooks) and even
washed the dishes! He split the laundry and cleaning chores

SUCCUBI
13
with Melanie. Many nights Ann wasn't home for dinner, but
that had never been a problem either. Melanie had taken to him
instantly. He encouraged her and counseled her better than Ann
could ever expect to, and since they were both flaming liberals,
they both agreed on everything. Martin even liked Melanie's
wild, discordant music. At least once a month he would drive
her and some of her friends to one of the New Wave clubs in
D.C. to see bands like the Butthole Surfers, Blind Idiot God,
and Nixon's Head. "Nixon's HeadV Ann had once tiraded.
"You took her to see a band called Nixon's Headl" "Creative
alternativism, my dear," Martin had quietly responded. "With-
out it we'd be another Russia." Maybe Ann was stupid but she
didn't understand how a group called Nixon's Head could be
proof of democracy. Nevertheless, without Martin, Melanie
would have no father figure at all, and would probably have run
away for good by now. Martin was tolerant of things most men
could never be: stable, kind in the face of her job stress, never
jealous, and someone who wouldn't rant and rave every time
she had to work late on depositions or had to take clients out to
restaurants where dinner for two cost more than Martin made in
a week. He didn't feel subservient at all; he even jokingly re-
ferred to himself as her "wife." He insisted on contributing the
little he could toward the mortgage, and refused to let her re-
place his ten-year-old Ford Pinto with a Corvette. "People will
think I'm your gigolo," he'd objected. "Any poet who doesn't
drive a ten-year-old car with at least 150,000 miles on it is a
complete fake."
His first proposal had been made in good humor. "If you
don't marry me soon, the neighbors'll think all I'm good for is
sex." 'That's not true, Martin. You're also a very good cook.
Let's talk about it later." The second time had turned ugly. "I'm
not comfortable with the idea of marriage right now," she'd
said, now twice turning down the ring which he must've saved
years for. "Why?" he asked. "Because I was married once be-
fore and it didn't work out," she said. "It's not my fault you
married an asshole!" he yelled back. She'd felt terrible about it
for days because his point was legitimate. Part of it was she
didn't want to be married until she knew she was occupationally
secure.
But was that really the problem?
What's wrong with me? she thought.

14
Edward Lee
• • •
Getting Melanie to dress appropriately had been like pulling
teeth. "Yes, you're going," Ann had ordered. "And, no, you
can't wear leather pants and that Siouxsie and the Banshees
T-shirt." It had been Martin, of course, who'd convinced her.
"Conforming to conformity is a statement too, isn't it?" he'd
asked. Melanie had then actually put on a dress without another
word. "I feel like a yuppie," she'd said, grinning as the hostess
had seated them by the window. The Emerald Room was indeed
the best restaurant in town. The state legislature had their power
lunches here every day while in session, and brought plenty of
lobbyists for dinner. The governor appeared weekly, and the
county executive often came in late. Any celebrity who hap-
pened to pass through town always wound up here via the rec-
ommendations of other celebrities. Stallone was once overheard
remarking to a producer: "Preeminent grub."
"What exactly does being a partner mean, Mom?" Melanie
asked.
"It means I share in all the firm's profits."
It also meant sharing in all the responsibilities, but Ann
wasn't worried about that. She'd snagged their biggest client,
Air National, herself, and had managed to hold on to them twice
as long as any other firm. It was a sleazy acknowledgment, but
the best thing about representing an irresponsible airline was
that they paid any amount to get out of hot water. What partner
meant most of all, though, was more delegation, and that meant
more time she could spend with Martin and Melanie. From now
on it would be the associates who scrambled over interrogato-
ries till 3 a.m. Maybe now things would evolve into the domes-
tic solvency she knew she needed. Maybe now they could be a
family.
The maitre d' expertly reeled off the day's specials and left
them to peruse leather-bound menus.
"How're things going at school?" Ann asked.
"Okay," Melanie meekly replied. Okay meant no D's on the
horizon. She was a smart girl but just couldn't adjust. Before
Martin, she'd been cutting class, failing all her subjects. But
then she beamed: "I'm gonna get an A in my art class."
Art, Jesus, Ann thought. "Melanie, art isn't going to get you
very far in this world."

SUCCUBI
15
"Rembrandt would probably disagree with that statement,"
Martin said, and discreetly scowled at her.
"What I mean, honey, is that art doesn't usually make a good
living. Art never sells till after the artist is dead."
Martin was still scowling. "Your mother's right, Melanie. Pe-
ter Max only makes $500,000 a week. Last year de Kooning
sold a twelve-inch canvas for seventeen million. A person could
starve on that kind of money."
There I go again, Ann thought. Martin's jovial sarcasm was
his way of objecting to Ann's negativity. What Melanie needed
was maternal support, not criticism. More and more she feared
Martin was totally right, that Melanie's maladjustment
stemmed from a lack of such support. Ann's own parents had
been infuriated by her decision to attend law school. "Lawyers
are sharks, liars," her mother had said. "It's not a job for a
woman." "You'll never cut it as an attorney, Ann. It's too tough
out there," her father had assured her. Ann doubted that she'd
ever been hurt so badly in her life, and now she felt worse. How
many times had she hurt Melanie with similar ridicule?
"I'm soiTy, honey," she said, but it sounded terribly fake.
Martin quickly changed the subject with more comedy.
"What kind of dump is this? No chili dogs on the menu."
"Don't worry, dear," Ann said. "I'm sure they'll put your
beef Wellington on a hot-dog roll if you ask them."
"They damn well better unless they want me to start tipping
tables over. And they better bring me catsup for my fries too."
Melanie loved it when Martin poked fun at the establishment,
or at least where the establishment ate. But Martin turned seri-
ous when they deliberated over appetizers. "Jesus." He leaned
forward and whispered. "The poached salmon costs seven
bucks. That's a lot of dough for an appetizer."
"Don't worry about it, Martin," Ann assured. "This is my
celebration dinner, remember? Cost no object."
"I don't want an appetizer," Melanie said. "I'd rather have a
beer."
"You're too young to drink beer," Ann reminded her.
Then Martin: "I'll have the oysters Chesapeake. That's two
bucks cheaper than the salmon."
Ann didn't know whether to laugh or scream. Would you get
the fucking salmon and shut up? she felt like saying. I just got a
forty-thousand-dollar raise today. I think I can handle a seven-

16
Edward Lee
dollar appetizer! "I'll order for everyone," she said instead.
"It'll save trouble."
A beautiful redhead took their orders, as robotic attendants
brought bread and filled their water glasses. Martin and
Melanie chatted about local art shows, during which three dif-
ferent opposition attorneys appeared to congratulate Ann on her
partnership. This surprised—even startled—her, the enemy
camps acknowledging her success without so much as a hint of
jealousy. "You seem to be quite the talk of the local legal
world," Martin suggested when Melanie excused herself to the
ladies' room.
"It's a strange feeling."
"I'm very happy for you," he said.
He was, she could tell. So why wasn't she? Ann felt skewed;
making partner still felt numbly distant. Why? "I'll be home
more now," she said. "I'll be able to get Melanie off your back a
little."
"Ann, she's a great kid, she's no trouble at all. I think she's
really starting to come out of her shell now."
"No help from me."
"Would you stop. Everything's working out great, isn't it?"
Actually it was. Ann just didn't understand why she didn't
feel that way herself. Everything was working out.
"Are you all right?"
"What?" she said.
"You look pale all of a sudden."
Ann tried to shake it off. She felt pale too. "I don't know
what's wrong. I'll snap out of it."
"You've been working too hard," Martin suggested. "It's no
wonder. And then this nightmare business ..."
The nightmare, she thought. The hands on her.
"That'll work out too—you watch," Martin said, and sipped
his Wild Goose lager. "It's all stress-related. All the hours you
put in, plus worrying about Melanie, it gangs up on you. Har-
old's a great doctor. I know a bunch of profs at the college who
see him. The guy works wonders."
But was that really the answer to her problem? Ann wasn't
even sure what her problems were. Beyond the great window,
the city extended in glittery darkness. The moon suspended
above the old post office; it seemed pink. Ann was staring at it.
Its gibbous shape fixated her, and its bizarre pinkness.

SUCCUBI
17
"Mom, are you okay?" came Melanie's voice.
Now they were both giving her long looks. "Maybe we
should go," Martin said. "You need to get some rest."
"I'm fine, really," she feebled. "Once I eat something, I'll be
fine."
Ann had to force herself to act normal, but everything dis-
tracted her. Subconscious ideas of reference, Dr. Harold had
called it. Image symbolization. Even irrelevancies reminded her
of the nightmare. The glass candle orb on the table. The pretty
hands of the waitress as she set out their appetizers. The fleshy
pinkness of Martin's poached salmon, like the pink flesh of the
dream which seemed the same eerie pink of the bulbous moon
beyond the window. The moon looked bloated, pregnant.
She was pregnant in the dream. Her belly was stretched huge
and pink. Then she saw the faces ...
The faceless faces.
"Some guy called you a bunch of times yesterday," Melanie
said. "I asked what he wanted but he wouldn't say."
Martin looked up. "Did his voice sound—"
"It sounded creepy, like he had a chest cold maybe."
The same person Martin had mentioned. "It's probably
somebody selling magazine subscriptions," Ann attempted. But
now her curiosity was festering. She didn't like the idea of
someone calling her and not knowing who or even why.
"Whoever he is, I'm sure he'll call back," Martin remarked.
"I'm a little curious myself now."
Ann felt a little better when she got something in her stom-
ach. Her glazed Muscovy duck appetizer had been prepared to
perfection, and Martin devoured his poached salmon. But Ann
realized that her sudden weird behavior had dampened the en-
tire evening. Melanie and Martin were good sports but it
showed. They knew something was wrong. Again, Ann strug-
gled to make conversation, to normalize. "I'll be able to drive
Melanie to school most mornings," she said, but the fact as-
sailed her. Melanie had been in high school two years now, and
Ann didn't even know what the place looked like. She didn't
even know where it was. Martin had registered Melanie.
"Next week I figure I'll take her to some of the museums in
the District," Martin said. "Too bad you can't get olf."
Ann didn't know what he was talking about. "Museums?"
"Sure, and some of the galleries."

18
Edward Lee
"I've always wanted to go to the National Gallery," Melanie
said.
This observation made Ann feel worse; it was just another
thing she'd been promising Melanie for years but had never
made good on. Still, though, she didn't understand. "Martin,
how can you take her downtown? She has school."
Martin tried not to frown at her neglect. "It's spring break,
Ann. I've been reminding you for weeks."
Had he been? God, she thought. She remembered now. It had
slipped her mind completely.
"Melanie's off for the whole week, and so am I," Martin said.
A vacation, it dawned on her. It would be perfect. "I'm sorry,
I forgot all about it. We'll go someplace, the three of us."
Martin looked at her funny. She hadn't had a vacation in
years, and in the past, whenever he brought it up, an argument
usually resulted. "You serious? They'll give you a week off just
like that?"
"Martin, I'm one of them now. I can take off whenever I want
provided everything's in order."
Martin looked incredulous, poised over his salmon. "This I
don't believe," Melanie scoffed. "Mom's going to take time off.
That's a change."
"A lot of things are going to change now, honey," Ann as-
sured her.
Melanie was ecstatic. "I don't believe it. I'm finally going to
get to see the National Gallery and the Corcoran."
"Since your mother's talking mighty big now," Martin
added, "maybe she can do you one better. Maybe Giverny.
Maybe the Louvre."
They think I'm bullshitting? Ann couldn't help but smile. Fi-
nally, she could do something for them that involved her. "It's
settled, then," she stated. "This weekend we leave for Paris."
Melanie squealed.
"You better check with your bosses first," Martin suggested.
"We don't want to get our hopes up for nothing."
"Don't you understand, Martin? I am one of the bosses now.
This'll be great. Paris. The three of us together. The timing
couldn't be better."
That much was true. The timing couldn't have been better.
But what Ann Slavik didn't realize just then was that the cir-
cumstances couldn't have been worse.

CHAPTER TWO
m
They never came to him here. They could, he knew, if they
wanted to, but there was no reason. He could still see them in
his mind and in his dreams; he was always dreaming of them:
their swollen, perfect breasts, their beautiful bodies glazed in
sweat and moonlight, their unearthly faces. They were like the
drugs he used to take, euphoric, potent without mercy. In his
dreams he remembered hovfr he'd cowered before them in the
promise of flesh. Five years ago they hadn't been dreams at all.
The phone rang and rang. No one home, he thought, and hung
up. He retrieved his quarter and waited.
"Hurry it up," Duke complained. "I'm missin' Ping-Pong."
"Just a few more minutes," Erik grated. "Please."
Duke shrugged. "It'll cost ya, fairy."
Yeah, he thought. "All right. Five minutes?"
Duke grinned.
Erik Tharp didn't even care anymore. He was doing what he
had to do. "The Rubber Ramada," the staff called this place. It
was the state mental hospital. He'd been locked away, forgot-
ten, but that was good, wasn't it? The world had forgotten about
him now, after five years. But so had they.
They'd never been able to control him as well as the others.
They had no use for people they couldn't control. The kid thing
had been a frame; Erik hadn't done any of it. He'd dug for them,
sure, and he'd snatched some people. But he hadn't murdered
those kids.
Duke was another story; he was crazy. Not like the schizo-
affectives of the delusional psychotics. He was just plain, don't-
give-a-shit, mean-ass crazy. Ganser syndrome, it was called. He
belonged in prison, not here. He'd made up a story in court
about how aliens from the Orion complex communicated
19

20
Edward Lee
through a transmitter that had been implanted in one of his fill-
ings. "The dentist was in on it," he'd told the judge. "They
forced me to do it." He raped a sixteen-year-old girl and cut off
her arms. "They said they needed the arms," Duke had in-
formed the jury. "Never said what for, though. Just bring us the
arms." He'd been found not guilty by reason of clinical insanity.
In a state like this, Duke would never walk the street again.
But neither would Erik. They'd seen to that.
Erik knew what they were doing. He'd been one of their ilk
once. Brygorwreccan. Digger.
I've got to get through, he thought.
"You don't hurry it up, you'll have to do it twice," Duke in-
formed him.
There were four classes of patients here. Precaution, Class I,
Class II, and Class III. Precautions were restricted to the obser-
vation dorm. Mostly autistics and suicidals. Two techs were in
the room at all times, and most of the pats remained restrained,
either in Posey bed nets or Bard-Parker straitjackets. Class I's
couldn't leave A Building, the main wing; their world was a
dorm and a dayroom. But Class IPs got to live in B Building
and were allowed to eat in the cafeteria. II's also enjoyed the
luxury of supervised field trips, outside volleyball, and full
roam of Buildings B through E. They could go to the rec unit—
which had a library, a music room, and an automat—provided
they signed out with a tech or a Class III patient.
Last week Erik had passed his board review for Class II sta-
tus. And Duke had been Class III for almost a year.
The two of them made a deal.
Another luxury of the higher-class status was that you got to
use the pay phone in the rec unit anytime between 9 a.m. and 10
p.m. Duke's deal was this: he'd use his Class III escort privilege
to take Erik to the pay phone, and he'd also give him quarters to
make calls. Duke had an uncle who sent him money and ciga-
rettes every month. In the automat II's and Ill's could buy any-
thing they wanted from the machines: microwave sandwiches,
candy bars, Cokes. The Diebold magnetometer at the B en-
trance would prevent any sharp metal objects like bottle caps
and pop tops from being brought back into the dorm. "So
here's the deal," Duke had proposed. "One trip to the phone and
one quarter per nut."
The first few times had been awful, but Erik forced himself to

SUCCUBI
21
get used to it. He had money on the outside, but there was no
one to bring it to him. How else could he earn money here? Sev-
eral times Duke refused to pay. "Not till you get it right, fairy.
Keep your lips over the teeth." Eventually, Erik learned to "get
it right."
"Just 'cause I let you do it," Duke had once verified, "I don't
want you thinking I'm some kind of faggot. I think about all the
chicks I reamed while you're gettin' down on it."
Duke was what the doctors called a "stage sociopath with
unipolar hypererotic tendencies." He bragged about the sex
crimes of his past. He'd raped dozens of girls, mostly "bar
rednecks and druggers," he called them.
"Killed a lot of them too."
"Why?" Erik had queried with his shredded voice.
"Aw, shit, fairy. Killing them's the best part. Ain't no kick if
ya don't kill 'em." He'd cackled laughter. "One time I picked
up this skinny blond bitch. I got her in the back of my van, see,
and I'm cornholing the shit out of her. Man, she was so fucked
up on drugs she didn't know which way was up; I coulda stuck
a leg of lamb up her ass. Anyway, just as I'm gettin' ready to
come, I blow the back of her head off with my Ruger
Redhawk."
"That's disgusting, man," Erik replied. "You're a fuckin'
monster."
"Look who's talking," Duke came back. "You snuff a bunch
of babies and you call me a monster. The fact is, bitch, we're all
monsters on the inside."
It was almost funny the way he'd said that. Erik knew some
people who were monsters on the outside as well.
Please be home, he prayed. The quarter fell into the slot. He
held his breath as he dialed.
"Got a big nut for my bitch tonight," Duke said, and laughed.
The phone was ringing—
Please be home.
—and ringing—
Jesus, please.
Twenty rings later, he hung up. He retrieved the quarter.
"Who you callin' anyway?"
Destiny, he thought. "Just someone."
Duke chuckled. "Don't matter none to me."
"Listen, Duke, there's something I need to talk to you about."

22
Edward Lee
"Fuck talking, fairy. You're out of time. Ping-Pong's startin'
and you got something to take care of first."
"It's important, man. It's about the lawn contractors."
"The fuckin' what?"
"The people who cut the grass. They come out every day
with their mowers and do the hospital grounds. They park right
out—"
"Quit stallin', faggot." Duke shoved him toward the hall.
"You're just tryin' to get out of the suck."
They left the rec unit and crossed to B Building via the prom-
enade. It was dark now. Above the trees, Erik could see the
moon.
Almost spring, he realized.
The moon was pink.
They signed back in on the ward after walking through the
metal detector and passing their change through in a plastic
bucket. "No Ping-Pong tonight, Duke?" one of the techs asked.
Duke was the champ. "I'll be in. Gotta hang a piss first." But
Erik was already walking down the hall.
"How's your eye?" Jeff asked. Jeff was a delusional
narcomaniac.
"My eye?" Erik grated back.
"Yeah, I saw it hanging out of its socket yesterday. I was con-
cerned that your brain might get infected."
You had to go along with these people. "Oh, right. It's fine
now. I just popped it right back in."
"Good, good," Jeff said, and shuffled away.
Nurse Walsh was tapping up a needle full of chlorpromazine
in the med station while a bunch of burly techs four-pointed
Christofer the hydrophobe. "Four-pointing" was just more
psych-ward rhetoric. "We'll four-point you if you don't cooper-
ate" was a polite way of saying, "These goons will pin you to
the fucking floor if you don't stop acting like an asshole."
"Tech-assisted med administration" was executed when a pa-
tient "physically resisted chemical therapy."
In the dayroom several pats were vegged out on the couch.
Ten years of antipsychotics will take the zing out of anyone. All
they made Erik take were mild tricyclics, none of the heavy
stuff like Stelazine or Prolixin. "Zombie pills," the pats called
them. Many of the heavily drugged patients had to take large

SUCCUBI
23
doses of Cogentin in conjunction with their psych meds, to off-
set the accompanying dyskinesia.
He went into the john, into the stall. You could always tell a
psych ward bathroom from a normal one: there were never any
locks on the stall doors, and the graffiti took diverse turns. "Do
the Thorazine shuffle," someone had written. "God stole my
brain but he can have it," and, "Ect, what a rush!"
Erik sat down and waited. He tried to concentrate on his plan,
the lawn contractors, the supervisor, but the ideas kept slipping
away. Sometimes he couldn't think right.
But he could always remember.
Them.
Their sleek bodies, their breasts and legs—all flawless. The
things they did to him, and the things they made him do. Blud.
Mete. You are the meat of our spirit, Erik. Feed us. They'd con-
sumed him, hadn't they? With their kisses and their sex?
"Them," he whispered.
He could still see them clearly as if they were standing before
him.
But it was none of them that stood before him now. This was
no midnight grove on the holy solstice—this was a psych ward
toilet stall. There was none of that; the heralds were gone.
It was Duke who stood before him now. Grinning. Fat. The
rasp of the zipper, however familiar, made Erik wince.
"Do it good, fairy, and maybe I'll give you two quarters."
Later, Erik sat in his dorm. They were really cells, but
they called them dorms. They called the ward a "unit," and they
called drugs "meds." They called escape "elopement." They
had names for everything. Manacles were "restraints." Jerking
off was "autoerotic manipulation," and shooting the bull was
"vocalization."
The steel mesh over his window was a "safety barrier." In the
window he could see the moon, and the moon was pink.
The ruckus of Ping-Pong could be heard from the dayroom.
Someone was playing piano. The television blared inanities.
Erik doodled in his pad. They didn't call it doodling, of
course. They called it "occupational therapy." He drew fairly
well, he was left-handed. He'd read that left-handed people
were three times more likely to be creative. They were also
three times more likely to be mentally ill. Something about in-

24
Edward Lee
verted brain hemispheres, and a bigger corpus callosum, what-
ever that was. He drew the moon, and figures looking up to it.
He drew their bodies to scrupulous detail. What he could never
bring himself to sketch, though, were their faces.
It wasn't that he didn't remember their faces, it was that he
did.
Around the sketch he scribed the glyph. The night mirror,
he thought. How many times had he looked into it and seen the
most unspeakable things?
My God, he thought, but behind the thought he was sure he
heard their warm, viscid laughter, like beating wings, like
screams in a canyon.
He looked at the moon. The moon was pink.
Beneath the sketches, and with no conscious thought at all,
he scribbled one word:
liloc

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
m
The dream was vivid, hot—it always was.
"Dooer, dooer."
It was always the same: the back arching up and waves of
moans. The tense legs spread ever wide, the swollen belly
stretched pinprick tight and pushing ... pushing ... pushing
forth ...
Then the image of the cup, like a chalice, and the emblem on
its bowl like a squashed double circle:
She sensed flame behind her, a fireplace perhaps. She sensed
warmth. Firelight flickered on the pocked brick walls as shad-
ows hovered. A larger version of the emblem seemed sus-
pended in the background, much larger. And again she heard the
bizarre words:
"Dooer, dooer."
She was dreaming of her daughter's birth, she knew. Birth
was painful, yet she felt no pain. All she felt was the wonder of
creation, for it was a wonder, wasn't it? Her own warm belly
displacing life into the world? It was a joyous thing.
Joyous, yes. So why did the dream always revert to night-
mare?
The figures surrounded her; they seemed cloaked or
enshadowed. Soft hands stroked the tense sweating skin. For a
time they were all her eyes could focus on. The hands. They ca-
ressed her not just in comfort but also—somehow—in adora-
25

26
Edward Lee
tion. Here was where the dream lost its wonder. Soon the hands
grew too ardent. They were fondling her. They stroked the en-
flamed breasts, the quivering belly. They ran up and down the
parted, shining thighs. The belly continued to quiver and push.
No faces could be seen, only the hands, but soon heads low-
ered. Tongues began to lap up the hot sweat which ran in rivu-
lets. Soft lips kissed her eyes, her forehead, her throat. Tongues
churned over her clitoris. Voracious mouths sucked milk from
her breasts.
The images wrenched her; they were revolting, obscene.
Wake up! Wake up! she commanded herself. She could not
move. She could not speak.
Her orgasm was obvious, a lewd and clenching irony in time
with the very contractions of birth. Behind her she sensed fren-
zied motion. She heard grunts, moans—
—then screams.
Screams?
But they weren't her screams, were they?
She glimpsed dim figures tossing bundles onto a crackling
fire. Still more figures seemed to wield knives or hatchets. The
figures seemed palsied, numb. She heard chopping sounds.
The dream's eye rose to a high vantage point; the circle
moved away. Naked backs clustered about the childbirth table.
Now only a lone, hooded shape stood between the spread legs.
It looked down, as if in reverence, at the wet, bloated belly. The
belly was pink.
Moans rose up, and excited squeals. The firelight danced.
The chopping sounds thunked on and on, on and on ...
"Dooer, dooer," spake the hooded shape.
The belly shivered, collapsing.
A baby began to cry.
Ann wakened suddenly, lost of breath. The dream, she
thought. The nightmare. She reached blindly for Martin, but
he wasn't there. The digital clock read 4:12 a.m.
Did she always have the dream at the same time, or did she
imagine that? Months now, and nearly every night. Beneath her
felt sodden, and her mind swam. The dream sickened her, not
just the glaring, pornographic imagery, but what it must say
about some part of her subconscious. She didn't like to think
like that—she was a lawyer. She didn't like to contemplate a

SUCCUBI
27
part of herself that she couldn't break down, assimilate, and rec-
ognize structurally.
She knew the dream was about Melanie's birth. The
abstractions—the bizarre words, the emblem on the chalice and
the wall, the firelight, etc.—were what Dr. Harold termed "sub-
conscious detritus." "Dreams are always outwardly symbolic,
Ms. Slavik, subjectivities surrounding a concrete point. The
birth of your daughter, in other words, surrounded by encryp-
tions. You're here to find a means to expose those encryptions,
and to identify them, after which we can determine how they re-
late to the central notion of the dream."
Ann couldn't imagine such a notion, but she suspected, quite
grimly, that much of this "detritus" was sexual. She'd told Dr.
Harold everything he asked about her, except one detail. She
was having orgasms in her sleep. The wetness, as well as the
acute vaginal sensitivity upon waking, left no doubt. Worse was
that these "dream orgasms" had proved her only orgasmic re-
lease for some time. Martin was by far the best lover of her life,
yet she hadn't had an orgasm with him for as long as she'd been
having the nightmare. This worried her very much.
Everything did.
Yuck, she thought, and got up in the darkness. Her nightgown
stuck to her, she felt doused in slime, and the coldness of her
sweat shriveled her nipples.
She padded down the hall and peeked into her daughter's
room. Melanie lay asleep amid a turmoil of sheets. The sheets
were black and so were the walls. "Killing Joke," one big poster
read. Her favorite group. Martin had taken her to see them last
year. Ann vowed one day to go to one of these wild concerts
with her, but the more she determined to get involved with her
daughter's joys, the more impossible it seemed to achieve. Not
trying hard enough, she lamented. She knew this neglect was
part of Melanie's seclusion. Growing up without a father was
tough for a kid, and with a mother submerged at work six,
sometimes seven days a week made it even tougher. Dr. Harold
informed her that Melanie's "alternative" tastes reflected a
"self-developed" identity. Most seventeen-year-olds read Tiger
Beat and watched sitcoms. Melanie read Poe and watched
Polanski.
Sleepy eyes fluttered open. "Mom?"
"Hi, honey."

28
Edward Lee
"Is something wrong?"
"Shh. Go back to sleep."
Melanie shifted under the covers. "I love you, Mom."
"I love you too. Go back to sleep."
Ann closed the door.
She worried too much, she knew that. Melanie was coming
of age, and Ann often had a hard time reckoning with that. It
had caused some awful arguments in the past—Melanie had run
away several times, all of which were Ann's own doing. She
lost herself too often. The last time, it had taken Martin two
days to find her, while Ann had been in the office working on
counterlitigation for Air National. Ann's success as an attorney
haunted her with her failure as a mother.
Tonight she'd promised things would change, but would this
prove another failure? To think so would crush her. The trip to
Paris would bring them together; it would start the relationship
that should've started properly seventeen years ago. Too late's
better than nothing, she considered.
Through the living room now, and soft darkness. She stepped
into Martin's moonlit den. The drapes billowed around the open
French doors. Indeed, Martin stood on the terrace. Often she'd
find him here, in wee hours when he couldn't sleep, looking
down into the city, the water, the docks. Always looking for
something. Tonight, though, he stood straight in his robe, star-
ing up at the sky.
"Martin?"
No reply. Staring. He looked sad or confused.
He turned, startled. His cigarette fell. "What's wrong?"
"I—" she said.
He hugged her at once. "I know. The dream again. You
were—"
"I'm sorry I woke you."
"You didn't," he lied. "I just couldn't sleep. Too much caf-
feine."
Suddenly, she was crying. She hated that. His arms encircled
her more tightly then. "You can cry," he whispered. "It's all
right-
OA, God, I can't stand this. She felt out of control, which was
her greatest fear. "What's wrong with me?"
"Nothing. You'll feel better tomorrow."
He closed the door, sealing out the night, then led her back to

SUCCUBI
29
the bedroom. Martin hugged her once more at the foot of the
bed, and then she was hugging him back, clinging to him as if to
a ledge. He was a ledge perhaps. He was the only thing that kept
her from dropping into blackness.
"I love you," he said. "Everything will be all right."
My whole life is falling apart, she thought.
His robe fell to the floor. He crawled into bed with her and
covered her up, then draped an arm about her. That vital con-
tact, his warm body against hers, was all that made her feel safe
from herself.
"I love you," he said.
But the safety was false. In a moment she fell back to sleep,
and back into the bowels of the dream.
"I was sick. The doctor said I almost died."
"Interesting," Dr. Harold observed. He chuckled. "I mean,
it's not interesting that you almost died. The parallel, I mean."
"Parallel?" Ann asked. «.
Dr. Herman Harold's office looked more like a rich man's
study. It was darkly appointed in fine paneling, oak and cherry
furniture, plush dark carpet. High bookcases consumed one en-
tire wall, their shelves curiously lacking psychiatric texts. In-
stead, tomes of classic literature filled the cases. Only a single
copy of The American Journal of Psychiatry gave any clue that
this was a headshrinker's office. No proverbial couch could be
found.
"I've told you, dreams mix symbols with our outward,
objective concerns. Here, the symbol is obvious."
Was it? "I'm a lawyer," Ann iterated. "Lawyers think con-
cretely."
Dr. Harold's eyes always appeared bemused. He had a pleas-
ant face with snow-white hair, and big bushy white eyebrows
and a bushier white mustache. He spoke slowly, contempla-
tively, placing words like bricks in a wall. "The symbolic dual-
ity," he said. "Life and death. The notion that you almost died
while creating life. The proximity of utter extremes."
Life and death, she thought. "It was borderline pneumonia or
something like that. Thank God Melanie was okay. I was barely
conscious for about two weeks after the birth."
"What do you remember of the birth?"
"Nothing."

30
Edward Lee
"It's pretty clear, then, that the dream is dredging up aspects
of Melanie's birth that were infused into your subconscious
mind. Think of it as a spillover, from the subconscious into the
conscious. We call it 'composite imagery.' Your mind is trying
to form a real picture of Melanie's birth with unacknowledged
memory fragments."
"Why?" Ann asked.
"Why isn't nearly as important as why now. Why is this oc-
curring at this precise point in your life? Let me ask you, was
Melanie a planned pregnancy?"
"Yes and no. We wanted a child, that is."
"You had no reservations, in other words?"
"No, I didn't. I think my husband did. He didn't think we
could afford to have a child, and I'll admit, things were pretty
tight. He never made much money, I was young, nineteen, I was
pregnant in my first year of college, and I was determined to go
to law school afterward. I think maybe one reason I wanted a
child was because I thought it would make our marriage stron-
ger."
"You considered your marriage weak?"
"Yeah. I honestly wanted it to work, but now that I think of it,
I guess I wanted it to work for the wrong reasons."
Dr. Harold raised a bushy white brow.
"I don't like failure," Ann said. "Mark and I probably never
should have gotten married. My parents couldn't stand him,
they were convinced the marriage would fail, and I suppose that
fueled my own determination to see that it didn't. They were
also convinced that I'd never make it through law school. Their
discouragement was probably my greatest motivating factor. I
graduated third in my class. I waited tables at night, went to
school during the day. I missed a semester of college to have
Melanie, but I made up for it and then some by taking a heavier
credit load afterward. In fact, I graduated a year early even with
the missed semester."
"Impressive," Dr. Harold remarked. "But I'm more inter-
ested in your parents. You've never mentioned them before."
"They're a bit of a sore subject," Ann admitted. "They're
very old-fashioned. They wanted me to assume a traditional fe-
male role in life, clean the house, raise the kids, cook, while
hubby brought home the bacon. That's not for me. They never
supported my desires and my views, and that hurt a lot."

SUCCUBI
31
"Do you see them often?"
"Once every couple of years. I take Melanie up, they love
Melanie. She's really the only bond at all that exists between me
and my parents."
"Axe you on good terms with them now?"
"Not good, not bad. Things are much better between me and
Dad than me and Mom. She's a very overbearing woman. I
think a lot of the time, Dad was all for my endeavors but he was
afraid to express that because of her."
Dr. Harold leaned back behind the plush veneered desk. "An-
other parallel, a parental one."
Ann didn't see what he meant.
"There's a lot of guilt in you, Ann. You feel guilty that
you've put your job before your daughter because you feel that
in doing the opposite, you'd satisfy your parents' convictions of
occupational failure. More important, you feel guilty about ne-
glecting to support Melanie's social views. Your own mother
neglected to support your social views. You're afraid of becom-
ing your mother."
Ann wasn't sure if she could buy that. Nevertheless, she felt
stupid for not considering the possibility.
"Since the day you left home, you've been torn between op-
posites. You want to be right in the traditional sense, and you
want to be right for yourself. You want both ends of the spec-
trum."
Was that it?
"You're very unhappy," Dr. Harold said.
I know, she thought. It depressed her that he could read her so
easily. "I need a solution," she said. "The nightmare is ruining
me. I'm not getting enough sleep, my work is slipping, I'm in a
bad mood when I get home. Don't you guys have some wonder
drug I could take that would make the nightmare stop?"
"Yes," Dr. Harold said. "But that wouldn't solve any of your
problems; it would only cover them up. You're having the
nightmare for a reason. We must identify that reason."
Dr. Harold was right. There was no quick fix.
"How is Martin taking all of this?"
"Better than most guys would. I know it's hard on him. He's
not getting any sleep either, because I'm always waking him up
during the dream. He's pretending that it's no big deal, but it's
starting to show."

32
Edward Lee
"More fear."
"What?"
"More fear of failure. You're afraid of failing with Melanie,
and you're afraid of failing with him. You're afraid at the end of
your life all you'll have to show for your existence is selfish-
ness."
"Thanks."
"I'm merely being objective. You love Martin, don't you?"
"Yes," she said with no hesitation. "I'd do anything for him."
"Anything except marry him. Still more fear."
Jesus Christ! she thought.
Dr. Harold smiled, as if he'd read the thought. "You're afraid
that Martin thinks you're holding your first marriage against
him."
"He's suggested that himself. Is it true?"
"It seems to be quite true."
This was depressing. Coming here didn't make her feel bet-
ter, it made her feel worse. "What am I going to do?"
"The first thing you must do is be patient. You're a very com-
plex person. Understanding your problems will be a complex
affair."
Tell me something I don't know, Doc.
"The images and ideas expressed in dreams function in two
fundamental modes," Dr. Harold went on. "One, the manifest
mode, which relates to the content as it occurs to the dreamer,
and, two, the latent mode, the dream's hidden or symbolic qual-
ities. The dream is about you giving birth to Melanie. There's a
strange emblem in the dream, there're dark, hooded figures and
cryptic words like incantations. The dream sounds almost Sa-
tanic. Dreams of devils often signify a rebellion to Christianity.
Are you a Christian?"
"No," Ann said.
Dr. Harold smiled. "Are you a satanist?"
"Of course not. I'm not anything, really."
"You're saying you were raised with no religious beliefs at
all?"
"None."
"Don't you find that strange, especially with the traditional
sentiments of your parents?"
"It is strange," she agreed. "I was born and raised in
Lockwood, a small town up in the northern edge of the county,

SUCCUBI
33
up in the hills. Only about five hundred people in the entire
town. There was a big church, everyone attended every Sunday.
Except my parents. It was almost like they deliberately shielded
me from religion. They kept me blind to it. I really don't know
much about religion."
"What about your daughter?"
"The same. I try not to influence her that way. I wouldn't
know how to even raise the subject."
Dr. Harold contemplated this. He remained silent for some
time, looking up with his eyes closed. "The dream is definitely
about an array of subconscious guilt. How can you feel guilty
about a religious void when you've had virtually no religious
upbringing?"
"I don't," Ann stated.
"And you don't feel that a religious belief might help
Melanie become better rounded in life?"
"I don't think so. I don't see how it could. She's never been a
problem that way."	,
"Is she a virgin?"
The question stunned her. "Yes," she said.
"You're sure?"
"As sure as I can be, I suppose."
"Do you find that unusual?"
"Why should I?"
"The average first sexual experience for white females in this
country occurs at the age of seventeen. Did you know that?"
"No, I didn't." Ann, see if you can guess the next question.
"How old were you when you had your first sexual experi-
ence?"
"Seventeen," Ann replied, though None of your fucking busi-
ness would've been a better reply. "What's that got to do with
it?"
"Isn't it possible that you possess some subconscious con-
cern regarding your daughter's virginity?"
Ann's frown cut lines in her face. She didn't like all this
Freudian stuff. Innuendos were hard to defend against, espe-
cially sexual innuendos. "I can't see why."
"Of course you can't," Dr. Harold said, still smiling. What
did he mean by that? Then he asked, a bit too abruptly for Ann's
liking, "Have you ever had a lesbian experience?"
"Of course not."

34
Edward Lee
"Have you ever wanted to?"
"No." I'm getting pissed, she thought. Really pissed, Doc.
"You're sure?"
Ann blushed. "Yes, I'm sure," she nearly snapped.
"The dream is rife with overt sexual overtones, that's the
only reason I ask such questions. What is the word you keep
hearing in the dream?"
"Dooer," she said, pronouncing doo-er. "What's it mean?"
"I don't know. It's your dream, isn't it?"
"Yeah, and what might it, or any of the dream, have to do
with lesbianism?" Now the lawyer in her was making an inter-
rogatory that she knew he couldn't answer.
But he did answer it, by making her answer it. "The voice
that spoke the word—dooer—was it male or female?"
"Female. I already told you."
"And the figures around the birth table, the figures touching
you, caressing you, were—"
"All right, yes, they were female." That's what I get for try-
ing to play games with a shrink, she thought.
His next observations disturbed her most of all. "It's interest-
ing that you take such aversion to questions pertaining to
lesbianism, or potential lesbianism. It's interesting, too, that
you are now exhibiting a guilt complex about that."
"I'm not a lesbian," she said.
"I'm quite sure that you're not, but you're afraid that I might
think you are."
"How do you know?"
"I know a lot of things, Ann. I know a lot of things just by
looking at you, by assessing the way you structure your replies,
by your facial inflections, your body language, and so forth."
"I think you're grabbing for shit, Doc."
"Perhaps, and it certainly wouldn't be the first time a psychi-
atrist has been accused as such. What I mean is that no mode of
rapport between a doctor and a patient is more important than
openness."
"You think I'm not being completely open with you?"
"No, Ann, I don't."
How about if I gave that big mustache of yours a good hard
yank? Would that be sufficient proof of openness?
"You're outwardly rebellious and defensive, which is a sure

SUCCUBI
35
sign of a deep sensitivity. You haven't been fully open to me
about the dream, have you?"
Of course she hadn't. But what was she supposed to say?
"Are there any men in the dream, Ann?"
"I think so. At least, there seem to be men in the background,
chopping things, chopping wood, I think. They seem to be
throwing wood on a fire."
"Wood. On a fire. But you say the men are in the back-
ground?"
"Yes," she said.
"And the figures in the foreground are women?"
"Yes."
"And who is the center of attention to these women?"
"Me."
"You. Naked. Pregnant. On the birth table."
"Yes."
"Don't you find it interesting that the active participants of
the dream are women, while men remain in the background,
clearly symbolizing a subordinate role?"
"I plead the Fifth," Ann said. Dr. Harold was boxing her in
now, cornering her. It made her feel on guard. Moreover, it
made her feel stupid, because she didn't know what he was
driving at. "A minute ago you said you didn't think I'd been
completely open with you about the dream. How so?"
"My conclusions will make you mad."
"Hey, Doc, I'm already mad. Go ahead. Lawyers don't like to
be accused of withholding information."
"But they do, don't they? Isn't that part of the trade? With-
holding facts from the opposition?"
"I'm leaving," Ann said.
"Don't leave yet," Dr. Harold said, lightly laughing. "We're
just beginning to get somewhere."
Ann stalled. Her head felt like it was ticking.
"First, I'm not the opposition," Dr. Harold asserted. "Second,
I make references that trouble you because being troubled is a
demonstration of the very subconscious underpinnings that
have recently made you feel unfocused and confused."
Ann didn't care about any of that now. She wanted to know
what he was going to say. "What? What conclusions? What is it
you feel I haven't told you?"
"You already know."

36
Edward Lee
Ann's eyes bore into him. But, again, he was right, wasn't
he? She did already know.
"Tell me," she said.
"What you haven't admitted to me is that the dream aroused
you. Outwardly, you were repelled, but inwardly, you were
stimulated. You were stimulated sexually. Am I right or
wrong?"
Stonily, she answered, "You're right."
"You were aroused and you had an orgasm. Right or wrong?"
Her throat felt dry. "Right."
She'd told him neither of these facts, yet he knew them.
Somehow she suspected he knew them on her first visit three
weeks ago. The man was a walking lie detector.
"Are you experiencing an orgasmic dysfunction at home,
with Martin?"
Now Ann laughed, bitterly. What difference would it make?
"Yeah," she said. "Sex has never been a problem for me. I've
always been ... orgasmic. Until now. Since I've been having
this nightmare, I haven't had an orgasm with Martin."
"But you do have an orgasm in the dream?"
"Yes, every time."
"You're afraid that an aspect of your past will ruin your fu-
ture."
The words seemed echoed, hovering about her head. Is that
what the dream meant? And if so, what aspect of her past?
Dr. Harold went on, "Do you—"
"I don't want to talk anymore," Ann said. "I really don't."
"Why?"
"I'm upset."
"There are times when being upset is good."
"I don't feel very good right now."
"You have a lot of fixations, the most paramount of which is
a fear of seeming weak to others. You associate being upset
with being weak. It's not, though. In being upset, you're releas-
ing a part of yourself that you've kept hidden. That's an essen-
tial element of effective therapy. The exposure of our fears, the
release of what we keep hidden. It helps us see ourselves in such
a way that we can understand ourselves. When we don't under-
stand ourselves, we don't understand the world, the people
around us, what we want and what we have to do—we don't un-
derstand anything."

SUCCUBI
37
I understand that / need a drink, she thought.
"I think that it's important for you to continue coming here,"
he said.
She nodded.
"One more question, then I'll let you go for today." Dr. Har-
old unconsciously stroked his mustache. "What makes you cer-
tain that you're giving birth to Melanie in the dream? You said
that you were very ill, and that you remained barely conscious
for several weeks after the birth. What makes you—"
"The setting," she said. "All I see of myself in the dream is
my body. It's almost like a movie, going from cut to cut. I never
even really see myself, but I feel things and I see things around
me. The cinder-block walls and earthen floor—it's the fruit
cellar at my parents' house."
"Melanie was born in a fruit cellar?"
"Yes. There's no hospital in Lockwood, just a resident doc-
tor. I went into labor early, and there was a bad storm, a hurri-
cane warning or something, so they took me down into the fruit
cellar where it would be safer."
"And this strange emblem, the one on the chalice and the
larger one on the wall, was there anything in the fruit cellar that
reminded you of that?"
"No," she said. "It's just a normal fruit cellar. My mother
cans and jars her own fruits and vegetables."
Dr. Harold pushed a pad and pencil across his big desk.
"Draw the emblem for me if you will."
She felt sapped, and the last thing she wanted to do was draw.
Quickly, she outlined the emblem, the warped double circle on
the pad.
Dr. Harold didn't look at it when he took the pad back. "So
you're off—where is it? To Paris?"
Ann smiled genuinely for the first time. "We're leaving to-
morrow. I've just got a few things to wrap up at the office this
afternoon, then I'm picking up the tickets. Melanie's an art en-
thusiast, she's always wanted to see the Louvre. It'll be the first
time the three of us have been away together in years."
"I think it's important for you to be with Martin and Melanie
on a leisure basis. It'll give you a chance to get reacquainted
with yourself."
"Maybe the dream will go away for a while," she said, almost
wistfully.

38
Edward Lee
"Perhaps, but even if it doesn't, don't dwell on it. And we'll
talk about how you feel when you get back."
"Okay," she said.
"I hope you have a wonderful time. Feel free to call me if you
have any problems or concerns."
"Sure. Bye."
Ann left the office.
Dr. Harold sat in silence. He closed his eyes, thinking. He
thought about her. Type A, occupationally obsessive, sexually
dysfunctional. Dream methodizing, he thought. The emblem
she'd drawn on the pad looked scrambled, dashed. Kinestheti-
cally, it was obvious: she'd drawn it hurriedly because it scared
her. He knew that a lot of things scared Ann Slavik.
An awful lot of things.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
m
"So what happened?" Duke asked. "You never said."
Erik finished his Macke cheese dog. He always ladled them
with onions—the kind that came in the little tubes—to get the
taste out of his mouth. Not the taste of the cheese dog, the taste
of Duke.
"What happened what?" Erik asked.
"You know, your voice. How come your voice is so fucked
up?"
Suddenly, he tasted memory, salt and copper. Blood. He'd
tried to break away from them several times. They hadn't liked
it.
We offer you everything, Erik. And still you rebel.
That had been weeks before the police had caught him. Holy
Mother of God, Chief Bard had said, staring into the pit. They
all called him "Chief Lard"; he had a belly like a medicine ball.
Rumor was he'd been chief of some town in Maryland; a state
sting operation had caught him laundering mob money through
the town bingo games at the fire hall. They'd told him he could
be prosecuted or he could move on quietly. It had been Bard and
Byron who'd caught Erik that night. Whatchoo doin' with that
shovel, boy? Byron had demanded. Holy Mother of God, Bard
had said.
Erik knew he had been set up. They no longer trusted him.
We love you, Erik, one of them had whispered.
We want you to be good, whispered the other.
So we're going to give you a little reminder.
So that whenever you talk, you'll think of us.
They'd tied him down. The one had been blowing him while
the other went to work on his throat. The doctor at the emer-
39

40
Edward Lee
gency room had said that he only had one vocal cord left. He
was lucky to have lived.
"A scratch awl," Erik finally answered Duke. "They stuck a
scratch awl in my throat."
"Christ," Duke muttered. "Who's theyT
"Muggers," Erik lied. That's what he'd told the people at the
hospital and the police. That muggers had done it.
Duke picked his nose. "Bummer."
The girl named Dawn walked in, approached the candy ma-
chine without looking at them. She'd recently made Class III
status too. Duke chuckled under his breath. They'd heard Dr.
Greene talking to one of the techs about her. "Katasexual," he'd
said. "Sexual obsession with a dead person." Erik had heard
that before they got her on the right medication, she would mas-
turbate ten times a day. There were a lot of winners on the ward.
The three-hundred-pound schizophrenic who claimed she was
pregnant by her collie. "I'm going to give Dr. Greene the pick
of the litter!" she'd rejoiced. One night the city police had
brought in a raving PCP overdose. "I can fly anything that God
can make!" he'd informed them as he strapped him into a
jacket. Lots of the pats had religious fixations. Many were
hypersexual yet devoutly religious, like the prostitute who was
"tricking for Jesus," or the unipolar serial killer they'd brought
in from Tylersville who forced women to accept Christ as their
savior and then killed them before they could change their
minds. "Lotta people in heaven who wouldn't be if it weren't
for me," he'd bragged.
"God loves you," Dawn turned with a Snickers and said to
Duke.
"If he does, tell him to let me the fuck out of this dump, you
floppy-tit psycho bitch. How about sucking my balls?"
Dawn hmmffed and left.
"Fizzlehead!"
Erik tried the phone again. No answer. Where are they? he
wondered. "See, that's how I know I ain't queer," Duke was an-
alyzing himself when Erik returned. "That fizzlehead there? I
could have her right on this table. Boy, I could tear her up."
Erik didn't need to be convinced. He was thinking. Duke was
a fat, disgusting sociopathic slob with bad teeth and hair like a
mop. But he's strong, Erik thought. Three times a week the
techs took all Class II's and Ill's to the gym in the other build-

SUCCUBI
41
ing. Erik had seen Duke bench-press 250 ten times. Yeah, real
strong, he mused.
"I been thinking, Duke," Erik's ruined voice grated.
"About what, faggot?"
"You and me, we'll never get out of here. Greene's review
board wouldn't okay us for the street in a hundred years."
"I know that."
Erik leaned over the table. "I got something I gotta take care
of, on the outside."
"What, kill more babies?"
"I never killed any babies. It was a setup—"
"Sure, faggot. That's what they all say, ain't it? Just like I
never chopped the arms off that bimbo."
"Would you listen to me, goddamn it. I think I know a way
we can get out."
Suddenly, Duke was listening.
Erik took Duke to the window, pointed out the "safety bar-
rier." A high fence surroundedthe hospital grounds, yet beyond
was a parking lot where the staff and contractors parked their
cars. "See that white van?" Erik asked. "And the pickup trucks
beside it?"
Letters on the van read "Lawn King." "Big deal," Duke re-
marked.
"They're groundskeepers. I've been watching them. They
get here every morning at seven-thirty and start cutting the
grass. The hospital grounds are huge, these guys are all over the
place. They don't have to come in and out the front gate 'cause
the trailers they haul their lawn mowers on are too big. There's
a service gate, right over there behind those trees. If we can get
past that gate, we can drive out the main entrance."
"In what? Chitty-Chitty Bang-Bang?"
"In one of their trucks. See all those pickups parked next to
the van? They belong to the crew."
"Awright. Keep talking."
"At eleven-thirty they start breaking for lunch. They break
for lunch in four shifts, three at a time. They get to the parking
lot through the service gate. The supervisor has to let them out.
He's the only one authorized to have the key to the service gate.
See that guy there? He's the supervisor."
Duke peered through the wire window. Several workers were
fueling tractors which hauled the cutting platforms. A man in

42
Edward Lee
overalls stood in attendance. He was tall. Broad shoulders and
back. Knurly.
"Big fucker," Duke commented.
"Yeah, but so are you."
Duke continued to peer out the window.
"I've been watching him regular," Erik grated on. It hurt just
to talk. "He's got a routine. They start breaking for lunch at
eleven-thirty, like I said. But at eleven he eats his own lunch. He
doesn't leave like the others—he brings his own in a bag. That's
what he does every day at eleven. He sits down by those trees
all by himself and eats his lunch."
Very slowly, Duke nodded.
"No one else is around. All the workers are still out on the
grounds cutting the grass. And this guy, like I said, I been
watching him. He's the boss, so he's the first guy out here every
morning at seven-thirty. He drives that blue and white Ford
pickup right there. We wouldn't have to waste time looking for
which truck is his 'cause we already know."
"But the gate, the service gate. I don't even see it."
"That's why this'll work," Erik came back. "You can't see
the service gate from the grounds because it's behind those
trees, the same trees where that big guy sits and eats his lunch
every day at eleven o'clock."
"Eleven o'clock," Duke murmured.
"That's an hour from now. And you know what we're doing
an hour from now?"
"What?"
"The techs are taking our whole wing outside for volleyball."
Duke had his duties down pat. II's and Ill's achieved their
privileged status by demonstrating good behavior for protracted
periods. Nothing ever happened because no one ever expected it
to. Three techs supervised the volleyball games: Nurse Dallion,
who was so thin she looked like she might blow away, and
Charlie and Mike. They would have to take all three of them out
before someone could get back inside and hit the security but-
ton. Mike would be tough—most of the male techs were hired
for physical size, and Mike was young and strong—but not
stronger than Duke. And Charlie, the black guy, was huge. Erik
figured they had maybe two minutes after the fight broke out to
overpower the lawn supervisor, get his keys, unlock the service

SUCCUBI
43
gate, and take off in the pickup. Duke's job was to take out Mike
quickly, then get over to the trees, while Erik took out Nurse
Dallion and Charlie. Though Charlie was big, he was also hope-
lessly myopic. Without his soda-bottle-lens glasses, he couldn't
see past his face.
It was sunny out and warm. Spring was just days away.
"Great day for volleyball," Erik grated to Charlie.
"Sure is. Glad to see you're playing for a change, Erik. Do ya
good to get out with the others."
Yeah, he thought. He glanced behind him as they chose up
sides. At four minutes past eleven, the lawn supervisor was
walking down the hills, toward the trees.
"Chad's a faggot," Duke barked. "I don't want him on my
side."
"Enough of that, Duke," Mike warned. "We're all here to
have fun."
"Fuck fun, I wanna win."
"I'm no faggot," Chad complained.
"Come on, folks," Charlie said. "Let's get playing."
What a clusterfuck, Erik thought once they started going.
Many of the pats were extrapyramidal, a neurological side ef-
fect of long-term phenothiazine therapy. Slow. Uncoordinated.
Twitchy. One of the girls served and the ball didn't make it over
the net.
"My turn, thank God," Duke said, and batted the ball across.
It went back and forth maybe twice before Harry the
nyctophobic knocked it into the net.
"Jesus to Pete," Duke complained. "Can't any of you faggots
play?"
"I'm telling you, Duke. Any more comments like that and
you're back inside," Mike told him, standing aside.
"Your turn to serve, Erik," Nurse Dallion pointed out. They
rotated. Erik took the ball.
"Come on, Erik, let's see a good one," Charlie said, and
clapped.
"Aw, Erik can't serve for dick," Duke yelled. "He's a faggot
too, just like all of ya. Just like Chad."
"I'm no fag!" Chad yelled, fists clenched at his sides.
"Shit, you suck your daddy's dick. He told me so last time he
came to visit."
"He did not!" .

44
Edward Lee
Dawn started crying. "I can't play!" she screamed. "Not
while Duke's here!"
"You go down on your mother, fizzlehead," Duke guffawed,
and rubbed his crotch. "Why don't you just shut up and suck my
knob, huh?"
"That's it, Duke." Mike gave him a shove. "Inside."
Erik, still holding the ball, nodded.
"I fucked your girlfriend," Duke reported to Mike. "I ever
tell you that?"
Nurse Dallion commanded, "Get him inside, Mike. He's
ruining this for everyone."
"She wasn't nearly as good as Nurse Dallion, though." Duke
busted out a laugh. "Yeah, Nurse Dallion, she can suck a good
one. Suck your balls right out your dickhole."
Dawn sat down on the grass, bawling. Several other pats be-
gan to wander. Mike grabbed Duke by the collar and began es-
corting him off the field. "You just lost your Class III, Duke."
"Shag my balls, queer. Your girlfriend licks my crack."
"Now!" Erik yelled.
Duke lunged, then rammed his elbow back into Mike's
throat. Simultaneously, Erik rocketed the volleyball into Char-
lie's face. Nurse Dallion was running up: "Erik, what are
you—"
"Sorry," he said. He really was, because Nurse Dallion was
nice. He slugged the heel of his palm right into her forehead.
Suddenly, the pats were running all over the place. Erik
glimpsed figures dashing. Duke was stomping Mike's face,
then breaking. "Motherfuckers!" Charlie yelled. Erik had time
to palm-heel Nurse Dallion in the head again, and that was it for
her. Charlie grabbed him, lifted him up, and Erik spun. He
raked Charlie's glasses off, kicked him in the groin, then
stomped on the glasses. They crunched.
Charlie's teeth were gritted in pain. One hand held his groin,
the other reached out. "I'm sorry," Erik grated, and kicked him
in the head.
Erik broke for the trees.
Two minutes, he told himself. If we're lucky.
Mike, Charlie, and Nurse Dallion were all out cold. The pats
fled every which way. "Fly, Fleance! Fly!" Harry the
nyctophobe quoted Shakespeare. Dawn was still blubbering in

SUCCUBI
45
the grass, while Chad shouted to the sky, "I'm no fag!" as he
urinated on the net post.
Erik disappeared behind the stand of trees.
"I took care of this big fucker sure as shit," Duke was gloat-
ing. The lawn super lay limp. Duke pulled two clumps of keys
out of the guy's overalls, and his wallet.
"Jesus Christ!" Erik yelled. "You killed the guy!"
Duke looked up, disinterested. The supervisor's neck was
broken. Erik grabbed the keys and gratingly shouted, "Come
on!"
The lock on the service gate was a big Rollings Mark IV with
a tubular keyway. Erik fished out the only tubular key on the
ring; the big lock snapped open instantly.
This is too easy, he considered. "Walk," he whispered to
Duke. "Walk normal. We're just two lawn guys walking to our
truck."
Duke loped along beside him, whistling "Hail to the Red-
skins." The Ford keys had black plastic shrouds; Erik isolated
them at once. Ten seconds later they were pulling the big pickup
out of the lot.
"Shit yeah!" Duke exclaimed. "The faggot was right! We're
out of this shithole!"
"We're not out yet," Erik reminded him. "We still have the
main entrance to get by, and the security guards."
"Those creamcakes? I'll bust all their heads."
"You shouldn't have killed that guy."
"Fuck him. Killed Mike too, the faggot. Heard his windpipe
crunch." Duke laughed. "Sounded like steppin' on walnuts."
Jesus, Erik thought. "Get ready to talk," he grated. "I can't
talk, so you're going to have to."
This was what would make or break them; Erik doubted
Duke's expertise at method acting. Quickly, Erik opened the
super's wallet. "Phillip Alan Richards," read the name on the
driver's license. In the back of the pickup were several five-
gallon gas cans. "Tell them we're making a fuel run for Mr.
Richards," he said.
"Fuel run, sure."
The guard at the entrance stopped them. The gate was down.
Shit, Erik thought. He might have to drive through. He might
have to kill the guard, and he didn't want to do that.

46
Edward Lee
"We're makin' a fuel run for Mr. Richards," Duke said.
"Lawn King."
The guard nodded. He handed Erik a clipboard through the
window. A sign-out log, Erik thought. He scribbled a name,
wrote the time in the Out column, then paused. Tag Number, the
next column requested. His eyes scanned up the sheet, found
the name Richards signed in at 7:23 a.m., put the following tag
number in his column, then passed the clipboard back to the
guard. The guard glanced into the pickup bed. Then he glanced
in the cab again.
"Later, guys." He raised the gate and waved them on.
Erik pulled through. Slow, he thought. Normal. A moment
later he heard the phone ringing in the guard booth. Erik turned
the pickup truck off the court and onto the main road.
Ten seconds later the elopement alarm began to blare at the
hospital.
Erik pressed the accelerator to the floor.

CHAPTER FIVE
The old man saw horror in his mind. He saw them.
He saw them naked, praying before their blasphemous slab.
He saw their open faces, their soft hands reaching out, for—
something. What? The sound of their incantations made him
sick, but not nearly as sick as the things they'd made him do.
Scieror, they'd dubbed him—a cutter. Bring us celmesse. WThan
to this pig.	<
He couldn't resist them, none of them could. He'd been good
with the cnif, a master; the sensation defied description. To
flense a woman, to fillet a man. Once they'd made him cut off a
girl's head and bleed her into the chettle. Broo for the cuppe!
and they'd laughed, drinking. Then they'd made him watch as
several wreccans had fornicated with the corpse.
Give lof! they'd cry. Give lof!
Others stoked the fire, for smaller and more potent lof.
He'd even eaten with them.
"Don't worry, dear," came the wifmunuc's soft voice now.
"This will make you feel better."
"No, please." They're killing me, he thought.
Several figures surrounded him. He lay paralyzed on the bed.
They'd been doing this to him for weeks now—he felt more
dead every day. Several of the younger ones looked on from be-
hind, their faces bright in wonder, their naked bodies glowing in
youth. But he was wizened now, shriveled like a dried fruit.
"You're sure this is safe?"
A man's voice replied, "Quite sure. It merely retards the
heart rate for a time and restricts the cerebral blood vessels. The
brain damage will be minor but significant enough to produce
the desired effects."
"Good. Just don't kill him."
47

48
Edward Lee
A needle jabbed his arm. A cold rush.
From her black mentel, the wifmunuc extended her hand.
"Come, girls. You may come and touch."
They approached timidly at first, then scampered forward.
Their small breasts bobbed as they leaned over. When the sy-
ringe was retracted, one licked the blood off the puncture. Soon
the hands roved his old skin. They giggled.
"It's providence," whispered the wifmunuc. "What a won-
drous thing, yes? To lay our hands upon the flesh of provi-
dence."
The girls seemed awed. They were finicking with him, like
an animal at a petting zoo. I'm a showpiece, he thought as his
vision darkened. The room felt warm, his blood turned to
sludge. He shuddered as a soft hand gently squeezed his geni-
tals.
"No, honey, you mustn't do that. He's a very special husl."
The hand slipped away.
Just let me die, the old man thought. But they wouldn't do
that. They'd kill him, instead, day to day, a piece at a time. Now
he could scarcely see at all.
Worse were the things he saw in his mind.
Just let me die and go to hell.
"Enough," came the wifmunuc's maternal voice. "We
mustn't get him too excited."
"Such lovely girls," commented the male voice.
"Yes, aren't they?"
The hands drifted away. The young figures stepped back.
"The doefolmon comes soon," elated the wifmunuc. "You
can play tonight, if you like."
"Oh, yes!" exclaimed one.
"We'd like that!" exclaimed another.
"But you must eat first, for sustenance. Let us go and eat
now."
The wifmunuc took the group of girls out of the room.
"Why are you doing this to me?" the old man managed to
rasp.
The male figure turned. "Oh, come on, don't be like that.
Like she said, it's providence, and you're part of it. We all are.
It's a privilege."
He closed the bag he'd brought his needles and poisons in.

SUCCUBI
49
"Good night, old friend," he said.
The old man began to convulse.
Erik watched the rearview. "First off, we dump the truck."
"Huh?" Duke asked.
"They know what we're driving," Erik's voice grated. "You
can bet they got an APB out on this truck. If we don't get rid of
it right now, we're dead meat."
Duke didn't seem interested; he was rummaging through the
lawn super's wallet. "Shit," he spat. "All the motherfucker had
on him was six bucks. We need money, man."
"We can get money later. I got a stash."
Duke glanced over. "Whadaya mean?"
Erik had abducted a lot of people for them, for their hideous
huslfeks. Most were runaways and drifters, but every now and
then he'd run into someone with some money. Erik always took
the money. For the years he'd served them, he'd socked away at
least a thousand dollars. He kept it in the church basement with
his things.
"Just don't worry about it. I got all the money we need hid-
den back where I used to live."
"That where we're headed?"
"Yeah. Little town called Lockwood, half hour's drive."
Suddenly, Duke beamed; in the glove box he found a big
sheath knife. "A Gerber. Sort of like the one I used to have."
This was not good. An escaped erotomanic sociopath with a
knife probably did not add up to anything cheery. Erik knew
he'd have to be very careful. "Listen, Duke, you can't be pull-
ing any crazy shit right now. You start up any of that and we've
had it. We'll be four-pointed in the precaution unit for the next
decade."
Duke didn't like to be told what to do. "No, you listen to me,
fairy. I don't take orders from no one, 'specially a baby-killer
faggot like you. We wouldn't even be outa that shithole if it
wasn't that I had the balls to bust up those two cocksuckers. I
haven't seen the street since fucking Carter was President. I'm
gonna have me some fun, and no one's gonna stop me, and if
you don't like it, just say so." Duke was fingering the knife,
glaring.
Careful, careful. "I hear you, Duke. Relax. All I'm saying is

50
Edward Lee
we gotta be real careful from here on. You can have your fun,
just careful like, okay?"
"Yeah. Careful like."
"And since I know these parts better than you, it's probably a
better idea we do things the way I see them. I know all the back
roads, all the towns. Okay?"
"Sure. You're the brains, I'm the balls. That's fine by me.
Just so long as we got an understanding."
Thank God, Erik thought.
Another thing in their favor was that Class II's and Ill's got to
wear regular clothes, not hospital linens. But they still had
faces.
"Another thing we gotta change is the way we look. Cut our
hair, dye it, stuff like that. And it's probably a good idea for you
to lose those sideburns."
Duke forlornly stroked said muttonchops. "Yeah, guess
you're right. Cocksuckers'll have our pictures all over the pa-
pers tomorrow."
"And probably TV by tonight. But like I said, first thing we
gotta get a new set of wheels."
"Convenience store," Duke offered his wisdom. "I used to
snatch cars at convenience stores all the time. Most people fig-
ure they'll be in and out real fast, so lots of 'em leave the keys in
the ignition."
Good idea, but it had too many flaws. "We can't just take a
car, Duke. If all we do is take a car, the owner will know right
off and call the police. The cops'll know what kind of car to be
on the lookout for, which is the same problem we got right
now."
Duke's sharp smile showed his understanding of the situa-
tion.
Erik went on, "So that means we gotta take the owner too.
And we gotta do it so no one else sees. If there are no witnesses,
there'll be no one to tell the cops what kind of car we took."
"And would ya looky there!" Duke exclaimed.
Just ahead the sign loomed: Qwik-Stop.
Erik pulled the pickup around back by the dumpster where it
couldn't be seen from the main road. Two cars had been parked
out front, a muddy Dodge Colt and an old beige Plymouth sta-
tion wagon.
"Two cars out front," Erik observed. "That means one cus-

SUCCUBI
51
tomer in the store. The second car belongs to whoever's work-
ing the register. Here's what we do. We walk in like we're look-
ing for something, wait for the customer to leave. Then you take
out the person working the register. We'll get his keys, take him
with us, and take off."
"Sure," Duke said. He put the knife under his shirt.
A cowbell clanged when they entered. An old bald man be-
hind the counter looked up. Erik had been correct in his predic-
tion: there was only one customer, a ruddy-looking blonde in
cutoffs and an orange halter. She stood on skinny, knobby-
kneed legs before the rear reach-in, furiously tapping a sandaled
foot. "Jaysus Chrast, pops," she complained in a bent twang.
"Dollah saxty a half-gallon? Whut kand of prass is that?"
"I don't make the prices," replied the old man, scowling.
Erik and Duke perused the magazine rack up front. "Baby
Born with Elvis Tattoo," boasted the Enquirer. "Careful of
guns," Erik whispered. "Lots of shopkeepers around here keep
guns under the counter." *
"Ain't afraid of no guns." Duke was leering at the blonde.
Oh, no, Erik suddenly thought.
"Ah ain't payin' no dallah saxty fer a dag half-gallon of
milk."
"Fine. Pay a dollar seventy down the road." The old man
shrugged.
"Shee-it!" The blonde opened the reach-in and bent over.
"When the girl leaves," Erik whispered, "we take down the
old guy."
But Duke was eyeing the blonde as she bent over. "Change of
plans, partner," he whispered back. "We're taking the girl."
Erik should've known something like this might happen.
"Damn it, Duke," he whispered more fiercely. "If we do that,
the old guy'll see! He'll tell the cops what kind of car we took!"
"Shadap," Duke replied. "We're taking the girl."
"No way, Duke! We agreed to do this my—"
"Shadap."
"This ain't no library, fellas," said the old man. "You all can
buy one of those magazines or you can leave."
Erik felt sick. The blonde was sputtering. "Dollah goddamn
saxty, Ah say Ah cain't bull-leave it!"
"We don't want no magazine, pops." Duke lumbered up to
the counter.

52
Edward Lee
"Whatcha want, then?"
The blonde was coming down the aisle.
Aw, no no no no, was all Erik could think.
"Could use a pack of Kools, though," Duke said, showing his
grin.
No no no no no .. .
When the old man turned to get the cigarettes, Duke sank the
knife into his lower back.
The old man screamed.
The blonde dropped her milk and screamed.
Erik shouted, "Goddamn it, Duke!"
"There, pops." Duke chuckled. "How's that?"
The blonde, still screaming, made for the back. Erik tackled
her, but it was like wrestling with a greased snake.
Duke continued to chuckle, emptying the register. The old
guy was flip-flopping facedown on the floor. Dark blood
pumped out of the hole just above his right kidney.
The blonde slapped, punched, and clawed for all she was
worth. For a moment, she was on top of Erik, fury in her eyes,
teeth snapping. Erik had to hold her back to keep her from bit-
ing his face.
"Damn if you weren't right, fairy!" Duke celebrated.
"Looky!" Under the counter he found a big old Webley re-
volver. He held it up like a prize.
When Erik finally got the blonde up, she screamed and
kicked him squarely between the legs. "Feisty little cooze, ain't
she?" Duke guffawed.
Erik went down.
Duke gestured. "Hey, darlin'. It ain't polite to like leave
without even sayin' hello, now, is it?" The blonde was running
for the door. Duke grinned behind the Webley's sights and fired.
The giant bullet struck the blonde in the left buttock, shattering
her hip, and knocked her to the floor.
"Fuckin' fairy." Duke chuckled. "Ya let a woman kick your
ass."
The old guy was still churning in his own blood. "Looky
there," Duke observed. "Old fucker shat himself... Lights out,
pops." He fired a second shot into the old man's head, which
promptly exploded like a melon dropped from a great height. "I
don't think we have to worry about him tellin' the cops nothin'
now, huh? You think so?"

SUCCUBI
53
Erik dragged himself up. "Fucking crazy psychopath!" he
yelled, rasping. "We haven't even been off the ward fifteen
minutes and you've already killed three people!"
"It's a kick, ain't it?" Duke laughed back.
The blonde's face ballooned red from pain and screaming.
Her leg stuck out funny from her hip as she tried to drag herself
out before a smear of blood.
Duke stuffed the money along with a box of shells into a
plastic bag which read "Qwik-Stop, the Happy Place to Shop."
"Come on, fairy. Help me with the bimbo."
The blonde blubbered, shivering, as they carried her out. The
station wagon had keys in the ignition. Erik started it up while
Duke pulled the blonde in the back.
"Glad this ain't my car." Duke chuckled. "This bimbo's
bleedin' all over the place. Looks like she's got some nice little
titties, though."
Erik spun wheels out of the lot. The girl shrieked steadily.
"We can't just let her die," Erik yelled. "We're gonna have to
drop her off at a hospital or something."
Duke's grin flared in the rearview. "Oh, we'll drop her off, all
right. But not at no hospital. And not till I'm done."
What have I let loose? Erik thought.
The girl screamed and screamed as Duke hauled off her
shorts. He gave her leg a twist, snorting laughter, and she passed
out. "Ain't heard a woman scream like that in years. Makes my
dog haaaaaaaaaard." Erik could hear the shattered hip bones
grinding. "Yes, sir, there's some nice little titties," Duke ap-
proved, and pulled the orange halter over her head. "Big cooze
on her, though. Like you could drive a truck through it."
Erik felt numb as he drove. This is all my fault, he thought.
He should never have brought Duke with him. He should've
found a way to get out himself.
"Hey, fairy, take a look. Show ya how a real man treats a
woman."
Duke's mad, pumpkin-grinning face descended. He gnawed,
grunting, bit off a nipple, and spat it out the window.
Erik kept his eyes on the road. His heart was still racing.
Duke had the knife and gun—Erik was helpless. All my fault, he
thought over and over. He shivered when he heard Duke un-
buckling his pants.
All my fault.. .

54
Edward Lee
"Later, baby," Duke said when he was done. He popped open
the back door. "Happy landings. And give Saint Pete a great big
kiss from Duke."
He shoved her out the door. The wind rushed. The naked
body tumbled off the road into high grass.
Duke leaned forward, grinning. He put his arm around Erik.
"You know somethin', I ain't had me this much fun since high
school."
Erik just drove.
Up ahead, the green road sign read "Lockwood 15 miles."

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
m
Ann fingered the plane tickets wistfully. "I want you to get
those Delany 'rogs out tonight; give the assholes enough time to
stew but not enough time to do the work, and also get the re-
sponses out to Winters' document requests. Tonight."
"Tonight?" asked the associate. He was young and lean, he
had the hunger in his eyes. "That'll be tough."
"You're the one who wanted to be a litigation lawyer. Get the
stuff out tonight."
The associate nodded, attempted a smile.
"I've looked through the documents you marked as privi-
leged," she went on, yet her fingers did not come away from the
tickets. "1 think we're probably right, but I'm uneasy about
those six internal memoranda on the maintenance procedures. If
the bolts cracked while the plane was in flight, that's fine. We
just got to make damn sure the bolts were maintained according
to SOP. So we need to get with these guys and track down a
solid basis on anything Jolly Roger might be preparing in antic-
ipation of litigation." Jolly Roger was what they called the op-
position firm. They were well named. Ann's firm was better
named: the Snake Pit.
"Well," replied the associate, "it wasn't addressed to inside
counsel, so we may be a little weak there."
"I know, but these in-house guys might've made a call to the
addressees and asked for the junk on the memo. I'll leave it to
you and Karl to make the final decision." God, I can't wait to
get out of here, she thought.
"Gotcha," said the associate.
"And remember, when I come back we'll only have a week
to get the preliminary jury instructions out for the JAX Avion-
ics trial. You'll have to hump on that too."
55

56
Edward Lee
"Right," said the associate.
"I'm out of here," Ann said. "Good luck. I'll leave my
number with the paralegals in case you need me."
"Okay, Ann. Hope you have a good time." He paused,
smiled. "You flying Air National?"
"Hell, no. The Atlantic Ocean's a bit too cold for my tastes."
The associate laughed and left.
Ann felt strangely at ease with the idea of being away from
the firm for a week. Usually, she couldn't let go of things. To-
day, though, she couldn't wait to. She was a partner now—the
associates served her. Eventually, they'd have a nickname for
her, something nasty like "She-Devil" or "Ann of a Thousand
Teeth." Partners considered derogatory nicknames a secret
compliment.
She turned off her office light and closed the door.
Suddenly, she shivered. It wasn't cold. A squirrel just ran
over your grave, her mother would tell her as a child.
What was it?
For a second, she felt as though she were leaving the firm for
good.
Martin and Melanie were packing when she got home. Their
excitement was clear—they were hustling about with big smiles
on their faces, Melanie's stereo pounding away.
This is going to be great, she thought, and shed her coat.
"I'm home," she said. She held up the tickets.
"Hi, Mom!" Melanie greeted.
Martin came and kissed her. He looked longingly at the tick-
ets. "This is going to be great," he said.
"I was recently thinking along those same lines."
"Everything tied up at work?"
"Yep. For the next nine days, I'm not a lawyer."
"And I'm not a teacher."
"And I'm not a student!" Melanie added.
For once, we get to be a family, Ann thought.
"The itinerary's all planned," she said at dinner. Martin had
cooked one of his favorite culinary inventions, which he called
"Poet's Seafood and Pasta in a Bowl." It was simple but quite
good: pasta twists in olive oil, a little garlic, and powdered red
pepper, heaped with steamed shrimp and cherrystone clams.

SUCCUBI
57
"When do we go to the Louvre?" Melanie asked, and speared
a shrimp.
"Days two through four. It's a big place, honey. It takes days
to see it all."
"We can have lunch in the cafe where Sartre met deBeauvoir.
What an inspiration," Martin said. "Maybe I should bring a type-
writer."
"Bring a pad and a pencil, Martin," Ann suggested. "Sartre
wrote No Exit with a pencil."
"Good point."
"Can we go to the Metal Urbain?" Melanie asked. "It's a fa-
mous New Wave club in Pigalle. All the great bands play
there."
"Uh," Ann faltered.
Martin gave her a look.
"Of course, honey." Bring earplugs, she reminded herself.
"And we'll eat at Taillevent; it's one of the best restaurants in
the world—no offense to your cooking, dear."
"None taken, so long as you pay," he joked. But it was no
joke. The last time she'd been to Taillevent, with a client from
Dassault, the check for two had been about $700.
"We'll also be going to the Orsay Museum of Modern Art,
where they have all the expressionistic stuff, and the Centre-
Pompidou."
"This is gonna be neat as shit!" Melanie exclaimed.
Martin laughed. "It'll probably even be neater than that."
But Ann felt disheartened. She'd seen all those places when
they'd had Dassault as an auxiliary client, and she'd never re-
ally cared. Yet Melanie, her own daughter, longed to see these
museums, and Ann had never even considered it.
She plucked her last clam out of the shell when the phone
rang.
"I'll get it," Martin said.
"It's probably that guy with the creepy voice," Melanie ven-
tured.
"No, let me get it," Ann insisted. This was one thing she
wanted to get to the bottom of.
"Hello?"
The line seemed to drift. She thought of wastelands. She
heard a distant rushing like trucks on the freeway.
The ruined voice sounded wet, exerted. "Ann Slavik?"

58
Edward Lee
"Who is this? Why have you been calling me?"
Martin got up.
"Listen," the voice creaked. It stalled again, as if each word
demanded a pointed effort. "Don't come," it said.
"What? Who is this!" Ann demanded.
"You don't know me."
"Who the hell is this!"
"Just... don't come."
"Give me that," Martin said.
She held him off. "Don't come where?" she asked of the
caller.
The voice sounded shredded. "Take your daughter... Go far
away."
"If you don't tell me who you are—"
The voice grated on, but Martin snatched the phone away.
"Listen, fucker," he said. "Don't call here anymore or I'll have
the phone traced. I'll have the police on your sick ass, you hear
me?"
Martin looked at the phone, mouth pursed. "He hung up," he
said.
"Who was it, Mom?" Melanie asked.
"No one, honey."
"Some nut, that's all," Martin contributed. "What did he
say?"
Don't come, she thought. Take your daughter . . . Go far
away.
What could he have meant?
What bothered her most, though, was what the voice had said
as Martin had been taking the phone.
The moon, Ann. Do you remember? asked the abraded voice.
Look at the moon tonight.
Down the hill, trucks roared past along Route 154.
Erik hung up the pay phone.
"You make your precious phone call?" Duke asked when he
came back to the station wagon. He was eating Twinkies.
"Yeah," Erik grated, and closed the door.
Duke grinned, showing cream between his teeth. "You
busted out of a psych ward just for that, huh? Just to make a
call?"
"Not quite."

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59
"Who was it?"
"The past," he said.
Duke chuckled.
Erik drove the station wagon out of the truck stop. Duke had
bagged over a hundred dollars at the Qwik-Stop. Since then,
they had purchased a Norelco electric razor, some food, some
different clothes, and hair dye.
She '11 come, Erik thought.
He hoped a cryptic warning might work, but somehow, now
he knew it wouldn't. Providence, they'd called it.
"Where to now, fairy?"
"Duke, please don't call me that."
Duke slapped Erik's back. "I'm just joshin', man. We're bud-
dies, right?"
"Yeah. Buddies."
"Where to, buddy!"
Home, he thought. She's going to come, and she's going to
bring her daughter.	,
"We'll find some out-of-the-way motel for tonight. We gotta
change how we look and get some rest."
"What then?"
'Tomorrow we'll go to Lockwood."
Duke guffawed. "Sounds good to me, fa—I mean, buddy. I
got nothin' on my agender." He crammed another Twinkie in
his mouth.
Home, Erik thought. Providence.
He drove the car down the route. He did not look at the moon.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
m
That night, Martin made love to her. Lately, he hadn't been,
sensing her skewed moods. Tonight, though, it had been Ann's
advance. She'd felt her juices flowing all day; she was geared
up for Paris—they all were—and Ann supposed that she wanted
to see how this prospect of change would affect her responses.
She hadn't had a normal orgasm in two months. She thought
sure that tonight, given her different feelings, she could ...
But, of course, she didn't.
She knew just minutes after they started. Martin was very
vigorous in his passion; he wanted to do anything she liked,
anything that made her feel good. When foreplay failed to
moisten her, he went down on her, yet the harder she tried to get
into it, the more remote she felt. After an hour they were en-
gaged in positions they'd never attempted. Poor Martin, he was
trying so hard, and so was she. But how can he know? she
thought, turned upside down over the edge of the bed. Thank
God for the dark. What would Martin think if he could see her
face squeezed closed in anguish? It was like pushing a refriger-
ator up a steep incline, the effort she exerted to keep the images
of the dream out of her mind's eye.
His penis felt cold in her. She didn't even feel like herself. It's
more like watching Martin fuck someone else, she thought, de-
spairing. Each thrust into her flesh jerked the nightmare's face
closer. She was starting to get sore. She put on her act, which
she'd gotten quite good at recently, and then it was over. He
spent himself in her and collapsed.
Fear and guilt. But of what? Dr. Harold's implications were
hard to put into decipherable terms. Everything was a matrix of
symbols. The symbols were sexual. Having real sex with
Martin—the man she loved—reminded her of sex as it should
60

SUCCUBI
61
be. The fear and guilt in her psyche prolapsed that reminder,
filling her subconscious with ideas of sex as it shouldn't be. She
was afraid of the nightmare because the nightmare attracted her
in some way, aroused her, and being aroused by an aberration
caused a negative response. Hence, no orgasm under normal
circumstances. Her consciousness battled with her subcon-
sciousness. A vicious cycle.
She felt guilty about the dream because the dream came from
her. The dream disgusted her, yet it also fulfilled her. More
guilt, more fear. The dream was destroying them all.
Yes. Thank God it's dark.
She pushed her face in the pillows to dry her tears.
Eventually, Martin fell asleep. His semen trickled in her; it
felt cold. None of this is his fault, yet even he's becoming a vic-
tim.
Does he know? she dared to ask herself. It was a question
she'd kept buried. Did he know that she faked her orgasms?
Martin was very perceptive, often uncannily so. How long
could their relationship last like that?
Then another dread drifted up: Melanie. Do I really doubt
that she's a virgin? Dr. Harold seemed to think so. The dream
was of Melanie's birth, and it was sexual. What was her subcon-
scious trying to suggest in that? Ann had always left sexual is-
sues to the board of education, which only highlighted her
failures as a mother. Mothers were supposed to talk about such
things with their daughters, weren't they? Ann's mother hadn't,
though, and again Dr. Harold came to mind. You 're afraid of be-
coming your mother, he'd said. A few times Martin had talked
to Melanie about sex, considering the AIDS crisis and the
world's growing list of STDs. But never Ann. Ann was always
"working." Ann was "too busy." It was fear, she knew, fear of
acknowledging something that she didn't want to acknowledge.
She absolutely could not imagine her daughter in a sexual situa-
tion. The image distressed her, and the punky-looking leather-
and-New-Wave-button-clad creeps Melanie hung around with
amplified the image to one of utter terror. It all made her mind
feel jammed. Too much to deal with, she thought, and whined.
Just like Harold's other inferences. Lesbianism. Religious
voids. Did Dr. Harold really think she had lesbian tendencies
because the nightmare involved women touching her?
God, she thought.

62
Edward Lee
The bedroom's darkness seemed particulate, grainy. It dis-
tilled her discomfort. Martin's breathing sounded strangely
loud, and her own heartbeat could've been someone kicking a
wall. The room's only light oozed similarly through the win-
dow, from the moon.
The moon, Ann, clicked the riven voice in her mind. Do you
remember?
Remember what?
Look at the moon tonight.
Carefully, she got up. She walked naked to the blinds and
peeked out. Boats rocked gently along endless docks. Moon-
light rippled on the water. It seemed pink.
Her gaze rose. The moon hung low on the horizon. An egg
moon, her mother would say—it was lopsided, not quite full.
Look at the moon tonight.
All right, I'm looking. It did look funny, its inordinate size
and the queer pinkish hue. She'd been hearing about it on the
news the last few days, some rare astronomical occurrence. The
first day of spring was just days away; apparently, the moon's
position in conjunction with this caused an atmospheric anom-
aly that pinkened its light at certain times.
Big deal, she thought.
But the more steadily she stared ...
It's pink, she thought. It's bloated.
Like her belly in the dream. Pink. Bloated.
But that was stupid. She was letting too much get to her. Ev-
erything reminded her of the dream. Her own belly felt bloated
as she backed away from the window and padded to the bath-
room.
She closed the door and turned on the lights. The mirror's
brightness shocked her, and the sharp clarity of her nakedness.
She still looked good for thirty-seven. Her skin was tight, bereft
of stretch marks. Could use some sun, though, she realized.
When was the last time she'd actually lain out in the sun? Years.
Her skin was very white, creamy, which contrasted intensely
with her very dark brown eyes and ashen-brown hair. Her nip-
ples, too, were more brownish than pink, and large. She'd had
little to compare herself to. There'd been occasions in college—
phys ed electives—when she'd showered with other girls. Her
body had always seemed more robust, her nipples larger and
darker, her skin tighter and white. It pleased her to see how little

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63
her body had changed. At the firm there was a junior partner
named Louise who was the same age as Ann. Once they'd
shared a hotel room in Detroit during prelim litigation for an air
wreck, and they'd changed together. Louise's thighs looked like
bags of cottage cheese. Her breasts depended, and her belly
sagged. "I'll loan you my best dress if you loan me your body,"
she'd said with a sullen laugh.
Ann pinched her thighs. No signs of dreaded cellulite. She
pinched her tummy and came up with almost nothing in the way
of excess. Maybe it was her hair that made her look younger
too. It hung thick and plainly straight to her shoulders, the way
she'd always worn it. The full plot of pubic hair, the same color
as her hair, seemed to shine.
But suddenly, she felt adrift before the bright mirror. Mirror,
she thought. The sensation of portent returned for no reason.
Her nakedness. Her brown nipples and white skin. She closed
her eyes and saw the spraddled, sweating body, the spread legs,
the tight bloated belly pushing...
She thought of the emblem, the bizarre double circle en-
graved upon the dream's chalice and suspended upon the wall.
When the phone rang in the bedroom, she nearly shrieked.
For a moment she could only stand there staring at the vivid im-
age of herself in the mirror, as the phone shrilled on. Not him
again, she pleaded. Not the caller.
Martin was answering it just as she opened the door. The
bright bathroom light threw a block into the bedroom.
"It's ... it's for you," Martin said. Sleep roughened his voice.
"It's your mother."
Ann sat down on the bed's edge and took the phone.
"Mom?"
Her mother's voice sounded curt, businesslike. It sounded
... stoic. "Ann, there's been a ..."
"What, Mom?"
"Your father," the voice hesitated.
Oh, no. Please, no, Ann's thoughts dripped.
"Your father's had a stroke. It's bad. Dr. Heyd says he might
not last the week."
As the words sank in, Ann could only stare. Through the mi-
nute slats in the window blinds, she could see the pinkened,
pregnant moon.
• • •

64
Edward Lee
In another place, two girls sat side by side in the grove. They
were young. They were naked and holding hands. Wistfully,
they peered up into crystal black sky.
"Heofan," one whispered.
"Give lof," whispered the other.
They had. They could taste it in their mouths, salty sweet
blood.
'The wifmunuc will be happy."
"I'm happy too!"
The old pickup truck sat in darkness down the grove. So stu-
pid the helots were. Like animals. The girls had only had to
hang around the parking lot for a few minutes before they'd
been approached. "Whatchoo two purdy thangs doin' standin'
'round here all by yerselfs?" the fat one had asked. "Our boy-
friends left us," one of the dohtors had replied. "Can you guys
give us a ride home?" "Why, shore!" offered the tall one.
"Cain't have two purdy thangs like yawl hitchhikin' these dark
roads all by yerselfs."
The two girls had grinned.
All four squeezed into the big bench seat. The tall one drove.
He was nice-looking, long black hair, nice boots, nice smile. He
cranked up Led Zeppelin. The fat one looked ... fat. Long hair
too, sideburns, flannel shirt. He looked like a redneck Meat
Loaf. "We alls from Crick City," he said. "Where yawl from?"
"Lockwood," answered the young dohtor.
"This here's Gary, I'm Lee," the fat one said.
Then Gary said, "Still a bit early, though. And Lee an' me
was fixin' on partyin' a little more."
Lee's chubby face grinned. "Yawl like ta join us awhile?"
"Sure," said the younger.
"The night is young," said the older.
They both grinned again in the darkness.
"We know a place we can go. Nice and quiet."
"Just lead me the way, sweetheart," Gary enthused, and
cranked the Led Zep up a little more, "Houses of the Holy." Lee
cracked open beers for all of them, Iron City. "Best brew ya can
buy, an' only a buck ninety-nine a six!"
It had been a glorious fulluht; the girls had learned well. The
younger had reveled in the look on Lee's face in the moonlight.
She'd had to push his tremendous beer belly up to get on him
right, though. It hadn't been easy.

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65
"We give lof," said the younger.
"Through husl," finished the older.
The younger drooled, straining over the fat one's thrusting
hips. The older was moaning, riding the tall one in the dirt. They
were powerless now; the dohtors had taken them quick. They'd
seeped into the peows' gasts like balm. The tall one hadn't even
screamed when the elder dohtor sank the aesc into his heart. The
younger one had plunged her own sesc delightfully in and out of
the fat one's belly in time with his fervid spurts. Blood flew,
painting her. She shrieked in bliss as the big, dumb body
twitched between her legs.
Sated, they rose and went to work. The blood on their young
flesh looked black in the beautiful moonlight. They worked
hard and happily.
The older dragged their bodies back into the truck as the
younger siphoned gasoline into a paegel, which she then
splashed into the cab.
They sat for a time first, they always did. They liked to
stretch naked beneath the moon and dream of red heofan, of the
godspellere, and the coming blissful nihtloc.
Later, they dressed and collected their things. The older car-
ried the laden bags. "See ya 'round, Gary," she said, laughing.
"Nice partyin' with ya, Lee," called the younger. She lit a
pack of matches and tossed it into the cab.
The cab burst into beautiful flames, like a fek oven. Within
the fire, the meat hissed and sizzled.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
m
"I'm sorry," she said.
"Ann, it's not your fault." Martin poured coffee for her in the
kitchen. He drew the curtains and let the morning sun beam in.
"I want you two to go. I'll go home by myself."
"That's ridiculous," he said. "This is an emergency, and
we're a family. We'll go together."
"Melanie will be crushed," Ann said.
"Ann, Melanie will understand. This is your father we're
talking about, and her grandfather."
Sometimes Martin was too understanding. Ann knew he
would do everything he could to help her, to make things work,
in spite of the fact that her parents never really approved of him.
"A poet?" her mother had objected. "Poets don't make any
money, Ann. Why do you insist on getting involved with these
deadbeats?" Yes, Martin knew all about that, and still he would
do everything he could to smooth things out.
"We'll go to Paris next time," he said.
Next time. When would that be? A year? Two?
Suddenly, she was crying.
Martin put his arm around her, stroked her hair.
"Every time something good happens, something bad hap-
pens," she sobbed.
"It'll be all right. There was nothing you could do."
"He's dying."
"Ann, just because he had a stroke doesn't mean he's dying."
"But the doctor said—"
"Come on, Ann, that old guy? He doesn't know a stethoscope
from a periscope. The best thing we could do is get your father
out of that town and into a real hospital."
66

SUCCUBI
67
It would never happen, Ann knew. Her parents believed in
fate, not CAT scanners and ICUs.
"We better start getting ready," Martin said.
As Ann rose, Melanie traipsed into the kitchen. "What time
are we—" She stopped, looked at them, hesitated. "What's
wrong?"
Ann and Martin hesitated in return. Ann looked up at Martin
in panic. The look said, Please tell her, Martin. I can't. I just
can't.
Martin understood at once. "Melanie, we're not going to be
able to go to Paris this time," he began. "Something bad hap-
pened yesterday ..."
"Tharp's escaped. Erik Tharp—remember him?"
Sergeant Tom Byron just stood there, mouth open.
Chief Bard sipped coffee from a spider-cracked NRA mug.
"Fucker busted out of the Rubber Ramada yesterday. Can you
believe it?"
"Erik Tharp," Byron said. "Escaped."
"That's right, boy. State's saturated the whole area with their
units, and they want all municipal departments on watch. He
busted out with a rapist, killed four people already, two hospital
people, old Farley from the Qwik-Stop out on 154, and some
redneck broad from Luntville. Raped the stuffing out of the
broad before they killed her. And they got a piece. State M.E.
says he pulled a .455 out of the girl's ass, Farley's Webley."
"Erik ... Tharp," Byron repeated. The name put him in a
daze. He remembered, all right. The pit full of tiny charred skel-
etons, and Tharp himself poised in moonlight with the shovel.
Bard had no lap when he sat down. He sipped more coffee
and winced. "They're driving old Farley's Plymouth—the sta-
tion wagon—you've seen it."
At last Sergeant Byron regained his ability to speak polysyl-
labically. "You figure he's comin' back here, Chief?"
"State says there's no way in hell. Probably headed north,
they said."
"Tharp ain't got a set brass enough to come back here."
Bard frowned. What could he say to Byron? He was pretty
much just a kid.
"I should've killed him five years ago," Byron muttered.

68
Edward Lee
Yeah, you should have, Bard thought. Instead, he said, "Don't
wanna hear no talk like that, boy. We're professionals.
With that,Bard scratched his belly and spat in the waste can.
"Lemme go lookin', Chief. I'll drive my own car. Just
lemme—"
"Forget it. You mind your manners unless you wanna take
old Farley's place for five bucks an hour at the Qwik-Stop, ya
hear?"
Byron, reluctantly, nodded.
"LW-One,"squawked the base station. "Citizen report of sig-
nal 5F two miles south of junction 154 and Old Dunwich. M.E.
en route. Check for possible relation to state signal fifty-five
slash twelve in progress."
"LW-One, ten-four," Bard groaned into the mike.
Byron stared.
"Get on it, boy," Bard said, and stood up exertedly. "Maybe
Tharp's closer than the state thinks."
We look like idiots, Erik thought, glaring at the mirror.
"Jesus," Duke murmured, standing aside.
They'd cut their hair short, in efforts to get with the times. In-
stead, they looked like they'd stuck their heads in blenders. The
hair bleach hadn't worked very well either. Erik had followed
the instructions, or at least he thought he had. It turned their hair
almost snow white.
Duke slapped the back of Erik's head. "Ya a-hole, look
whatcha done."
"It's not that bad," Erik tried to commiserate.
"Not that bad? Man, we can't walk the street like this. We
look like a couple of rejects from some California homo farm."
Duke glared at Erik, then stomped out of the bathroom.
At least we don't look like our fde pictures, Erik thought. That
much was correct. The hospital updated their ward-residence
photos every year. The police probably wouldn't be looking for
two guys with white hair.
Duke slouched on the bed. He was watching the Three
Stooges: Shemp was pumping Larry up with a fireplace bellows
stuck in his mouth. Erik changed the channel.
"Hey, man! Whatdaya think you're doin? It's a Shemp!"
Shemp, Erik thought. We 're two killers trying to outrun the
entire state, and all he cares about is Shemp. "We have to mon-

SUCCUBI
69
itor the news as much as we can," his voice creaked. He flipped
through late-morning cartoons, then—
—froze. Suddenly, he was looking at himself on the TV
screen, and a newscaster was saying, "... have killed four in
less than twenty-four hours. Erik Tharp and Richard 'Duke'
Belluxi escaped the state mental facility near Luntville yester-
day morning at eleven-thirty, overpowering two employees and
murdering two more. They fled the grounds in a lawn contrac-
tor's vehicle which was later found abandoned at a nearby con-
venience store, where they murdered a clerk and abducted a
twenty-year-old Luntville woman only minutes after their es-
cape. The woman, whose name is being withheld, was found
dead later that afternoon in a ditch off State Route 154. She'd
been shot, beaten, and raped, police say."
Duke chortled laughter, pointing. "Looky! It's us!"
Indeed it was. Both their faces filled the screen. Duke was
grinning in his picture. Erik stared.
"Yeah, my mama, I'll bet she's proud!" Duke laughed. "Can
tell all her friends her son's a TV star!"
"Come on!" Erik shouted. "We gotta get out of—"
"What are you shittin' a brick about?"
"They found the girl's body, Duke. That means they know
what kind of car we're driving!"
The station wagon was parked right out in front of the motel,
in full view from the main road. The first cop car that drove by
would see it and then ...
"Get our stuff together," Erik commanded. "I'm gonna move
the car around back so no one can see it from the road. We'll
have to leave on foot, get a new car somewhere else."
"Right," Duke said.
Erik slipped out the front door and got in the station wagon.
How long had the police known what they were driving? It was
incredible that the car hadn't been seen yet.
Too incredible.
Something clicked behind his ear.
"Right there, fella," a voice whispered.
Erik's whole body seized.
The female cop had sneaked up alongside the car. She leaned
over, pressing the barrel of a Ruger .357 to his temple. "You
blink and your brains go out the other side of your head. Under-
stand?"

70
Edward Lee
"Uh, yes," Erik croaked. His eyes darted right. A police
cruiser was parked on the side of the last room. "Luntville Po-
lice Department," a seal read.
The woman had dark red hair tied in a bun behind her hat.
She wore mirrored sunglasses in which Erik could see twins of
his own face. "You and me," she whispered, "we're gonna walk
over to that squad car nice and quiet, right?"
"Uh, yes," Erik croaked.
"You get out real slow and keep your hands up."
The woman opened the station wagon door. She kept her gun
trained on him. It was a big gun, but then Erik thought of
Duke's, which was even bigger. Right now, Duke was doing
one of two things. He'd either crawled out the bathroom win-
dow and was heading for the hills, or he was standing behind
that tacky louvered motel room door and lining up the sights of
the gun he'd taken off the old man at the Qwik-Stop.
Erik stood straight, his hands in the air. He whispered, "Lady,
the other guy's in the room right in front of us and he's got a—"
It was a strange collision of sounds and sights crammed into a
single second. The woman's police hat shot up in the air, and
suddenly she was standing before Erik with no head. It simply
... disappeared. Only then did Erik hear the loud bang\ The
woman, headless now, seemed to stand for a moment, her pistol
still thrust out. Then the body collapsed.
Erik's expression collapsed as well. He lowered his arms.
More blood on my hands, he thought.
"Ooooo-eee!" Duke celebrated. He'd fired through the lou-
vers. "Perfect head shot, man, fifteen, maybe twenty feet!"
Duke loped out, the Webley still smoking. He picked up the
policewoman's hat and put it on, laughing.
My God, Erik thought.
"Get the stuff," he said, "and move the cop's body into the
room. I'm moving the car."
Duke whistled gaily, dragging the body toward the room.
"S'shame, though, you know? Wasted a perfectly good set of
tits. Could've had me a good ol' time with this girlfuzz."
Erik parked the station wagon behind the motel. Then he
jogged back around to see what was keeping Duke.
Duke was sitting in the passenger side of the woman's patrol
car. He adjusted the hat on his head and looked up, grinning.

SUCCUBI
71
"Come on, buddy. We might as well ride in style, right? I'll ride
shotgun."
By now Erik had resigned to Duke's sociopathy. He had no
choice. He started the car and tromped the accelerator. Duke
wailed.
Luntville was just north. Erik sped south. The cop had proba-
bly radioed in her location when she'd spotted the station
wagon. When she didn't answer up, her friends would come
looking.
Duke looked like a kid in a candy shop, surveying the car's
interior. Erik's mind raced. "We've probably got five minutes
before they're onto us. When they find the cop you killed,
there'll be a hundred cars after us." Erik turned off the main
road, fishtailing. The further off the main roads they got, the
more time they'd have to change cars. He remembered the area
well. The back roads were a maze. "We have to ditch this car
and get a new one real fast."
"Why? I like this car," Duke complained. He tore open a
pack of Twinkies. "How come we gotta change cars all the
time?"
"Don't you understand anything? As long as they know what
we're driving, we don't stand a chance. We need a car that no-
body knows we're in."
And that prospect worried him. Taking a car meant taking (or
killing) the owner. Erik didn't want any more people dead, but
he knew Duke had other ideas in that regard. How can I control
an uncontrollable person ? he grimly asked himself.
The mobile radio, a plug-in Motorola, began jabbering. Then,
much more clearly, a woman's voice broke: 'Two-zero-eight?"
Erik stuck his head out the window. The front fender bore the
stencil: 208. "That's us," he croaked.
"Two-zero-eight, do you copy?"
Duke gaped at him, cheeks stuffed.
"Two-zero-eight, acknowledge."
"Give it a shot," Erik advised. "We've got nothing to lose ex-
cept our lives, and we'll probably lose those anyway."
"Think positive, buddy." Duke pointed to his own head.
"Positive, that's the way. How do you work this thing?"
"Just pick it up and push the button when you want to talk."
Duke keyed the mike. "This is two-zero-eight. Go ahead."
"Two-zero-eight, what's your status?"

72
Edward Lee
"A-okay. Everything's just fine."
Erik was shaking his head.
The radio fizzed through a pause. "Two-zero-eight, are you
ten-eight?"
"That's a roger. I'm the big ten-eight." He released the button
and chuckled. "What the fuck's ten-eight?"
"I don't know," Erik said. "What do I look like? Adam 12?"
Duke laughed.
"Two-zero-eight, do you want a disregard on that possible
fifty-five?"
"Yeah, sure, gimme a disregard. Why not?"
Another fizzy pause. Then: "Two-zero-eight, state your ID
number."
Duke looked at Erik. They both shrugged.
"Two-zero-eight, identify yourself by name and ID."
"This is bad boy Duke Belluxi, baby!" Duke wailed into the
mike. '"I am your friendly neighborhood walkin' and talkin'
schizo-affective paranoid schizophrenic. And sittin' right by
my side is Captain Erik Tharp of the Starship Psychopath. We
boldly go where no escaped mental patients have gone before,
oooooo-doggie!"
"Jesus," the dispatcher muttered. "Two-zero-eight, please
put the unit's officer on the line."
"Oh, you mean that pretty redheaded girlfuzz? Well, she
can't talk right now on account of she seems to have misplaced
her mouth. Oh, and do me a favor, okay? Shag my balls."
Suddenly, a wave of voices panicked over the transmission.
"Thirteen, thirteen! Officer down at Gein's Motel!" Others
shouted in the background. "She's dead! The motherfuckers
killed her!" "Check the back!" "Harley, get the gas gun!" "Holy
fucking—" "The car, the motherfuckers took her car!" "Jesus
Christ, they blew off her—"
"Head," Duke finished into the mike.
"This is two-one-two to dispatch. Officer is shot and killed.
No sign of unit two-zero-eight. Repeat, unit two-zero-eight is
missing."
Duke made pig noises in the microphone. Then he stuck the
mike between his legs and farted. "How about all you pigs out
there go fuck each other, and lick my crack too, while you're at
it, just like all your mamas do to me every night. Catch me if
you can, piggies! Oink oink oink!"

SUCCUBI
73
The dispatcher was yelling over the air: "Ten-three! All units
ten-three! Ten-three, ten-three, ten-three!"
A crystal-clear silence filled the void, which seemed antici-
patory and vivid. Then: "Duke Belluxi, Erik Tharp, this is Chief
Lawrence Mulligan of the Luntville Police Department." The
slight drawl sounded easy, almost chummy. "I want you boys to
come to your senses. Give it up. Give us your location."
"We're at your mama's house, Chief. Where'd you think?"
Duke said, then made some more pig noises. "Looks like we're
going to have to wait, though. See, there's a big line going all
the way around the house, starting at the bedroom. Course,
good poon like your mama's is always worth waitin' for, don't
ya think?"
"I want you fellas to know that every available state and local
police car in this county is heading your way from every direc-
tion. You got a world of hurt bearin' down on your asses, boys."
Duke bubbled laughter. "Say, Chief, your wife's the one with
the really big titties who blows every guy in town for free, ain't
she? Think maybe she'd tongue my balls if I asked her nice?"
All this time during Duke's profane fun, Erik had been fish-
tailing deeper and deeper into the back roads.
"You're askin' for serious trouble, boys," Mulligan was say-
ing. "You don't want my men to catch ya on the run. Now be
reasonable."
"Shag my balls, Chief," Duke answered. "How's that for rea-
sonable? Say, I heard your daughters do the football team. That
true?"
"Listen to me, son. It's goddamn impossible for you all to get
away. Pull that car over right now, give us your location, and
give yourselves up. You all have my personal guarantee that
you won't be harmed."
"I got a better idea, Chief." Duke chuckled. "You give me
your mama's location, and I'll give you my personal guarantee
that I'll diddle her poon like your daddy never dreamed."
Duke then repeated his rendition of pig noises into the micro-
phone.
Erik turned off the radio.
"Say, buddy, you're whippin' this car around these turns like
a regular Mariano Mandetti." Duke dug into some more
Twinkies, and burped. "And how do you like that no-dick
chief? Thinks we're just gonna give up, just like that. Fuckers

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Edward Lee
would kill us in less time than it takes me to shake the piss off
my pecker."
Duke had that right, however uneloquently. Most cops down
here thought the U.S. Constitution was a ship from the War ef
1812. They'd shoot first and ask questions next month.
The network of back roads would hide them for a while but
not forever. Unless they got an inconspicuous car, it was only a
matter of time before somebody spotted them.
"We need a new car," he said. "Now."
"Way out here in the sticks, there ain't nothing," Duke ob-
served. "We need a shopping center, grocery store, something
like that."
"I don't think there are any this far in."
Abruptly, Duke peered forward. "Well, looky there."
Erik saw it.
"Tell me God ain't on our side," Duke said.
The road wound down through the woods. Up ahead was a
one-lane truss bridge which crossed a deep creek.
Parked off the side was a white van.
It was one of those custom jobs, cursive pinstriping, multiple
coats of lacquer, Keystone mags. And lower, a guy and a girl sat
at the creekside with fishing rods.
"We're taking them with us, Duke, right? You're not going to
kill them, right?"
"No sweat, buddy. I swear on my daddy's grave. From here
on I don't kill nobody."
Erik pulled over. The two kids looked up the crest. Duke fid-
dled with some switches until the flashing red and blues popped
on. "This is the police," he barked out the window. "You two
get on up here."
The girl looked questioningly to her boyfriend. She wore
white shorts, flip-flops, and a maroon bikini top. The guy wore
overalls. They both looked in their late teens.
"Come on, come on, I ain't got all day."
They rose and began to move forward. Duke fiddled with
the LECCO on the console, which secured a Remington 870P.
The lock was designed to prevent unauthorized removal of the
weapon when the officer was out of the car and the keys weren't
in the ignition. Unfortunately, now the keys were in the ignition,
and all it took was the press of a little button to remove the shot-

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gun. Duke promptly racked a round of 12-gauge into the cham-
ber.
"Duke—"
"Don't worry, buddy. I ain't gonna kill 'em. But we sure as
shit ain't gonna get their van by pointing our fingers at 'em."
The two kids loped up the hill, approached the passenger
side.
"Whuh-what seems to be th-the problem, sir?" the guy asked.
"The problem is this, son," Duke explained. "We're not re-
ally cops, we're escaped mental patients. And we need a new
set of wheels real bad." He stuck the shotgun out the window,
aiming at the kid's head. "Now, that van there, it looks mighty
nice."
The girl's face paled instantly. A light yellow wet spot ap-
peared at the crotch of her pretty white shorts.
"Please don't kill us," the boy pleaded.
"Relax, kid. Just throw me the keys."
"The keys are in it, sir." „
"Why, that's just daaaaaandy, son," Duke falsettoed, then
squeezed the Remington's trigger.
The boy's head blew to pulpy bits. A plop of brains splashed
in the creek.
"Goddamn it, Duke!" Erik shouted, and pounded the dash.
"You promised you wouldn't!"
Duke grinned. "That's right, buddy. I swore on my daddy's
grave. Thing is, my daddy ain't dead."
The girl had fainted right away. The boy lay splayed on his
back, his arms extended. He looked like a headless referee sig-
naling a touchdown.
"Get them both in the van," Erik said, now weary with dis-
gust.
Duke stuffed the last Twinkie in his face and got out. He
threw their things in the van as Erik pulled the patrol car as
deeply into the woods as he could. Then he checked the trunk.
A box contained shotgun and pistol cartridges, a Second
Chance bulletproof vest, several flashlights, and some flares.
Erik took the whole box and put it in the van.
"Hurry up!" he shouted.
Duke scratched his head over the fallen boy, whose own head
was gone from the jaw up. A few cerebral arteries hung like
scraps from what was left of the ruptured cranial vault. "Can't

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Edward Lee
we leave the dude?" Duke asked. "Seems silly to drive around
with a dead fella."
Erik jumped in the van and started it up. "Duke, how many
times do I have to tell you? When we leave bodies, we leave
clues. If the cops find a body, they'll ID it, run the name through*
MVA, and then they'll know what we're driving. Drag 'em both
in here and let's get going!"
Duke complied, hauling the kid to the van by overall straps.
He paused to chuckle. "That's the third head I blowed off since
we been out. Think that's some sort of record? Three blowed-
off heads in a day?"
"Come on!"
Duke dumped the boy in back, then dragged over the uncon-
scious girl and did the same. He slammed the rear doors closed.
Erik backed the van up, shifted, and took off down the road.
He headed south.
Eleven minutes later, two Luntville units and a state police
pursuit car, heading south on Governor Bridge road, slammed
on their brakes in succession, just past the old truss bridge by
the fishing dell. They'd all seen it at once, the rear end of a pa-
trol car sticking out of the woods. The car bore the stencil along
the back fender: 208.
At first it looked like it might've crashed. This prospect
pleased one of the officers very much. His name was Lawrence
Mulligan, chief of the Luntville Police Department. Yes, it
looked like they'd been driving too fast over the bridge, lost
control, and plowed into the woods. Aw, please, God, let it be
so. Let 'em be sittin' in front with their heads busted open.
But God, today, would not be so obliging to Chief Lawrence
Mulligan.
The three cops approached the still vehicle with their weap-
ons drawn. The state had an AR-15A2, which he kept trained on
unit 208's back window. A Luntville PFC edged in toward the
passenger side, while Chief Mulligan squeezed through trees
toward the driver's side.
"Careful, Chief," warned the PFC. "They might still be in
there."
Please still be in there, Chief Mulligan fairly prayed. It was a
misguided prayer to begin with. One does not generally pray
with a 10mm Colt automatic in one's hand. Nevertheless, Chief

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Mulligan prayed again, aloud this time: "Aw, please, please still
be in there."
The eloped mental patients were not in there.
All that remained to reward Chief Mulligan for his efforts
was a quick note scribbled on the back of a standard traffic com-
plaint and citation form.
The note read: Shag my balls, Chief.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
m
The vast forest belt rose toward the county's northern line. They
cruised down long, straight two-lane hardtops, passing endless
tracts of newly tilled soil. The air was filled with fecund scents,
which seemed alien to Ann. She was used to smog. The hour-
and-a-half drive seemed to transpose worlds. Ann had almost
forgotten what the country was like.
Some vacation, she thought.
Melanie sat quietly in the back, reading Kafka. Martin drove.
Ann could imagine his reservations. It was never easy for
him. He would always be a city person to her parents, a cos-
mopolite. Strangers in a strange land, she mused. But wasn't
the same true of her? She'd been born and raised out here, a
product of the same sensibilities, but she'd turned her back on
those sensibilities without thinking twice. It was a transposition
of worlds, one of which she felt no part.
"Is Grandpa going to die?" Melanie asked.
Ann couldn't fathom a response. Melanie was old enough
now that she needed to be leveled with. It had been easy when
she was younger; the innocence of children could be taken ad-
vantage of when life turned grim. Where's Daddy? she'd asked
when Mark had left. He had to go away for a while, was all Ann
needed to say. He'll be back sometime. As Melanie grew older,
she put the pieces together herself. But this?
"He had a stroke," Martin said. "Sometimes strokes can be
very serious, and sometimes they're not. We'll have to wait and
see."
Martin always had answers for the unanswerable.
The last neck of the drive took them down State Route 154,
the county's only main line to the web of tiny townships which
rimmed the northern belt. Oddly, there seemed to be a lot of po-
78

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79
lice out today, when ordinarily she wouldn't see any. She saw
cars from Luntville, Crick City, Tylersville, Waynesville. She
couldn't figure what all these cars would be doing so far out of
their jurisdictions. Lockwood had its own department too, one
of the smallest. They only had two full-time cops, Chief Bard
and some kid named Byron, and one car, which was another
oddity. Lockwood's small population did not generate much in
the way of municipal funds, yet the town council insisted on a
police department, and no one objected. It was Ann's mother
who headed the town council, an elected post. No one had ever
run against her, and that, too, seemed strange. "Lockwood is
crime free," Ann had once observed. "That's why we must have
a police department," her mother had replied. "To keep it that
way. You'll find out all about crime once you get to the big
city."
Everything her mother said seemed to possess some level of
insult. Ann couldn't remember her ever being different.
"What's this?" Martin queried, slowing down.
"Prepare to stop," read signs propped up on the shoulder.
Stubs of road flares had burned down. Roadblock, Ann instinc-
tively thought. But it wasn't a drunk-trap. State police pursuit
cars sat facing each way at the point, their motors running. Cops
of various townships stood alertly along the shoulder and exam-
ined each vehicle which slowed before the point. Many had the
thumb snaps of their holsters open, others openly grasped shot-
guns.
Melanie leaned between them as Martin pulled up to the
point. The vehicle ahead of them was being searched.
"This doesn't look right," Martin said, and lit a cigarette.
Police to either side stared into their car as they waited. One's
gun hand hovered over his holster.
"Today must be National Terrorize Citizens Day," Ann said.
"I hope they don't think they're going to search our car."
"Don't start a fuss," Martin advised. "We'll just cooperate
and be on our way that much sooner."
Cooperate, my ass, Ann thought. This isn't Iran.
They waved the pickup through. Martin pulled up.
"Is there a problem?" he asked.
A short, portly cop leaned over their window, his hand on the
butt of his service pistol. "Sorry about the inconvenience. We
need to look things over real quick."

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Edward Lee
"What you need to look at first," Ann suggested, "is the state
annotated code. Check Chapter VII, paragraph 7:1, 'Predisposi-
tions Pursuant to Unlawful Vehicular Search.' You also might
want to take a look at the Fourth Amendment of the United
States Constitution. Ever heard of it?"
The cop squinted. He was bald, with a short mustache that
looked like a brush in a gun-cleaning kit. "I know yftu, don't I?"
he questioned. "Yeah, you're Josh Slavik's daughter, right? The
lawyer?"
Great, she thought. She recognized him now—Chief Bard.
What the hell is Bard doing running roadblocks ten miles out of
Lockwood? "Hello, Chief Bard," she said.
"Well, I'll be," he replied, smiling.
"We've just come up from the city," Martin offered.
"Oh, yeah, I guess on account of Josh," Bard realized.
"Have you seen him?" Ann asked.
"Well, no, but your mom told me it was a stroke, they think.
Happened real sudden. I see your mom quite a bit."
Of course he did; she ran the town council, which ran the po-
lice. "What's with the roadblock?" she asked next.
Bard's frown seemed to shrivel his face. "Couple of crazies
escaped the state hospital yesterday. Bastards moved so fast
they got through our net. We're checking everybody coming in
and out just to be on the safe side. One of them's from
Lockwood, but you probably don't remember him; he came
along several years after you moved. Erik Tharp."
Erik. Tharp. It was a name she slightly recalled. She remem-
bered her mother telling her about it years ago. A drifter, a
substance-abuser. Something about him burying bodies off the
town limits. Several of the bodies had been children, babies.
"Trouble is, like I said," Bard went on, "they moved real
quick and changed cars a couple of times before we could get a
fix on them. We just missed nailing them earlier today. Damn
shame too. They killed a cop."
Christ, Ann thought. No wonder every cop in the area is out.
"Well, you all go on now," Bard bid. "Give your mom my re-
gards. I'll be stopping by later to see how Josh is doing."
"Thanks, Chief." Ann waved.
Martin pulled through the point. "How do you know him?"
he asked.
"I don't, really. My mom hired him when the old chief died.

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That was years after I moved out of Lockwood. I talked to him
a few times in the past when I'd come home to visit my parents.
He keeps a low profile. Not much use for a police department in
Lockwood."
"Until today," Melanie suggested. "Escaped lunatics!"
Ann thought of a lot of things when they entered town. None
of them were good. Lockwood was a splotch, a bad meld of
memory: her frustrated childhood, social isolation, her mother's
dominance and her father's passivity. Her past felt like a
shadow she was about to reenter. She felt suddenly sullen.
The town looked equally sullen. It looked deserted. Martin
idled the Mustang down Pickman Avenue, Lockwood's main
drag. Almost everything here had been built a hundred years
ago, refurbished since. A little brick fire station, the police sta-
tion alongside. A general store, a diner called Joe's. Most of the
economy here was agricultural; the men either worked the vast
corn and soybean fields to the south, marketed farm supplies, or
serviced tractors. Lockwood had always seemed to do better
than the surrounding townships. There was no poverty and,
hence, no drugs and no crime. It was almost idyllic.
Almost, Ann thought. Lockwood was isolated, remote. At
times it seemed untouched by the modern world, and that's the
way everyone wanted it. There was a curfew for minors, and
town ordinances against package liquor sales. The only place a
person could get a drink in this town was a dusty little tavern
called the Crossroads. Kids had a dress code for school. More
ordinances prohibited late-night convenience stores, bowling
alleys, arcades, and the like. "As a community, we must strive
to resist debilitating attractions for our youth," her mother had
proposed before the town council years and years ago. Motels
were prohibited too. Outsiders were not encouraged to visit.
"What's the matter?" Martin asked.
Ann's thoughts had been adrift. "Just ... thinking," she an-
swered. Did she blame her parents for her constrained child-
hood, or the town itself? Lockwood seemed to emanate
repression. Here it was, early afternoon, and the town looked
dead. Kids should be out playing, housewives should be out
shopping. There should be traffic, activity, etc., typical things of
any small town. But there was none of that here.

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Edward Lee
"Where is everybody?" Melanie asked. "Aren't the kids here
on spring break too?"
"In Lockwood?" Martin chuckled. "Who knows? They prob-
ably have a town ordinance now against children."
"It's not that bad," Ann said. "Just.. . different."
"Yeah, different. I'm surprised we haven't passed a horse and
buggy."	«.
The end of Pickman Avenue formed the large town square.
Here was the old, steepled white church that Ann had never at-
tended, and the town hall. Beyond that all that could be seen
was the vast rise of the forest belt, which kept the town dark till
midafternoon.
"Oh, yeah, and there's probably an ordinance against sun-
light too," Martin said. "This place has always been creepy, but
never like this."
Martin was right. They hadn't seen a single person yet.
He turned left onto Lockhaven Road. The residential section
extended from here past the old middle school. The town pos-
sessed fewer than five hundred people; dark, narrow streets led
past modest homes, mostly one floor, which all seemed to be
white with dark trim, and big trees in the yards. More trees lined
the streets, adding to the queer darkness. The entire town
seemed to brood.
"Which one is it?" Martin asked.
"Turn here," she instructed. It had been so long even Ann
wasn't sure. The narrow road seemed to rise. "Ah, here," Mar-
tin said. He turned onto Blake Court and stopped.
"Jesus."
The long cul-de-sac was filled with cars.
"Looks like half the town's here," Melanie said.
They're all at the house, Ann thought without knowing why.
But what would bring so many people here?
A long drive led to the Slavik house. It was the largest house
in town, large and gabled on a big lot full of trees. Very little of
the house's original brick could be seen, covered by sheets of
crawling ivy.
Martin pulled up next to her parents' old Fleetwood and
parked. He sat a minute, peering out, and stubbed his cigarette
in the ashtray.
"This is bizarre," he said.
Melanie leaned forward. "Mom, how come—"

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83
"I don't know, honey," she said, but she was thinking, Maybe
Dad's already died. What else could explain the crowd of vehi-
cles?
The cast of Martin's face indicated he had similar thoughts.
Instead, he just said, "Let's go."
Walking up, Ann thought the rest of the town must be jeal-
ous. The house was old but well kept. The spacious yard and to-
piary were meticulously maintained. Ann knew her father had
never made lots of money working farmland, and her mother
accepted no pay for running the town council. The town had in-
corporated itself years ago; the farmland to the south was not
privately but collectively owned, which was common in these
parts. The profits were shared, yet Ann couldn't imagine that
they were significant. How did this town maintain itself? More-
over, how did her parents? All towns had their share of poor and
wealthy. Everybody here seemed to be the same, save for the
Slaviks.
The silence weighed her down. They approached the house,
saying nothing, and ludicrously paused at the porticoed front
door. Nothing could be heard within, yet she saw subtle move-
ments past the narrow windows. Like people standing around.
Like a funeral reception, she had to think.
Her hand locked in midair. That door knocker always rasped
her eye—a small oval of dull, old brass in the shape of a face.
But the face was bereft of features, save for two, wide empty
eyes. There was no mouth, no nose, no jawline really—just the
eyes.
That's what bothered her—it always had. The eyes, though
ominous, seemed somehow to welcome her.
"I'm sure you've all heard about it by now," Dr. Greene sup-
posed. He sat at his big ugly gray metal desk, eating a Chunky.
He had very short blond hair and was built like a fireplug, which
never quite helped him look the part. He was chief of Psychiat-
ric Services at the state mental hospital. A welter of psychiatric
paraphernalia filled his office: Smith, Klein, and French calen-
ders, Stelazine paperweights, a desk set advertising Lily phar-
maceuticals. He drank juice out of a Haldol coffee cup and
wrote with a pen that read "Xanax (alprazolam) 0.5mg tabs.
Use it first!" He got all the stuff free from drug reps. These guys
were like car salesmen, hyping themselves over the competi-

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tion. Large orders often promised paid vacations. Dr. Greene
didn't want vacations in return for providing drugs that fre-
quently turned human beings into docile dayroom potatoes. But
he did like the pens and coffee cups. "Serious elopement yester-
day," he said.
Dr. Harold sat down. "How many?"
"Two."
"Not bad."
"Not good," Greene countered. "They killed two people be-
fore they even got off the grounds. Today they killed a munici-
pal cop."	*
"What are their profiles?"
Dr. Harold, though a successful private practitioner, did free
consulting and in-patient profile evaluation on the side. Many
private doctors did this as a gesture of professional goodwill.
The state hospitals were overcrowded and understaffed, some
to the breaking point. Dr. Harold offered his services a few
hours per week to allow state staff to tend to more essential
duties.
Greene took another bite of his Chunky. "First we got Rich-
ard 'Duke' Belluxi. Thirty-five years old, I.Q. 113. Stage socio-
path. They got him on a rapo fifteen years ago, but we know he
did a lot more. We Amytaled the son of a bitch and figure he
killed at least half a dozen people in his late teens, all sexually
motivated. LH levels out the roof, this guy would fuck a brick
wall if there was a hole in it. He did about ten years here before
we gave him a roam status."
"Why isn't he in prison?"
Greene laughed without smiling. "He Gansered his way in.
Made up a detailed delusion and stuck to it, then started doing
the word salad for the court. You know how the judges are in
this state. The guy raped a sixteen-year-old girl and cut off her
arms for kicks, and the judge makes Belluxi look like the vic-
tim. Tell that to the girl—she lived. Anyway, we were stuck
with him. A decade went by and he never caused much trouble,
just mouthing off, a few confrontations with some techs. ACLU
lawyer said he was going to sue the hospital if we didn't give
Belluxi some GB status. Said we were violating the guy's
rights. The way I see it his rights went out the window when he
chopped off that girl's arms, but you know how that is. Bet

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those grapeheads would sing a different tune if it was their
daughters that Belluxi was cutting up."
"Like Kojak says: 'The system stinks, baby, but there ain't a
better one.' "
"Sure."
"Who's the second elopement?"
"Tharp, Erik, twenty-nine, I.Q. 137, but he doesn't do much
on the diagnostics. A drug burnout. Never a problem. Been in
almost five years. We gave him Class II last week. We figure
he's calling the shots, and Belluxi's the muscle."
"What did he do?"
Greene put his feet up on the desk, sighed. "We're not sure.
He got caught burying bodies, but there was never any evidence
that he killed anyone. He's no killer, you can see that. But there
was a big to-do because a lot of the bodies were kids and babies.
So they sent him to us."
"Diagnosis?"
"Unipolar depression. We put him on Elavil and he evened
out. He was delusional and probably hallucinotic when we first
got him. Read his story, it's wild." Dr. Greene pointed to a big
leather bag on the floor. "It's all there."
"What can I do to help?" Dr. Harold inquired.
"Update the evaluations, augment them. Look for anything
we might've missed; it would help if we could figure out where
these guys are going. After twenty-four hours the stats for
reapprehension go into the ground. Try to have something for
me soon; I need something to show the state mental hygiene
board, and right now I'm too busy with the cops and the press."
Dr. Harold nodded and rose.
This should be some very interesting reading, he thought.
The bag was very heavy.
"Why ... is it—Ann?" asked the astonished face at the door.
"Hello, Mrs. Gargan," Ann greeted.
"Come in, come in," the woman hurried. "I almost didn't
recognize you at first. It's been so long."
"Yes, it has."
Ann, Martin, and Melanie entered the dark half-paneled
foyer. At once, familiarity struck home, and memory. This was
the house she grew up in. It never changed. The same old paint-
ings were on the walls, the same carpets on the floor. The same

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Edward Lee
grandfather clock she remembered tolling in the wee hours as a
child. The moment seemed surreal. She was not merely step-
ping into her parents' house, she was stepping back into her
past. Ann felt instantly morose.
"Melanie! How are you, child?" Mrs. Gargan leaned over
and gave Melanie a big kiss. "Look how big you've gotten, and
how beautiful!"
"Melanie, you remember Mrs. Gargan."
"Hi," Melanie said, a bit stunned by the sudden gush of affec-
tion.
"And this is Martin White," Ann introduced.	•
Mrs. Gargan had been a close friend of the family's for as
long as Ann could remember. She was in her fifties but didn't
look it; she beamed good health and didn't have a single gray
hair. Her husband, Sam, ran the farm supply store on Pickman,
which served the entire town. They were nice people, if not a bit
weird—Sam, like a lot of the men in town, seemed withdrawn
against his wife's popularity and outgoing demeanor.
Just like my father, Ann thought.
Though Mrs. Gargan tried not to show it, her enthusiasm
hitched down a bit upon introduction to Martin. "Oh, yes, you
must be the poet," she said. "We've heard lots about you."
"Very nice to meet you," Martin said.
Ann lowered her voice. "How's Dad?" she asked.
But Mrs. Gargan turned. Had she ignored the question delib-
erately? "Everybody, Ann Slavik and her daughter are here."
Dim lights glowed in the large colonial dining room. Cold
cuts, cheese, and the like had been spread out on the table,
around which at least a dozen people stood quietly conversing.
The room went dead silent when she entered. Suddenly, she saw
them all as they looked when she was younger. Mrs. Heyd, the
town doctor's wife. The Crolls and the Trotters. Mrs. Virasak,
whose husband had been Lockwood's police chief until he'd
died several years back. In fact, there were many widows here,
whose now-dead husbands Ann ghostily remembered. These
were staunch, robust women, conservative, and polite with an
edge, and who looked good for their ages. Several younger
women—Ann's age, she guessed—stood in the background,
with what seemed attendant daughters. Ann had indeed lost
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people she didn't know at all. No, she didn't know many of
them. So why did she have the gut feeling that they knew her?
They went through the round of grueling introductions. The
elders constantly fussed over her and Melanie, yet all but ig-
nored Martin. All the while Ann felt like wilting. These people.
This place. Her father sick upstairs. Perhaps he had already
died—that would explain this bizarre scene, but certainly some-
one would've told her by now.
"Your mother's upstairs, dear, with Josh," Mrs. Croll said.
"She'll be down presently," added Mrs. Virasak.
This was frustrating, cryptic. Ann still didn't quite know
what was going on. She took Mrs. Gargan aside. "How's my fa-
ther? How bad is it?"
The woman stalled but maintained her cordial smile. "He's
resting," she said. "He's—-"
"Is he even conscious?"
"Well, sometimes. We'll go up when you're ready."
But that was it: Ann didn't know if she was ready. She felt
threatened by images. The image of her father as she'd always
known him, and the image of what he must look like now: bed-
ridden, sallow.
Abruptly, then, Mrs. Gargan hugged her. "Oh, Ann, it's so
good to see you. I'm just so sorry it has to be under these cir-
cumstances."
Ann stiffened in the embrace. For her whole life she'd felt
distanced by the townspeople, and now it seemed like a home-
coming. More images crashed.
Again, the room fell silent. Ann turned.
A figure stood in the entry. A solid figure, unflinching like a
chess piece. She was sixty but looked forty-five, well bosomed,
shining dark hair pinned in a bun. Fine lines embellished rather
than depreciated her face. That face, like this house, the town—
like everything here—hadn't seemed to have changed at all.
Stoic touched with kindness. Hard and compassionate at the
same time.
The figure stepped into the dining room.
"Hello, Mother," Ann said.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
m
"Women sure are noisy sons of guns, ain't they?" Duke chuck-
led.
Erik remained numb in the driver's seat. They'd parked on an
old abandoned logging road, figuring they'd wait out the heat;
the police probably didn't even know this road existed. This,
however, left them with time on their hands, and Duke Belluxi
was never one to waste time.
The girl screamed and screamed.
She'd fainted after Duke had blown her boyfriend's head off,
but she'd come to real fast when Duke had pried off one of her
long, shiny-painted fingernails with a pair of Craftsman pliers
he found in the toolbox. She'd lurched awake, screaming.
"Sleep tight?" Duke asked, and began tearing off her scant
clothes. Little as she was, though, she put up a formidable ob-
jection to Duke's plans, clawing, slapping, trying to bite, so
Duke clunked her in the head a couple of times with an empty
Corona bottle to take some of the zing out of her. By now Erik
knew the futility of trying to intervene—the guns were all in
back with Duke. Now all the girl could do was moan and churn
a little. Duke spraddled her out right on top of her dead boy-
friend and began raping her at once. "Some bed, huh, honey?"
he said, chuckling. Erik had no desire to watch this, yet every so
often something—guilt perhaps—forced him to take a glance.
"Oh yeah, oh yeah," Duke was going. When the missionary po-
sition lost its thrill, he flipped her over and began to sodomize
her. She jerked into full consciousness again and vomited. "Aw,
shit, girl!" Duke objected, thrusting. "Look what you done!
Puked all over our nice van!" Soon the girl started screaming
again, in gusts, so Duke gave her another clunk with the Co-
rona. "Simmer down, sweetheart," he advised, then laughed.
88

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He pushed her face down into her dead boyfriend's crotch.
"Give your honey a nice big kiss from Duke!" Then he yanked
her head back by her hair, stepping up his thrusts. Erik stared
blankly out the windshield.
This cannot go on, the thought hammered in his mind. Once
Duke got going, he was beyond reason, beyond control. He was
on a killing spree, and it was Erik's fault. He had to do . . .
something.
He glanced in back again. The Remington and the Webley
lay beside the real wheel hump. No way I can get to them, Erik
realized. The box of stuff they'd taken out of the Luntville car
was reachable but useless. All it contained were a few boxes of
shotgun shells, some road flares, and the bulletproof vest—
nothing he could use to fight Duke. I'm going to have to kill
him, he reasoned. But I've got to get to those guns.
"Aw, come on, Duke!" he yelled when he saw what his asso-
ciate was doing.
Duke chortled like a farm hog, grunting. His orgasm was ob-
vious, spurting into the air and onto the girl's back as he slowly
strangled her with a battery cable. Duke wiped himself off with
her panties, laughing. "Thanks, baby. Hope it was as good for
you as it was for me."
Erik just stared—at this monster he'd helped escape.
Again, he thought: Yeah, I'm going to have to kill him.
"Hey, partner, we got any more of them Twinkies?" Duke
asked.
The Lockwood police station was a small brick extension of
the fire station on Pickman Avenue. It had two holding cells, an
office for Chief Bard, whose only window offered a resplendent
view of the garbage dumpster in back, and an anteroom where
they kept their files and supplies.
Sergeant Tom Byron trudged into the office. He was a young
big brawny kid, and a good cop. Now, though, he looked pale,
disgusted.
"Where the hell have you been?" Bard asked. "I could've
used some help out on the state roadblock."
"I was on that 5F, remember?" Byron sat down, sighed. "You
sent me on it."
"That was hours ago."
"Took the damn M.E. that long to get out there. I had to se-

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Edward Lee
cure the scene and wait. Unless you want me to leave two
cooked bodies sittin' in a pickup truck."
Bard set down his coffee. "What do you mean ... cooked?"
"They was burned up, Chief. Somebody iced these two
fellas, doused 'em with gas, and lit 'em up. Right on the town
line, past Croll's fields."
"Lockwood residents?"
"Naw, two guys from the other side of the line. Gary
Lexington and Lee More, both twenty-five. No rap sheets, no
trouble."
"How were they killed?"	•
"M.E. don't know yet. It was hard to tell anything by lookin'
at 'em, burned as they were. They was naked, though, clothes
throwed in after. Ready for the best part?"
Bard gazed at him.
"M.E. said some of their organs were gone. Someone gutted
these fellas, then torched 'em. Ready for more?"
Bard nodded, though he thought he already had a good idea.
"Fellas' heads were busted open. Brains were gone."
Bard opened his proverbial small-town police chief desk
drawer. He removed two glasses and a bottle of Maker's Mark.
He poured them each a shot.
"I know you're thinkin' what I'm thinkin', Chief. Heads
busted open. Brains gone. Shee-it."
Bard tossed back his shot, smirked, and nodded. But what
could he say? What could he tell him?
"Just like some of the bodies we caught Tharp buryin' five
years ago," Byron finished. He threw back his Maker's and put
his glass back up for another.
"How have you been, Mom?" Ann asked.
She followed her mother up the heavily banistered staircase.
On the landing wall hung a mirror which had always scared her
as a child—at night she'd come up the stairs to find herself
waiting for her.
"Thoughtful of you to ask," her mother replied.
Here we go, Ann thought.
"It's absolutely disgraceful that you've seen fit to completely
ig—"
"Mom, please. I didn't come here to fight."

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"I'm surprised you came at all. We haven't heard from you in
six months—we thought you'd written us off altogether."
"Damn it, Mom. Just stop it, would you?"
The headache was already flaring. This happened every time;
they'd tear at each other until there was nothing left. Almost
twenty years now, and the only bind that remained constant be-
tween them was bitterness, scorn.
"I came here to see Dad, not to argue with you."
"Fine," her mother said. "Fine."
Down the hall, another lane of memory.
"I suppose you'll stick your head in, look at him, and then be
off again, back to your ever-important job in the city."
Ann felt her nails dig into her palm. "I'm off all next week."
"Oh, a week, a whole entire week. I suppose we should feel
privileged here in lowly Lockwood, that the prodigal daughter
has graced us with a full week of her cherished time in order to
spend it with her family, one member of whom is dying."
Ann's teeth ground together. Her jaw clenched. No, she
thought. I will not fight with her. I... will. . . not.
They'd set up a convalescent bed in the end spare room. The
shades were drawn; pale yellow lamplight cut wedges in the
room. From a corner chair, a stout man rose in a baggy suit. He
was bald on top, with tufts of salt-and-pepper hair jutting from
the sides like wings, and a bushy goatee. This was the man
who'd delivered Melanie on that stormy night, and the same
man who'd brought Ann into the world through her mother's
womb. Dr. Ashby Heyd.
He smiled warmly and offered his hand. "Ann. I'm so glad
you could come."
"Hello, Dr. Heyd." But Ann's attention was already being
pricked at, dragged toward the high bed. Antiseptic scents
blended with the musk of the old house. The room seemed sti-
flingly warm. Inverted bottles on a stand depended IV lines to
the still form on the bed.
Ann looked down at her father.
It scarcely looked like him. The vision crushed her, as ex-
pected. Joshua Slavik's face had thinned, leaving his mouth
open to a slit. His eyes were closed, and one forearm had been
secured to a board, needles taped into blue veins large as earth-
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Edward Lee
"He's borderline comatose, I'm afraid. A massive cerebral
hemorrhage."
Ann felt desolate looking down. Her father barely seemed to
be breathing; Ann had to fight back tears. Even in her worst mo-
ment, or during her mother's worst tirades, Joshua Slavik had
always had a smile for her, a simple encouragement, the slight-
est note of hope to help her feel better. He'd given her his love,
but what had she given him in return?
Abandonment, she answered.
"He looks so peaceful," her mother remarked.
Ann snapped. "Jesus Christ, Mom! You're talking like he's
already dead! He's not dead\ You've even got this whole god-
damn house full of people like it's some kind of goddamn fu-
neral home!"
Dr. Heyd took a step back. Her mother's face went dark.
"We've got to get him to a hospital," Ann went on. "He
should be in an ICU, not lying in this stuffy crypt. What kind of
care can he get here?"
"Dr. Heyd is perfectly capable of—"
Ann rolled her eyes. "Dr. Heyd's just a small-town general
practitioner. He delivers babies and treats sore throats, for
God's sake. We need a neurologist, we need a CAT scan and an
intensive-care facility. We're taking him to a hospital right
now."
"I forbid it," her mother said.
Dr. Heyd stepped in, "Ann, what you don't understand is—"
"All I understand is my father's dying and nobody's doing
shit about it!" Ann yelled at both of them. "And if you think you
can forbid me from taking my own father to a proper hospital
facility, then you better think again. You may run this ridiculous
little backward town but you're not the law. I'll go straight to
the state probate judge and file a petition for guardianship. The
court will appoint me guardian ad litem, and there'll be nothing
you can do about it. I might even—"
"Why not sue me while you're at it, Ann?" her mother sug-
gested. "Sue me for mental anguish. That's what lawyers do,
isn't it? Sue people? And you'd do it too, I know you would,
Ann. You'd sue your own mother."
Ann caught herself. Her mother and Dr. Heyd exchanged si-
lent glances. Ann stared, more at herself than them. What am I
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Her father groaned once, lurched and twitched a few times.
"Are you happy now?" her mother asked. "Look what
you've done, you've upset him. Haven't you upset him enough
in your life? You'll even upset him on his deathbed."
Ann wished she could melt into the wall. For that moment
she'd felt completely out of control of herself.
"This is a disgrace," her mother said, and left the room.
Dr. Heyd followed her. He quietly closed the door behind
him.
Ann sat down. Her outburst left her limp, jointless. Her gaze
returned to her father. She seemed to be looking at him from
miles away, or through a fish-eye lens.
"I'm sorry, Dad," she muttered.
He lay still. The flesh on his thin face seemed translucent,
sagging into the crags of his skull. Then he moved.
Ann leaned forward, held her breath.
Very slowly, her father's right arm lifted. His hand turned,
and his index finger extended feebly.
Shakily, and only for a second, the finger pointed directly at
her.
The house was emptying when she came back down. Visitors
smiled curtly, bid subtle goodbyes, and left. A few teenage girls
were picking up the dining room, putting things away. Martin
stood alone in the corner, his arms crossed.
"We could hear you yelling all the way down here," he said.
Ann sulked.
"I know it's not easy for you, Ann. But it's not easy for your
mother either. It's not exactly sincere to threaten your own
mother with legal action when her husband's dying in the same
room. You're going to have to get a grip on yourself."
"I know," she said. "I'm sorry."
"Don't tell me." Martin lit a cigarette and frowned at his cup
of punch. "She went out back with Melanie. Dr. Heyd's in the
kitchen, I think."
Ann nodded. She shuffled into the kitchen. Dr. Heyd was
hanging up the phone.
"Dr. Heyd .. . I'm very sorry about the things I said to you. I
don't know what came over me. I didn't mean—"
"No apology necessary, Ann," he said. "This is a difficult
time for everyone; I know what you must be going through. But

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Edward Lee
you must realize the facts. The symptoms are undeniable. Your
father suffered a massive orbital hemorrhage. Regrettably, no
medical technology in the world can help him. There's little
anyone can do except try to make him as comfortable as possi-
ble. Your mother thinks it best that he stay here, closest to the
ones he loves, in familiar surroundings."
Dr. Heyd's politeness, and his reason, made Ann feel even
worse. What a shitheel I am, she thought. "How much time
does he have? Do you think he'll linger on like that for very
long?"
"Highly unlikely. A stroke of this magnitude generally pro-
duces the same result. It's a large hemorrhage. The hemorrhage
will systematically clot, dispersing particles of coagulation into
the major cerebral blood vessels. I'd say a week at the very
most, though he could go at any time."
Ann looked down at the floor. "Is there anything I can do?"
"Simply being here is the best thing you can do for him. And
for your mother."
Ann sighed quietly. Shitheel, shitheel, shitheel.
"He'll be under constant supervision. I'll be checking on him
several times a day, and there'll be a nurse 'round the clock. Do
you remember Millicent Godwin? She's several years younger
than you, I believe."
The name seemed familiar. High school, she thought.
"She's a registered nurse now," Dr. Heyd explained. "She'll
be staying at the house, to look after Josh when I'm not here.
You needn't worry. She's quite qualified."
"I can't thank you enough for all you've done, Dr. Heyd.
And, again, I'm very sorry about—"
"Think nothing of it, Ann." He smiled and grabbed his bag.
"I've got a house call to make right now, but I'll see you soon."
The doctor left. Ann craved a drink after all this, but then she
remembered liquor was not kept in the house. She looked out
the kitchen window. Large, gnarled trees kept the spacious
backyard in shadow. Beyond the kiosk, Melanie could be seen
walking through the grass with Ann's mother.

CHAPTER ELEVEN
ill
The top line read: THARP, ERIK.
The second line read: ADMITTANCE STATUS: NGRI.
And the third line: DIAGNOSIS: Acute Schizo-affective
Schizophrenia.
The standard form, Statement of Clinical Status, was dated
five years ago.
PHYSICAL STATUS: The admittee is a 25-year-old white
male. Build within ectomorphic range, 69 inches, 121 pounds.
BOARD EVALUATION, INITIAL: The patient was ori-
ented, alert, and coherent. His motor behavior was unremark-
able, his speech deliberate and monotone. His facial expression
showed sadness, and he described his mood as "... tired, but
I'm relieved to finally be away from them." His thought pro-
cesses seemed clear though there were clear paranoid ideations.
Somatic complaints included difficulty in getting to sleep and
morbid dreams. The patient appeared to have a high I.Q.,
though his recent, past, and immediate recall was clearly
impaired.
NARRATIVE SYNOPSIS: Admittee is subject to bizarre de-
lusions highly sexual and subservient in nature. Admits to ex-
tensive CDS use during late teens and early twenties, though
denies any such use within the past two years. Board concludes
likelihood of PCP-related receptor damage, which could ex-
plain delusion-fixe and hallucinotic inferences. MMPI results
indicate overly concrete abstract association and reduced multi-
modal creative assembly. No paranoic or delusional tendencies,
however, via MMPI results, which is curious. Patient demon-
strated above average scores on Muller-Urban diagnostic,
which is puzzling given the nature and detail of delusions. TAT
recommended prior to med therapy. Narcosynthesis is advised.
95

96
Edward Lee
For the next hour, Dr. Harold read the narrative summation of
Erik Tharp's madness. The hospital board had evaluated him
yearly. The last three narratives were fairly dull; Tharp denied
the delusion outright, claimed to no longer be bothered by his
nightmares, and dismissed all that had happened to him as
"Craziness, I must have been crazy," he told Dr. Greene. "I
can't believe that I believed those things, if you know what I
mean." Lying, Greene had written in the comments section of
the evaluation form. Still believes delusion, just not admitting it
anymore. But why would Tharp do that?
To qualify for roam status? Dr. Harold thought.
Of course, and to eventually—
"Escape," he muttered.
It was obvious. Tharp had been planning his escape for some
time.
Dr. Harold ruminated. Five years ago Erik Tharp had be-
lieved a disturbing delusion. So thereafter he lied, hoping
Greene would think he was no longer possessed by the delusion
and hence give him roam status.
His premeditation, even though it hadn't fooled Greene,
proved something very clear. Tharp had a preconceived motive
for his elopement. He wasn't escaping just to escape. He wanted
to escape in order to do something specific. But what?
Why had Erik Tharp denied his own delusion after one year?
The problem was, delusional people weren't able to do that un-
less they weren't delusional in the first place.
There's something on the outside that he feels he needs to do.
Whatever it is, it involves the original delusion, and the original
delusion involves the place of his original crime.
At once, he dialed Dr. Greene. "I have some impressions for
you," he said. "I don't think Tharp and Belluxi have fled the
state, nor do I believe they plan to. I think they're heading for
the immediate area surrounding Tharp's crime scene."
"Because Tharp's not cured of the demon thing even though
he pretended to be?" Greene postulated.
"Yes."
"You think the delusion is still important to him?"
"Very important. It's the sole motive for the elopement."
"Okay, I'll go along with that. What else?"
"Tharp will abandon Belluxi as soon as possible."
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"Right. Tharp only needed Belluxi to get off the ward, and
he's probably regretting it right now. Tharp isn't homicidal—my
guess is Belluxi's the one doing all the killing, and Tharp doesn't
want any part of that. Tharp's MMPIs indicate a high order of
morality."
"We're talking about a guy who buried babies. Morality?"
"Sure. Tharp didn't kill anyone, he just buried the bodies.
But he may kill Belluxi in order to prevent more murders.
That's my guess anyway. However crude, Tharp's TATs reveal
highly focused guilt assemblies and even ethics. Plus, now
Belluxi is baggage to Tharp. For every minute that Belluxi is
with him, Tharp's goals are jeopardized."
"What do you think his goals are?" Dr. Greene asked.
"That's anybody's guess. Tharp believes in demons, so who
knows? But you know what bothers me more than anything
else?"
Dr. Greene laughed. "Tharp's pathologically obsessed with a
delusion but he's not pathological."
"Exactly. And that makes me wonder."
Dr. Greene maintained his laughter. "Let me guess. You con-
sider the existence of demons as a possible reality?"
"No, but maybe the base of Tharp's belief is real."
"The cult, you mean?"
"Why not? I just read in Time that there are over a hundred
fifty incorporated devil-worship cults in the United States. I for
one don't believe in the devil, but I can't deny the reality that
there are cults that worship him."
"That's an interesting point," Greene remarked. "Maybe
Tharp really did belong to some crackpot cult."
"And if that's the case, you just answered your own question.
Tharp is motivated by a delusion. The delusion is motivated by
a cult. Therefore—"
"That's what he's returning to," Greene considered. "A cult.
There was never an investigation because the state NGRI'd him
almost immediately. The state attorney's office was satisfied
that Tharp perpetrated the murders."
"At least it's something for the police to go on," Dr. Harold
pointed out.
"I'm going to give them a call right now. Maybe you're right,
and even if you're not, so what?"
"That's the fun of clinical psychiatry, isn't it?"

98
Edward Lee
"Actually, I'm only in it for the free pens and coffee cups ...
Yeah, I think I'll tell the cops to keep a real close eye on Tharp's
hometown."
"Where is Tharp from, by the way?"
"A little town about twenty miles north of the hospital.
Lockwood."
Lockwood, Dr. Harold pondered. What a coincidence. Hadn't
Ann Slavik said she was from a town called Lockwood?
"I don't know," Ann said. "It's just that your grandmother
and I don't always get along. We don't always see things the
same way."
"Like you and me?" Melanie responded.
What a comeback, Ann thought. But it was proof of her
innocence—the simple way in which she perceived the truth
and how she associated it to herself. "Everybody has disagree-
ments, honey. We'll work it out, we always do."
How honest a reply was that? In a sense, she knew she had
never worked anything out with her mother. Adversity was their
only common denominator. Ann Slavik had become everything
in life that her mother opposed.
You're afraid of becoming your mother, Dr. Harold's voice
haunted her again. Had she really been repressing Melanie's
perceptions all these years, by condemning her alternativism,
by objecting to her friends? It was times like this that Ann won-
dered if she had any business being a mother at all. She would
have to try harder, she knew, much harder, to give her daughter
the conceptual freedom that she herself had never been allowed
to have.
Melanie would be staying in the last bedroom on the east
wing. It had been Ann's room as a child. When she'd left home
after high school, her mother had changed it as much as she
could, "To turn it into a guest room," she'd said, but Ann knew
better. Back then her mother had felt so betrayed she'd gone out
of her way to remove all reminders of Ann—a subconscious
punishment. She'd gotten rid of all the furniture, and all of her
things she'd left behind. She'd even changed the carpet and the
wallpaper.
Ann looked out the same window she'd ruminated through so
many times as a child. The backyard dimmed in early dusk.
How many times had she peered through this same glass in

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complete misery, contemplating a future that did not include
this place at all?
"Can I see Grandpa now?" Melanie asked.
"Let's wait. He's not conscious very often, and he's probably
very tired." The truth was Ann was afraid. She didn't know how
to prepare Melanie for the still figure in the room at the other
end of the house. Sometimes the facts of life included the facts
of death. 'Tomorrow, maybe," she said.
Melanie seemed sullen. She loved her grandparents. She
didn't understand, but maybe that was the problem. Ann had
never taken the time to explain the real world to her daughter.
Melanie had been left to interpret it herself.
"I'm going for a walk," Melanie said. When Ann turned, her
daughter was stripped down to her underwear and was pulling
on jeans.
"I don't know, Melanie. It's getting late."
"This isn't exactly New York, Mom," Melanie observed. "I
doubt if there are any drug dealers or rapists around. You
think?"
Ann frowned. She couldn't very well blame Melanie for her
sarcasm. She's had a great teacher, she thought. "Just don't stay
out too late, all right?"
"I'm only going for a walk, Mom. I'm not going to join the
circus." Melanie pulled on a T-shirt that read "Cherry Red Rec-
ords," then she grabbed her Walkman. "Why don't you come
with me?"
Ann hesitated. "No, you go, honey. I'm going to straighten
up our room."
"Okay. Bye."
Ann went down the hall to the room she and Martin had. It
was on the other side of the house, across from her father's
room. Again, it was little things that bothered her, insignificant
things. She didn't want Melanie out by herself. She didn't want
Melanie to see her father in his present condition. She didn't
even like the idea of Melanie's room being so far from her and
Martin's.
Now she felt isolated. Martin had gone out earlier. "I need
some air," he'd said. "I'm going for a drive." Now Ann wished
he and Melanie had gone to Paris without her; this scene was a
dice of strained proximities and discomfort. It was a family
matter surrounding a family that had never accepted Martin and

100
Edward Lee
had never been sufficiently exposed to Melanie by Ann's own
devices.
There was no sign of her mother at all. Where could she be at
this hour? Perhaps Ann and her father were the only ones in the
house. Down the carpeted hall, a slice of light glimmered. Dr.
Heyd said that her father would have a nurse. But no one could
be found when Ann stuck her head into the cramped, warmly lit
room.
Only her father lay there, swaddled in covers.
He shouldn't be here alone, she thought, but then she heard
something downstairs.
In the kitchen, a figure leaned over the refrigerator, a plainly
attractive woman about Ann's height and build dressed in tradi-
tional nurse's garb, a trim starchy white dress, white stockings,
white shoes. Light brown hair had been cut short, and she
looked up with very dark brown eyes.
"Hello, Ann," she said. She removed a little bottle from the
refrigerator. "You probably don't remember me, but we went to
high school together."
"Milly Godwin," Ann said. "Of course I remember."
"You're sort of a legend around here. You know, Local Girl
Makes Good. Dr. Heyd probably told you, I'm the only RN in
town. I'll be looking after your dad. Your mother put me up in
the room next to his."
"I can't thank you enough for that," Ann said. "Just let me
know your rates and I'll write you a check."
Milly Godwin looked slighted. She closed the refrigerator.
"That won't be necessary," she said.
The offer probably offended her, Ann realized. She'd have to
remember that this wasn't the city; here time was not redefined
in terms of money.
"We thought it best that I stay at the house, and if there are
any complications I can't handle, Dr. Heyd can be here in
minutes. He has a beeper."
"Well, again, we're very grateful for your time."
"I could never even begin to repay your parents for all
they've done for me. They're the most wonderful people, the
whole town's in debt to them. I would never have been able to
go to nursing school without their help."
What did that mean? Had her mother helped her financially?
Ann thought it best not to ask.

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"We're feeding him intravenously," Milly Godwin said,
shaking the little bottle. "Most of the meds have to be refriger-
ated."
Ann followed the nurse back upstairs. In the room she profi-
ciently injected the bottle's contents into one of the IV
connections. When she looked down at Joshua Slavik, her ex-
pression remained flat.
Ann deliberately averted her eyes. It was hard for her, too, to
see her father this way. Hopeless, she thought now.
"He comes to every now and then," Milly enthusiastically re-
marked. "You should try to be around as much as you can."
Ann knew what the woman was saying. The next time he
comes to may be his last.
Milly could see Ann's restrained despair. "Let's let him rest
now," she said, and went out. "Even though he's comatose, he
shouldn't be disturbed at night. The brain continues the normal
sleep cycles. Unnecessary noise and movement can disturb
him."
"Is that what this is considered? A coma?"
"I realize it's a scary word, but, yes, unfortunately. I'm sure
Dr. Heyd has explained..." The rest fell off. Ann didn't need to
be retold that her father was dying.
They went back downstairs. Milly poured two iced teas and
took Ann out back. Potted plants hung off the enclosure over the
slate patio. Peepers thrilled gaily from the woods beyond. "This
is the most beautiful house in town," Milly remarked, "and such
a lovely yard. Your mother does a terrific job keeping it up."
"Where is she, by the way?"
"Board meeting. They have several per week. The town
wouldn't run without your mother. It'd be like any other town."
Would that be so bad? Ann wondered. "Where do you live,
Milly?"
"I have a house two blocks up from the town square. It's
small but very nice."
Ann couldn't imagine that Milly made much money, not as
an RN in Lockwood. How could she afford her own house?
"What are mortgages like around here?" she strategically
asked.
Milly looked at her as if shocked. "There are no mortgages.
Lockwood is a collective incorporate. Didn't you know that?

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Edward Lee
Anyone who lives in the town contributes to the town. The town
gave me the house, and my car too. For as long as I live here."
Ann winced. Whatever happened to private enterprise?
"Plus, the town pays me. Fifteen thousand a year." Milly
Godwin beamed.
Ann's firm paid more than that in overtime for their three
paralegals. "Couldn't you do a lot better somewhere else, like at
a hospital. RNs start at thirty-five where I live."
"Yeah, and they also pay rent, car payments, auto insurance,
health insurance, and thirty percent in taxes. Lockwood pays all
that for me. It's part of the community employment plan. Be-
sides, I wouldn't dream of leaving Lockwood."
"Why?"
"No crime, no drugs, no corruption and sleazy politics. No
gangs and no half-assed education. I'd never want my daughter
growing up in all that."
"Oh, you have a daughter?"
"Her name's Rena, she's fifteen."
"I have a seventeen-year-old myself," Ann said.
"I know. Melanie. She's lovely. Oh, and I didn't mean to im-
ply that you're wrong to raise her in the city. I only meant—"
"I know," Ann said.
"We're happy here, and that's the important thing."
"Sure."
They sat down on a stone bench past the slate. "What's your
husband do?" Ann asked, sipping her iced tea.
Milly Godwin laughed abruptly. "He ran out years ago."
"I hear that," Ann said. "Same thing happened to me."
"I'm not even sorry he left. Rena and I are much better off
without him. The bastard left when I was eight months preg-
nant. This was when your mother started the community assis-
tance program. The town took care of me, then sent me to
nursing school. I don't know what I would've done if I was on
my own."
Again, her mother's shadow reared. This town ran itself
among itself. It breeded what it needed to exist. It perpetuated
from within.
"Lockwood's New Mothers Program is really good too. If a
woman gets pregnant, she doesn't work for two years but she
retains her pay. After that there's free day care. There's also a
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program. Lockwood takes care of it all. The town has a
multimillion-dollar investment fund. Jake and Ellie Wynn are
trained brokers. Lockwood's been in the black for decades."
But how could that be? How could Lockwood, with a popula-
tion of five hundred, generate such a level of prosperity? The
vast farmland to the south was valuable, but it must have taken
some risky investments with produce profits to make all this
work. Maybe Ann's mother was smarter than she thought. No-
body was really rich, yet nobody seemed to want for anything.
"I saw your man earlier," Milly said. "He seems very nice."
Your man, the words echoed. What an antiquated way to put
it, yet it sounded nice. My man, she thought. "He's a teacher,
and a published author."
"Not bad-looking either." Milly grinned. "But don't worry, I
won't go gunning for him."
You fucking better not, Ann thought. "You date anyone regu-
lar?"
"Oh, no. Pretty slim pickings in Lockwood as far as single
men are concerned. All the good ones get taken right away, and
what's left just hang around, drink beer at the Crossroads. Your
mother figured she'd let them have a watering hole at least. Ev-
ery animal needs a trough."
Ann nearly spat out her iced tea. "And I thought I was a cyn-
ical feminist."
".It's not feminism," Milly said, and sat back. "I see it more as
realism. What's the one thing that all the world's problems have
in common? Men. Not good for much of anything except filling
potholes and fixing cars when they break."
Ann couldn't help but laugh.
"Why get involved with something that's going to turn rotten
anyway? After they have you, they take you for granted. Pretty
soon you find out that you're married to a couch that drinks
beer, watches football, and farts."
Now Ann was really laughing.
"I can live quite nicely without that," Milly went on. "And I
don't need a man in my life to feel complete ... Oh, but I didn't
mean to imply that your man—"
"I know, Milly, you're just generalizing, right?"
"Right. And when I need to get laid, I get laid."
The promptitude of this comment almost stunned her.
"I mean, why mince words, you know?" Milly stood up and

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Edward Lee
traipsed into the dark yard. "It's like fruit on a tree; it's out there
when you want it. Doesn't mean you have to marry the tree ev-
ery time you want an apple."
Ann laughed again. "That's some metaphor."
But Millicent Godwin drifted into a sudden, sentient silence,
facing the woods. Suddenly, she seemed reflective.
What was it?
Crickets and peepers echoed back their chorus.
"It's a beautiful night, isn't it?" Milly whispered.
"Yes, it is," Ann replied. She looked up into the dark. The
moon seemed idled over the horizon, tiny in its ascent, and
pinkish.
Milly turned slowly, surreally. In the moonlight her face
looked wanton, her eyes large and clear. "Beautiful things are
born on nights like these," she whispered.
Ann stared at her.
"Yes, the most lovely things."

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
m
"I ain't burying 'em. You're the expert on that, ain't you?"
Duke chuckled. "How many babies did you bury anyway?"
I've got to get rid of this guy, Erik thought. His throat hurt,
and he was hungry. Duke laxed back in the van's seat, chugging
the last beer. "Dead man's beer sure tastes better than regular,"
he commented. "Something neat about it, you know."
Erik winced at the two bodies. They'd start stinking soon.
There was nothing he could use for a shovel, so he dragged each
of them out of the back and into the woods. Their flesh felt
clammy, cool. He covered them best he could with leaves. Rest
in peace, he thought.
"Say, buddy, I'm like really hungry, you know, like I could
eat a horse," Duke despaired. "How much longer are we gonna
sit here anyway? Let's go get some food, huh?"
Erik went to close the van doors. Duke had the Webley on
him, and the shotgun was too far up to reach.
They'd been here all day; they'd have to move sometime.
The van would only remain inconspicuous for so long—
eventually, the guy and his girlfriend would be reported miss-
ing, and the police would put two and two together.
"We're moving now," Erik said, his ragged throat throbbing
with each word. "I want you to ride in back so you can't be seen
through the windshield."
Duke looked offended. "What's the matter? How come I
can't ride up front with you?"
"Because one guy with ridiculous white hair is less conspicu-
ous than two guys with ridiculous white hair. The cops are look-
ing for two guys. Come on, we'll stop along the way and pick
up some food."
Duke perked up. "Yeah, man! Food! Twinkies!"
105

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Edward Lee
Erik shook his head and started the van up. Duke climbed in
back. They drove several miles without seeing a single car. Get-
ting into Lockwood would be tough; Pickman Avenue was the
only access, and it would take them straight past the police sta-
tion. Either Bard or Byron—one of them—would probably be
on the road. Erik would have to bypass the town and take one of
the dirt roads through the woods. Then he could go in on foot.
"Here we go," Duke said. "Open twenty-four hours. Ain't
that somethin'?"
The big sign glowed eerily in the night. Great, Erik thought.
Another Qwik-Stop. But they were in luck; the parking lot was
empty.
Erik pulled in. He wondered if Duke would take his bait.
"Wait here, I'll be right back."
"Bullshit, partner. I'm going too."
"Only one of us can go, Duke. Someone's got to wait in the
van in case we have to get out fast."
"You wait in the fuckin' van. I'll go. What if the guy at the
counter asks you something? You can't talk with that fucked-up
voice of yours."
"You're right, Duke," Erik went along. "You go. Make it
quick, this isn't a shopping spree. Pick up some food and some
batteries for the flashlight, D size. Get the stuff, pay for it, and
leave. Don't talk to anyone, and don't start any trouble, okay?"
"Gotcha, buddy."	•
"I'm serious, Duke. No trouble. We can't risk it."
"Don't worry, man."
"And don't kill anybody, right?"
"Right."
"Come on, Duke. Say it. Say 'I won't kill anybody.' "
Duke's big teeth showed through his grin. "I won't kill any-
body, man."
"Good. Now make it quick."
Duke got out and loped into the store. That was easy, Erik
considered. He'd gotten Duke out of the van without so much as
a hint. There was only one option. Simply driving off and aban-
doning Duke wouldn't be any good. For one thing, Duke would
call the police immediately and notify them of Erik's destina-
tion. For another, he'd rape and kill at least a dozen more people
before the police caught him. No more innocents, Erik promised
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107
would be the same as killing a rabid dog. You have to kill it, be-
fore it gets into the playground.
As predicted, Duke had left the shotgun in back. Erik picked
it up and racked a round.
Aw, no, he suddenly thought. Headlights plowed across the
lot. A big old Chevy pickup pulled in. Rebel flag in the back
window. ZZ Top pumping out. Two guys in jeans and T-shirts
got out, whooping it up and chewing tobacco. And they were
big guys, really big. One's shirt emblazoned a Confederate flag
and read "Try burning this flag, fucker." The other's shirt
showed a Smurf giving the world the finger. Next, a skinny,
pock-faced blonde slid out—cutoff jeans, flip-flops, tattoos.
The three of them were rucking it up real loud, heading for the
store. Drunk rednecks, Erik fretted. The only thing worse than
rednecks are loud, rowdy, drunk rednecks. Like them.
And Duke didn't like rednecks.
Duke loped out just as they were about to enter the store.
"Nice hair," Smurf-shirt Snickered, though he'd pronounced
the word nice as nass.
Buddy, you just made the biggest mistake of your life, Erik
thought.
"What was that, pal?" Duke demanded.
The three rednecks laughed. Duke stared. Erik had to admit,
though, Duke did look ludicrous: an overweight chronic socio-
path with cropped white hair and mismatched bargain-rack
clothes standing in a Qwik-Stop parking lot with one arm
around a grocery bag full of Twinkies and Hostess Ho-Ho's.
"Whatchoo starin' at, fat boy?" inquired Flag-shirt.
"Two redneck faggots and a titless chick with a face that
looks like it got run over by an aerator. That's what I'm staring
at," Duke answered.
The three rednecks could not believe this response. It was
purely social common sense: talking back to big, drunk, uncul-
tured rednecks was bad enough, but implying that they were of
an alternative sexual orientation was exponentially worse.
Finally the stasis broke. Flag-shirt spat a stream of tobacco
juice onto Duke's shoe.
"Doesn't bother me," Duke replied to the gesture. "It's not
even my shoe. It's your daddy's. I took it out of his closet last
night when I was fucking your ma. And what's that you got in

108
Edward Lee
your mouth? Dogshit?" Then, to the blonde: "Grow some tits,
craterface."
"You cain't talk to me like that!" the blonde wailed.
"Shit, honey, I've seen sheets of plywood with more chest
than you," Duke then ingratiated her. "And that face—ooo-eee!
Got more nooks and crannies than a Thomas' English muffin."
"Fuck you, you fad pud! Eat shit and die!"
"Your daddy eats shit every night. When he goes down on
you." Duke blurted a coarse laugh. "Know what he told me? He
told me you got the biggest pussy this side of the Mississippi.
Says you blow farm animals too. That true?"
"Jory! Jim-Bob!" the blonde wailed louder. "You gonna let
him talk to me like that?"
Ory-eyed, Smurf-shirt stepped forward. Duke said: "Know
what your mama told me last night, I mean, last night when she
was shagging my balls? She says you two fellas fuck each other.
That true?"
Then Flag-shirt stepped up, clenching his fist, which was
about the size of a croquet ball, and probably as hard.
Duke grinned. "Is it true you blow your dad? That's what I
hear. When your no-tit Swiss-cheese-for-a-face girlfriend's not
blowing him, that is."
By now all Erik could do was shake his head.
Duke railed on. "You fudge-packing flower-sniffing redneck
queers just gonna stand there, or are you gonna do something?"
"That's it, fat boy," said Flag-shirt.	,
"We'se kickin' yore fat ass," promised Smurf-shirt.
"Bust his fuckin' haid!" the blonde screamed.
Duke laughed out loud. "These two pansies? They couldn't
fight their way out of kindergarten class. During naptime."
Flag-shirt rushed.
Duke was pretty good with his technique—it was almost
magic. In a split second the bag of Twinkies and Ho-Ho's fell,
and Duke's hand was filled with the big Webley revolver.
The three rednecks froze.
"Wah-wah-we don't want no trouble, man," Smurf-shirt
stammered.
"Yeah, man," offered Flag-shirt. "We was just funnin'."
No no no no no, Erik thought.
"Funnin'," Duke iterated. "Well, I'm just funnin' too. How's
this for some fun?"

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109
Duke shot Flag-shirt square in the head, which instantane-
ously burst. The report concussed like a cannon shot. Brain pulp
slopped on the Qwik-Stop window, besmirching a sign:
"Briardale Cola! Six for $1.69!"
The girl broke. She'd managed to flee all of about a yard and
a half when the second round went off. The Webley's rudely
large .455 slug caught her at the base of the spine, picked her up,
and dropped her. Without the support of intact vertebrae, she lay
on the pavement, folded in half.
Duke seemed pleased by the effect. "Poor sweet thang," he
mocked in southern drawl. "Looks lak she done blowed her last
egg-suck dog, shore 'nough, huh, Jim-Bob buddy ol' boy?"
Smurf-shirt shivered, splaying his hands. "Look, man, I got
money an' all. Nice truck there too. Take it. Just don't kill me."
"Well, that's mighty generous of you," Duke responded.
"Answer me a question first, okay?"
"Sure, man."
"Do you have balls?" «
Smurf-shirt looked cruxed. "Huh?"
"Do-you-have-6a//s?" Duke repeated more slowly.
"Well, yeah ... shore."
Duke fired the Webley into the guy's crotch. "Not anymore!"
he celebrated. Smurf collapsed, bellowing and clutching his
groin, which now gushed blood quite liberally. Duke laughed
all the way back into the store. The clerk was picking up the
phone. "Shag my balls!" came the familiar prefix. Another
round went off. The clerk's head exploded.
"Damn if I ain't good!" he railed when he came back outside.
"You see that shot!" he said to Erik. But Erik lowered his head
to the wheel, lamenting. Duke fired another round into Smurf-
shirt's head, to finish him off. Then he did the moon walk, guf-
fawing, over to the blonde, who still twitched folded in half. He
shot her in the face.
"Goddamn it, Duke!" Erik yelled out the window. "You said
you wouldn't kill anybody this time!"
"I didn't," Duke defended himself. "I didn't kill anybody. I
killed everybody!" Then he threw back his head and laughed.
Erik's hands felt clammy on the shotgun. It felt hot in his lap.
Duke took his time extracting the wallets from the pockets of
jeans which now clothed dead men. Then he picked up the bag
and came back to the van.

110
Edward Lee
"Relax," he said. "No one left to tell the tale." But then he
opened the passenger door. His gaze locked down on the shot-
gun, which Erik raised to chest level.
"Why, you cocksucking fairy faggot turncoat motherf—"
Ra-BAM! Erik replied.
The 12-gauge spray socked into Duke's chest. The massive
muzzle flash lit the van like lightning. Duke flew back and
landed flat on his back. Erik racked another round and fired
again into Duke's torso. Then again, and again.
"Sorry, Duke," he muttered.
Then he drove off and headed down the dark road.
Erik was a fairly intelligent person. He was also more obser-
vant than most. Tonight, though, his vigilance slipped. Earlier
he'd noted that the box they'd taken from the Luntville police
car contained road flares, ammunition, and sundry supplies. It
had also contained a Second Chance brand bulletproof vest.
Erik didn't notice that the vest was now missing.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN
m
The sign blazed tackily in blue neon: Crossroads. The writer in
Martin mused over the name's allegorical possibilities. Dust
eddied up from the wood floor's seams; the door creaked closed
behind him. Yes, here was a real "slice of life" sort of bar: a
dump. Its frowziness—its rough wood-slat walls, old linoleum
floor, and wear-worn pool table—its overall vacuus spiritum—
piqued him. This was not exactly the bar at the Hyatt-Regency.
But a beer would go good now, as long as it was a decent
beer.
Martin walked up. Only three other patrons graced these elo-
quent confines, roughened working-class types, dusty from a
day in the fields. No women could be found. An ancient black-
and-white TV sported a ball game with the sound low. Martin
was glad to see that the Yankees were showing the Orioles it
was a long way back to Baltimore.
He waited at the bar. No one seemed to notice him. An invet-
erate beer snob, he doubted that the Crossroads stocked any-
thing more refined than Carling. The giant barkeep was
ignoring him, sipping a mug of draft as he watched the game.
"Excuse me," Martin interjected.
The keep frowned, and without taking his eyes off the game,
said, "You want somethin'?"
An odd reply. "Well, yeah. I'd like a beer."
"No beer tonight," the keep replied. "Just blew the last keg."
Talk about the bum's rush, Martin thought. "What's that you
and those guys are drinking? Kickapoo Joy Juice?"
"Yeah, home. That's what it is."
"Fine. I'll take one."
"Sorry. Just ran out of that too."
Just leave, Martin thought. That would be the wise thing to
111

112
Edward Lee
do. But when he wanted a beer, he wanted a beer. Why were
these guys giving him the business? "What is this? I gotta dress
black-tie to get served in this pit?"
Now the keep looked at him. He set down his beer and came
over.
The three other guys at the bar stood up.
"Listen, home, and listen good. You want trouble, you'll get
more 'n you can handle."
"I don't want trouble," Martin groaned. "Ijust want a beer."
"We don't serve to outsiders here. If ya don't live in
Lockwood, ya don't drink at the 'Roads."
"This has been one pleasant visit," Martin said. "You guys
want to kick my ass because I walk into a bar and order a beer. If
I want to fill my car at the gas station, they gonna kick my ass
too?"
The keep gave him a high look. "You're visiting Lockwood,
huh? And just who might you be visiting?"
"The Slaviks," Martin began, but then he thought, To hell
with it. He got up to leave.
"Hold up there, buddy," one of the guys at the bar said.
And the keep: "You're that writer fella. Gonna marry Ann,
Josh and Kath Slavik's girl."
"That's right," Martin told him. "How the hell do you
know—"
"Come on back, home," the keep invited. "Just that we've
had some trouble with outsiders. This here's Wally Bitner, Bill
Eberhart, and Dave Kromer."
Martin didn't quite know how to gauge this sudden change of
attitude. What the hell's going on? "I'm Martin—"
"Martin White, that right?" Dave Kromer said.
"You're some kind of writer, huh?" Bill Whateverhis-
namewas added.
First they're practically booting me out the door, now they
know my name, Martin pondered.
"Yeah, we've heard about ya," the keep said. "From Kath
and Josh. You kind of help Ann out with Melanie, on account of
Ann's lawyer job, right?"
"Uh, yeah," Martin said. He wondered what else Ann's
mother had said about him. Probably nothing good. "We came
up from the city today, to see Ann's dad."

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113
They all nodded glumly. "Damn shame, it is," Wally Who-
ever bid. "Josh is a great guy."
"And Doc Heyd," added the keep, "he says there's not much
hope. Poor guy. We'll all sure miss the hell out of him."
This was not cheerful talk. Before Martin could shift sub-
jects, they did it for him. "Name's Andre, by the way. Any
friend of the Slaviks' is a friend of ours. You drinking beer or
hard stuff?"
"Uh, beer," Martin faltered. Now came the dreaded question
of any beer snob in a place like this. "Do you have any im-
ports?"
"Nope. No imports. No domestics either."
What else is there? Martin thought.
"We got LL," the keep said.
"That's one even I've never heard of."
"Lockwood Lager. Can't get any fresher—I make it right
here, right in back."
A local microbrew, Martin thought. This was unique. In a
place like this he'd have expected the cheapest, and worst.
"Pour me one," he said.
"No bullshit here either," Andre said. "I grow my own hops
and barley. Age each keg about sixty days. And I won't sell to
the other towns—let 'em have their piss. I make our own vodka,
scotch, and gin too."
Andre set the mug down. Martin reached for his wallet, but
Andre put his big hand up. "No way, friend. That there's a tin
roof."
"A tin roof?"
"Yeah, man. It's on the house."
Andre and his three locals broke out laughing.
Martin took a sniff and a sip. A full, robust taste, very malty
without being sweet or overpowering. "My compliments to the
brewmaster. This is great. You ought to bottle it, you'd make a
killing."
"Not my speed," Andre said. "Ann's mom, Kath, you proba-
bly know she's kinda like the mayor here, and none too keen on
alcohol. That's why there's no package store in town. I been
brewin' fifteen kegs a month for the last fifteen years. That does
us just fine."
This beer really was good; Martin was amazed. A brewmas-
ter of Andre's skill could become a millionaire in today's U.S.

114
Edward Lee
microbrew market. In the back, Martin noticed wooden, not
aluminum, kegs, and an ice line instead of a keg cooler. When it
came to authenticity, Andre didn't fool around.
"Yeah, Ann, she's a great gal," Andre went on. "I knowed her
kind of when she was growing up. Real smart."
Wally Whatever offered, "She's a real legend around here.
Most Lockwood gals, they stick home. We're all rootin' for
Ann out there in the big city."
"Hope things work out for yawl," added Bill Whateverhis-
fuckingnamewas.
"Thanks," Martin said. He continued to survey the bar as he
drank. There was no falseness here: this was a place where the
working class came to drink when they were done in the fields.
There were no Bud Light clocks, no Beefeater coasters, and
none of the phony bar eclecticism found in the city. The Cross-
roads was ... real. Just a roof, some stools, and a bar. Martin
didn't even notice a cash register in the place.
Andre looked about fifty but in good shape; in fact, all of
them did—physicalities and demeanors honed by lifetimes of
hard, honest work. Andre wore jeans, a black T-shirt, and a
buck on his belt. He had wiry hair and a big friendly face, but a
hardness about him too, like you could sock a 20-sledge right
into his barrel chest, and all it would do was piss him off. Mar-
tin set aside his first impression. He liked this place, and he
liked these people.
"You guys all from around here?" he asked.
"Aw, no," Andre answered. "We all just kind of found our
ways here, and Kath, she gave us a break. Me, I had a little trou-
ble down South"—he chuckled—"so^Cath, bless her, she gives
me the job right off, and a place to live to boot. Same story for
all of us pretty much. Bill here, he does engine work, and Wally
runs a thresher."
This was odd, though. Martin couldn't figure it. If they'd
been local, that would be different—localities were adhesive.
But why would men like this, with serviceable skills, come to a
town like Lockwood? The farmland was small, and Martin
doubted that Bill Whateverhisnamewas was fixing more trac-
tors here than he could in a big farm belt.
"I work for Micah Crimm," the guy named Dave said. He
laughed. "He's the fire chief, and I'm the fire department. Hang

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115
around awhile, the rest of the boys'll be in shortly. We've all
been wantin' to meet ya."
"I will," Martin accepted. He finished his LL, and Andre
poured him another. "I haven't even been here a day, and al-
ready I'm starting to really like this town of yours."
Melanie strolled the outer residential streets. This was so dif-
ferent from the city. Quiet, peaceful. The woods ran opposite
Hastings Street; she could hear crickets, a sound like waves.
Small, neat houses stood off the road; a few even sat up in the
woods. There was no traffic, no commotion, just tranquil twi-
light.
Melanie couldn't picture herself ever living here; it was too
far away from things. But she liked visiting, she liked the
change. Melanie never really understood why her mother didn't
like to bring her here. Lockwood was almost like a different
world.
"Hi. You're Melanie, right?"
Melanie stopped. At first she didn't even see who'd said it.
What were they doing there, standing in the dark?
"Yeah. How did you know?"
"We've heard all about you," came another, younger voice.
"You're the Slaviks' granddaughter."
The darkness at the edge of the woods seemed misty. The two
girls looked like slowly forming ghosts. "My name's
Wendlyn," one of the shapes said. "And this is Rena."
Melanie squinted.
Rena looked younger. She was willowy, slim, and nearly
breastless, while Wendlyn had a bosom that made Melanie
slightly jealous. They wore plain pastelish sundresses and san-
dals. Both had hair the same light brown as Melanie's, but
Wendlyn's was short, and Rena's hung perfectly straight down
past her waist.
"Your mom's a lawyer, right?"
"Yeah, she just made partner," Melanie responded, though
she still didn't quite understand that. It sounded to her that part-
ners made more money but did less work.
"Rena's mom's a nurse. She's staying at your house to look
after your grandpop," Wendlyn informed. "My mom runs the
general store on Pickman Avenue."
"What do your dads do?" Melanie asked.

116
Edward Lee
"Mine died," Wendlyn said.
"Mine ran off," Rena said.
"So did mine, but my mom's going to marry—"
"Martin," Wendlyn cut in. "He's a novelist or something,
isn't he?"
"Poet," Melanie replied. But who were these girls? She'd
never met them before, yet they knew all about her. They
seemed nice, though. In the city, people never went out of their
way to be nice.
They began walking down the street. "What grades are you
in?" Melanie inquired.
"I'm in eleventh, like you. Rena's in ninth. There aren't
many girls our age in Lockwood."
"What about boys?" Melanie asked.
Both girls laughed.
"What's so funny?"
"Come on," Wendlyn cut in. She took Melanie by the hand
and led her into an opening in the trees. Melanie was too startled
to object. The darkness cloaked her yet somehow she could see
the path's outline quite well in the starlight. Soon they led her
into a cramped, moonlit grove.
"This is our place," Rena said.
"No one knows about it," Wendlyn added.
Melanie still didn't know what was going on. The two girls
sat down on a log.
"Sit down. We don't bite."
Again, both girls laughed.
Melanie sat down on a |pg opposite them. "How come you
laughed when I asked about guys?"
"There really aren't any," Wendlyn said. Rena bent over, dig-
ging at something. "Most of the men are old, married, or they
just work their jobs. No one our age."
"Except Zack," Rena said.
For the third time, both girls, inexplicably, laughed.
"Come on, what's so funny?"
"Zack's nineteen. He's the janitor for the church."
"He lives there," Rena added.
What was she digging at?
"He lives at the church?" Melanie questioned. "What about
his parents?"
"He doesn't have any. He's an orphan or something. Your

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grandmother sort of adopted him, took him in. She's done that
with a lot of the guys in Lockwood. Likes to help people in
need."
"You'll meet Zack." Rena giggled. "You'll like him. He's
hung like a horse."
"Rena!" Wendyln objected.
Melanie blushed slightly. If she knows that, she must've ...
She couldn't help but put two and two together. She felt odd.
She'd only just met these girls, yet for some reason she did not
feel too inhibited to ask the next question. "Have you ever done
it with him?"
"Bunch of times," Rena admitted. "We both have. Zack's our
toy."
Toy? Melanie thought.
Rena had lifted up a big flat rock. There was a hole under-
neath, and from the hole she had extracted a cigar box. Next, her
face glowed orange for a moment—she was lighting a cigarette,
or a joint.	*
Wendlyn passed it over. "Try some. It's leahroot."
Melanie'd never heard of it. "What, is it like pot or some-
thing?"
"No, it's an herb. It gives you a good buzz, but it doesn't
make you stupid like pot. My mom grows it behind the store."
It looked like pot to Melanie, which she'd only done twice,
and didn't like. Pot gave her tunnel vision and made her eat like
a pig. But when the smoke wafted over, it smelled nice. It
smelled sort of like cinnamon.
She took a light drag. In a moment she felt woozy, relaxed.
"See?" Wendlyn said.
"Have you ever done it?" Rena asked.
"What, this stuff? I've never even heard of it."
"No, I mean have you ever gotten laid?"
"Rena! That's none of your business," Wendlyn scolded.
"I say she hasn't."
"Rena, shut up!"
"That's all right," Melanie said, and it was. She felt good
now, and she liked Wendlyn and Rena. "And to answer your
question, no, I haven't."
"That's good," Rena said. "You shouldn't."
"Why?"
" 'Cause you're special," Wendlyn said.

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Edward Lee
Special? Melanie thought. What did that mean? Their com-
ments were so odd, but just as odd, Melanie didn't care. "I
could have a couple times, but I was afraid. You know, AIDS
and herpes and all that."
"We don't worry about stuff like that here," Wendlyn said.
What a crazy thing to say. Were these girls stupid? She must
mean they use condoms.
Melanie took another drag. Now she felt really good. The
buzz titillated her. What had they called the stuff? A pleasant
heat seemed to caress her chest.
"Feel it?" Rena asked.
"Yeah," Melanie said.
The moon felt cool on her face. She could not account for the
beat of thoughts that next filled her mind, nor the feelings. She
looked at the two girls sitting across from her. They were look-
ing back, grinning at her in the moonlight.
"I have to go," Melanie said.
"We know," Wendlyn replied.
"My mom'll get pissed if I'm late."
"See you tomorrow, okay?"
"Sure." Melanie rushed off. She could not define her feel-
ings. As she wended down the path, she could hear Wendlyn
and Rena laughing.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
m
"Dooer, dooer," croaked the voice.
Wet lips sipped from the cup. The cup looked full of blood.
Shadows hovered. Firelight flickered on the earthen walls,
and she sensed a great heat.
"Dooer," she heard, and then distant, soft singing.
Women ... singing.
The emblem, same as that upon the cup, seemed huge behind
the shadows, as if suspended in the air:
The flurry of hands roved over sweating skin, stroking the
tight, distended belly. Hot mouths licked off rivulets of perspi-
ration; she felt milk being sucked from the painfully swollen
breasts. Then voracious tongues trailed up her legs, up her
thighs, to the radiating, wet inlet to her womb.
Her orgasm jolted her, followed by a string of smaller yet
longer ones. It felt as though every inch of exposed flesh was ei-
ther being caressed, licked, kneaded, or sucked. Beyond she no-
ticed other shadows, which seemed to be men. Men, watching
before a stoked fire. Forms of other figures seemed to squirm on
the dirt floor, naked, coupling legs wrapped around backs, faces
buried between legs.
"Dooer, dooer," she heard again as her own orgasms pulsed
down and the contractions began to throb.
"Join us."
Two hands formed a basket between her legs. Squeals rose, in
119

120
Edward Lee
joy, in awe. The great, gravid belly shuddered, pulsed, shud-
dered, then collapsed very quickly. She felt something leaving,
pushed from the womb into open air. Wet and stirring, the baby
was held aloft. It began to cry at once.
The hands and mouths came away. Dozens of eyes looked up
at the newborn.
The eyes were wide, glittering.
Staring up as if in reverence.
Ann churned awake. The bedroom's dark felt like a crushing
weight, a blanket of hot, wet cement. She lurched up.
The clock read 4:12 a.m.
The nightmare, she thought. Again.
Martin snored faintly beside her. He'd come home late, en-
thusing about his excursion to Lockwood's only bar. "What a
great bunch of guys," he's said. "You'll never meet people like
that in the city. Real people, you know? They have their lives
and they live them in their own honest way."
He rambled on happily, not drunk, just feeling good. It
pleased Ann to see him so happy. It was hard for him here, she
knew, in a place so different from the world he was used to, es-
pecially with the shadow of her mother's cynicism constantly
over his head. "It's strange," he'd gone on. "I've been here a
few times in the past, but for some reason it's different now. I
wouldn't even mind living here, to be honest. I feel at peace
here."
He'd made love to her when they'd gone to bed. She'd strad-
dled him, touching herself between their hips. She'd wanted so
badly to come with him, but as usual it hadn't happened. She'd
had to pretend again. Thank God he didn't know.
The nightmare haunted her now. Its crisp images and vivid
heat seemed to linger in the dark. When she got up, her sex
tingled—the giveaway that she'd come in her sleep. How could
she know so little about herself? She felt desperate without Dr.
Harold. The dream's scenario always roved like a camera lens,
escalating to perversion. Why? What had Melanie's birth pro-
posed to Ann's subconscious? Rampant lesbianism. Orgies be-
neath the birth table. Occult undertones, and that cryptic warped
double circle.
She crept out of the room and closed the door. A faint beep-
ing unbalanced the dead silence of the house. She peeked in on

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her father. Milly Godwin, the nurse, had dozed off in a chair
with a book in her lap. A Lifepak heart monitor blipped green,
rather slowly. Her father lay still beneath the sheets.
Next, she peeked into Melanie's room at the other end of the
house. Melanie's bed was empty, but a quick glance up showed
her daughter standing before the high, narrow window, gazing
out.
"Melanie? Are you okay?"
At first her daughter didn't respond.
"Melanie?"
She turned very slowly. Like Ann, her nightgown stuck to her
from sweat. Her eyes looked glazed.
"Mother," she said.
"What, honey?"
"The moon is pink."
What had she been dreaming?
She'd been smoking that stuff with Wendlyn and Rena. Yeah,
they'd been smoking that stuff—what had they called it?
Leahroot?—and they'd been looking at her, and there was
something about that, wasn't there? Something about the looks
on their faces. Something ... knowing.
Melanie knew too, but she didn't admit it to herself. How
could she imagine such a thing? So she'd left abruptly, hadn't
she? Yes, she left Wendlyn and Rena in their little hidden moon-
lit grove, and she'd gone home. She'd gone home and gone to
bed.
And in bed she dreamed.
She dreamed of the little grove again. In the dream she was
still there, with Wendlyn and Rena, smoking that stuff. But it
hadn't been like before.
"Yeah, Zack's cock is almost ten inches," Rena was saying.
"We made him measure it once," Wendlyn came in.
Rena giggled. "Yeah, we made him play with himself till it
got hard and told him to measure it. You should've seen him,
Melanie, Zack standing there with his pants down, jerking him-
self and then holding a ruler to it. We laughed our asses off."
"Zack does anything we say," Wendlyn added. "He's such a
weak idiot."
"All guys are."

122
Edward Lee
"One time we came back here and there was this old droopy
dog snuffling around—"
Rena was slapping her knee, laughing. "And we told Zack to
do it to the dog—"
"And he did!" Wendlyn finished.
And in the dream Melanie just looked back at them. She felt
neutral, observant. She was just sitting there watching them, lis-
tening to them, and riding the buzz of the stuff they smoked.
Rena was grinning. "Hot out, isn't it?"
"Yeah, it's hot," Wendlyn agreed. She was grinning too.
Melanie knew. She was not the least bit shocked when both
girls skimmed their pale sundresses off. They leaned on one an-
other and, without qualm, began touching themselves. Melanie
watched them, equally without qualm. Their skin looked pure
white, like a summer cloud. They both had dark brown nipples,
like Melanie's. Rena's stuck out more on her tiny breasts.
Wendlyn's breasts looked much bigger, and firm.
"It feels better when someone else does it," Rena said, then
both girls switched hands, touching each other.
"Yeah, it feels a lot better," Wendlyn agreed. "We do it to
each other a lot."
Melanie continued to watch. She felt hot herself.
Rena's long slim legs began to tense, her heels digging in the
dirt, while Wendlyn sat poised with her legs spread. Moonlight
bathed Rena's face. She was looking up with her eyes closed,
squirming.'She began to moan, and soon the moans were so
loud Melanie feared the sound might carry out of the woods to
the street.
When they were done, they lay back in each other's arms.
Their grins subsided to soft, sated smiles.
Melanie noticed now that her own hand had found its way to
her crotch. Rubbing against the tight denim. Her mouth felt dry,
her heart was thrumming. She did not resist the impulse; she
stood up and took off her clothes.
The moonlight was pink in her eyes. She felt out of breath,
desperate for something. Now Wendlyn and Rena were sitting
on either side of her. Rena grabbed Melanie's hand and placed it
between her own legs. Wendlyn was kissing her nipples. They
were giggling softly, stroking her, running their smooth white
hands over her entire body. Between glances, Melanie noticed
that they wore pendants of some kind, not chain necklaces, but

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123
thin white cords each with a thing like a little stone on the end.
Rena's pendant lay flat against her little breasts. Wendlyn's
swayed as she leaned over further and began to suck Melanie's
large dark nipples. All the while Melanie's breath thinned as her
fingers massaged the wet button of her sex.
"It feels better when someone else does it," Rena said.
"Yeah," Wendlyn said.
Rena's hand pushed Melanie's away. It did feel better, it felt a
lot better. Melanie had masturbated a few times before, but it
never felt like this. Rena's fingers began to rub harder, faster.
Wendlyn was kneading her breasts and slipping her tongue in
her mouth. It didn't take long; Rena's fingers seemed to know
exactly the best way to touch her. Melanie gasped against
Wendlyn's lips, and she came quite abruptly, a throbbing gust
from her loins.
She lay back, slaked. "You're very special," Wendlyn whis-
pered, her pendant swaying. All Melanie could see now was the
strange pink light of the moon.
"Melanie? Are you okay?"
The dream was over.
"Melanie?" Her mother's voice.
Had she actually been standing in her sleep? When she came
awake, she was standing at the window, looking out. The dream
lapsed, yet the pink phosphorescence remained. She was awake
now. In her room. Staring at the moon.
"Mother, the moon is pink," she said groggily.
"I know, honey," her mother was saying, urging her over to
the bed. "It's a special equinox or something. It's nothing."
Melanie sat down on the bed. "God, I feel—"
"You're soaked!" her mother exclaimed.
She was. Sweat dampened her nightgown to the skin.
"Are you sure you're all right? You're not sick?"
"I'm ... fine. It was just a nightmare."
Ann sat down next to her, pushed her damp hair off her brow.
"Join the club. I had a nightmare too, as usual," she said. "Why
don't you tell me about yours. Sometimes when you tell some-
one else your nightmare, it's not scary anymore."
God! Melanie thought. Sure, Mom, I dreamed I made out
with two girls. And I liked it. "It was stupid," she dismissed.
"You look pale. Do you want me to get you something?"
"No thanks. I'm fine, Mom, really."

124
Edward Lee
"Okay." Ann kissed her on the cheek. "Get some sleep."
"Good night, Mom."
"Good night."
Her mother left.
Melanie lay atop the covers, still perplexed by the dream.
The pink moon beamed in on her. A special equinox or some-
thing. That's right, it was almost spring. The moonlight looked
pretty, but she shivered. It reminded her of the dream. That
shimmering, faint pinkness. You 're very special, Wendlyn had
said in the dream. They'd said that, too, for real, hadn't they?
That she was special? The more she tried to forget the dream,
the more vividly she remembered it. It seemed enticingly for-
bidden, not repulsive. She closed her eyes and saw it more
lewdly. They were pretty girls, with pretty faces. She saw their
breasts again, from the dream, and those odd pendants. Then
she gasped.
She lay still for a moment, until she realized what must've
happened. It was that stuff they'd smoked, that was it. It
clouded her memory, mixed some of the dream with reality. The
pendants—the little gray stones on white strings. Her hand lay
between her breasts. She was awake now—the dream was over.
Yet an identical pendant hung about her own neck this very
moment.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
m
Sergeant Tom Byron loaded his left cheek with Skoal, then spat
into a paper cup.
Chief Bard, fat behind his desk, wasn't sure about how to
make the revelation. "Tharp and Belluxi shot up another Qwik-
Stop last night. Killed the clerk and three stoners."
"Where?" Byron asked.
"North of Waynesville." *
Byron's lips puckered. "But that's—"
"I know, it's thirty miles away from us. And those two guys
burned up in their pickup were found right on our town line."
Sergeant Byron was no mental giant, but he didn't need to be
told of this particular inexplicability. "That don't make no
sense, Chief. The bodies we caught Tharp buryin' were burned
up just like the two Crick City guys yesterday."
"Yeah, yeah, I know, and their brains were missing, and some
of their organs, just like five years ago. So why would Tharp
risk driving all the way back here just to go thirty miles back-
ward last night to do the Qwik-Stop?"
Byron chewed and spat again. "Maybe Tharp didn't do the
Qwik-Stop. Maybe it was a fluke, someone else done it."
"No way. The state just called me with the ballistics. They
pulled Webley .455 slugs out of those kids last night. And that's
what they ripped off of old Farley at the first Qwik-Stop."
"Ain't never heard of a Webley."
"It's a big piece, a big old British thing. Used 'em in the Boer
War or some fucked-up war like that. Got more stopping power
than a .44 Mag, .45, 10mm, you name it. Slug's so big, you hit a
guy in the face with one, his whole head'11 explode."
"And they also got the 870 from the Luntville car."
"Yeah. Ain't that grand?"
125

126
Edward Lee
Byron sucked his wad of Skoal reflectively. "Maybe this
means they're headin' away now."
No, Bard thought. They're coming back here. That's what
Tharp wants. He's just driving back and forth to keep us off his
tail. "Maybe," was all he said. "And worst thing is we got no
idea what they're driving. They kill everyone who sees 'em,
cops included."
Byron continued to venture. "Maybe Tharp didn't do the two
guys in the pickup. Sounds crazy, shore, but maybe it was some-
one else."
"Don't be a moron," Bard said. "Who else would do some-
thing like that? Burn up two kids, take their brains?"
But that's not what Bard was thinking at all. As preposterous
as the suggestion sounded, he knew too well that Byron was
right.
"Any change?" Ann asked.
She stood in the kitchen, morning sunlight pouring in. It
shined like glare off Dr. Heyd's bald head. "No, he's still the
same. He hasn't gotten any better, but at least he hasn't gotten
any worse."
That was about as hopeful a prognosis as she could ask. Milly
was putting little IV bottles into the refrigerator, medication and
intravenous sustenance. "He didn't stir at all last night."
"Sometimes he convulses," Dr. Heyd added.
"Why?" Ann asked.
"Really, Ann, the details would only upset you."
"Tell me," she said.
Dr. Heyd sighed. "A massive stroke causes a massive block-
age, a clot. Every so often his blood pressure will break up some
of the clot and he'll revive for a short time."
"But that's good, isn't it?"
"No, I'm afraid not. All it does is disperse more particles of
the clot deeper mto the brain, which will cause further clots and
microscopic arterial ruptures. I have to be honest with you,
Ann. The stroke has occluded the blood supply to a large por-
tion of his brain. Therefore, when he is conscious, he's com-
pletely insensible."
"But he came to for a moment yesterday when I was in the
room," Ann said. "He seemed to recognize me."
"Perhaps, but probably not."

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Wishful thinking, she concluded.
Milly put her arm around her. "It's best not to think about the
details, Ann."
"I know. I'm just worried about Melanie. I haven't taken her
in to see him yet. I don't know how much of this she'll under-
stand."
"She's almost an adult now. You'd be surprised."
"I guess I should do it soon," Ann said more softly.
"Yes," Dr. Heyd agreed. "I think that's a good idea."
Ann thanked them and left the room. It was awkward, thank-
ing people for attending a loved one's death. Upstairs, she
found Melanie's bedroom empty. She mustn't have slept well at
all, and Ann could easily sympathize. Maybe nightmares are
hereditary, she tried to joke to herself. She'd had her own night-
mare again too. She knew what it was like to not be able to sleep
because of a dream.
Back down the other end of the house, she heard voices. She
walked up to her father's door and stopped.
"... sometimes things seem bad to us, but they're not really
bad," a voice was saying. The voice was unmistakably her
mother's.
"You mean, like God?" queried Melanie's voice.
"You can think of it that way, dear. But it's more than that.
Somewhere, yes, there is an overseer, that watches over us and
our lives. But everything is part of something else. We are all
pieces of a great plan, Melanie."
"What kind of plan?"
"It's not an easy thing to define. It's in the heart. It overrides
what we are, or what we may think we are, as individuals, be-
cause there really are no individuals. We're all part of some-
thing that is greater than what we can ever be by ourselves. Do
you understand, honey?"
"I think so."
"Everything happens for a reason."
"Is that the same as saying that God works in strange ways?"
"It's more than that, much more. It's the same as saying
we're all here for a reason that's so complex, we can't possibly
see it all at once. And everything that happens, happens as part
of that reason."
Ann stood outside the door, infuriated. She did not make her-
self known, she only listened.

128
Edward Lee
Melanie's silence reflected her confusion.
"Let me put it this way, dear," Ann's mother continued. "It's
like what we were talking about yesterday. We think of death as
bad. Your grandfather is dying, and we see that as bad because
we love him. But it's not really bad, we only think it is because
we're not capable of understanding the plan completely." Her
mother's voice lowered. "People die for a reason. It's more than
just a part of nature. Death isn't the end, it's a stepping-stone to
a better place."
"Heaven, you mean."
"Yes, Melanie, heaven."
Ann stepped back into another room so as not to be seen. She
was seething. Her anger pulsed like a headache.
"I hear you've met some new friends." Now they were out in
the hall. "You go and see them now. We'll talk later."
"Okay, Grandma."
Melanie went down the stairs.
"What the hell are you doing?" Ann demanded when she
stepped out of the room.
"Oh, good morning, Ann," her mother said. "I'm glad to see
you're in your usual cheery mood."
"Where do you get off saying things like that to my daugh-
ter?"
"The poor thing is confused. Someone has to talk to her
about reality, about death."
"I'm her mother," Ann reminded. "That's my job."
"Indeed it is, and just one of countless aspects of motherhood
that you've conveniently neglected. Were you ever going to
take her in to see him?"
"I wanted to give her some time, for God's sake!"
"Time, yes." Her mother chuckled. "You've given her seven-
teen year? to wallow in confusion. Isn't it time you started
explaining some things to her?"
"What? About plansl About heaven? Since when are you re-
ligious? You have no right to influence her spiritually."
"I have more right than you. What do you know about
spirituality? You're a lawyer, remember? You're more con-
cerned about litigation and lawsuits than your own daughter's
upbringing."

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129
Ann stormed off. She fled down the stairs and out into the
backyard. She wanted to scream. She wanted to run away.
Yes, it would be nice to run, to run away from everything.
It took her hours to cool off. How could her mother have said
such things?
But when the anger wore away, a grayness set in. It always
did after a deliberation. Here, or in court—it didn't matter
where. At the end of the confrontation, she was always left to
wonder if the opposition was right.
"You'll always be at odds with her, Ann," Martin said. "I
don't know why, that's between you and her. The best way to
deal with it is to try to understand the reason."
"She's a contemptuous bitch! That's the reason!" Ann yelled.
"Listen to yourself," Martin said. "You're going to have to be
more reasonable about this than that. You have to come to terms
with your mother's bitterness, and your own—"
"My own!" she objected. *
"Ann, you just referred to your mother as a contemptuous
bitch. That sounds pretty bitter to me. I don't understand how
you can be so cool and objective about everything, but the mi-
nute your mother's involved, you fly off the handle."
Ann seethed in the car seat.
"All I mean is that the way you and your mother deal with
each other isn't working. It never has, and never will. You'll
have to find another way to deal with each other."
"Yeah, how about not dealing with each other? That sounds
good to me."
"I think that's been the problem all along, Ann."
"I can't believe you're siding with her."
"I'm not siding with her, Ann. She's not exactly my favorite
person, you know. But it happens every time. You two can't
even be in the same room without going at it like a couple of pit
bulls. It's tearing you up, and it's not a good thing for Melanie to
be exposed to. Someday you're going to have to resolve this,
and the resolution isn't going to come from her, Ann. It's going
to have to come from you. Your mother's obstinate and stub-
born. She'll never change the way she perceives you. You're
going to have to adapt to that."
Good Christ, she thought. How could she adapt to her moth-
er's contempt? Was everyone against her?

130
Edward Lee
"Just forget it for now," he suggested. "Let's go for a walk."
Ann frowned as he parked the Mustang in front of the town
hall. It was a pretty day, warm but not humid. At the end of the
great court, the white church loomed.
It made her think of what her mother had been telling
Melanie. Why should a woman so incognizant of religion put
the topic of death in such terms? And that question made her
think of Dr. Harold, who'd suggested that the occult trimmings
of Ann's nightmare reflected a subconscious guilt from raising
Melanie in a neutral religious atmosphere.
Martin put his arm around her. "Let's get an ice cream cone."
"There's no ice cream parlor in Lockwood."
"Ah, well, it's bad for us anyway. What's that?"
Nale's, the big sign read. "It's the general store," Ann told
him.
"They sell generals there?"
"Funny, Martin. Stop trying to cheer me up with bad jokes."
"Okay, how about a worse joke? How do you sneak up on
celery?"
"How, Martin?"
"Stalk."
"You're right, that is worse."
The scent of spices and ginger greeted them when they en-
tered. Nale's was more like a country gift shop than a general
store. Lots of knickknacks, dolls, homemade preserves, and the
like. From a long rod hung hand-dipped candles. Evidently, ev-
erything here was handmade: quilts, pot holders, utensils, even
some chairs and tables. Ann remembered Mr. Nale, the nice old
man who ran the store. He made his own licorice and would
give all the kids a piece on their way to school.
"Would you like some ice cream?"
Ann and Martin turned. A rather short woman smiled at them
from behind the counter. She was roughly pretty, sort of rustic-
lookfhg, and had thick straight brown hair to her shoulders.
"I'm Maedeen," she said.
Martin laughed. "You must be psychic. We were just won-
dering where we could get an ice cream cone."
Maedeen opened a cooler and gave them each a vanilla scoop
on sugar cones. "I make it myself," she said.
"Thank you," Ann said. "I'm—"

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131
"Ann, and you must be Martin," Maedeen told them. "And,
no, I'm not psychic. Your mother told me you'd be in town."
"Does Mr. Nale still work here?"
"No, he died several years ago. I run the store now."
Martin looked the place over. "Quaint," he remarked. "They
sure don't have stores like this in the city."
"Everything in the shop is made by yours truly," Maedeen in-
formed him. "Ann's mother said you're a writer?"
"Yeah, or at least I try to be. 1 have four books out. Out, as in
out of print."
"It must be exciting, to be able to perpetuate yourself so crea-
tively. I've always wanted to write but could never seem to get
anything down."
"Don't let that stop you." Martin laughed. "It hasn't stopped
me. But you're right, it is exciting to actually have something
you've written published and put out into the world."
Ann felt faintly jealous of this short and rather spacy woman,
but then Maedeen addressed Ann directly. "Melanie and my
daughter, Wendlyn, seem to be hitting it off very well."
This took Ann by surprise. "Oh, I didn't even know—"
"They met yesterday, she and Rena—that's Milly's daugh-
ter." Maedeen smiled. "I hope they all get to be good friends."
"She seems nice," Martin said when they drove back to the
house.
"She seems weird," Ann elaborated.
"Why do you say that?"
Ann finished her ice cream cone. "I don't know. It's just
weird how she knew about us."
"You're right about that. It was the same way last night at the
bar. I'd never met any of those guys before, but they all knew
about me, and you. It's like your mother announced our coming
to the whole town."
Ann nodded. "And it's strange that Melanie didn't mention
anything to me about meeting Maedeen's and Milly's daugh-
ters."
"Well, at least it's good that she's found some kids her own
age."
"And I didn't particularly care for the way she was looking at
you."
"Who? Maedeen?"

132
Edward Lee
"Yeah, Maedeen."
Martin let out a laugh. "It's not easy being God's gift to
women, Ann. Women can't resist me, which is understandable,
considering my vast intellect, undisputable charm, and obvious
good looks."
"Martin, you're so full of shit you need a toilet brush to clean
your ears."
"Hey, look." Martin pointed. "Is that Melanie?"
"It better not be," Ann said when she looked across. Three
girls and a boy were going into a house. The boy wore jeans,
combat boots, and a leather jacket with buttons on it. His black
hair was very short on the back and sides but so long in front
that some strands hung past his nose. And one of the girls
looked like Melanie.
The four went into the house and closed the door.
"Jesus Christ," Ann commented. "Is there no end to it?"
"Here we go—"
"Did you see that guy, Martin? I thought Sid Vicious was
dead. Just once I'd like to see her hang out with someone nor-
mal."
"Normal by your standards, you mean."
"Don't you start that shit again, Martin. I'm going to get her."
"You'll do no such thing," Martin told her.
"Well, pardon me. Need I remind you that she's my daugh-
ter?"
"And need I remind you that she's capable of choosing her
friends herself—"
"That guy looks like a nut!"
"Why? Because he's not wearing Brooks Brothers? Get with
it, Ann. All her friends back in the city dress like that."
"Yeah, and they're all nuts too!"
"How do you know? You've never even made the effort to
meet any of her friends. And did you stop to think that maybe
the reason Melanie feels so alienated is because you alienate
herS"
Ann sputtered. He's starting to sound like my mother. Could
she help if it she didn't want her only child hanging around with
a guy who looked like he just stepped off the drug train? At least
the girls looked normal.
"Trust her, Ann," Martin went on. "Just because the guy

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looks different doesn't mean they're going in there to smoke
dope."
Zack removed the joint from his jacket pocket. He passed it
and a lighter to Wendlyn.
"So how long are you in town?" he asked Melanie.
"Just for the week, I think," she said, but she felt so distracted
she barely heard her own words. Zack was a dream. Cool blue
eyes, great haircut, great body. Under the black leather jacket he
wore a "Minor Threat" T-shirt which was tight enough to show
off his washboard abdominals. Zack was the last kind of person
she'd ever expect to find in a town like Lockwood.
"Rena and Wendlyn said you live at the church."
"Yeah, I take care of the place. They give me a room in the
basement. It's not a bad deal."
Wendlyn and Rena huddled together on the couch. They
passed the joint back and forth alew times. Then Rena passed it
to Melanie.
"You sure this stuff isn't pot?"
"We told you, it's leahroot," Wendlyn said.
"Go ahead," Rena said.
Melanie looked at the tiny joint. She remembered how it had
affected her last night. What the hell, she thought.
One hit, and Melanie felt weightless, giddy. She lazily looked
around. Rena's house was cramped and old but it was neat. It
felt lived in, more like a real home than Melanie's antiseptic
apartment.
"I had a dream about you last night," Rena said.
Melanie looked at her. I had a dream about you too, she was
tempted to reply but didn't dare.
Wendlyn, oddly, seemed to be grinning.
"We'll let you two get better acquainted," Rena feigned in a
floozy accent. Then she and Wendlyn went toward the back of
the house.
Melanie wondered why she didn't feel nervous. Ordinarily,
she would be, suddenly sitting here with a near-perfect stranger.
But there was something about Zack, though he hadn't said
much, that put her at ease.
"Where are you from?" she asked.
"Kind of all over," Zack said. "I was on my own for a while,

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Edward Lee
when I was younger. Your grandmother sort of took me in. I
owe her a lot."
She wanted to ask him something commonplace, like about
school, but then it occurred to her that he probably hadn't had
much education. Some people were more fortunate than others.
His jacket sported several New Wave buttons. One of them
read "Killing Joke."
"Killing Joke?" she enthused. "That's my favorite group."
"Yeah? I saw 'em a few years ago when I was passing
through D.C. I met 'em after the show—pretty cool bunch of
guys."
This astonished Melanie. "You met Killing Joke?"
"Yeah, backstage after the show. They autographed one of
my CD covers. I'll show it to you sometime."
Melanie didn't know if she believed this. To her, meeting
Killing Joke was the equivalent of a priest meeting the Apos-
tles.
"Only bad thing about Lockwood is not many people are into
good music," he said. "Come on, I'll show you my record col-
lection."
Melanie was taken aback. Should she go? She'd like to. But
where to exactly? "Where did Wendlyn and Rena go?"
Zack shrugged. "Who cares? We'll run into them later. Come
on."
"Okay," she said. Zack stubbed out the joint and pocketed it.
Mom would love this, she thought, amused. He led her outside
across some yards. More houses like Rena's could be seen,
small but picturesque. Melanie walked along, still high from the
joint. Zack walked close behind her; he took off his jacket and
slung it over his shoulder. God, she thought. The tight T-shirt
clung to a well-developed back and shoulders. He was lean but
well built. His biceps bulged.
"You're probably bored here already," he suggested.
"Why do you say that?"
"I mean, a girl like you—in Lockwood."
"What do you mean, a girl like me?"
"Yofl know. Classy. Educated."
Melanie felt flattered. "I like Lockwood. It's different."
Zack seemed to snort a laugh. "You're right about that."
She wasn't quite sure what he meant. Great ass too, she
thought, taking a glance. "Did you really meet Killing Joke?"

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"You don't believe me?"
"Oh, I believe you, I just—"
"You'll see," he said.
She found his aloofness as attractive as his body. His slow ca-
sual gait somehow propelled him so quickly that Melanie nearly
had to jog to keep up. She didn't feel comfortable cutting be-
tween houses—someone might call the police; at least, in the
city they would. In one window she saw several women sitting
around a table; they seemed huddled. Then she saw the same
thing in a window of the next house. Another room showed a
man sitting alone. He was staring at the wall.
"That was quick," she said.
The shortcut brought them to the town square in minutes. The
sun was going down just over the peaked roof of the church.
That's where he was taking her: the church.
What a strange place to live, she thought.
"Down here."
In back, steps descended into1 a brick-walled enclosure in the
ground, and a door. A hinge keened.
"Home, sweet home," Zack remarked. Light from a bare bulb
lit a long cinder-block-walled room. One end was cramped with
a small bed, a dresser, and a chair. But then she saw what most
of the room was devoted to: rows of shelves which contained
hundreds, if not thousands, of records and compact discs.
"Jesus," she whispered.
"It ain't Buckingham Palace, but it's all I need."
"No, I meant... your collection."
"Yeah, and check out my gear."
Arranged at the back of the basement was a stereo system the
likes of which Melanie could never imagine. Steel racks on
floor points housed dual amplifiers the size of televisions, a
Nakamichi DAT recorder, an ARCAM CD player, and a line
conditioner. Another stand on points supported a turntable with
a linear air-bearing tone arm. A subwoofer separated two giant
electrostatic speakers the size of doors.
"It's my pride and joy," Zack said. "Gotta leave the equip-
ment on all the time or else it sounds edgy. A high-end turntable
blows CD away; most people don't realize that. Of course, most
people don't spend twenty-five grand on a stereo system."
"Twenty ... five ... grand?" Melanie whispered.
"Sure. Music's my only pleasure. I don't cut corners."

136
Edward Lee
"They must pay you pretty well to clean up the church."
Zack laughed faintly. 'They don't pay me nothing, 'cept they
give me the room for free."
"Then how can you afford ... all this?"
"Odd jobs," Zack replied. He walked over to one of the
shelves and removed something. "Check this out."
Melanie held it as if it were an icon. The CD version of Kill-
ing Joke's Nighttime. It had been autographed by all members
of the band, and inside was a Polaroid of Zack standing next to
the lead singer.
"Believe me now?"
Melanie nodded. All she could say was: "Wow."
"You can have it," he said.
Melanie was shocked. "Oh, no, I could never take—"
"If you want it, take it." Abruptly, he turned away.
Melanie's sense of cordiality lapsed. She knew she shouldn't
take it, but she did anyway. An autographed Killing Joke, she
thought, awed. She would frame it, hang it in her room.
"Thanks," she said.
She perused his record shelves. He had everything. Every-
thing by Killing Joke, PiL, the Banshees, Magazine, Mono-
chrome Set, Section 25, Strange Boutique. Melanie couldn't
believe the coincidence: her and Zack's musical tastes were
identical. He had everything by anyone good.
He played some records and discs for her. The huge speakers
threw a soundstage that overwhelmed her. Zack seemed to en-
joy playing the music as much as she enjoyed listening to it. He
mustn't get much of a chance to show off his system, not in a
town like Lockwood.
They listened for hours. She never got bored, but eventually
she grew fidgety. She knew what it was. When her high wore
off, it left something like a hot anguish in its place. She felt
steamy, tingly.
She'd never done anything so overt before.
She took his hand and led him toward the bed.
'You're very special," he said, and turned off the lights.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
m
Providence, Erik thought.
He had to travel in snatches, at night. Several times police
had passed him—he'd thought sure that was the end. How
much longer would his luck last?
He'd lay low tonight, he couldn't afford not to. He'd driven
past Lockwood on Route 13, to the woodlands. An old trail he
remembered took him deep into the forest belt. They'd never
find him here. He covered the van with brush and mud, to mask
its lacquered white paint.
He knew he still had a few days.
He felt buried in the dark woods. Buried, he thought.
Brygorwreccan.
I'm a peow, he thought.
The moon shone down. Its light pinkened the dense woods.
Doefolmon, he thought.
Wiffek.
Fulluht-Loc.
In the moon's bleary light, he saw it all again. He saw them.
Bathing in glee, in blood. He saw their mad feasts, their supple
bodies, and their longing eyes and lust which stripped him of
his soul.
They weren't people. They were monsters.
How many graves did I dig for them?
He'd watched their mad rituals many times. They'd held the
husls down on the slab, slicing them open like fish and reeling
out their entrails, oblivious to the mad, lurching screams. Erik
knew that he would hear those screams forever. The more priv-
ileged wreccans tended to far worse matters, things which beg-
gared description...
Dohtor, he thought.
137

138
Edward Lee
Dother.
Dotherfo Dother.
He'd seen it once, in the night-mirror. That had been many
years ago. They'd held his head by his hair and made him look,
had pried his eyelids open with their fingers. It had been like be-
ing drowned in blood.
Afterward, they'd nearly fucked him to death.
Martin dreamed of Maedeen.
Even within the dream, he knew it was a dream. Because he
would never do such things for real. Never.
He loved Ann more than he'd ever loved anyone in his life.
Cheating on her would be like cutting her. It was unthinkable.
So what did the dream mean?
He was walking in the darkness, in the woods. Tinder
crunched—the moon's pink light led him through a labyrinth of
trees.
He'd been assigned a task. A cramped clearing formed,
bright in moonlight. At his feet lay a pile of bags. They were
regular plastic garbage bags, Hefty kitchen size. They'd been
tied up and neatly stacked. Martin didn't know what was in
them, and he didn't care. He only knew he was supposed to do
something with them.
He was supposed to bury them.
It hadn't taken long to dig the hole. Next, he was placing the
bags, one at a time, into the hole. Though small, they felt heavy,
weighted. He calmly filled the hole with the little bags, then
covered them with earth. Plap, plap, plap! came the sound as
the dirt landed on the plastic.
When he was done, he leaned against a tree and flinched.
There was something wet and slick on the tree trunk. In the
moonlight, his palm looked black.
Faint giggling bubbled out of the dark.
Martin wended back into the woods. The giggling sounded
^like girls, children perhaps. The moonlight was bright and pink.
He stopped, tried to focus.
A slender, naked girl was leaning over. Martin stared. He
looked at her long, slender legs, the sparse cleft of fur where
they joined. The fur protruded as she leaned over further, and he
could see the bottoms of her beasts jiggling slightly as her arm
moved in some arcane task. This sudden sight—this beautiful

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nude girl pristine in moonlight, her buttocks jutting—aroused
Martin at once. But when she turned, he gasped.
It was Melanie.
"Hi, Martin," she said. She was grinning.
Embarrassment flooded him. Her nakedness faced him with-
out inhibition. This was a seventeen-year-old—his lover's
daughter. Yet she seemed to sense his unease, she seemed to de-
light in it.
"You want to fuck me, don't you?" she queried.
"No," Martin said, but the reply was roughened, dry.
"Don't lie to me, you pig. When I was leaning over a minute
ago, you wanted to take your cock out, didn't you? You wanted
to walk right up behind me and put it in me. Didn't you?"
"No," Martin croaked.
She grinned back at him. She looked just like Ann, the same
breasts and nipples, the same legs—just younger. In one hand
she held a pail, but it looked old, rusty. It looked like a relic. In
her other hand she held a crude brush, like a paintbrush.
That's what she'd been doing. She'd been painting some-
thing on the trees.
Then two more girls emerged from the darkness. They, too,
were naked. Their matching grins seemed obscene, their bodies
tinted pink. They each held a brush and a pail too.
What was this? Why were they painting trees?
One girl seemed younger, slimmer; she scarcely had any pu-
bic hair at all. The third girl's bosom jutted. She was more de-
veloped, more curvy and plush.
"Get that shit off," said the youngest.
"What?"
"Your clothes, shithead," said the third.
"The wifford wants you ready," Melanie added.
"The whatV Martin asked.
"Just shut up and get your clothes off."
Strangest of all, Martin obeyed these commands. The pink
moon beat down on him, glare in his eyes. Next thing he knew
he lay sprawled on the thatchy forest ground. The girls con-
verged. Their hands ran all over him. His erection throbbed as if
to burst, pulsing with his heart. All Martin could do was lie back
and cringe.
No, no, he thought. This was perverse. These girls were teen-

140
Edward Lee
agers, he was a thirty-eight-year-old man. And Melanie, for
God's sake ...
It's got to be. It's got to be a—
"That's right, asshole," Melanie said. "It's a dream."
But that knowledge did not legitimize the wrongness of this.
Lust felt stuffed into his head; his entire body throbbed with it.
Without preamble, Melanie straddled his face. "Eat it, peow,"
she said. "Stick your tongue in it." Martin tried, but couldn't—
she was keeping it too far away. She laughed, touching herself.
Her thighs clenched against his head.
And the other two girls ... what were they doing? Martin
couldn't see, but he felt rough, swirling sensations. They gig-
gled with their work. As Melanie brought herself to orgasm, lit-
tle daubs touched his penis, his testicles—though the contact
was insubstantial, Martin thought he might explode.
"We're initiating you, peow," one of them said, giggling.
"We're making you ours," said the other.
He realized then what they were doing.
They were painting him. They were painting him with what-
ever they'd been painting on the trees.
This was crazy. They were just girls. Martin easily had the
strength to overpower them, but even the thought of that
weighed him down more. He felt as though roots had emerged,
had lashed him to the pulpy ground.
"Poor little lamb must be thirsty."
"Give him a drink, Melanie."
The three girls shrieked laughter—a mad, clicking, witchlike
sound. Then Melanie began to urinate into his face.
The hot stream inundated him. He gagged, eyes squeezed
shut as their laughter rose. Is she going to piss forever? he
thought.
Martin wasn't used to this kind of humiliation, even in
dreams. He thought how wonderful it would be to lurch up,
shrug them off. Yet his hate collided with his paralysis and
br^ke apart, as though any thought of rebellion weakened him
further.
"Bet he's not thirsty now."
"Look at his cock! Let's cut it off!"
Martin's heart raced.
The girls scurried away. Suddenly, a shape blocked out the

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141
moonlight. Martin could only move his eyes. They roved up the
figure, up sleek white legs, over a bushy pubis, over breasts and
nipples. Then to the face: Maedeen's.
Yes, it was Maedeen, the shopkeeper. She was grinning,
looking down at him with her hands on her hips.
She straddled him at once. "Fok, peow. You are wreccan
now."
Martin shuddered. She traced his cheek with a nail that felt
inches long and sharp as a pin.
"You belong to us."
She inserted him into her sex, which seemed inordinately hot.
As she rode him, she looked up to the moon, whispering words
he'd never heard. Her bare hips pounded him, her breasts
bobbed. Despite the sensation, Martin wanted to throw up. The
three girls crawled forward to watch, still giggling. The third
pressed her palm over his mouth—she pressed down hard. Then
Melanie, her pink face floating above him, pinched his nostrils
shut.
Martin lay frozen. They were killing him, but he couldn't
budge. Each time he thought his lungs would burst, Melanie re-
leased the pinch on his nostrils, gave him a second to breathe,
then pinched them closed again.
"You can play, Melanie. Just don't kill him," Maedeen said.
"Let's cut him up while she's fucking him!" enthused one
girl.
"Let's cut off his balls when he comes!" suggested the third.
Martin felt buried in terror. Melanie continued to pinch and
release. The palm pressed harder against his lips. The youngest
girl began slapping at his testicles between Maedeen's colliding
strokes. Their laughter smothered him like a tarp.
But something was happening. Martin's eyes bulged in the
pink light. He felt death sliding close. Melanie was giving him
less air. The younger girl squeezed his testicles so hard he
thought they'd split as Maedeen's sex gulped his erection. He
could see them only in mad glimpses, in blurs. Their nails
seemed heinously long, like talons. And their faces ... their
faces ...
"Every night, peow. Every night we do whatever we want
with you."

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Edward Lee
But the words seemed sunken now, a black rattle. Maedeen's
voice barely sounded human.
And her face—
My God—
—her face didn't look human at all.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
m
I can % the words seemed to loll in the dark. You 're special.
Melanie awakened, frowning. A slant of sunlight lay across
her eyes from the gap in the curtains.
I want to, but I can't. You 're too special.
She'd slept like a bag of rocks. It only took a moment to re-
member last night's embarrassment. Zack must think I'm a slut.
She couldn't believe how forward she'd been. She'd initiated
everything—she'd practically dragged him to the bed. It had
been great at first. Melanie had made out with a lot of guys in
the past, but this had been different. It seemed they were on the
bed for hours, just kissing and touching each other. You're so
beautiful, he kept whispering. Then everything had fallen apart
as quickly as it had started.
She'd never gone all the way before. She'd had plenty of
chances, she'd just never really wanted to. But with Zack ...
After a while, their petting had wrung her out. She could feel
her own wetness seeping, and his own arousal was plain each
time she ran her hand across his crotch. The sensations that
swelled in her made her feel like a tightly wound wire. A few
more twists and she would break. She skimmed off his T-shirt
and ran her hands over his muscles, his strong back and chest,
his abdomen. She wasn't afraid, she was ready. She took off her
own top. Her breasts felt hot. Then she unsnapped her jeans, be-
gan to slide them down, and—
Zack got up. He was putting his T-shirt back on.
"Zack, what's wrong?"
He stared at her. He looked hurt. "I can't," he said.
"Why?"
"You're special."
Melanie's embarrassment flared. He couldn't have picked a
143

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Edward Lee
worse moment. She was naked from the waist up and her jeans
were halfway down, and now he didn't want to?
"I wafit to, but I can't. You're too special."
She pulled her clothes back on. "I'm sorry, Melanie," he was
saying as she fled the little basement. He came up the steps after
her. "You don't understand!"
I understand, all right! She'd almost been crying as she'd
scurried off into the woods.
Special. You 're too special.
Hadn't Wendlyn and Rena said that she was special?
Now she lay in bed, the sun in her eyes. What would she say
the next time she saw Zack? And what would he say?
Special. The words kept nipping at her.
You 're too special.
She fingered the tiny pendant around her neck. "What's so
special about me?" she muttered to herself. A tear formed in her
eye.
The hospital videotaped all preliminary admittance inter-
views. It was protocol. Dr. Harold pressed the Play button and
sat back. Erik Tharp looked quite different back then. He looked
scary. Long hair. Beard. Slim but muscular, a physique honed
by hard work. Yes, of course. Digging graves was very hard
work. There was an aura about him in the tape, a presence that
five years of inactivity and starchy psych ward food had
drained. Erik Tharp waited at the interview table. Every so of-
ten he looked up at the hidden video camera and smiled.
It was Dr. Greene who sat down across from him.
"Good morning, Erik. That's your name, right? Erik?"
"I'm called brygorwreccan," Erik Tharp replied. His voice
sounded corroded, unearthly.
"Okay. Is that what you'd like me to call you?"
"You can call me Erik. They call me brygorwreccan."
"Who's they?"
Erik stared, stone-faced, through long strands of hair.
"What happened to your voice, Erik?"
"Doctor said I only got one vocal cord left." He smiled
vaguely. "They always had a hard time controlling me. Said it
was because I used to do drugs."
"What kind of drugs, Erik?"
"Crank, dust. Dust, mostly. Coke sometimes."

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145
"And they couldn't control you because you used to use
drugs?"
"That's what they said. The other peows, they could control
them easy. Sometimes I got out of hand, though. They thought I
was gonna blow the whistle on them. So they'd punish me."
"How?"
"Sometimes they'd tie me up, burn me."
"They burned, you? How?"
"They'd lay a metal rod in the fire." Erik stood up and raised
his black T-shirt. Several long scars could be seen along his ab-
domen. Self-induced, Dr. Harold concluded. He was sure Dr.
Greene had made the same conclusion.
Erik sat back down. "I could handle that, though. Sometimes
they made me look in the mirror. And they always made me
watch the hustig."
"The what?"
"The rituals. Watching those was worse than torture."
"Why didn't you just leave?"
"Couldn't. The closer you are to them, the more power they
have over you."
"I see," Dr. Greene said. "But let's backtrack a minute, okay?
We were talking about your voice. What exactly did they do?"
"Oh, yeah. They stuck an awl in my throat."
"As punishment for insubordination?"
"Yeah."
"Erik, the night you were arrested, you told the police that
muggers stuck an awl in your throat."
"I lied."
"Why?"
"I was scared. I didn't know what was happening. But I know
now, so I can tell the truth and it won't matter."
"Why doesn't it matter?"
Erik laughed. "Because I'm in a mental hospital now. They
don't care what I say because they know no one will believe me.
They're the ones who got me put here."
"Erik, the police caught you burying bodies in a field off
Route 154. Do you deny that?"
"No," Erik Tharp said. "That was my job. After a husl, I had
to bury the bodies. They decided I was too hard to control, so af-
ter the last hustig, they told the cops where I'd be. The whole
thing was a setup."

146
Edward Lee
"Okay, Erik. Tell me more about the bodies. Some of them
were children, babies. Why did you kill them? For the husls?"
"No, no, I didn't kill any of them, I just buried them, and,
yeah, I snatched some people, sure, but I never killed anyone."
"You snatched people?"
"I abducted people for them, that was my job too. Hitchhik-
ers, runaways, people like that, people who weren't local."
"What about the babies, Erik? Did you abduct the babies
too?"
"No."
"Then who did?"
"No one. They weren't abductions."
"Then—"
"I don't want to talk about the babies anymore."
Dr. Greene nodded. "All right, Erik. Tell me about the—"
"I don't want to talk about anything anymore."
Erik Tharp put his head down on the table and began to cry.
Dr. Harold ejected the tape. Now he knew exactly what
Dr. Greene meant. Erik Tharp displayed no signs of story-
mixing, referencing, or even lying. Most clinical psychiatrists
could spot lying in a matter of minutes by gauging facial inflec-
tions via question structure. Only a pathological mind-set could
repress such inflections, and Erik Tliarp clearly was not patho-
logical.
Next were transcripts of a court-authorized narcoanalysis, a
process in which all conscious mental barriers were dropped
with hypnotic drugs. "T" was for Tharp. "G" was for Greene. A
light dose of a drug called scopolamine maintained uncon-
sciousness without dropping most brain-wave activity. It was
even harder to lie under narcoanalysis.
G: How many people did you kill, Erik?
T: None.
G: Why were you burying bodies?
T: Bludcynn.
G: Erik, were you part of a satanic cult?
T: Dohtor.
G: What?
T: Dother fo Dother.
G: Erik, tell me about the cult.

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147
T: Husl. Blood. Bludcynn. Dother fo Dother. I am peow. I am
wreccan. We are all wreccan for the face in the mirror.
G: What do you see in the mirror, Erik?
T: Hell.
G: You see hell?
T: Her.
G: Who?
(Patient begins to convulse. A-waves erratic.)
T: They make us wreccan for her. I am wreccan. I have no soul.
G: What happened to your soul, Erik?
T: They gave it to her. They fuck.
(A-waves still jumping. Heart rate 121.)
T: They fuck us and make us wreccan. For her.
G: Erik, who is her ?
T: Dohtor.
G: Erik, what is dohtor?
T: Dother fo Dother. Liiiiii... Liiiiii... Liiiii...
(Patient's eyes are open, lacrimation evident. Heart rate 148.)
T: I am brygorwreccan, I am digger. Scierors cut, cokkers
cook. We are huslpegns. We work for them. They eat, they
fuck, they kill—for her.
G: Who is her, Erik?
T: Liiiiii... Liiiiii... Arrrrrrdaaaaa—
(Patient screams. A-waves cessate to REM levels, heart rate
drops steadily. Narcoanalysis suspended as patient no longer
responds.)
Two weeks later they'd attempted hypnosynthesis: hypnotic
vocal commands in conjunction with fluctuating doses of so-
dium amobarbital, which kept the patient's subconscious acces-
sible without inducing high autonomic responses. The idea was
to solicit the patient in the first or second stage of sleep, which
weren't dream stages.
T:	They practiced these rituals.
G:	What kind of rituals, Erik?
T:	They worshipped this ... thing.
G:	Yes?
T:	This ... demon.
G:	Tell me about the demon, Erik.

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T: They made me watch, they made us all watch.
(Patient's voice is regulated, monotonal. Heart rate 67.)
G: What did they make you watch, Erik?
T: They cut people up alive. They hate all outsiders.
G: Why do they hate outsiders, Erik?
T: They hate anyone out of the bludcynn, especially men.
G: Because of the demon? They hate men because of the de-
mon?
T: It lives on hate.
G: What lives on hate, Erik? The demon?
T: They like to cause pain, because it likes pain.
G: Who, Erik? The cult? The demon?
T: They like to cut cocks off of guys.
(Interviewer pauses.)
G: What?
T: They eat people after they're done torturing them. They cut
off their heads and make us cook the heads. On feks they'd
sacrifice kids. It was all part of the preparation.
G: Preparation for what, Erik?
T: The Fulluht-Loc.
G: What's that, Erik? I don't know what that is.
T: They love to fuck. They love to fuck and kill people, torture
people. That's their power—fucking. It's in their eyes. Their
eyes are like the mirror. They make you look in their eyes
while they're fucking you. Lots of times they made us fuck
corpses, 'cause it gets them off.
(Interviewer pauses. Patient is trembling, perspiring.)
G: Tell me about the fulluht, Erik.
T: I buried the bodies when the feks were over. That was my
job. It was also my job to bring in the husls.
G: What's a husl, Erik?
T: They cooked heads.
G: What?
T: Girls they pretty much just sacrificed. They'd chain them up
downstairs, save them for the important hustigs.
G: What's a hustig, Erik?
T: They did the worst shit to the guys. Guys were their fun.
They hate men because it hates men.
G: Erik, I want you to tell me about the terms you're using. Tell
me about fulluht, wlhan, husl. What do these words mean?
T: Fucking is their power. That's how they worship her.

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G: The demon, you mean. What's the demon's name?
T: I got a lot of husls picking up hitchhikers or drunks. Girls I
got mainly hitchhiking.
G: Erik, let's backtrack a little, okay?
T: I'd bring these guys down, usually at gunpoint. Sometimes
I'd have to knock them out. The munucs would take it from
there.
G: What's a munuc, Erik? Is a munuc someone in the cult?
T: They'd fuck these guys, and sometimes they'd kill him
while they were fucking him, they really got off on that. The
wifmunuc loved it, she'd do it all the time.
G: Is the wifmunuc the leader of the cult?
T: This guy, the wreccans held him down and they cut the
guy's cock off just like that, and then the scierors skinned
him right there on the slab, and I swear to God this poor guy
was still alive when they tossed him in the fire. They did all
kinds of awful shit like that, things you wouldn't believe,
like sometimes the scierors'd cut a guy open while the
munucs were fucking him, and a lot of times the wifford
would sit on a guy's face so he couldn't see what was going
on while the other munucs took turns blowing him, and then
just like that they'd cut his cock off, he'd never even know it
was coming, and he's shooting blood all over the place run-
ning around screaming and then they'd throw the guy right
into the fire, and I'll tell you something, it takes a while for
a guy to die in a fire pit, I've seen them lashing around in
there screaming their heads off while they're turning black,
and a lot of times they'd try to crawl out and the munucs
would just laugh it up and order the cokkers to push him
back in, it's a sight I'll tell you seeing some poor guy siz-
zling alive in the pit and screaming and screaming and the
girls in the pens would be watching this and they'd be
screaming too there was so much screaming man screaming
and shrieking and the munucs laughing it was so bad you
couldn't think it was so bad sometimes you'd just want to
die...
G: How often did this happen, Erik?
T: Usually, a couple times a year they'd have a big hustig, but
every hustig was like a preparation for the Fulluht-Loc.
G: Tell me more about the Fulluht-Loc, Erik.

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Edward Lee
T: And sometimes they'd punish us, the wreccans, I mean, if
we didn't bring in enough husls, or they'd punish us just for
kicks, 'cause they got off on that. I remember one time I was
supposed to bring in a husl but I couldn't find any so the
wifmunuc had all the wreccans fuck me, and other times
they'd order us to fuck one of the corpses before they
cooked it—
G: Tell me more about the demon, Erik.
T: —all kinds of awful shit, stuff like you never heard, like you
could never imagine, but they've been doing it for eons,
man, for her. That's how they worship her.
G: The demon, you mean? That's how they worshipped the—
T: —and I can't tell you how many times I went down there
and they're cutting some guy's head off and bleeding him
into a chettle, a chettle's a big pot they cook in, and a lotta
times they'd be sitting on some guy hammering nails into
his head or sticking knitting needles in his ears—
G: Erik, Erik—
T: Yeah man the grossest shit you could imagine and it was all
a big kick to them like hauling some guy's guts out while
he's still alive or hanging some girl upside down and cutting
off her head and bleeding her into a chettle for a hustig and
all kinds of shit yeah man, that's what the dreams were
like...
G: Dreams, Erik? These were dreams?
T: No, no, I mean they were like dreams, they seemed like
dreams but after a while you knew they weren't dreams at
all. You knew they were real.
(Patient suddenly cessates. Heart rate 72. Hypnosynthesis sus-
pended as patient no longer responds.)
Dreams, Dr. Harold reflected. Demons. The court would not
authorize further hypnosynthesis or narcoanalysis. They were
satisfied that Tharp was just a bipolar schizophrenic acting out a
dream delusion. TTie case was closed.
But that did not erase the discrepancies. No wonder Greene
was never satisfied. Erik Tharp clearly suffered from a
hallucinotic delusion, yet his tarsal plate reactivity, his psych
test results, and his visual assessment scores did not indicate de-
lusional behavior. These weren't things a person could fake.
He put the transcripts up and dug back into the bag, ex-

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trading the notebooks. Tharp's only real recreation on the ward
was drawing. Immediately, Dr. Harold noticed a rudimentary
yet detailed artistic skill. The drawings were fascinating; there
were hundreds of them. Many of the strange words from
Tharp's monologues had been written between the scenes. Husl.
Peow. Wreccan. A sketch of a queue of naked women cutting up
a man had been underscored with: WThan. More women looked
up to a full moon with arms outstretched: doefolmon. Many of
the sketches depicted orgies, nude women drawn to great detail
on top of blank-faced men. Sexespelle, they read, and many had
subordinate figures standing aside, similarly blank-faced. Yet
one face in each was obviously Tharp's artistic rendition of
himself: pallid, wide-eyed, staring. And here was a full-page
sketch: he'd drawn himself holding a shovel in some dense for-
est dell. Byrgorwreccan, it read. Patients, particularly schizo-
phrenics and hallucinotics, frequently created their own
vocabularies for their personal dementias. The word Fulluht-
Loc appeared frequently, and even more frequently: liloc.
It was all sexual. Tharp's madness must have been a by-
product of gross sexual fears. He didn't hate women, like
temporal mysogynists, he feared them. The male figures in the
sketches had been assigned crude facial identities. But the
women were different. Their bodies had been drawn to pain-
staking erotic detail, yet there was one thing they all lacked.
Faces.
None of the women had faces, and that was another clear sign
of a delusional sexual phobia. He can't, Dr. Harold realized. He
can't draw their faces because he's afraid to.
Dr. Harold turned a random page. He paused.
Here was a face.
God, he thought. Its clarity stunned him. He was looking at a
full-page drawing of a woman. The moon shone through bram-
bles and streaks of trees; the woman was standing in a dell. Dr.
Harold actually shivered. The sketch was more than a
sketch—it was a dichotomy, a wedding of extremes. Revulsion
clashed with erotic beauty. The perverse clashed with the rever-
ent. What was going on in Tharp's mind when he penned this?
Dr. Harold had seen quite a bit of patient artwork in his time.
Art was a catharsis, and a demented person's catharsis logically
reflected demented art. But this ...
Dr. Harold had never seen anything like it. It was atrocious

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Edward Lee
... and lovely. Eloquent, and harrowing. He'd never looked at a
work of art so beautiful and yet so obscene.
The woman stood beseechingly. Her hands were out, as if to
invite embrace, yet the fingers were exceedingly long, and nails
protracted like sleek, fine talons. Long legs rose to form a per-
fect hourglass figure. The breasts had been drawn so scrupu-
lously they seemed three-dimensional upon the page. They
were high, large, with large dark circles for nipples. The pubis
had been drawn similarly: a shining, downy thatch against pure
white skin. The woman's hair was a great dark mane. Twin di-
minutive nubs seemed to protrude from the forehead, almost
like-
Lite horns, Dr. Harold realized.
And the face ...
The face was nothing more than two slitlike eyes above a
black opened maw full of needle teeth.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
m
Something bothered Martin all day. The dream, of course. The
naked girls queerly painting trees in the middle of the night. The
parcels he'd buried, and then Melanie ... and Maedeen ...
He tried all day to forget about it. Even Ann, with her own
dream traumas, had noticed he wasn't himself. They'd had
lunch and taken a drive. He'd hoped a nice scenic drive would
get his thoughts away, but "anywhere he looked he saw the
woods, and when he saw the woods he saw the dream. They'd
driven by the general store and he'd seen Maedeen outside
sweeping the walk. She'd turned and waved as if she'd sensed
them driving by. Martin subtly shuddered. The momentary
glimpse gave him an erection.
All right, I'm attracted to her, he realized. So what? That's
why God made women good-looking, isn't it?
But it was more than that. He knew it was.
That morning, he and Ann had made love. Lately, it seemed
something wasn't right between them, that she wasn't enjoying
it. Male paranoia, he'd always concluded. Was he rationaliz-
ing? It was a fact he didn't want to face: this time, when they'd
made love, he hadn't been thinking of Ann at all. He had been
thinking of Maedeen.
Suddenly, Ann shivered.
"What's wrong?"
She looked distractedly past the windshield, just as Martin
pulled the Mustang around the town square, past the church. "I
don't know," she said. "I just feel fidgety." But it seemed that
she'd shivered just as they'd passed the church.
"You didn't sleep well last night. You had the nightmare
again, didn't you?"
153

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Edward Lee
Ann nodded. "It keeps getting worse, and there's more to it
now, more details. And lately ..." Her words trailed off.
"What?"
"I don't know," she said. She seemed confused. "Lately, I've
been having some kind of vertigo. Like just now. I'll be wide
awake, and all of a sudden I'll see something."
Martin slowed through the crossing lights. "What did you
see?"
Ann shivered again. "Nothing."
Martin knew when to lay off. "You're not getting enough
sleep," he ventured. "This nightmare's turning you inside out.
Maybe you should call Dr. Harold, see what he thinks."
"No, that would be silly. I will not let my whole life shake
apart because of a stupid nightmare."
"Don't feel bad," Martin said. "I had a nightmare last night
too."
Ann looked at him abruptly. "Melanie's also having night-
mares."
"It must run in the family," Martin attempted to laugh it off.
"Relax, will you? You worry way too much about her."
"Martin, let's not get into that again."
"Okay, okay." He headed back to the house. But he knew he
was right. Ann's difficulties were compounding. Her father
dying, her mother's adversity, the canceled vacation. Now she
had this "vertigo" in conjunction with the nightmare. Too many
things were building up at once, weighing her down.
Martin wondered how close she was to breaking.
Ann didn't know what to tell him. Sooner or later he's going
to think I'm going nuts. Yes, her nightmare just kept getting
worse, and now this vertigo. She couldn't think of any other
way to describe it. Was it part of the dream she wasn't remem-
bering? It was like a gory daydream. Wide awake she'd sud-
denly shiver—
—and see red.
She'd see hands plunging a knife into someone, a wide silver
blade sinking repeatedly into naked flesh. The dead-silent back-
drop made it even worse; in this vision all she could hear was
the steady slup-slup-slup of the knife. And all she could see:
blood flying everywhere, breasts and belly quivering as the
blade continued to rise and fall, rise and fall...

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Slup-slup-slup... slup-slup-slup...
The face of the victim couldn't be seen, but somehow she felt
convinced that the person being butchered was herself.
Martin parked the Mustang on the street; several cars filled
the driveway. In the foyer, Ann noticed her mother entertaining
several guests in the dining room. Mrs. Gargan was there, and
Constance, Dr. Heyd's wife, plus the widowed Mrs. Virasak,
and a few of Lockwood's other elderwomen. They chatted
softly, drinking tea. But when Ann's mother noticed her, she got
up quickly from the table and drew closed the dining room
doors.
"She knows how to make a person feel welcome," Martin
joked. "What are they doing in there?"
"Who knows?" Ann said. "Who cares?"
"I'm going to sit out back, try to get some writing done."
"Okay," Ann said. Several times now she'd seen him grab his
pad and disappear into the spacious backyard. He seemed to
find peace here, every poet's quest, which made Ann slightly
jealous. Martin liked it here. At least if he hated it, she wouldn't
feel so alone.
Upstairs she looked around for Melanie. Her room was
empty, but she heard water running—the shower. Ann peered
out the window and saw Martin sitting in a lawn chair at the
edge of the woods. His pad lay in his lap, his hand poised. He
seemed to be looking up at the sky with his eyes closed.
"Hi, Mom," Melanie greeted. She came in wearing her dark
robe and had a towel around her head. "Where have you been?"
"Martin and I went for a drive. We were thinking of going to
the inn for dinner. Want to come?"
"I won't be able to make it. I'm meeting some friends."
Ann sat down on the bed, perturbed. "You haven't mentioned
much about these new friends of yours."
"Oh, Wendlyn, Rena? They're pretty cool."
Pretty cool. Ann smirked. "I saw you with a boy yesterday."
Melanie smiled. "That's Zack. He's cool too."
"He looks like your friends back home, leather jacket and—"
"Come on, Mom," Melanie dismissed, drying her light
brown hair with the towel. "He's really nice, and we have a lot
in common."
"Like what?"

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Edward Lee
"Music. He listens to all the groups I like, even Killing Joke.
And you should see his stereo, it's huge."
"Melanie"—Ann leaned forward as if concentrating—"are
you telling me you were in this boy's house? Alone?"
"He doesn't live in a house. He lives in the church base-
ment."
This didn't sound right. "He lives in the churchl What about
his parents?"
"He doesn't have any; he's an orphan. Grandma gave him a
job as a custodian or something."
Grandma, Ann thought sourly. It was one obstruction after
the next. Ann's mother was regarded as the town's matriarch,
loved by all. Melanie was making friends here. Martin wrote
better here. Where did all this leave Ann?
On the outside, she answered herself. "I just don't think I ap-
prove of your hanging around with some boy you just met—"
"I'm not a little kid anymore, Mom. I'm an adult."
"Is that so?"
"Let's not argue." Very abruptly, Melanie took off her robe.
She sat down naked at the antique vanity to comb her hair.
Ann swallowed her shock. Melanie had never disrobed in
front of her, at least not down to the skin. But she did so now as
if it were natural. Ann felt she should comment on this immod-
esty, but what could she say? Certainly, there was nothing un-
natural about a mother seeing her daughter unclothed.
"Mom, what's wrong?" Melanie could see Ann's face in the
vanity's big framed mirror. "You act like you've never seen me
naked."
"Well, I haven't really. Not in years." But she thought: She is
an adult. Melanie's body had indeed blossomed. She'd been
skinny as an adolescent, boyish. Now her breasts had filled out,
and the straight lines of her early teens had given over to a nice
feminine shapeliness. The firm orbs of her breasts jogged
slightly as she combed her hair out in the mirror. Then she stood
up, just as abruptly, and turned. Ann couldn't help but glimpse
the fresh young body from head to toe.
"I'm growing up, Mom."
"I know, honey. Sometimes that's a hard thing for a mother to
realize, that's all."
And it was, wasn't it? Her shock reverted to a dim despair.
Melanie had bloomed into womanhood nearly without Ann's

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even knowing it. Too busy, she regretted. Too busy trying to
make partner to even notice your own daughter growing up.
Melanie quickly slipped into a pair of black acid-washed
jeans, then pulled on a dark blue "Luxuria" T-shirt. Ann felt like
an old curmudgeon sitting on the bed.
Melanie kissed her on the cheek. "I'll be home early."
"Bye."
But Ann had wanted to stop her, to ask her something that
had been bothering her of late. Are you a virgin? she'd wanted
to ask. But how could she ask something like that without
sounding even more curmudgeonish?
Melanie left.
Ann felt old, depressed, naive—all at once. A glance out the
window showed Martin wandering off into the looming woods,
seeking his muse. How much more distanced could Ann feel
from the people in her life? She and her mother were constantly
at odds. She didn't understand Martin's creative joys at all. And
her daughter had grown up right under her nose.
She sat back down on the bed. And my father's dying, and /
hardly ever even knew him.
A tear threatened to form in her eye.
Then she shivered . ..
Slup-slup-slup, she heard... slup-slup-slup...
The vertigo returned. The glaring red vision streamed again
through her mind: a fisted hand plunging the knife down. Blood
spewing. Naked breasts and belly quivering each time the blade
buried itself to the hilt...

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
m
"Oh, hello, Ann."
Ann gave a start. The double doors to the den abruptly slid
open, and standing there was Mrs. Gargan, redolent with co-
logne.
"How are you today, Mrs. Gargan?"
"Oh, I'm fine. What are you up to?"
But Mrs. Gargan's stiff posture and stiff, makeupped face
made Ann feel sidetracked. Past her shoulder, Ann could see
her mother and several friends looking through a photo album
at the table. Mrs. Gargan's rigid smile and dark eyes seemed
fixed on her.
"I've just been puttering around," she said after a pause. "I
thought I'd go upstairs and look in on my father."
"Yes, of course. Feel free to join us later for tea."
Yeah, right. Ann's mother and friends flipped through the
photo album as if in deep concentration. They commented qui-
etly at each turn of a page. Ann couldn't hear them.
"I will," Ann balked. "See you later."
She went upstairs as Mrs. Gargan headed for the kitchen.
Ann could imagine the banality of joining her mother and
friends for tea, pooh-poohing over the album. Mrs. Gargan, of
course, was just being polite. The stiff cordiality told Ann what
she already knew: Ann was Lockwood's prodigal daughter-
she would never be fully welcome here.
Upstairs, the grimly familiar beep led her to the room. Her
father's cardiac monitor. Ann hated that sound. Milly was
sponging off her father's chest. The chest looked waxen, pale.
"Hi, Milly."
The nurse turned, smiled. "Have you seen Dr. Heyd around?"
"No, not in a while. Is anything wrong?"
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"Oh, no, no." Milly fidgeted in a medical bag, hooked up a
new IV. "Everything's fine." Her smile turned coy. "I've heard
Melanie has taken a liking to someone."
"Oh, yeah. Zack. Do you know him?"
Milly laughed, a strange reaction. "You don't have to worry
about him. Actually, he's a very nice boy, very helpful. You
might be put off a little by the way he dresses, but that's kind of
silly nowadays, isn't it?"
"Yeah, I guess it is," Ann said, though reluctantly.
"But you seem bothered by it, or something."
Did she? I'm bothered by a lot of things. "Motherly concern,
I suppose. Do things like that ever bother you?"
Milly laughed again. "My daughter's a bit too young for
Zack; she's only fifteen. But as mothers we have to realize that
eventually our daughters grow up. Didn't you have a crush on
boys when you were a teenager?"
Ann sat down, thinking. It was a revelatory question. "I guess
I did," she said. "But there never seemed to be many boys my
age in Lockwood."
"Well, that's still pretty much the case, not many children at
all, especially Melanie and Rena's age group. Lockwood's
pretty remote, but I like it better that way. It's safer. It's more
real, don't you think?"
Ann shrugged. She remembered how bored she'd been in
Lockwood as a child. It must be even worse for an adult. Now
that she thought of it, she didn't remember seeing many kids of
any age around town, and not many established men. "What do
you do for fun around here?"
"Lockwood may seem like the sticks to you, but actually,
there's a lot for a single woman to do."
Ann recalled Milly's rather militant statements about her so-
cial life, about men.
"It's just that Lockwood is so different for you," Milly went
on. "If you'd lived here your whole life, you'd feel different.
You're talking about sex, right?"
The spontaneity of the question surprised her. But she sup-
posed that's what she meant all along. "I was just curious, that's
all. Your romantic life is none of my business."
"You can say it," Milly offered. "I'm no prude. You want to
know how a woman in a town like Lockwood finds sexual satis-
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Edward Lee
"Really, Milly, I didn't mean—"
"We're not that remote, you know. There are men in town,
mostly transients, come here to work. It's out there, it's easy
enough to find if you look."
This was getting embarrassing. Then Milly added, "But you
don't have to worry about that yourself. You have a man."
Jesus, did everyone around here regard men as property, as
prizes? Was that what love was when you got right down to it?
Territorial? Nevertheless, now that they'd broken the ice, Ann
couldn't resist asking: "Tell me about Maedeen."
Milly offered a huge grin. "Let me guess. You and Martin
met Maedeen recently, and now you're jealous."
"I wouldn't go so far as to say jealous. She just seems—"
"A little forward? Well, don't worry. That's just the way she
is. She's outgoing, friendly. She likes everybody and everybody
likes her. Your mother gave her the store when the old man died.
She's done a wonderful job."
Is that how I seem? Ann wondered. A jealous city priss?
"She and I go out sometimes. We have a wild time."
But what could Milly mean? There were no dance clubs or
night spots in Lockwood. Where did they have a wild time
around here?
"A woman's gotta do what she's gotta do." Milly pushed her
hair back and laughed. But, "Oh, damn," she said next. She
rummaged through the medical bag. "It's time for your father's
Bp shot. I don't have any left. Would you mind running to my
house and getting me some? It's just a short walk. I don't want
to leave your father alone between IVs."
"Sure," Ann said. Actually, it would be a relief. She liked
Milly, but her straightforwardness sometimes got too nettling.
Milly gave her instructions for what to get and where. When
Ann went back downstairs, she noticed her mother and friends
still chatting over the photo albums. Her mother looked up sud-
denly, frowned, then looked back down. She scarcely even
spoke to Ann anymore. I'm the prodigal daughter, all right, she
thought again. Ann wondered if there was anything she could
ever do to win her mother's approval.
Forget it, she dismissed. Ann cut through the town square to
Milly's house. The town looked idle as usual. Several old men
sat on the porch of Maedeen's general store, bantering and
chewing tobacco. A dog lazed in the sun. Not a single car could

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be seen. Ann felt obstinate; she was always too quick to criti-
cize. Lockwood, however idle, had something the city never
had. Peace. But suddenly, the thought waned. At the end of the
square, she saw the church, its great front door and stained-
glass windows staring at her like a looming face.
Milly lived in a little one-floor house on Bathory Street.
Quaint little shrubs out front. A quaint little yard. It seemed
honest somehow. No luxuries, just an honest little house. Milly
hadn't given her the keys; there was no need. No one in
Lockwood locked their doors. Inside was just as honest. Sparse
but clean. Old but well-kept furniture. A bowl of potpourri
filled the living room with pleasant herby scents. Milly had said
the B12 was in the kitchen, above the refrigerator. Ann went
down die short hall, but stopped. She thought she heard some-
thing ...
It sounded like a humming noise, ever faint. But she heard
something else enlaced with it. From down the hall.
Was it Rena, Milly's daughter? The noise bothered Ann. She
hesitated, then advanced. The hall was dim. The carpet left her
footfalls silent. To the left, a door stood half open.
Ann peeked in.
A bedroom, sparse but comfortable like the rest of the house.
The decor, however—bright curtains, brightly painted
furniture—couldn't possibly be an adult's. It must be Rena's
room.
But what was that humming noise?
She looked in further. Sunlight slanted in, and movement
caught her eye. White movement in the glare of sun. What the—
Ann blinked, staring. The soft, faint hum persisted.
Ann gulped when she realized what she was seeing.
A figure squirmed on the little, neat bed. Bright white skin in
the glare. It was Rena. Naked. Her back arching. Moans and hot
breath escaped her throat. At first Ann thought the girl must be
convulsing from some illness. But another moment's staring
showed her that it was not discomfort which sent Rena's young
body into clenching spasms. It was ecstasy.
The hum persisted, wavering. Ann noted its source.
Milly's daughter manipulated a shiny white vibrator between
her legs. The vibrator was huge. Tendons strained at the apex of
the girl's legs as she wielded the device with both hands. The
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Edward Lee
sucked in and out; her toes dug in the sheets. The giant vibra-
tor's volume rose and fell each time it was inserted and with-
drawn. The size of the thing, compared to Rena's tiny sex, made
Ann visibly tremor.
Rena continued to writhe, drawing the device slowly in and
out. The sensations contorted her face. Melding murmurs of
words escaped her lips.
"Doefolmon, bludmon, all the dothers give lof..."
Each time the humming device plunged, Ann thought she
could feel it herself. This disgusted her. Immediately, she felt
compelled to barge into the room, to stop this.
But would that really be within her rights? This was another
woman's daughter. What right did Ann have to discipline
Milly's child? And what would she say anyway?
"Give lof, give lof, I give lof..."
Lof? Ann thought. What were these words she was mutter-
ing? The vibrator hummed. Rena moaned then, her eyes rolling
back in her head, when she next pushed the vibrator so deeply
into herself that only the end showed. Ann grew faint.
She retreated back down the hall, not making herself known.
Quickly, quietly, she found the vial of O'Neal 50mcg Bp. As
she left the house, she could still hear the vibrator's steady hum
and Rena's anguished voice: "Doefolmon, doefolmon ..."
Ann walked briskly away from the house. Was she being un-
realistic? She didn't care that it was none of her business, nor
did she care how sexually liberal the times had become. Fifteen-
year-olds are not supposed to be masturbating with vibrators,
she felt convinced. Did Milly know what her daughter was
doing when she was out? The walk back through the town
square cooled her down. True, it was none of her business, yet
one point wouldn't let go. This was the same girl who had be-
come friends with Melanie. Ann didn't want to contemplate her
reaction if she ever caught Melanie doing the same thing.
And what were those bizarre words Rena had been mutter-
ing?
Ann decided to let it pass. Mentioning it to Milly might cause
a misgiving, not to mention embarrassment. What could she
possibly say? Hey, Milly, I saw your kid masturbating with a vi-
brator the size of an ear of corn. No, she couldn't say that. Let
Milly worry about her kid herself, she settled.
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church reflected bright white in the sun. Ann crossed at the
walk, then stopped. A car was pulling away from Nale's, the
general store.
Ann stood in the street, staring back.
It was a blue Mustang GT. My car, she realized.
Though she couldn't be sure, there appeared to be two people
riding in it. The one on the left appeared to be Martin.
The one on the right appeared to be Maedeen.
The glass tube measured eight inches in length, three eighths
of an inch wide. The dother liberally lubricated it with petro-
leum jelly. She paused, grinning. Then she began to slide the
tube into the tiny hole at the end of Zack's penis.
"Do it slowly, dear," advised the wifford. "We don't want it
to break ... yet."
Terror gushed in Zack's mind. The two wreccans had tied
him down to the table with thick hemp. One of the wreccans
was new, the other was the breowor. They stood aside now, be-
hind Maedeen and Wendlyn. Zack fought against his restraints
but only abraded himself for his efforts. They're sticking a glass
tube up my cock, came the base fact in thought. And they're go-
ing to break it. This was his punishment.
"You were going to fuck her, weren't you?" asked Maedeen,
the wifford. Her voice was as stony and cold as her face.
"No," Zack groaned. "I swear. We made out a little, that's all.
I wasn't gonna do anything more."
"No?"
"I swearV'
"He's lying, Mom," remarked Wendlyn, the dother. She held
his flaccid penis gently in one hand, and the end of the glass
tube with the other. Very slowly, she slid the tube in another
inch.
"Please," Zack's voice tremored.
The wifford crossed her arms, appraising him. "If you had
fucked her, you would've tainted her. You would've tainted the
holy fulluht, ruined it."
"But I didn't!" Zack shouted. "I didn't!"
"He would've, Mom. He's a pig. He's a peow."
"I know, dear."
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Edward Lee
"Nis woh fo gast be mek a peow?" said the wifford. "Give
lof, no? Be folelagu, ur godspellere, iesprece."
"We should do it, Mom," the dother persuaded.
"Wihan thus wer, thus peow?"
"Please," Zack groaned. "I would never disgrace you in the
eyes of—"
"Shut your mouth!" the wifford exploded. "Never, never,
speak her name, you unworthy piece of shit! Never!"
Zack shuddered, but he better not shudder much, or else he
might break the tube himself. The other two wreccans seemed
to strain against an inner anguish but remained out of the way.
They wouldn't help, Zack knew. They couldn't.
Now the wifford smiled. Her gaze moved from Zack's face to
his genitals. The dother pushed the tube in another inch.
"Aw, Mom, let me do it."
"Well..."
"Mom, pleeeeeease?"
Zack's body felt coursing with high-tension current. The
young dother licked her lips in steady concentration as she
deftly slid the glass tube still deeper into his urethra.
"You've been a bad boy, Zack. But this will make you good."
Zack's terror made him feel stretched over a bed of nails. He
fought not to shake. The tube had now been inserted over four
inches into his penis.
"Zackie, Zackie," chanted the dother. She was swaying the
tube back and forth and spinning it between her fingers. "Can I
break it now, Mom? Can I?"
"Put it in a little deeper first, dear."
The dother did so. How much further could the tube go?
"Please, please don't," Zack murmured.
"Now, Mom?"
"All right, but let's make it suspenseful. On the count of
three, break the tube."
"Okay."
"Ready?"
"Yeah, Mom."
Sweat popped out of Zack's brow. Every joint in his body felt
fused.
"One," said the wifford.
Zack's teeth ground.
"Zackie, Zackie," sang the dother.

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"Two."
Aw no holy Christ please ...
"Two and a half..."
Zack could feel the tube embedded down the entire length of
his limp penis ...
"Three!" shouted the wifford.
Zack screamed.
Laughter raced 'round the room like mad animals. In one
quick movement, the dother—
Nooooooooooooooo!
—withdrew the tube without breaking it.
Zack turned to putty. The wreccans cut his bonds and pushed
him off the table. Zack, wheezing, fumbled to pull up his pants.
"Thank you thank you," he gibbered.
They were walking away, but the wifford turned at the door.
"Melanie is special," she said. "Very special. Remember that,
or next time we'll break that tube into so many pieces you'll be
pissing glass for a year." *

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
m
Ann waited up late. What would she say? And could she be sure
that it was Maedeen she'd seen in the car with Martin? But she
didn't worry about such reasonable considerations. Ann was
mad, and she let her anger sit up with her.
Furthermore, Melanie hadn't come home yet either, which
made Ann madder. The grandfather clock in the foyer ticked
past 10 p.m. Where could she be at this hour? What was she
doing?
That afternoon she brought the B12 to Milly and hadn't men-
tioned what she'd witnessed Rena doing on the bed, as she'd
previously decided. By then she was too mad to care anyway.
She couldn't imagine Martin's fascination with Maedeen.
The little scrub. Ann had see how Martin was looking at her the
time they went to the store. Ann was well aware of her tendency
to misinterpret certain things. Was she just being paranoid?
I'd still like to drag her little ass down the street.
She sat in the library off the foyer. The silence and dim lamp-
light made her feel watched. Earlier her mother had been seen
going down to the basement with the photo albums. She'd un-
locked the basement door, entered and exited, then locked the
door and came back upstairs. She'd said nothing to Ann as
she'd crossed the landing, which was typical. But why lock the
basement door?
Again, at this moment, Ann didn't care. All she could think
about was how bad she was going to grill Martin's ass when he
had the nerve to come home.
She thought she'd pass time watching TV, then remembered
her mother didn't approve of television. There were no TVs, in
other words, in the house. She hadn't noticed one in Milly's
house either. Did Lockwood consider anything modern to be a
166

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corrupt influence? She wandered about the quiet house, each
journey bringing her back to the front window where she'd peek
outside to see if the car was in the driveway yet. But what was
she really thinking? That Martin and Maedeen had something
going? Even Ann knew that was ridiculous. She just didn't like
Maedeen, for her own womanly reasons, and she didn't care
what Milly said. Sometimes a woman could just tell, could
sense a woman who was trouble. The little flirt, she dismissed.
And Martin didn't have to be so quick to assert that Maedeen
was "nice." I'll show her nice, Ann mused. Maybe I'll shove
one of her homemade ice cream cones up her scrawny ass. See
how nice she is then.
By 11 p.m., Martin and Melanie still had not returned. Ann's
mother had long since gone to bed. Bored now in her anger,
Ann went upstairs to talk to Milly but instead found Dr. Heyd in
her father's room.
"Ah, hello, Ann. You're up late, aren't you?"
"I'm waiting for Martin. He went out a while ago."
Dr. Heyd made some nameless adjustment to the cardiac
monitor. "I think I saw him going into the Crossroads earlier. I
understand he's getting along well with some of Lockwood's
men."
And some of Lockwood's women too. But was that where he
was? At the bar? "He mentioned some of them yesterday," she
said.
"Fine fellows, all of them. If you're looking for Milly, she's
asleep in the next room right now. The poor girl hasn't gotten
much rest these past few days. I sent her to bed. I'll be looking
after your father tonight myself."
The monitor beeped on. Her father looked pallid as a wax
dummy in the bed.
"But would you watch him a few minutes?" Dr. Heyd asked.
He wore baggy slacks and suspenders, his bald pate shining.
"I'd like to go down and fix myself a sandwich."
"Sure," Ann said.
Dr. Heyd left her to her own unease. She didn't like to look at
her father, because her mind could not associate the vision she
had of him with the sunken form in the bed. She sat down and
flipped through one of Milly's romance novels. A random page
revealed a rather explicit sex scene. She remembered when ro-
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168
Edward Lee
now. Nothing is. She hadn't read a complete novel herself,
though, in years.
Milly's purse lay opened on the floor, and inside a large
woman's wallet hung similarly open. Ann noticed pictures.
What was the harm? She took the wallet out and looked through
it. No credit cards or the like, of course not. But there were sev-
eral snapshots in the string of clear-plastic envelopes, all either
of Rena at different ages, or Rena and Milly smiling together.
Ann looked closely at one school portrait of Rena, probably at
around age six. The picture made Ann clench. It was almost im-
possible to believe that the adorable little girl in this snapshot
was the same girl she'd seen today masturbating with a vibrator.
Toward the end were some baby pictures, even more adora-
ble. But the last picture caused her to stare.
A baby, days old, lying atop a quilt. But the tiny pudenda left
no doubt. It was a baby boy.
Milly had never referred to a son. Ann immediately feared
why that might be. Did the baby die?
She put the wallet back in the purse. What an awful thing.
She could be wrong, of course, but why else would Milly have
never mentioned a son? Or perhaps it was a relative's child.
Ann glanced up. The beeps of the heart monitor seemed to
change their rhythm a moment, then increase in pitch. Ann was
about to call for Dr. Heyd, but her gaze was quickly over-
whelmed.
Her father's eyes opened.
His mouth was moving, and he was looking at her.
"Dad!" Ann jumped up, raced to the bed. Her father's own
gaze followed her. He's conscious, she realized in a burst of ex-
uberance. "Dad, it's me," she said. "It's Ann ..."
She could see his mouth working. It opened and closed; it
was obvious to her that he was trying to say her name. Ann's
heart was racing.
Next, his crabbed hand took hold of her wrist. It felt cool, dry,
wriggling in infirmity. The other hand faltered, rising over the
bed. It moved around in some cryptic gesture.
"What, Dad? Can you try to talk?"
He clearly couldn't. It crushed Ann to see the frustration on
his infirm face. The mouth moving but giving no voice, the fu-
tile concentration in efforts to communicate to the daughter he
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"Dad, what..."
His hand moved furiously, not pointing but seeming to mimic
an act.
The act of writing. Thumb pressed to fingers, the withered
hand made gestures of writing.
"A pen, Dad? Do you want a pen?"
He actually huffed in relief. His tired face nodded.
He couldn't talk but he wanted to write. He must be much
more lucid than they'd thought. Ann took one of Dr. Heyd's
notepads and sat down on the bed. She lay it against her knee.
Then she placed a ballpoint pen into her father's right hand.
"Go on, Dad. Take your time."
First just scribble. The old man chewed his lip as he struggled
to wield the pen. Ann felt tears in her eyes, witnessing her fa-
ther's desperation at so simple a task.
He began to whimper, eyes fluttering, then closing. "Dad,
Dad?" she cried. He fell unconscious again, and the monitor
slowed back to its normal pitch.
"Ann, what's happened?"
Dr. Heyd came back into the room, rushing over. She excit-
edly explained what happened. But he only half listened as he
quickened to take vital signs. Suddenly, Milly and Ann's
mother were crowded into the room, both in robes and slippers.
Ann repeated everything for them in desperate joy.
"He was seeing me," she went on. "I know he knew it was
me.
But Dr. Heyd seemed disapproving, busying with an injec-
tion.
"What's wrong?" Ann asked, dismayed. "Isn't this good?"
"No, Ann, it's not," Dr. Heyd replied. "You should've called
me at once."
"But he was writing, he was trying to talk. He recognized me.
I'm sure of it."
"Ann, you're forgetting what I told you the other day. Undue
excitement is the worst thing for him right now. The excitement
of suddenly being conscious and of seeing you at the same time
made his blood pressure and heart rate skyrocket. You
should've called for me first, so I could give him something to
keep his heart rate at a lower level."
"Why!" Ann objected. "He was conscious!"
"My God, Ann," her mother muttered.

170
Edward Lee
"What the hell is wrongT Ann continued.
"The drastic rise in blood pressure caused a physical strain
against the occluded blood vessels in his brain. You shouldn't
have encouraged him to write, because that only increased the
strain further. It challenged him to a physical task he's no longer
physically capable of."
Ann still didn't understand. All she understood was that her
father had been conscious, and now everybody was acting like
Ann had done something grievously wrong.
"Before inducing him to write, you should've called me so I
could lower his heart rate to a safe level. All that excitement at
once was too much for him. The rise in systolic pulse more than
likely forced some of the clot apart, sending pieces further into
the brain. He may die now."
Ann felt paralyzed in turmoil.
"My God, Ann!" her mother yelled.
"It's my fault," Dr. Heyd offered. "I should have explained
more specifically before I left the room."
"It's not your fault, Ashby," Ann's mother hotly replied.
"The problem is my fine daughter doesn't realize the fragility of
anything! She has no forethought at all!"
"Mom, I—"
"I invited you home to see him, Ann, not kill him!"
Ann's mother stormed out of the room. Ann stood teary-
eyed. Milly put her arm around her shoulder.
"It couldn't be helped, Ann," Dr. Heyd said, watching the
monitor. "You didn't know."
I may have just killed my own father, Ann realized.
Ann watched in mute numbness as Milly and Dr. Heyd
tended to her father. In a few minutes, Dr. Heyd confirmed, "He
seems to be stabilizing for now. We'll know more by morning."
Then he looked down at Ann's hand. "Is that what he wrote?"
Ann still held the piece of notepaper her father had scribbled
on. She looked at it now, for the first time. Just scrambled let-
ters, nothing coherent. "It doesn't make sense," she said, and
gave the note to Dr. Heyd.
"To your father, though, it probably does," the doctor told her
after reading the note himself. "Unfortunately, orbital strokes of
this magnitude frequently obfuscate the learned-memory facul-
ties in the brain. In other words, he was writing without a se-

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quenced memory of the alphabet. It's quite common in these
cases."
Dr. Heyd, it seemed, had a professional answer for every-
thing. Ann felt disappointed. She would never know what her
father, in what may have been his last conscious moment in life,
had been trying to communicate to her.
What he'd written was this:
Bt-upc-yt^ Hufc.— p°rnF.R pe>

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
m
"Secean we," bid the wifmunuc. Becloaked, she knelt before
the blessed nihtmir.
"Eternal mother, bless us!" came the chorus.
Yielding to the rushes of love, of bliss and sanctity, the
wifmunuc remained solemn. In silence, then, she prayed before
the slab. Her holy sweosters joined her from behind, menteled
in black, in the cirice.
"Modor, Druiwif, Dother fo Nisfan," the wifmunuc bid, rais-
ing her arms. "We give lof fom eard, os huslpegns, in yur soo,
we fi wuldor, lar, gliw."
"O, Blessed One, hear our prayer."
"Ure heofan yur nisfan."
"Receive our prayer."
Each wifhand then dropped their mentels, nude beneath.
They bowed in the cirice, sweat shining on their backs. Several
wreccans stood to the rear, blank-faced, bearing torches to give
light in their conqueror's eard. Then the wifmunuc rose and
stepped out of her own caeppe, which was black as the others',
but sewn of the finest silk. Naked, she pressed a hand to the
slab. Untold wonders bloomed on her face, the most holy vi-
sions, unspeakable, incalculable. She looked into the slab,
staring.
Two more wreccans dragged in a husl, who had been prop-
erly gagged so as not to disrupt the wifmunuc's muse. Now the
wifhands broke. A second husl, a female, was removed from
one of the pens. Wreccans gagged her, stripped her, brought her
forth.
The male husl was held upright. He was typical, a stray drunk
picked up hitchhiking. But the wreccans had sought well—this
172

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one was young, muscular, handsome. As they stripped him, the
terror in his young eyes was beautiful.
Yes, the pig would make a beautiful sacrifice.
More wreccans—the cokwors—stoked the great fire in the
cooking pit. Each stoke flooded the cirice in lovely, hot waves.
For a time, the wifhands took turns touching the male, reveling
in the sensation of flesh. They caressed the chest, buttocks, and
genitals, their faces grinning in firelight. Then:
"Wlhan!" ordered the wifford.
The male was laid upon the dolmen, which was encrusted
from countless feks. Wreccans tied him down. Pots of leahroot
smoked fragrantly about the dolmen, charging them all with the
sweet passion of their god. The wifford began to fellate the
male, while others stroked his flesh with flaxbalm. They took
turns, moving in a watchful circle, each taking the helot unto
their mouths. Soon the leahroot and balms had seeped into his
blood. Despite his terror, his genitals hardened.
The female was forced to watch. Her tainted features proved
her distance from the bludcynn. Stringy white-blond hair, blue
eyes, faint pink nipples on large breasts. She shook, sweating,
as two wreccans held her up. Urine streamed freely down her
tanned legs.
In the nave, though, the wifmunuc continued to supplicate
their god, her face peering into the nihtmir. The cold stone
against her fingertips filled her with coruscating heat. Her vi-
sion delved; it was being led away deep into the stygian field.
Deeper, deeper . ..
Each wifhand took turns straddling the male helot, their faces
turned up in bliss, while the others looked on.
... and down. She was in a different realm now, where mad-
ness was the only order, darkness the only light. It was beauti-
ful...
The helot shuddered in his own sweat as he lay there to be
taken again and again. The wreccans brought the blonde closer
still, to see. When she dared to close her eyes, a white-hot stok-
ing rod was lain across her buttocks. Two more wreccans ap-
proached the dolmen, with knives.
... so beautiful to be led into their god's wondrous lair. Her
physical body behind her, the wifmunuc seemed to float
through the shifting blackness like a feather on the wind. Soon

174
Edward Lee
she drifted out of the chasm and onto a strange precipice. It was
another time, or, perhaps, another world ...
"Soo, soo," hotly whispered the wifford. It began with her,
and it would end with her. She pushed a sweoster off and
restraddled the helot, penetrating herself upon his penis. She
grunted, thrusting down.
... yes, a precipice backed by the strangest twilight, scarlet
and flashing black stars. Two masci guarded the summit, hair-
less, swollen-faced things, eyes long since healed over. Blindly,
they sensed the wifmunuc's presence, tilting up their heinous,
misshapen heads. They let her pass, then went back to their
meal of bones, black maws cracking down to expose the succu-
lent marrow. Suddenly, the wifmunuc was reborn. She was a
child, naked in twilight, standing amid the highest trees. A
sound could be heard beyond the forest, a presence could be
felt. The wifmunuc lost her breath ...
"Wlhan," panted the wifford. She leaned back on her hands,
to deepen the penetration as her orgasm spasmed. The helot,
too, began to tremor—his semen exploding into her sex, and
then—
"Wlhan, wihan!" she shrieked.
—the wreccans sliced his belly open at the same time. The
helot convulsed on the slab. The wifford chortled. Blood flew
this way and that as the wreccans' hands delved into the rive to
expeditiously extract the more delectable organs. The wifhands
rejoiced, in awe of the scarlet spectacle. The blonde was in
shock now. Very quickly, her ankles were tied, she was hung
upside down against the wall on an iron hook, and her head was
cut off with a machete. The body still twitched for a time, as the
stump bled like a spigot into a small chettle. The helot's head,
too, was cut off, and both were tossed into the fire, to cook. The
blonde was gutted similarly, then all of the organs were thrown
into the chettle. Seasonings were added, and the chettle was set
on the fire.
The wifmunuc's eyes widened in wonder, in love. The lam-
bent figure approached, beautiful in its grace and perfection.
Tall, lean, naked, dark hair flowing behind it like an endless
mane. The wifmunuc, still a child now, began to sob in this vi-
sion of holiness. Moonlight dappled the dell through high
branches. The moonlight was pink ...
While the festival meats were left to cook, the orgy ensued.

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Wreccans were taken aside, ordered to perform for the whims of
each wifhand. The wifford, sated and bespattered, stood aside to
watch. Moans rose palpably into the cirice. The floor became a
carpet of moving flesh in firelight. Sweating backs, legs spread-
ing, buttocks plunging. One wreccan was ordered to fornicate
with the helot. Meanwhile the cokkers stirred the chettle as the
blood began to boil.
... perfection could be the only word—the perfect being in
perfect light. The wifmunuc stared up, faced by the radiant, per-
fect flesh.
"Ure give wynn!" the little wifmunuc rejoiced. "Wi give lof
bi soo ure folclagu!"
"Joindre mi in me wudu fo nisfan," the figure whispered
back, flesh glowing in the pinkened moonlight. "Give lof, give
wihan, ond joindre mi on doefolmon."
"Modor!" cried the wifmunuc, reaching out.
The Ardat-Lil gazed down. "Soon my time will come again,"
she said. "Until then, fedde me."
Suddenly, she was back before the nihtmir, in her old body,
her old world. Behind her, the hustig rose to revelry. But it took
the wifmunuc a moment to get her breath back, to readjust her-
self. Her flesh shined with sweat in the excitement now, and in
the grace of what she'd just witnessed. The wifford came into
the nave and kissed her. They rejoiced.
They all ate heartily of the hot meat pulled from the chettle.
They filled their bellies. The wifmunuc, enlivened now, chose
the newest wreccan and raped him on the dirt floor as the others
watched, their eyes full of joy, their mouths smeared red.
Before the hustig was ended, they passed the engraved
cuppe. They each took a sip of the blood and sighed.
The wifmunuc gustily swallowed the rest.
Erik hoped his white hair didn't give him away. He'd left the
van covered by brush miles back in the woods. Skirting town
was the only way. He felt certain they were expecting him.
He wore dark clothes. He brought a flashlight and carried the
shotgun across his back. The pinkened moon followed him; it
seemed to harass him as he wended through the dense woods.
Providence, he thought. It was almost funny now. Was it
providence that he die here, in their hands? Why am I even
doing this? he asked himself. And what am I really doing?

176
Edward Lee
He wasn't sure how to answer himself, for it was true. He re-
ally didn't know what he was doing, did he? If all his suspicions
were real? What would he do? What could he do?
It was well past midnight now. Eventually, the woods broke
at a quiet residential street. The street was dark, but several win-
dows were lit. Erik followed close to the shadows.
Headlights flashed around the bend. Erik dove for cover. A
car seemed to be slowing. He unshouldered the shotgun and lay
still. A spotlight roved the top of the hedges he hid behind.
Cops, he realized. The spot moved along the trees, head-level.
He could hear a radio squawking. Had they seen him? Was
providence so cruel to let him come all this way only to die by
the same police who'd sent him away years ago? No, no, he
thought. The shotgun grew slick in his hands. I'm going to die
right here.
The car idled past. Erik noted the crest and letters on the
door: Lockwood Police. The moonlight unveiled the driver's
face. It was Byron, the kid who'd arrested him.
Soon the headlights disappeared around the next bend.
He resumed his advance through the town. He struggled to
recall exactly where everything was. Here was Meade Street,
and here was Lockhaven. He would have to approach from be-
hind the town square, to avoid the police station. In jest, he pic-
tured himself strolling openly down Pickman Avenue,
whistling, waving to Chief Bard.
A block down, through high trees, the white steeple spired.
Home again, Erik thought.
The moonlight painted the church's white walls pink. He
crept around very slowly, eyes peeled. And there it was: the lit-
tle stone steps which led to the access beneath the church. At the
end of the steps, he could see the door.
Erik stood still a moment. Memory flashed in and out of his
head like a grueling nightmare. Was this really providence? Or
his own horror? It was more than just a door that stood waiting
for him. It was his past.
And it was waiting, he knew, with open arms.
Martin awoke in bed, dizzy, nauseous. The darkness was like
mud in his face. He'd been dreaming, but all he could recall
were streams of repugnant blurs and streaks like images of
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Ann, but her side of the bed lay empty, unruffled. Where could
she be at this hour? The clock read 1:30 a.m.
Jesus, the thought muttered. He lay back, straining against
the force of memory. Where had he been all day? He remem-
bered stopping in at the Crossroads, having a few beers with
Andre and some of the other guys. Then ...
What?
He couldn't remember. He couldn't even remember coming
home. All that remained were wisps of what could only be
nightmare. He remembered odd tastes and smells. Heat. Sweat.
Waves of moans and—
Jesus, he thought again. One of the dream's images surfaced
to completion: being straddled, a hot body pinning him to the
ground. Sweat dripped onto his face and chest, breasts were
joggling as bizarre words seemed to ooze like sooty smoke
around his head. And then he remembered the face that looked
down at him, between the breasts. Not Maedeen.
It was Ann's mother's face.
What the hell is wrong with me? he asked himself in disgust.
Not only was he dreaming of infidelities ... I dreamed I was
fucking Ann's mother, for God's sake.
The realization made him feel even dirtier. Part of it he could
figure now. He'd come home late, drunk. Ann was pissed, so
that's why she wasn't here. She was probably downstairs sleep-
ing on the couch.
Can't say I don't deserve it. He'd had a problem with alcohol
in the past, but he was sure he'd defeated it. He'd never be any-
thing if he let his life's old demons come back to him. He was a
poet, an artist, and he had responsibilities now, to Ann and
Melanie. I better get my shit together, he told himself.
He turned on the night-light and got up, grabbed his robe. He
couldn't stand the smell of himself. He padded down the hall
but stopped before the bathroom door. He heard water running.
Jesus, who could be taking a shower at this hour? He peeked
into Melanie's room and found it empty, the bed unslept in.
She must've been out late too. Of course, Martin could not
justifiably scold her, given his own state. He sat on the bed to
wait for her to finish. The room was plush, full of antiques. He
looked around, waiting, but felt distracted. Next, he found him-
self standing at the window.
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Edward Lee
full. Its odd, bright-pink light seeped into his eyes, lulling him.
The light seemed to show him things—indeterminate, yet abso-
lutely awful things—beyond its fixed glow.
Blood. Flesh. Evil faces.
Words.
Husl, husl, husl.
Give lof!
And: You are wreccan now.
Martin felt lost, staring into the light. His consciousness felt
wavering. What am I doing? he heard himself. He heard a dis-
tant hissing. The shower? Yes. Something was luring him away,
yet the light remained like a ghost in his eyes.
Inexplicably, he turned away from the window and walked
into Melanie's closet. But why? The closet was dark, but toward
the back he detected a point of light.
A hole in the wall. A hole of light.
He put his eye to the hole.
Melanie, standing in a suit of white lather. Eyes closed, she
turned her face up to the torrent of cool water. Martin's eye re-
mained open over the hole. Something forced him to watch.
Now Melanie was washing the suds off her body, the water
sluicing. She shut the water off and stepped out.
What ami...
She towel-dried her fine, light brown hair. Martin stared at
her perfectly formed rump as she bent to dry her legs. Then she
straightened, patting the towel around her breasts and under her
arms. She hadn't shaved her armpits in several days; Martin
found the sparse covering of hair, like fine fur, to be densely er-
otic. Even more erotic was the contrast of her large, dark brown
nipples against the flawless whiteness of her breasts.
What... am... I—
Martin was masturbating as he continued to spy on his lov-
er's young daughter. It felt obscene, like incest, but he couldn't
refrain. Melanie's skin was so bright in the bathroom light, so
lustrous. Somehow, looking at it was like being on some drug.
Her face, too, was beautiful, and her dark brown eyes, the
mussed wet hair. Martin felt helpless against the urge to con-
tinue to stroke himself. It was vision that spurred him, the sharp
white clarity of Melanie's beauty, of her flesh. Beads of water
nestled in her pubic hair glittered like jewels. Martin considered
what his lust had reduced him to at that moment: I'm a pervert,

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a peeper. I'm a thirty-eight-year-old published author mastur-
bating in a closet. Yet he couldn't help it. He could only look on
as Melanie continued to tend to herself, oblivious to the voy-
eur's eye on the other side of the wall.
Oblivious? came the strange question.
Melanie stood with her front toward the wall. She was look-
ing down, drying the muff of hair and the insides of her thighs.
Then, very slowly, she looked up, right at the wall. She grinned
directly into Martin's gaze.
Martin felt locked in rigor. The grin struck him like a fisti-
cuff. He nearly shrieked. The tiny pendant lay between her
breasts, and in her eyes—her stark beautiful chocolate-colored
eyes—he saw madness, ataxia. He saw death.
"You are wreccan now, Martin," she said through her grin.
Erik could smell it even before he entered. He could feel it.
Hustig, he thought automatically. Huslfek.
The door to the church basement was unlocked. He stepped
into blackness and waited, listening. No one was here, he felt
sure of that. He felt sure of something else: people had been
murdered in this place very recently.
The hustigs always ended at the high moon. There were no
windows, so he felt safe turning on the lights.
Here was the brygorwreccan's chamber. This was where Erik
used to live. He wondered about who had replaced him. There
was the bed, the old dresser, the same bare, whitewashed ce-
ment walls. In the back was a large stereo system, but that was
all.
The trunk.
The trunk had been moved to the side. He opened it and was
not surprised to find several shovels and a box of heavy-duty
plastic garbage bags, an aesc, and a few knives. Erik had kept his
money hidden in the trunk's vinyl lining, but it wasn't there.
There were also a few flashlights and a few pairs of work
gloves. Tools of the trade, he thought.
He went to the back of the chamber. The large wooden door
faced him like an old nemesis. From under its crack, he could
feel the giveaway draft of warm air. Erik didn't need to open the
massive door for the evidence; he could see it in his mind. He
could see the fire pit and stoke rods, the blood-crusted dolmen,
the chettles and the iron hooks high on the cement walls.

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Edward Lee
And he could see the nihtmir propped up in the nave.
But the door was locked.
He set down the shotgun and got the small hand-aesc out of
the trunk. He began to dig around the bolt. He actually giggled
as he worked. I'm gonna trash the entire cirice. See how they
like that. Let the fuckers know Erik Tharp is back in town.
The hard wood around the bolt plate was tough. The sharp
aescpoint dug out a splinter at a time. Soon he exposed the edge
of the bolt plate. Once he got that out—
"Brygorwreccan," announced a voice behind him.
Erik turned. A guy in leather and black hair hanging in his
face stood before him. He smiled wanly, holding a double-
tipped pickax at port arms.
"Welcome home," Zack said. He lunged, heaving the pickax.
Erik yelled and threw his hands up.
The pickax sank into Erik's left palm, then slammed into the
door, nailing him to the wood. He reached for the shotgun, felt a
bone break in his hand. Not gonna make it, he thought, grimly
frantic. He stretched, but the shotgun remained inches from his
grasp.
Meanwhile, Zack came at him with a knife ...

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
m
"Dooer, dooer," oozed the voice in the dream.
Ann strained against the turmoil of sleep. The nightmare re-
played through her mind. Melanie's birth seventeen years ago in
the fruit cellar while the storm raged outside. The feminine cho-
rus, firelight dancing on naked flesh. Soft hands caressed her,
roving the gravid belly, tracing the sweat-slick thighs. Ann
twitched in sleep. The emblem hovered, the queer double circle;
it seemed to give off the faintest glow, and she thought she
could see something in its shape, but what? Mouths sucked
warm milk from her swollen breasts. Tongues licked fervidly up
and down over her clitoris. Her sex began to spasm as her womb
began to contract...
"Dooer, dooer ..."
The nightmare's eye showed it all, never faces, just the naked
figures bowed in attendance. A cup was being passed around,
engraved with the same emblem on the wall. Then came more
words, issuing in liquid softness:
"Dother fo Dother, Dother fo Dother ..."
And the final vertiginous image: the bright-bladed knife
plunging down—
slup-slup-slup
—time after time to the hilt, into soft flesh ...
Ann's eyes snapped open in the dark. A slice of faint pink
light canted in through the window. The clock glowed 4:12 a.m.
She lay on her side in a fetal shape. She watched several mi-
nutes pass on the clock, and soon the nightmare began to fade
from her mind. She began to feel better. She could hear Martin
breathing lightly behind her, and then she felt his hand slide
over her breasts. At first she wanted to rebel, slap the hand
away. She was still mad at him, she remembered, but his hand
181

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Edward Lee
on her breasts felt so good, so soothing. The sensation pushed
the dream out of her head completely, leaving desire in its place.
She moaned as the fingers tended die nipple, gorging it. Next,
his hands were pushing her nightgown up over her rump. Ann
kept her eyes closed. Suddenly, she felt... lewd. She opened
her legs at once, inviting him. His hands lay her out on her back;
his penis nudged her once as he moved down in the dark. The
glans felt hard as a knob of polished wood. He pushed her knees
up to her chin and began to go down on her.
She whined at the initial contact of his tongue, then moaned
steadily. Gently, and slowly at first, his tongue traced up and
down the groove of her sex. Ann felt a flood of moisture and de-
sire collide; she hugged her knees to her chest as the tongue
delved harder and more precisely. Martin was going down on
her more deftly than she could remember. He made her feel so
good so fast that she forgave him instantly of his drunkenness
and his coming home so late. The synchronicity of his mouth
and tongue against the rhythmic tremors of her hips drew her
horniness out like a tension rod being twisted and twisted. Soon
it would have to snap ...
She was going to come, but she didn't want to, not yet. She
wanted to come with him inside of her. "Fuck me now," she
panted. She never talked dirty in bed, but tonight she couldn't
restrain herself. She'd never felt like this, so wound up, so prim-
itively horny. "Put your cock in me."
Martin's soft poet's hands turned her over on her belly, then
hauled her hips up. The roughness with which he positioned her
was almost brutal, but she liked it—the promptness, the imme-
diacy of his desire. He knelt behind her splayed rump; she felt
like a bitch in heat waiting to be mounted. One hand came
around her hip, the fingers opening her. Ann tensed as the
gorged glans nudged into her sex. All she could feel right now
was her need, like electricity humming from the swollen points
of her nipples to the warm pocket of her sex. It made his penis
feel huge and surreally hard. She almost shrieked when he
thrust it all into her at once.
He was so deep in her. One hand braced her thigh, the other
came around and plied her clitoris as his thrusts drew in and out.
The pleasure was excruciating. The potentiality of her orgasm
ticked in her loins like a bomb about to go off. She buried her
face in the pillow, to increase the angle and depth of the penetra-

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tion. It was too much, too many sensations waiting to break at
once. Her hands twisted the sheets into knots, her teeth bit into
the pillow.
"I love you, Martin," she panted. She couldn't believe what
she said next. "You fuck me so good, I love it when you fuck
me like this. Do it harder, honey. Fuck me harder."
Her request was obliged. His penis pushed into her so deep
she thought she'd scream. He grabbed her hand and made her
touch herself as he doubled the pace of his thrusts. His hips
slapped the back of her thighs. He was pounding her, his penis
plunging steadily in and out as she massaged the tip of her sex
with her own fingers. Her breath hissed out of her throat, the
pillowcase tore against her teeth. Her orgasm exploded.
The first was an abrupt, flexing burst, followed by strings of
smaller pulses that didn't want to end. His penis continued to
reel orgasms out of her loins like strings of large pearls. It felt so
good, so delicious, that tears squeezed out of her eyes.
Soon she was so sore and sensitive she could bear no more.
Martin's thrusts ebbed, then he stopped fully, his penis still
buried in her. She eased forward, felt it slip out. "I want you to
come now," she whispered. Martin remained upright on his
knees. She turned around in the dark. She unhesitantly grasped
his penis at its base and took the gorged glans into her mouth.
She could taste the wet salt of her own musk. But something
was strange, something she noticed at once.
"You sure as shit aren't going to make me come like that,"
her bed companion remarked.
My ... God, Ann thought. Her movements froze. Her eyes
peeled open as she moved her mouth off.
It was not Martin who had made the remark. It was Milly.
The bed lamp flicked on. Ann looked up, aghast. Milly knelt
before her on the bed, naked, the set of her mouth part grin, part
sneer. But... but... was all Ann could think until she lowered
her gaze. Jutting from betwixt Milly's legs was a heinous par-
ody of the male sex organ, attached to the nurse's hips with
straps. Ann was disgusted. No wonder it felt so huge—it was
huge. It looked like a miniature table leg, polished smooth with
a rounded knob. It was black, shining. Even veins had been
fashioned along the rubber shaft.
"Don't look so surprised," Milly said. "You came, didn't
you?"

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Edward Lee
"How did—what—" Ann stammered. A brief glance showed
her Milly's room, not her and Martin's. Ann immediately pulled
her nightgown down and crawled back. What was she doing
herel
"Come on, Ann," Milly said. "Don't pretend. You liked it."
"I thought you were Martini"
"Don't hand me that shit. You started it. You came to me."
Had she? I must have, Ann realized. "I was confused, from
earlier, I mean. I must've been disoriented."
"Bullshit. You wanted it, and you got it."
Milly's grin terrified her as much as the sight of the heinous
black phallus, which the nurse then gave a mocking stroke.
Next, she touched her sex beneath the thing's base. Ann saw,
with further outrage, that the rubber penis even came complete
with molded testicles. Milly's breasts were smaller than Ann's,
and somewhat flat, with large oblong brown nipples. The nipple
ends stood out like round wall studs.
"Okay, lover," Milly said. "My turn now."
"No! I... It was a mistake!"
Milly wouldn't hear of it. She pushed Ann roughly onto her
back, then straddled over her and unstrapped the penis. "Lie
back," she ordered. She actually put her hand to Ann's throat as
she crawled over her. Between her breasts, there was an odd
pendant of some kind, a pale stone on a white string. Milly
poised her sex over Ann's face, one knee at Ann's armpit, and
her other foot planted on the pillow.
"Milly ... No ..."
Milly chuckled. Her pubis was a great, light brown bush.
"You can lick my pussy for a while," she said, "then you're
gonna put that rubber cock on and fuck the daylights out of me.
You hear me, sweetheart?"
Ann could no longer speak; Milly's sex plopped onto her
mouth. A hand grasped the front of her hair. Ann's lips sealed
shut. I'm being raped by a woman, she thought, but she could
not explain how she felt. She could scream or even bite . ..
but...
"Go on," Milly said. "Lick it."
The light flicked off. The slant of pink moonlight was all that
lit the room, falling across Ann's eyes.
"Lick it."
Ann gulped.

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"I said lick it. Don't pretend you don't want to."
What it was exactly that Ann could not explain to herself was
that she did want to.
She hesitated. The pink moonlight oozed into her eyes. Milly
lowered herself some more, sitting directly on Ann's face.
"Go on. Do it."
Ann felt something release in herself, something in her con-
science or her spirit. Her hands drifted up and stroked Milly's
buttocks. She sighed. In another moment she was doing exactly
as Milly had ordered.
"Holy shit," Chief Bard slowly muttered.
Zack's body lay like a broken doll across the floor. A single
Remington 12-gauge casing shined at the baseboard. Zack had a
rough, meaty hole in his chest the size of an adult fist. A halo of
blood encircled the body.
Tharp, Bard realized.
He noted that the door past the gravedigger's room stood
open. Someone had torn the wood out around the bolt seat.
Bard, with a knowing reluctance, stepped past the dark thresh-
old.
Aw, shit, goddamn it, shit. His MagLite played across the
cirice. Desecrated, he thought. That's how they would see this.
The dolmen had been tipped over, several of the iron chettles
had been cracked. The earthen chalice lay smashed. Tharp had
even tried to pry the nihtmir off the wall. Thank God he'd
failed.
Bard dragged Zack's body out to the cruiser. The town lay
asleep in darkness. The high hedgerow hid him and his efforts.
Zack was what police called "skell": a low-life deadbeat punk,
a criminal. Bard could've cared less that the boy was dead—
that's not what distressed him now to the point that he felt trem-
ors in his gut. To them, it wasn't a street punk who had been
murdered, it was a brygorwreccan. This fact, and the desecra-
tion of their temple, was notice to them. They had been at-
tacked. They had an enemy in the know.
Bard knew well that they would not like this. No, they
wouldn't like this at all.
Next morning, Martin sheepishly entered the kitchen. Ann
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Edward Lee
"I'm sorry about last night," he offered.
"What do you mean?" she feigned, still not looking at him.
"Coming home late, coming home drunk," he said. "I met
some of the guys at the Crossroads. We were drinking, running
our mouths, and next thing I know it's closing time. You know
how it is."
"No, Martin, I don't know how it is. So why don't you tell
me?"
"Come on, Ann. Give me a break."
At last Ann looked up. 'That's not what any of this is about
and you know it."
Martin looked confused. "Why are you so pissed off? It's not
the crime of the century when a guy has a few too many beers
and loses track of time."
Ann huffed. "I know that, Martin, and you know that's not
the reason I'm pissed off. Don't treat me like a fool."
"Ann, what are you—"
"Who were you with yesterday!" she snapped.
He looked at her funny. "I told you, the guys from the
'Roads."
"Right, Martin, right."
"It's true," he countered. "I was with Andre, the guy who
runs the place, and Dave Kromer, Bill Eberhart, and some other
guys who work in town."
"Bullshit, Martin. I saw you. Yesterday afternoon, I saw you
driving my car away from that silly little general store, and
there was a woman sitting next to you."
"Wha—oh, you mean Melanie."
"No, Martin, it wasn't Melanie—"
"Yes, it was, Mom," Melanie said, coming into the kitchen.
She was wearing a sundress Ann didn't recognize. Casually, she
opened the refrigerator and poured some orange juice. "I went
into the store to get some sodas to take to Wendlyn's. Martin
saw me coming out so he picked me up and gave me a ride."
Ann's brow runneled. "A ride to where?"
"I told you, Mom. To Wendlyn's. She wanted to show me her
dresses. In fact, she gave this one to me. Wasn't that nice of
her?"
"Uh," Ann stalled. "Yes, it was." She felt an instant fool,
looking at Martin. "I'm sorry, Martin. I thought—"
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the table. "What, you thought I was running off with Maedeen
the ice cream lady?" He laughed again.
"I guess I'm overreacting to everything these days," Ann
said, as if that were an excuse. "I'm sorry," she repeated.
"Actually, I can't blame you for jumping to conclusions,"
Martin joked. "As good-looking as I am, what woman wouldn't
be constantly jealous? My expertise as a lover is world-
renowned. Before I met you, women had to put themselves on a
waiting list to go out with me."
"Oh, God!" Melanie laughed and left the kitchen. But Ann
still felt like a shitheel. She touched Martin's hand as he contin-
ued to massage her shoulder. How long could he remain so for-
giving of her quick temper and lack of forethought? She'd
practically accused him of cheating on her, which was the laugh
of all time, considering what she'd done last night with ...
Milly, she remembered.
She felt horrible keeping the truth from him. If it were with
another man, he'd be justified to end the relationship right now.
But with another woman? What would he do if he knew? What
would any man do?
She wanted to tell him, but what on earth could she say?
"I'm going out back for a while," he said, and picked up his
pad and pen. She didn't have time to say anything. "I'm work-
ing on a great poem, my magnum opus," he went on with his
mysterious poet's enthusiasm. "So far it's a hundred stanzas."
"Happy writing," she offered.
Alone now she felt even more of a shitheel. She'd never ex-
pressed any active interest in his writing because she didn't
know how to. That, and what she'd almost wrongly accused
him of, made her feel very low, and lower still considering her
lewd foray with Milly.
Milly, she thought again. What would she say next time she
saw her? She dreaded their next meeting. But she'd have to see
her soon, to check on her father. This morning, Dr. Heyd had
told her that her father seemed to have stabilized from last
night's blunder, but that could change any minute. Shivering,
she remembered the nightmare, the vertigo, and the new words
the dream had whispered in her mind. Dother fo Dother. But
what could that mean? The words made no sense. Then she re-
membered where they'd come from: they'd been some of the
words her father had written last night when he'd come con-

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Edward Lee
scious. The dream had merely transplanted the words into its
own scape.
That made her feel a little better. But there was still Milly. To-
tal recollection evaded her. In pieces, she remembered what
they'd done together, and she even remembered how much
she'd liked it. But what had happened afterward? Ann had wak-
ened on the couch, downstairs, not in Milly's bed.
In dread, she went up the stairs, down the hall. She could hear
the awful heart monitor. She stepped in and stopped. Milly was
taking her father's blood pressure. Innocuously, she looked up.
"Oh, hi, Ann."
Hi, Ann? Ann thought. Ruffled, she gazed at the nurse.
"What's wrong?"
Ann cleared her throat. "Milly, I want to talk to you about last
night."
"Oh, don't worry about that," Milly perkily replied. She
looked fresh, rested, bereft of taint. "Your father's fully stabi-
lized."
"That's not what I'm referring to," Ann proceeded. "I mean,
you know ... last night."
"What about last night?" Milly casually removed the cuff
from Ann's father's thin arm. She wore her typical nurse's out-
fit, the white dress, white stockings, and white shoes. She acted
as though nothing were amiss.
"Are you all right?" She came right up to Ann, put her hand
on her forehead. "You look pale."
"I'm fine, Milly, I just—shit! I'm really bothered about what
we did last night."
Milly laughed softly. "I don't know what you're talking
about. I went right back to bed after we stabilized your dad. I
slept till three a.m., then Dr. Heyd woke me up so he could go
home." Her concerned look deepened. "Oh, you must've had a
fight with Martin last night."
"What? What makes you say that?"
"I came downstairs a couple of times to get a Coke, and I saw
you sleeping on the couch. You were tossing and turning. Bad
dreams?"
Ann didn't get it. "Milly, wait a minute. I slept on the couch
last night? All night?"
"Of course, don't you remember? I just assumed you had a

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fight with Martin, so that's why you weren't sleeping with
him."
Ann gauged her next question. "Milly, did I come into your
room last night?"
Milly gave her a canted look. "My room? No. Why?"
Ann stared, fully confused. Then Milly said, "You poor
thing. You mustn't have slept well at all. Do you feel okay? You
don't seem to have a fever. Do you want me to get you some-
thing?"
But Ann felt better at once, much better. A dream, she real-
ized. She shuddered at the imagery: Milly's pubis in her face,
her dirty talk, and the hideous black phallus. I dreamed the
whole thing. "No, no," she answered at last. "I'm fine, just a lit-
tle mixed-up. I had the strangest dream last night."
"It must have been a humdinger," Milly responded. 'The
way you were tossing and turning on the couch. I was a little
worried."
"I'm fine," Ann repeated. "I'll talk to you later, I've got
some errands to run."
"Okay. Bye."
Ann nearly skipped out of the room. The dream had been so
intense she'd actually thought it was real. Knowing now that it
wasn't made her jubilant. What do you say about that, Dr. Har-
old? I'm not a latent lesbian after all.
Back downstairs, she stopped on the landing. She looked
down. More steps descended to the fruit cellar, which she'd
seen her mother locking yesterday. Ann felt piqued. Her recur-
ring nightmare of Melanie's birth originated at the bottom of
those stairs, where she'd given birth to Melanie for real seven-
teen years ago. Suddenly, she wanted to go down—she felt
she needed to, if for any reason to confront the landscape of the
nightmare. Perhaps if she saw it again, after all this time, she
might realize what it was that distressed her subconscious to
this extreme. What harm could there be?
She went down the stairs, feeling suddenly ill. Each step
down showed her another detail of the nightmare. The hands
straying over the pregnant belly. The hovering double-orbed
emblem. The cloaked figure standing between her legs waiting
for her to deliver the newborn Melanie. And the arcane words:
"Dooer, dooer." Ann quickly decided she didn't want to go
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some secret she needed to know. She could not explain the com-
pulsion.
She turned the knob and swore. The door was still locked. It
infuriated her. Why on earth did her mother insist on keeping
this door locked? It was just a fruit cellar.
Now she felt driven. She raced back up the stairs. "Mother!"
she called out. She checked everywhere, every room on every
floor. She asked Milly, but Milly hadn't seen her. Ann's mother
was not in the house.
Goddamn it, she thought. Where the hell is she?
The wifmunuc scowled. Chief Bard was scared; that look on
her face filled him with the basest kind of dread. He'd parked
the cruiser behind the fire hall. She took a final glance at Zack's
shotgunned body, then slammed the trunk closed.
"This cannot be tolerated," she said.
"I know," Chief Bard admitted. His rotund stomach
squirmed. Sweat broke out on his high brow.
"We've been violated, blasphemed." The wifmunuc's eyes
were somewhere else, in the sky, past the trees. Bard felt grate-
ful. They'd inspected the cirice together; Bard noted details that
had escaped his earlier inspection. Amid the vandalism, they'd
discovered a gas can. It was full. Clearly, Tharp had intended to
set fire to their holy place. But he hadn't, as though he'd been
interrupted. Something had stopped him, but what?
"He's out there somewhere, Chief Bard. He could ruin every-
thing. Find him, stop him at all costs."
Bard's collar dug deep into his fat neck. "There's only me
and Byron. I need help. The only way I can guarantee Tharp's
apprehension is to call the state police."
The wifmunuc glared at the suggestion. "You will find him
yourself, Chief Bard. Bringing in an outside agency is far too
great a risk. They might find something we don't want them to
find. You will find that miserable wretch yourself. Is that
clear?"
Bard dared not look into her eyes. Like a furnace they were,
like pits of hatred, terror. "I understand," he said.
"He has offended us. He has tainted us in our holy grace. You
will catch him and put an end to his heresy."
Bard gulped, nodded.

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Suddenly, she was gazing up into the sky. "Just two more
nights," she whispered, smiling. "Such glory awaits us all."
Bard knew what she was talking about. He also knew what
would happen to him if he didn't nail Tharp. "What about
Zack?" he asked, more to change the subject.
She glanced with distaste to the cruiser's trunk. "Must I tell
you everything? Bury the wreccan scum and get on with your
job. You're wasting time. Her time."
"Yes," Bard said.
The wifmunuc gazed at him now, her awful eyes boring into
his own. She gingerly touched the pendant at her bosom. "Give
aelmesse to me. Give lof."
Aw, God, no, he thought.
"Kneel," she commanded.
Bard knelt in the dirt. He could either kneel of his own before
the evil bitch, or she could make him. He had long ago learned
the futility of resisting them. Beads of sweat twitched down his
bald pate. Sickened, he could taste it even before it happened.
"Now," she said, "drink of me." She raised her dress to her
waist. The thick thatch of her pubis shined in the sun. Chief
Bard dutifully propped open his mouth as the wifmunuc began
to piss into his face. She grinned down at her fat little peow,
guiding the hot stream directly into his mouth. Wincing, he
gulped down each caustic mouthful, felt the awful heat spread
in his belly. When she'd finished, he knelt before her, dripping
piss in the sun.
"You will find our little brygorwreccan, Chief Bard, and you
will bring him to me in pieces. Otherwise, the next wreccan pig
we bury will be you."

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
ill
Dr. Harold barely heard his patients. All afternoon, his mind
kept straying, reexamining thoughts and images, and homing
back to the disturbed psych ward artwork of Erik Tharp.
It ate at him. After his last private patient had left, Dr. Harold
went right back into the bag of Tharp's hospital records. The ac-
counts, the bizarre drawings and words, were all he had to go
on. Invented languages were nothing new to psychiatry; they
accompanied many acknowledged psych profiles: tripolar
schizophrenics, referential neurotics, autistics, etc. But Tharp
fell into none of those categories. Dr. Harold looked more
closely at the sketches. He found a clear coherence in theme,
something ritualistic, which paralleled Tharp's transcripted ac-
counts when interviewed by Dr. Greene. Tharp had also very
coherently applied the cryptic vocabulary to each drawing. De-
mons, Dr. Harold mused. Tharp said they worshipped a demon.
He thumbed back through the pads, to attempt a correlation be-
tween the most often repeated words and what their correspond-
ing sketches depicted. Peow and wreccan seemed to relate to
the male caricatures, while loc and liloc obviously denoted the
women. Brygorwreccan was the word Tharp had consistently
applied to himself, the self-portrait with the shovel. Then came
wihan and husl, which were always written around a scene de-
picting a clear ritual act, violence, murder.
The demon was the keystone. Doefolmon, hustig, Fulluht-
Loc. These words implied an event in the sketches, a repeated
event. But why was the latter capitalized? Fulluht-Loc, he pon-
dered. An event more significant than the others?
I'm a psychiatrist, not a demonologist, he reminded himself.
Perhaps he was attempting to decrypt Tharp's delusions from
the wrong angle. Tharp possessed a delusional sexual phobia.
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Most phobias and hallucinotic fugue-themes had some basis in
truth, something the patient had heard or read, seen on TV. Ob-
jectify, Dr. Harold thought now, staring at the pads. Rituals. Sac-
rifices. Cults. He wondered. The sketches seemed almost
mythological; they possessed a tone, a hint of something an-
cient, clandestine. Semicircles of figures in the woods, beneath
the moon, naked, bowing. Worshipping something, he finished.
Like the Druids or the Aztecs.
It wasn't much to go on, but he could think of no other ave-
nue by which to proceed. He flipped through the phone book, to
the department listings at the university.
I don't know anything about this kind of stuff, Dr. Harold
reckoned. So I'll find someone who does.
By midafternoon, Ann was bored. She felt useless, unin-
volved. Melanie was with her friends, Martin was off writing.
Everyone but Ann was busy with something. She lingered
about the house and yard. She still hadn't seen her mother
around—another involvement—but that probably worked out
for the best. Ann wished she had something useful to do, like
help out with her father or something, pull weeds, paint the
shutters—anything. She called her associate at the firm to find
out how everything was going, and she was disappointed when
he said, "Fine, Ann. Everything's fine. Depositions are out,
we're firing back 'rogs a mile a minute, and J AX Avionics
wants to settle before trial. Don't worry about a thing." She
hung up, depressed.
She went for a walk through town. Maybe she'd run into
Melanie and meet some of these friends of hers. But the streets
stood idle as usual. A lot of cars were parked around the town
hall; Ann's mother, no doubt, was conducting another of her
endless council meetings. It infuriated Ann how easily her
mother went on with the moving parts of her life while Ann's
father lay dying. Perhaps that was just part of being realistic.
Around the corner she saw several little girls playing near the
woods. It reminded her how few children there seemed to be in
Lockwood. She caught herself staring, and the little girls stared
back. Then they broke and ran away, giggling. Next thing she
knew, Ann was walking into the general store.
"Hi, Ann," Maedeen looked up from behind the counter and
smiled. "How are you today?"

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Edward Lee
"Fine," Ann said. But why had she come in here? To begin
with, Maedeen was not exactly her favorite person. "I'm just
sort of wandering around. Where is everyone?"
"Town Hall. Today's the monthly advisory council meeting.
How's your dad?"
"The same." Saying that was a more refined way of saying
the truth. He's still dying. She browsed around the knickknacks
and sundries: quilts, handmade candles, porcelain dolls. Did
people buy enough of this stuff to support the store? Behind the
counter, Maedeen was typing. Further back, Ann noticed a
room full of tall file cabinets. "I'll be with you in a minute,"
Maedeen said, concentrating on her task. Then she zipped the
page out of the old manual machine. "I'm also the town clerk,"
she informed Ann. "Whenever there's a meeting I have to pre-
pare the minutes from the previous month, and I'm late."
"Town clerk?" Ann queried.
"Yeah, aside from running the store, I keep all the town rec-
ords on file." She pointed to the little room full of cabinets. "In
there."
Now it made more sense. The store was just a local formality.
Maedeen supported herself as a clerk.
"I have to run these over to your mother.Would you like to
come?"
"Oh, no thanks."
"Could you keep an eye on things for me? I'll only be a few
minutes."
"Sure," Ann said. Maedeen left with the sheaf of papers, the
cowbell jangling after her. Alone now, Ann's faint jealousy re-
surfaced. What could Martin see in her anyway, if he saw any-
thing at all? I'm better looking than her, Ann childishly
affirmed to herself. Maedeen was short and rather tomboyish,
or tomwomanish, in this case. She always wore faded jeans and
plain blouses, flip-flops. Melanie had told her that Maedeen's
husband had died. Ann wondered when, and why. She casually
scanned the big glass bowls of candy along the counter, when
she noticed the small framed picture amid Maedeen's type-
writer clutter. She knew she shouldn't but she did anyway. She
walked around the counter. She glanced out the front window;
Maedeen was still heading briskly for the town square. Ann
then went to the typewriter desk and picked up the picture. The
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couch with a little girl—Wendlyn, her daughter. But in her
arms, Maedeen held a naked baby. The baby was a boy.
Just like Milly. A baby boy.
This was weird. Like Milly, Maedeen had only mentioned a
daughter when they'd met. She'd said nothing about having a
boy too. Why?
Don't, she thought. It's none of your business. Yet the lawyer
in her couldn't resist. She'd said she kept the town records here,
hadn't she? Ann glanced again out the window, to make sure it
was safe. Then she went into the file room.
It didn't take her long. BIRTH RECORDS, one drawer was
clearly marked. She opened the drawer and began to rummage.
What if someone comes in and sees me? But she ignored the
suggestion. Her curiosity burned her. The files were alphabeti-
cal. FOST, MAEDEEN. Ann opened it and found a certificate
of birth. But just one. FOST, WENDLYN. It was dated seven-
teen years ago. The signature of the delivering doctor was
Ashby Heyd. There was no record of a boy being born. When
Ann dug out Milly's file, she found the same thing. Only Rena's
birth certificate.
So who were the baby boys? Were they relatives' children?
Before Ann closed the drawer, she noticed a different-
colored folder in the very back. It possessed no heading. Ann
picked it up, opened it.
Stared.
Several sheets of old paper. A typed list. MALE BIRTHS, the
top of the sheet read.
She thumbed down the list of chronological dates.
FOST, MAEDEEN, MC 1-12-80, relinquished for adoption
1-23-80.
MC? Ann thought. Male child? It had to be.
She put the boy up for adoption, she realized. Why?
But that was not all. She found Milly's name. GODWIN,
MILLICENT, MC 6-15-82, relinquished for adoption 6-22-82.
My God, Ann thought.
The list went back fifteen years, women she'd never known
or heard of. Each had an MC typed behind the name, a date of
birth, and a date of adoption.
No wonder I haven't seen any boys in town, Ann came to the
bizarre conclusion. Their mothers put them all up for adoption.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
m
Scierors tied the figures down, laying open abdomens in single
swipes. The helots still twitched as their organs were systemati-
cally removed. Heads were lopped off with great machetelike
blades which whirred in the firelight. Genitals were sliced off
groins. Some were thrown onto the fire whole, others were fil-
leted first, the choice meats added to the boiling chettles of
blood. Females, fattened for weeks on corn mash, were hauled
screaming from the pens. Wreccans expertly flensed them alive
as they thrashed, peeling off sheets of skin ...
Erik shivered in the dark. These weren't just visions, they
were memories. They were the feks he'd watched in his past.
And he'd seen it all again, in his mind, the instant he'd stepped
back into the cirice.
He'd been lucky. Zack's pickax had nailed his hand to the
door. He'd reached the shotgun in time; fortunately, there'd
been a round in the chamber. Zack's knife had flashed. Just as it
would've sunk hilt-deep into his solar plexus, Erik had
squeezed the trigger. The 12-gauge blast knocked a hole into
Zack's chest, blowing him six feet across the room.
Gunsmoke rose, and a static silence. Erik dislodged the pick
from his hand, bandaged himself, and entered the cirice.
Its darkness greeted him like an old friend, and its smell. The
smell was always the same, like pork roast. The heat lingered in
the air; embers still glowed from the great cooking pit.
The memories held him in numb stasis. He panned the flash-
light through the nave, more pieces of his grim past. The
chettles, the aesces, irons, carving knives, stokers, and the stone
dolmen. Blood streaked the cinder-block wall, where they'd de-
capitated countless husls, and there were the iron hooks, from
which they'd been hung upside down. Erik stared at all this for
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197
a length of time he could not determine. Last, he found himself
gazing upon the back wall of the nave, at the uneven double-
orbed sheet of gray stone, the—
"Night-mirror," he muttered.
Leave, he thought. Leave this evil place and never come
back. But he couldn't do that, he knew he couldn't. Who else
would stop them? There's only me, he realized.
Suddenly, he felt engulfed in rage. He broke, throwing
things. He cleared the racks of utensils, kicked over the candela-
bra. The smaller chettles he picked up and threw, cracking
them. The larger ones he could only tip over. Next, he grabbed a
sledgehammer—which they used for cracking open heads—
and attacked the dolmen with it. He banged and banged, but the
thick granite wouldn't break. With two-by-fours, then, he man-
aged to lever the slab itself off its seat and slide it off the twin
plinths. His rage roiled, carried him, and next he was slamming
the sledgehammer against the face of the nihtmir. He slammed
at it for minutes, almost mindlessly. When he stopped and
looked at the slight damage he'd done, he thought: No, no, not
good enough. But—
Of course. The maintenance shed, outside. Lawn equipment
and ... Gas, he thought.
He dashed back outside, around the side of the church. He
was giddy with excitement. What a perfect way to announce his
homecoming: burning the entire church to the ground. The
studs in the basement would carry to the ceiling, then every-
thing would go. He rummaged through the shed, where they
kept the mowers, and there it was, shiny red. A five-gallon gas
can. It was almost full.
The pinkened moon followed him back to the stairs. It made
him feel watched. Protect me, God, protect me, he thought, or
prayed. When he was back in the cirice, he looked for the best
way. Yeah, perfect, he thought. A full cord of wood lay neatly
stacked against one wall. It would catch the studs, leading the
flame to the wood rafters above. By the time the fire truck got
here, the whole church would be in flames.
He unscrewed the cap, was about to douse the pile of wood
with gas, when he stopped. Had he heard something? No, he felt
something. He felt...
He set the can down, turned. Erik, Erik, he heard, but not in
his ears, in his head. He stepped forward. Now a faint glow

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Edward Lee
seemed to rise in the cirice, from the nave. Light like mist, like
luminous fog. The fog seemed pink ...
Erik. Brygorwreccan. Come.
"No," he croaked in his ruined voice.
He was standing before the nihtmir. Its dead gray stone
seemed to glow. Yes, he could see it, could see into it.
Something moved there, in the pinkened depths.
A face. A—
Her face, he thought, staring.
He couldn't take his eyes away.
Protect me, God. Protect me.
The face smiled at him, a great maw jammed with teeth.
Hello, Erik, it said.
The smile lengthened, drawing up.
Erik screamed. He ran out of the cirice, up the stairs, and into
the woods, his fear propelling him like a missile, away, away
from that hideous unholy visage.
He lay awake now in the front seat of the van. He was staring
up through the trees at the moon. The moon was pink.
"Protect me, God," he whispered. "Protect me."
But in his desperate prayer, he didn't see God. All he saw was
the perverse pinkish moon, and suffused in its sphere, the mem-
ory of her horrid face remained.
Grinning at him.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
m
It was a dream. Of course it was.
It had to be.
Milly was unwrapping her legs from Ann's face. Ann had no
breath. "That wasn't bad," Milly said. "You're learning."
Milly's naked body shined pale white in the lamplight. Ex-
citement filled her nipples. Ann sat up, wiped her mouth off on
her wrist. Where am I? she thought. She was sitting on a carpet.
When she looked up, she gasped. She saw a bed, but why was
she on the floor? Then she heard grim, steady beeping. This
wasn't Milly's room at all. It was her father's.
"Let's see if I can find it," Milly said. She was bending over
one of the dresser drawers, looking for something.
But Ann was aghast. Her father's pallid form lay still in the
bed, his face sunken. Needles jammed in his arm led up to in-
verted IV bottles on wheeled stands. Suddenly, his old mouth
popped open, and he groaned.
"You seemed to like the black one a lot last night," Milly was
commenting. Was that a bottle of milk on the dresser? "Ah, here
it is. I think you'll like this one even more."
Ann wanted to scream when she saw what Milly was talking
about. From the drawer, the nude nurse had extracted another
strap-on phallus. But this one was flesh-colored, longer, and
much thicker. Milly was on her knees now, calm as she strapped
the grotesque apparatus onto her hips. She turned, still kneeling.
The rubber prong pointed at Ann. "Suck it awhile," Milly said.
"Pretend it's a real cock, and suck it."
Ann felt shrinking. Her will tore like frayed fabric. She was
repulsed, but she could not disobey.
As instructed, she commenced. Milly tittered. She leaned her
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groin forward, hands on hips, grinning. "That's it, that's a good
little cocksucker."
Ann, eyes squeezed shut, could barely get it in her mouth.
She could feel the hideous molded veins. Against her tongue
she could feel the hole centered in the bulblike glans.
"This one's got balls too," Milly said.
Ann remembered the molded rubber testicles of last night's
phallus. This one, though, was different. She brought her hand
beneath it and felt a rubber bag of some kind, filled with some
warm fluid. Then she saw the rest, a tube leading out, attached
to a rubber squeezeball, a pump.
"Keep sucking," Milly ordered. "Suck me like you do Mar-
tin." She was sighing now, as though she really felt something.
Ann was mortified, at Milly, and at herself for doing this. Why
couldn't she stop, get up, leave?
"Yeah, I wish I had a real cock," Milly was saying, "just for
tonight. A great big long real cock to fuck you with, to come all
over your face with ..."
Ann tried to perform her task more intently, for she knew
when Milly tired of this, she'd want to put the monstrous thing
somewhere else.
"Almost real, huh?" Milly was grinning. Then she pushed
Ann's mouth off. "Hold still," she said. She began to stroke the
rubber penis in front of Ann's face.
"I—" Ann queried. "What are you—"
"Lean up." The odd pale pendant lay between Milly's
breasts. "I'm going to come in your face." Her other hand began
to squeeze the rubber ball.
Ann flinched, closed her eyes. With each squeeze, the phallus
squirted a jet of warm milk into Ann's face.
"There. You like that?"
Ann could not respond. More milk jetted from the artificial
glans. One spurt went right into Ann's mouth. The rest ran
down her breasts and legs.
Why is she doing this? Ann wondered in turmoil. Milk drib-
bled from her lips. Why can't I leave ?
That was certain. The more she wanted to flee from this per-
verse masquerade, the more she knew she couldn't.
It's a dream, she assured herself. Just a dream.
"Hands and knees," Milly ordered.
"Milly, please. Don't—"

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201
Milly slapped her face. "Just do it."
Milk dripped off Ann's nipples. She shut her eyes, humili-
ated. Milly knelt right up behind her and inserted the rubberized
phallus into Ann's sex.
She nearly yelped. The thing was huge, it bulged her. She al-
most fainted when she felt how deeply the prosthetic probed
her. Her mind seemed like a jigsaw, throwing pieces. Part of her
thought, Thank God Dad's unconscious, thank God he can't see
this, while another part continued to reassure, Don't worry, it's
just a dream. It's not real.
She gritted her teeth as the thing slid hugely in and out. Each
thrust nudged the bulb of her cervix. "You like it, right?" Milly
asked.
"Please, Milly, I—"
She slapped Ann's right buttock hard as she could, like wet
leather snapping. "Right?" she demanded.
"Yes, yes," Ann replied. The slap print buzzed on her rump.
But a forbidden inkling drifted up. Part of her did like it.
"Close your eyes and look," Milly ordered next.
Ann didn't understand. "Wha—"
Milly grabbed the back of her hair, pushed Ann's face into
the carpet.
"Look!"
Ann squeezed shut her eyes. Most of her mouth was pressed
to the floor.
"Do you see?"
"See what!" Ann muffled.
"Her! Do you see her\"
Ann didn't see anything but her own disgrace. Her hands and
knees felt bolted to the floor.
"What have we here?" a voice asked from above. Maedeen
walked in. She began taking off her clothes. "You're breaking
her in well, sweoster. Mind if I join in?"
Milly chuckled, pumping steadily. Maedeen sat down right in
front of Ann, spreading her legs. She too had one of the little
pale pendants about her neck. It looked shapeless, a little stone.
She pulled Ann's face to her crotch. "Eat it, yeah, that's right."
Ann felt helpless; she lapped frantically at the musky flesh. She
was crying, gasping for breath. "I fucked your precious Martin
the other night," Maedeen remarked. "Five or six times. I'll

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Edward Lee
fuck him anytime I want. He's a good little peow. I'm already
pregnant."
"Oh, Maedeen," Milly congratulated, grasping Ann's hips.
"That's wonderful."
"And you know what he's doing now? Your precious Mar-
tin?" Milly laughed along with Maedeen. "He's watching your
daughter take a shower through a hole in the wall. He's jerking
off. But don't worry, he wouldn't dare touch her, he knows
never to do that."
"Melanie's quite a beautiful girl, Ann," Milly added. "And
she's a virgin."
"She's just what we need for the doefolmon."
Ann could make nothing of this madness. She brought her
face up long enough to plead, "Why are you doing this to me?"
"We're initiating you," Milly said, thrusting deeper.
Maedeen fingered the pendant between her smallish, big-
nippled breasts. "We're making you holy. For the doefolmon."
"Ready, Annie?" Milly asked. She pulled Ann's hips back, to
effect maximum penetration. Ann squirmed; she felt skewered.
"Come in her now," Maedeen said, and pushed Ann's face back
down, and Milly was squeezing the rubber ball again, pumping.
Ann felt the warm spurts of milk launch into her sex. She
whined in anguish. Her disgust tremored in time with her or-
gasm.
Suddenly, a groan sounded from above. In panic, Ann looked
up. Her father, conscious now, was leaning out of the convales-
cent bed, his jaundiced eyes huge on the scene below. Ann
shrieked. Her father's face looked like a bad wax mask. His
withered finger shook, pointing down at her.
"That's right, peow," Milly said. "We're fucking your daugh-
ter."
Ann's father was shaking, murmuring in bursts. Eventually,
his twisted mouth formed words. "Guo the wifhands," he
croaked. An IV line tore from his arm. "Guo the Fulluht-
Loc ..."
"Listen to him." Maedeen chuckled. "He can't even talk
right anymore, the stupid helot."
"Uor mut go!"
Ann tried to get up, to go to him, but she couldn't move.
"He didn't really have a stroke, Ann," Milly said, still pump-

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203
ing the ball. "Dr. Heyd gave him something to fuck up his
brain."
"Doefolmon!" the old man shouted best he could. "Uor
mut—"
Maedeen got up. Milly withdrew the phallus. Milk flooded
out of Ann's sex and ran down the inside of her thighs. "Help
him!" Ann pleaded. "Help him!"
"Oh, we'll help him, all right," Milly assured. She was stand-
ing by the night table now. Maedeen leaned over the bed.
"Es unwi! Es dwola!"
"Shut up, you old fuck," Maedeen said. "Or we might decide
to kill you right now."
"I don't know why we don't," Milly commented. She was
preparing an injection. Ann screamed at her but still couldn't
budge against whatever power kept her on the floor.
"The wifmunuc wants him alive for a while longer,"
Maedeen said. "To keep Ann here."
What were they talking about? What were they doing?
"Huro liloc!" Ann's father grated. "Huro succubi!"
Maedeen climbed on the bed. Her pendant swayed as she
squatted over the old man's face. "Peow, thane," she said. She
began to urinate. "WThan," she said, glaring down.
"What are you doing!" Ann wailed. "He's a sick old man!"
"He's a peow," Milly corrected. "And we piss on peows."
Now the old man was gagging, coughing urine as Maedeen
pissed in his mouth. "That should quiet him down a little."
Milly jammed a needle into his arm. "Dother fo Dother," he
gurgled. Then he fell limp in the sheets.
Ann continued to scream at them, but they only laughed at
her outrage. Milly unstrapped the phallus and refilled its recep-
tacle with milk. "My turn," Maedeen said. The two naked
women exchanged grins. Then Maedeen strapped on the device.
Ann looked up in horror. "Wha—what are you going to do?"
Milly laughed. Now Maedeen was smearing Vaseline over
the shining, veined phallus.
"Guess," she answered.
Ann awoke screaming. She jerked up in the dark, glanced
frantically about, then screamed once more. Martin was not in
bed with her. Her sex felt sore. Pinkish moonlight eddied
through the gap in the curtains. Her nightgown billowed as she

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Edward Lee
flew out of the room and down the hall. Her father lay uncon-
scious in the bed, the heart monitor beeping steadily. Milly was
not here. Ann leaned over her father's sunken face. The face
was dry, the pillow clean. Then she scampered to the other end
of the house. Her mother's room was empty, the bed unslept in.
Nor did she find Melanie in her own room. Confusion infuriated
her. She checked the house top to bottom.
No one was here.
Where is everybody! she demanded. It's past midnight, and
everybody's gone!
In the kitchen, she tried to calm herself down. She drank
some juice, wishing it were scotch. This was inexcusable. Mar-
tin must be at the bar, getting drunk. And Melanie must be with
these new weird friends of hers. And her mother, and Milly,
where could they be this late?
Images of the dream felt like splinters in her brain. She felt so
disgusted she wanted to throw up. She'd been raped by women,
by a hideous milk-spurting phallus. She'd watched Maedeen
urinate into her father's face. Where did Ann's mind resource
such obscene, pornographic imagery? What would Dr. Harold
say? What did it mean?
Worse was that it seemed so real. Her sex and rectum ached
dully. Harold would claim the dream meant she didn't trust any-
one, that she subconsciously feared those who seemed the most
innocuous. And as for the dull ache, "conative sensory dream-
supplantation," he would say, or something similar. "It's com-
mon for tactile stimuli to linger after night terrors," he'd told
her once.
Her mind felt like a meld of ground meat. She could scarcely
distinguish between dream and reality these days. What had
happened today? The store, Maedeen's files. Had that been a
dream too? No, no! she felt certain. It couldn't have been! She'd
seen the birth records. In the last fifteen years over a dozen male
babies had been born, and they'd all been put up for adoption.
Why? Why were the only men in Lockwood transients? Why
were the only children girls?
Simmer down, she thought. She went back upstairs, to her
room. She hated it here. She wanted to be back in the city, back
at the firm. Everything was going wrong. Martin and Melanie
had never been more distant. Her mother's disapproval of her
had only intensified. Nothing was right.

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Spikes of the dream returned. The mocking, naked women.
The bizarre pendants between their breasts, and the even more
bizarre words. They'd implied they wanted Melanie for some-
thing.
. . . she's a virgin . . . she s just what we need for. . .
Dr. Harold would claim this was only her subconscious sym-
bolizing her fear of Melanie's vulnerability as she approached
adulthood. Why did Ann sense something phony about it all?
Through the curtains, she peered at the moon. The moon
peered back. Something about the dream pendants bothered her.
The pink moonlight seemed to jar something loose. The pen-
dants, like little stones. Of course, she realized. They seemed to
bear the same cryptic symbol in her recurring nightmare of
Melanie's birth. Rough, misshapen double circles.
Ann, Ann, a voice seemed to drift in her head. She was sud-
denly exhausted. Was she dreaming standing up?
The moon shimmered.
Go back to bed, Ann. *
Ann yawned, vigorously shook her head.
Go back to sleep . . .
She climbed back into bed and buried herself beneath the
covers.
Go back to sleep and dream . . .

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
m
"It's English," the old man said without pause.
Dr. Harold didn't understand. "English? But how—"
"Old English, Doctor. Or I should say it's more of an amalga-
mation, a rough mix of specific linguistic influences. Old En-
glish, Old Saxon, Old Frisian, and ... something else I can't
identify. Something that looks older."
Dr. Harold was at this moment sitting in the faculty office of
one Professor Franklin M. Fredrick, who had been referred to
him through the campus information desk. Fredrick was the
head of the archaeology department, and also an expert on my-
thology and ancient religion. Various degrees decorated the
cramped office, as well as many relics. Dr. Harold had brought
Erik Tharp's entire hospital file in hopes that Fredrick might
shed some light on the technical aspects of Tharp's delusion.
"I use the term Old English as a generalization," Fredrick
was saying, scanning the transcripts of Tharp's narcoanalysis
and psychotherapy sessions. "What I mean is the language of
the island of England, or Angle-land, before it became influ-
enced by the Germanic invasion of about 450 a.d. The scant
Latin derivations are obvious, from the Roman Occupation of
55 b.c. Old English is a coalescence of tongues, and unique in
its incorporation. But this ..." He tapped one of the sheafs.
"This is unusual."
"How much of it do you think is invented?" Dr. Harold
asked.
"Invented?" The old man looked at him, puzzled. "None of
this is invented, Doctor. All of these words are real."
But that was impossible; he must not understand. "Tharp is
an escaped mental patient. We've determined that he escaped
for a reason specific to his delusion."
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Professor Fredrick looked the part: keen-eyed in his weath-
ered face. Countless digs and years in hostile sun had toughened
his skin to the consistency of tanned leather. He was probably
sixty but he looked a hundred. On his cragged hand a gold ring
glittered, whose mount centered a pebble from Golgotha.
"Is Tharp a professor or language expert?"
"Oh, no," Dr. Harold replied. "He's a drug burnout. He never
graduated high school."
Fredrick seemed to smile cynically, if the toughness of his
face would permit a smile at all. "That's difficult for me to be-
lieve, Doctor. This mental patient of yours—this drug
burnout—is using terms, syntactical structures, and even partic-
ularized inflections that are twenty-five hundred years old. And
he's doing it perfectly."
Dr. Harold looked at him. The old man must be overreacting.
Tharp had done well on the standard IQ batteries, but he was es-
sentially uneducated.
"Let me give you some background," Fredrick offered. His
voice, like his face, seemed frayed by the impairment of years.
"The island of England is linguistically unique simply because
of its geography. The basis of the English language is a direct
reflection of the major invasions of the island. The Celts, in 600
b.c.; the Romans, in 55 b.c.; and the Saxons, in 500 a.d. But be-
fore the initial Brythonic, or Celtic, invasion, there was another
society that we know very little about. They were called the
Chilterns, and they had a language all their own. So it is actually
the Chiltern language that provides the first root of English."
"What's that got to do with Tharp's vocabulary in those tran-
scripts?"
"It's not just the vocabulary, Doctor, it's the syntax too, and
the conjugations. Tharp seems better versed in the Chiltern lan-
guage than the entirety of the archaeological community."
That's ridiculous, Harold thought. "Can you translate any of
the words?" he asked.
"I can probably translate all of them." Fredrick pointed to a
random page. "This word here, husl—it means to sacrifice. An
interesting thing about the Chiltern-influenced forms of Old En-
glish is that there was little distinction between common nouns
and transitive verbs. Husl is a good example. It also means sac-
rifice victim."
"What about wreccan?"

208
Edward Lee
"Slave. The a is, strangely, masculine, and o's are feminine.
Hence: male slave."
"And brygorwreccan?'
"A male slave who digs graves."
Dr. Harold felt numbly stunned. "Five years ago Tharp was
apprehended by police for burying bodies. Some of the bodies
were children and infants. We assumed his vocabulary was in-
vented."
"You assumed wrong," Professor Fredrick asserted. "All
these words are real. Scieror, one who cuts with a knife. Hustig,
a general ritual. Fek, festival. Cnif, knife. This is fascinating,
and clearly religious."
Religious? "How so?"
"These words here, oft repeated, loc and liloc. They're gen-
eral references to a demon, a female demon. Many pre-Druidic
settlements worshipped female demons via ritual sacrifice. The
sacrifices frequently involved children, infants."
This was maddening. How did Tharp, an amotivate and drop-
out, become this learned in not only an ancient language but in
an ancient religious custom? "Look at the rest, here," he in-
sisted, and dug into his briefcase. "These are Tharp's
sketchpads from the ward. Tell me what you make of them."
Professor Fredrick opened the first pad, then fell into a con-
cerned silence. For the next twenty minutes he examined one
page after another. He seemed to be transfixed.
"What? What's wrong?" Dr. Harold finally asked.
Professor Fredrick glanced up quizzically. "Ur-locs," he said.
"What?"
"Several thousand years ago there was an offshoot of the
Chiltern race. They were called the Ur-locs. It was an occult so-
ciety, and one, I might add, that we know very little about.
There can be no mistake here. Tharp knows more about the Ur-
locs than most archaeology departments."
Ur-locs, Dr. Harold thought.
"They were one of the most unique societies in history, and
the only settlement in England to successfully resist every inva-
sion of the island—the Celts, the Romans, the Saxons, Jutes,
and Frisians, even the Normans. We only know about them
from the registries left by each invader. Every army that was
ever dispatched against the Ur-locs never returned, and the Ur-
locs, mind you, were an entirely female-dominated, culture."

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That at least explained something. Tharp's delusion was
based on a premise of female superiority. All of the men in the
sketches were clearly subservient to a. female hierarchy.
"The Ur-locs themselves," the old man continued, "were
small in number, yet somehow they maintained a great power
over large male populations. They were served entirely by men
enslaved from invading camps or conquered settlements. Men
did everything for them: fought their wars, cultivated their
foods, built their towns. The Ur-locs reigned over a body of
men dozens of times their own size."
"But... how?"
"Probably just a very clever management of power and fear,
like any successful monarchy. And then, of course, there are the
legends..."
"What legends?"
Fredrick again attempted a smile. "The registries claim that
the Ur-locs were witches and that they used witchcraft to en-
slave their attackers. That's where the religious part comes in.
The Ur-locs were savagely ritualistic. Their existence revolved
around a single religious belief. They sacrificed thousands in
appeasement to their god. These people made the Aztecs look
like the Girl Scouts."
So Tharp's delusion was based on an actual ancient religious
system, and that religious system was based on a specific—
'Tell me about their god," Dr. Harold inquired next.
"Here, right here," Fredrick said. He pointed to the most
memorable sketch, the beautiful buxom woman in moonlight
whose face was just a maw of needlelike teeth. "They called it
the Ardat-Lil. Tharp's rendition is nearly perfect."
Dr. Harold looked at the sketch again, and shivered in its ob-
scene impact of perversion and beauty. The flawless hourglass
figure and flawless breasts. The taloned feet. The three-fingered
claws for hands. And the face, the face ... he could only glance
at it a moment before having to turn away.
Ur-locs, he thought again in a strange, slow pulse. Ardat-
Lil ...
Professor Fredrick was getting up. Was it the chair that
creaked, or his old joints? A small statue of the incubus
Baalzephon stared down from a high bookshelf, along with the
multi-limbed Bengalian Kali and the squat Babylonian Pazuzu.
Fredrick removed a thick, dusty text: Pre-Druidism: A Study of

210
Edward Lee
the Mythologies of Angle-Land. "This should enlighten you,"
he proposed, and lay the book down at a specific chapter.
"Here's a field summary from an Oxford University dig near
Ripon, in the summer of 1983. Quite by accident, the dig un-
covered the original Ur-loc ruins." One photo showed several
big iron pots. "Fek cauldrons," he explained. "The Ur-locs were
cannibals, and these cauldrons, which they called chettles, were
what they cooked their festival meats in." The next photo
showed a great stone slab on plinths. "A ceremonial dolmen,
part altar, part sacrifice platform. The Ur-locs iconized dol-
mens; after a thousand sacrifices, it's said, they cut the dolmens
up and made things out of the pieces: jewelry, tools, religious
regalia such as fonts and tribal pendants. The very first dolmen,
according to the myth, served as the central icon. They called it
the nihtmir, or night-mirror. High priestesses were said to actu-
ally be able to see the Ardat-Lil in it. All sacrificial communi-
ties used dolmens, and many similarly retired the older ones for
a higher use in their ceremonies."
"At this dig," Dr. Harold asked, "did they find the original
Ur-loc dolmen?"
"The nihtmir? No, and that's a bit strange. All the archaeo-
logical evidence suggests that the Ur-locs willingly dispersed
themselves—disbanded, I should say—between 995 and 1000
a.d., and they apparently took their nihtmir with them, which
must've weighed, mind you, close to a thousand pounds. It was
probably about the size of a desktop."
Nihtmir, Dr. Harold reflected now. Night-mirror. Hadn't
Tharp mentioned something similar during his narcoanalysis?
And he'd mentioned chettles too, hadn't he? "What's this?"
came the next query. A photo showed a pile of scrolls or some-
thing, as a field technician gingerly dusted them with a camel-
hair brush.
"It's a manuscript," Professor Fredrick informed him. "The
only direct written record of the Ur-loc race. It had been buried
in a cairn, in some very peaty high-sulfur/low-oxygen soil. The
excavators were able to photograph most of it before it disinte-
grated. And this," he said, "you should find very interesting."
The next photo showed a drawing on a manuscript page. Dr.
Harold recognized the sleek body and long flowing mane of
hair, the talons and tiny slits for eyes above the stretched maw
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"The Ardat-Lil," he muttered. "It's almost identical to
Tharp's sketch."
"Indeed it is," Professor Fredrick replied. "No doubt Tharp
researched the Ur-locs at a college library, and based his delu-
sion on the information."
Of course, Dr. Harold tried to agree. What other answer could
there be? Still, the proposition pricked at him, like briars. "Do
you think it's even remotely possible, though, that some very
distant remnant of the Ur-loc culture still exists, some cult or
something?"
Professor Fredrick's eyes fixed on him. Then the old, cragged
face broke, and he began to laugh.
"I suppose now is a suitable time."
"Yes," Dr. Heyd agreed.
Milly and the wifmunuc peered down from the foot of the
bed, the breasts bare, the faces intent in glee. Dr. Heyd opened
his black medical bag.	,
"Nis hoefonrice gelic tham lige," said the wifmunuc, "paet
wit waldenes, sprece forbraecon ..."
"Fo hir doefolcyniges," Milly finished.
Dr. Heyd filled the lOcc syringe, watching a few droplets
sparkle.
"I want his death to be relishing," the wifmunuc ordered him.
"Nice and slow," Milly added, her nipples erecting at the
thought. "Nice and slow, for her."
Dr. Heyd nodded. The pale figure on the bed seemed to tense
a little, jaundiced eyes staring up, mouth propped open.
"He's served well, in his own way."
Goodbye, Josh. Dr. Heyd inserted the needle into one of the
pulsing veins of Joshua Slavik's upper arm. Then he slowly de-
pressed the plunger.
"Wlhan!" whispered the wifmunuc.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
m
"You two! Hey!" Sergeant Tom Byron shouted.
The figures scampered away into the woods.
"Come back here! This is the police!"
Giggling fluttered up. They'd looked like kids, hadn't they?
Several tree trunks seemed pasty with some dark shine. Byron
touched a trunk and his finger came away red.
Blood, he thought.
Chief Bard had dispatched him to search the woods around
the edge of town, which made little sense to Byron. A lot of
things didn't make much sense lately. Bard wasn't telling him
much. Had he gotten a tip? It infuriated Byron that his own boss
didn't trust him with confidential information. What made Bard
so sure Tharp would be hiding out in the woods?
And now this . .. these kids. Who were they? What were they
doing?
Byron delved into the thicket. Fallen brush crunched under-
foot. He tried to follow the giggling, and their sounds, but the
brush grew so thick in places that he could barely pass without a
machete. The late-afternoon sun drew mist up from the forest's
moist ground. He felt pricked, perspiry, and pissed off.
But then the thicket subsided. A trail seemed to etch a line
through the woods. Byron followed it. He noticed more wet
trees lining the way. Someone had painted them with some-
thing, something like blood.
Byron then stepped between a pair of gnarled oaks.
He stared down. What in God's name ...
He'd stepped into a small dell, a clearing. Three girls stood
there, as if they'd been waiting for him. They were grinning.
They were also buck naked.
"Who the hell ..." But then he recognized them. Wendlyn
212

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213
Fost, Maedeen's daughter. Rena Godwin. And the third, Josh
Slavik's grandkid. What was her name? Melanie?
Byron looked around for guys. A bunch of naked girls usu-
ally meant that a bunch of naked guys were close at hand. But
there were none, he saw. There was only him.
"What the hell are you girls doing?"
They only grinned in response. They were passing something
around, smoking. Pot smokers, he concluded. But this stuff
didn't smell like pot at all. It smelled light, cinnamony.
"We're waiting for you," one of them, Rena, said.
Byron stared at them. They didn't seem the least bit con-
cerned that they were standing naked in front of a police officer.
He gulped, though; he couldn't help it. They were just teenagers
but—Christ, he thought. Three pairs of breasts stared back at
him, three pubes. Rena, the youngest, barely had any hair at all.
The other two looked fuller, more shapely. But what were those
pails on the ground? And brushes?
"Peow," Melanie Slavik said. Her eyes looked bright but...
funny.
Then Wendlyn added, "Let's give lof."
Rena giggled.
Give lof, Byron thought. It was a slow thought, slow like
blood oozing from a wound. Something was happening.
The three faces—the three grins—seemed to reach into him,
drag him down like drugs. They're kids, he kept thinking.
They 're just kids ... I can't.. .
They converged, laying him out. His vision seemed de-
tached; he saw only in fragments, diced glimpses. Faces hov-
ered over him, bodies, breasts. The little stone pendants swayed
like pendulums as they eagerly clustered about him, unbut-
toning his shirt and pants. Their giggling made him sick; soon it
didn't even sound human. It sounded wet, clicking, like vora-
cious eating.
"The Fulluht-Loc is coming ..."
"The doefolmon ..."
"Give lof! To the Modor!"
"Wlhan!"
"Dother fo Dother!"
They had his penis out, which was already erect, pulsing.
Melanie ran her hands up over his chest. Wendlyn was stroking

214
Edward Lee
his face, suspending a big nipple over his mouth. And Rena,
whose own giggles sounded muffled, was fellating him.
This was all wrong, part of him knew. It didn't matter that
they'd come on to him. They were kids. He could lose his job
for this, even go to jail. But that part of him faded. He lay there
as if staked to the ground. He couldn't move.
"Lots of muscles," Melanie cooed, rubbing. "He'd make a
great wreccan."
"Shit on him," Wendlyn said.
"He's big," Rena stopped long enough to say. "Look!"
They giggled, appraising it.
Now Rena had his service piece out, a Colt Python. She
cocked its gridded hammer, prodded his testicles with the bar-
rel.
Byron was shivering, terrorized. He felt the cold end of the
barrel poke into his scrotum, trace his shaft.
"Don't worry, little baby," Melanie said.
"We won't shoot it off," Wendlyn promised.
She and Rena traded places. Wendlyn mounted him. "Ooo,
you're right. He's real big," she commented, and inserted him
into herself. Rena straddled his head, pushing the nearly hair-
less furrow against his lips. "Lick it, lick it," she commanded in
glee, then began urinating.
Byron felt pinned down, buried in madness. Hot urine
streamed against his face, into his mouth. He couldn't breathe.
Wendlyn rode him ferociously, slamming her hips down against
him. Both Byron's heart and his genitals felt like they would ex-
plode at the same time.
Rena climbed off. Melanie was getting something out from
under a log. Wendlyn rode him faster, harder, eyes turned up.
She shuddered, then shrieked—
Byron exploded into her sex—
As Melanie slid the sharpened cnif against his throat, cutting
immediately and right to the bone.
"Wlhan!" Rena celebrated.
Byron's blood spurted out of his neck precisely in time with
his orgasm. He died a minute or two later, when they began to
slice his belly open.
Erik scouted the woods. The sun was going down. He had
pretty good bearings now. He could even see the Slavik house

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215
from here. He'd need to go in soon, but he didn't dare yet. A big
Fleetwood had pulled up as he watched. He didn't want to go
into the house when a lot of people were there. They'd have
plenty of preliminary rituals before the actual rite. That should
give him enough time.
He knew the cops were onto him; no doubt Bard had found
the brygorwreccan's body—they knew he was close. He went
back deeper into the woods, to conceal himself until it was time.
But what was that he heard? Erik stopped, poised himself to
listen. Voices, it sounded like. Quiet voices.
He followed, moving as lightly as he could. Soon he thought
he detected movement, pale shapes in the darkening light.
He looked past some trees, into a dell. A girl, naked, was
walking away. Two more stooped over something. It didn't take
Erik long to realize that what they were stooping over was a
corpse.
A cop, he thought. They were eviscerating him, putting cer-
tain organs into a plastic bag. The thinner girl seemed to be saw-
ing something. This, too, did not surprise Erik. He'd seen it all
before. The slender girl sawed off the cop's head and put it in
the bag.
Wifhands. Younger ones. He thought he recognized them.
Then they rose. They turned slowly, grinning. Their pendants
dangled. Their white flesh was smeared with blood.
"We know you're there, Erik," the older one said.
Rena Godwin giggled. "We can feel you."
The other one was the wifford's kid, Wendlyn. "Come
here."
"No," Erik said. He raised the shotgun. "You don't have me
anymore."
The two girls laughed.
"We have you. You've been blessed."
"You'll always be ours."
No ... 1... won't, he determined. He could feel it already,
their pull on his brain, like the moon.
"Come to us, Erik," Rena said.
"The little brygorwreccan."
Their young faces beamed, the stare of their eyes sinking into
his head like daggers, like cnifs.

216
Edward Lee
"Come to us."
Erik stepped forward. The shotgun was charged, but he
scarcely even felt it now. It felt like something he was holding
in a dream.
"Let us give you fulluht. Let us make you holy again."
Kill them, he commanded himself. He tried to aim the gun,
but his arms barely moved.
"The doefolmon is coming."
"The Fulluht-Loc."
"You've come back to be with us. We welcome you, Erik. We
will take you back into the cirice."
No, pounded the thought like hammer to stone. I'll kill myself
first.
He would, he knew he would. Anything to be free of them.
They were so strong against his will, much stronger than before.
They began to come forward. Wendlyn outstretched her
hand, smiling softly. Rena came up behind her.
Kill them, he demanded of himself. Kill them before they—
"Little peow. Kneel—"
—change, he thought.
Erik squeezed his eyes shut. His mind felt released from a
fetter. His forearms shot up, brought the shotgun to bear.
"No!" Rena shrieked.
His finger contracted. The shotgun jumped behind a great
flash and concussion: ba-BAM!
The round socked a hole into Wendlyn's throat. Blood flew
out of her like thin, flailing tentacles. Rena, screaming, flew at
him with a small glinting aesc.
He racked another round and fired. The hand holding the
spike flew off the end of her arm. He cycled the shotgun once
more, raised it to her face.
Her face . ..
His teeth clacked shut.
The third round of 12-gauge exploded in her face. Her head
blew apart in wheeling, wet chunks.
Gunsmoke shifted up like a ghost. It tinged in his nostrils.
Before they change, his thoughts continued to tick. His face felt
like a flat plate of stone when he looked down at the two naked
forms. Their dark blood pumped slowly into the soil.

SUCCUBI
217
The part of his mind that still belonged to this world told him,
You just killed two kids.
"No, I didn't," he answered himself in voice. "I just killed
two monsters."
He racked another round into the chamber and stalked off
back into the darkening forest.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
m
Dooer, dooer, the dark voice groped. The black words seemed
to drag her down, deeper, deeper into the strange, chanting lab-
yrinth of the dream.
Ann awoke in the terrible crimson vertigo, the knife—
slup-slup-slup
—sinking to its guard into her abdomen.
Slup-slup-slup, she heard, wincing. She brought a hand to
her flat, sweat-moistened belly. She was naked in bed,
drenched. The room was empty. She gasped when she saw the
clock: 8:12 p.m. She'd slept the entire day away, and well into
evening.
She showered in a cold torrent, hoping the spray of water
would revive her. She felt terrible, as if hung over or drugged.
She shivered as she washed herself; her hand guiding the bar
of soap felt like someone else's hand, like the fluttering
hands of the nightmare, roving her, stroking her stretched
belly.
God, was all she could think. She felt haunted; she didn't
even feel real. Each movement as she dressed prodded the worst
headache of her life. What was wrong with her? Something was
terribly wrong; she could feel it. Something wrong with ... ev-
erything.
She must be sick—that was it. She must be coming down
with flu; that's why she'd slept so late. She went downstairs for
some juice and heard car doors closing.
Ann peeked out the sidelight sash of the front door. Her
mother's Fleetwood was backing out the drive. It looked like
there were several people in it.
218

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219
She frowned. The car drove off. Dusk was settling. A bright,
pinkened moon peered over the horizon. It was full.
Something shattered. Upstairs.
Ann spun around. She raced up the staircase. Something else
shattered. It sounded like glass breaking.
The heart monitor's beep down the hall sounded slow, irregu-
lar. Ann's breath lodged in her chest when she spun into her fa-
ther's room. Saline bottles lay shattered around the outer rim of
the throw rug. The wheeled stands lay toppled over. Ann's vi-
sion rooted to the bed.
Her father lay sprawled, half over the convalescent rail.
Blood dripped out of his arm from where the IV needles had
torn out. He was convulsing, his mouth locked open. His eyes
bulged as if lidless. Ann could only stare. His right arm, trem-
oring, began to lift. The crabbed hand unfurled.
His mouth jittered but no sound came out. He was pointing at
her.	*
"Oh, Jesus ... Dad ..."
His hand fell to the bed. The slow beep-beep-beep of the
Lifepak monitor stopped—
—then flat-lined.
He'd been leaning over for something. Ann's wide gaze
slowly lowered. The nightstand, she saw. The antique, enam-
eled nightstand seemed to have something on the side facing the
bed.
Writing? she thought. It looked like ... writing.
She cast it aside. She dragged him over, leaned down. She at-
tempted CPR as she best knew how. Each downward push
against his frail chest pumped a little more blood from the torn
IV hole at the inside of his elbow. She craned his head back,
pinched shut his nostrils, and blew.
Nothing.
The flat line droned on.
He's dead, she realized.
Her downward stare seemed drawn by something. She stared
at the side of the drawered nightstand.
Her father had written something on it. He'd used his own
blood:

220
Edward Lee
PoEFOLIojj
LEAVE Mennte,
£{/£*\fTttlMG. Q€x Oor wWf-f
y#u Sfiu. CA»■
"The Ardat-Lil was a succubus," Professor Fredrick ex-
plained. "Or I should say, the supreme succubus, the first lady
of hell."
"Succubus," Dr. Harold repeated the word.
"A female sex-demon. Many variations exist throughout
world mythology, and it's interesting how many ancient reli-
gious modes reflect a reverence to identical gods and antigods.
The Ardat-Lil is no exception. The Scottish Bheur, the German
Brechta, the Scandinavian Agaberte, the Teutonic Alrune, the
Egyptian Aldinoch—they're all names for the same thing.
They're all the Ardat-Lil."
Succubus, Dr. Harold thought. The word even sounded evil.
It seemed to walk across his groin like a tarantula.
Professor Fredrick lit a pipe with a face on it, puffing sweet
smoke into the air. "The Ardat-Lil has a very racy history. The
Ur-locs believed that when the earth was made, half of heav-
en's angels were banished. Sound familiar? On the first day of
his banishment, Lucifer decided to take a stroll around the
earth, which he found, to his complete dissatisfaction, to be in-
habited by peace-loving humans who were completely bereft
of sin. They all rejected him immediately, and Lucifer, mind
you, doesn't take kindly to rejection. Therefore, he decided to
corrupt the human race, by tricking them into turning away
from God. This may sound familiar too. Anyway, Lucifer
searched for the most beautiful virgin in the world and after six
days he found her—a young woman named Ardat. Lucifer
promised to make her his queen if she turned away from God,
and Ardat, as you've probably already guessed, agreed. They
sealed the agreement by having intercourse. Ardat became

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221
pregnant, and after only six days, gave birth to a beautiful baby
girl. This baby eventually bloomed into a woman even more
beautiful than her mother, so beautiful that Lucifer deemed any
name unworthy of her beauty. She was known simply as the
Daughter."
"Or the Ardat-Lil," Dr. Harold supposed.
"No, not quite. The Daughter was so beautiful that Lucifer,
notorious for his hormones, couldn't resist. She was beautiful,
but she wasn't evil, and Lucifer wanted an evil little girl. So he
changed himself into an anonymous man, whom the Daughter
fell in love with. It was all a ploy. The Daughter married the
man, had intercourse with him, and then she became pregnant.
In other words—"
"Lucifer seduced his own daughter."
"Exactly," Professor Fredrick said. "The Daughter then
gave birth to an even more beautiful baby girl, and she turned
out to be heinously evil. She was known as the Daughter of
the Daughter, or the Ardat-Lil. That's what this repeated term
in Tharp's sketches refers to." Professor Fredrick pointed to
one.
Dr. Harold read, beneath a drawing of a woman giving birth
on a dolmen, the words Dother fo Dother.
"The dohtor, or in the Chilternese form, the Dother fo
Dother, was half human, half devil, the worst of both parts, and
she was therefore condemned by God to eternity in hell. How-
ever, like many demons, she was born with the power of incar-
nation, and it is the bounden duty of all demons to perpetuate
evil. Through time, the Ardat-Lil gained followers on earth, hu-
man followers, who were granted swftcarnate powers in return
for their worship. A coven formed—"
"The Ur-locs," Dr. Harold conjectured.
"Right, whose existence revolved solely around the wor-
ship of the Ardat-Lil. They served her in many ways, by ritual,
by sacrifice and cannibalism, and by eliminating all men from
the bloodline, or bludcynn—another word which Tharp refers
to quite frequently. The Ur-locs, according to legend, turned
men into slaves via something called the sexespelle; it has
always been thought that intercourse with a succubus func-
tioned as a pact with the devil. All coven members—

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Edward Lee
wifhands—had the power to become succubi for short periods,
during which they seduced men and hence enslaved them.
They'd trick men into thinking they were dreaming, have in-
tercourse with them, and that was that. Any man who had sex
with a wifhand in the succubi state was lost forever to the cov-
en's will."
"What are these words here?" Dr. Harold asked, pointing to
further sketch pages. "Are they all relative to this system of
worship?"
"Oh, yes," Professor Fredrick answered. "/Elmesse, alms;
lof, praise in ceremony; cirice, church. Thane, helot, and
peow all mean the same as wreccan: male slave—one who has
fallen to the succubi. WThan means to make holy. The Ur-locs
believed that the only way to make a man holy was to kill
him—and often eat him—in homage to the Dother fo
Dother."
"And these? Wifford? Wifmunuc?"
"A wifford to the Ur-locs was their version of a verger or a
seminarian, a religious hierarch. The wifford was second-in-
command of the coven, and in constant training to replace the
coven leader upon her death. The leader was called the
wifmunuc, the one closest to the deity."
Dr. Harold grimly stroked his white mustache. He considered
this, and what the old professor had said earlier. What a ghastly
vision...
"Not a pretty topic, I assure you. Despite their obscurity, the
Ur-locs proved one of the most savage societies to ever exist."
Professor Fredrick then emptied the smoking guts of his pipe,
tap-tap-tapping them into an obsidian ashtray that once served
as an Assyrian blood tap. "There's a summation, though, in an
ultimate respect, I mean."
"I'm sorry?" Dr. Harold said.
"There's a point to all of this. I don't believe for a minute
that an Ur-loc cult could actually have survived all this time,
nor do I believe in the occult. However, I do have an observa-
tion to make, which you should find exceedingly uncanny."
Fredrick released a roughened chuckle. "Would you like to
hear it?"
The dying pipe smoke sifted up. From the bookshelves, and

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from odd perches all about the office, the stone likenesses of de-
mons persisted in their frozen stares. And splayed across the
desk lay Tharp's drawing of the Ardat-Lil, shimmering in its
obscene beauty ...
"Yes," Dr. Harold said. "I'd like to hear it very much."

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
m
Ann fled down the hall, then slowed. Then she stopped. What
was she thinking? Her father was dead. With his own blood
he'd written a warning. But what did that really mean? Ann
stood still in the paneled hall, blinking.
He 'd suffered a massive stroke. He was delirious. He didn't
know what he was doing.
There.
She let reality catch up to her. As usual, no one was in the
house. What do / do now? It was a good question. What do you
do when someone dies? Call an ambulance? A funeral home?
Mustn't a doctor declare him dead first? Ann felt disconnected.
It was her father who lay dead in the next room, not some stran-
ger. Oddly, even guiltily, she felt relief.
His torment's over, she realized. This was a good thing. What
must it have been like for him, immobile and brain-damaged?
In death, her father had found the peace that his illness had
robbed him of. Now Ann understood why people always said
"It's a blessing" at funerals. Her father's death was a blessing.
The acknowledgment made her feel better. She went down-
stairs and sat on the bottom step, chin in hand. The total lack of
sound made the house seem even more empty. How would
Melanie take her grandfather's death? And what would her
mother say? But in a moment Ann realized she was reaching for
distractions. Above all, what continued to gnaw at her was the
same thing that had been gnawing at her for months.
The nightmare.
Pieces of the nightmare kept sifting in her head, and that ter-
rible scarlet vertigo. How could anything be so obsessive? Her
own father had just died, yet the preoccupation with the dream
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remained. Slup-slup-slup, she could still hear the sound, and the
voice of the sinister birth attendant: "Dooer, dooer."
Ann struggled to escape the awful imagery. There were
things that needed to be done. Get off it! she screamed to her-
self. She must call Dr. Heyd at once, tell him that her father had
finally passed away. But—
Slup-slup-slup, she could still hear in her mind.
Dooer, dooer.
Rising, she winced. But when she went to the phone, some-
thing caused her to glance down the stairwell which led to the
basement. Even in the dim light, she could plainly see that the
door, which her mother kept locked, stood open.
What am I doing? Call Dr. Heyd! she ordered herself. Next
thing she knew, however, she was descending the stairs.
Then she knew, or she thought she did. The basement was
where Melanie had been born; it was the setting of the night-
mare. That was the lure—the grim curiosity which urged her
down the steps. Suddenly, the room seemed forbidden; it en-
ticed her. Ann hadn't seen the basement in seventeen years.
But she was determined to see it now.
The old wood of the steps creaked as she continued down.
The door opened in dead silence. Ann still couldn't imagine
why her mother always kept it locked. It was just a fruit cellar, a
basement.
It seemed warmer the instant she stepped in. A single nude
light bulb hung from the ceiling. There was an old washing bin,
some old furniture, and an ironing board. Shelves of jarred fruit
and pickled vegetables lined one entire wall.
She looked blankly ahead. Something wasn't right. A few
more seconds ticked by when she realized her disappointment.
She'd hoped that seeing the basement might shake loose a
memory that would solve the nightmare and free her of it. The
nightmare was of Melanie's birth. Melanie was born here.
Therefore—
The misconception bloomed.
This isn't the room in the nightmare.
It was all wrong. The room in the nightmare was longer, the
ceiling higher. The entire shape of this room was different.
Yes, Ann felt disappointed. The room showed her nothing
that her subconscious might be hanging on to. Why had the
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Edward Lee
Time. Memory, she considered. She'd misconstrued it all.
The past seventeen years had obscured her memory totally. Her
dream had therefore built its own room.
But why?
It scarcely mattered. She turned to go back up and noticed
several file cabinets. One thing she never noticed, though, was
the reason the door had been open. It hadn't been left open, it
had been broken open, the bolt prized out of the frame.
The file cabinets looked rooted through. One was filled with
old newspapers and books, its drawer tilting out. Ann closed it
and looked through the second drawer: some manila folders ap-
parently out of order. And a spiral pad. Looks like Martin's pad.
She picked it up and stared. It was Martin's pad. The cramped
hastened scrawl left no doubt.
Why would Martin keep his poetry drafts down here?
She flipped through some random pages.
"Wreccan," one poem was called, but what on earth did that
mean? It was dated several days ago. Ann squinted, reading.
Flawed worlds die quickly as the dreams of men:
a pointless parody.
Yet nightly we arise, her song in our heads,
wreccans of the descending herald.
We are her birds of prey.
We '11 come to see you someday.
What an odd poem. Ann didn't understand it all, and it didn't
seem like Martin's style one bit. He usually wrote in meter and
a Keatsian rhyme pattern. She turned to the next poem:
"Doefolmon."
O wondrous moon,
of your truth I drink.
Upon the herald's caress,
in wondrous pink!
This one bothered her. Like the first she didn't know what it
meant, and it didn't seem like the kind of thing Martin would
write.
Moon. Pink, she thought. Did he mean the equinox she'd
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caused the moon's light to appear pink at certain times during
the night. She looked out the small ground-level window. Be-
yond the forest, the full moon hung low.
It was pink.
But something else nagged at her. What? she thought. Then
her eyes thinned. The poem's title, "Doefolmon." Doefolmon,
she repeated. A word that made no sense. But—
Doefolmon. Before her father had died, in his delirium,
hadn't that been one of the words he'd written?
This cruxed her. Perhaps she was wrong—yes, she must be.
Dr. Heyd had said that massive-stroke victims frequently wrote
things with no memory of alphabet sequence. How could Mar-
tin possibly have used the word days before her father had writ-
ten it?
Impossible, she agreed.
Most of the rest of the pad seemed filled with one long poem.
She remembered Martin mentioning it the other day, a magnum
opus of over a hundred stanzas. This must be it. "Millennium,"
it was entitled.
She didn't read the whole thing, just bits and pieces.
Throughout she noticed more strange words. Wifmunuc,
Fulluht-Loc, wThan, cirice. What did these words mean? The
metered poem seemed to deal with some kind of reverence, of
worship, but it was alien to her.
She turned to the last stanza, the end.
In her holy blood now we are blessed.
Sweet deity of eons in darkness dressed.
Through fallen heaven, so swiftly she soars.
"Dooer," enchants the wifmunuc.
"Come into our world from yours."
Ann felt turned to granite as she stared at the bizarre verse.
Again, she thought, Impossible, but for another reason. Dooer,
Martin had written, the same word spoken by the figure in her
nightmare.
Dooer, she thought.
There could be no explanation. She'd never repeated any of
the nightmare's details to Martin. Had she spoken the word
aloud in her sleep? But if so, why would Martin use it in a
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Edward Lee
Now her confusion ganged up on her. She shivered as she re-
placed the notebook, a sense beneath her skin like dread. Then
she noticed the albums. Photo albums.
Ann had seen her mother and her friends looking through
them several times. She picked one up, opened it—
What the ... She couldn't believe it.
It was pornography.
Lurid snapshots glared up at her. Ann could not imagine any-
thing so explicit, and so absolutely obscene. Each picture de-
picted a different sex act. Oral sex. Group sex. Lesbianism.
Sodomy. Women grinned in raw light as blank-faced men pene-
trated them in every plausible way, and some implausible. This
is crazy, Ann thought. Why would her mother have this . . .
smut?
She was too shocked to contemplate the issue more deeply.
Each page showed her a new, greater obscenity. But as she
flipped further through the wretched album, that cold tingling,
like dread, came back to her. Some of the figures in the photos
looked awfully familiar.
By the fifth page she was picking faces out of the orgies.
Here was Milly on her hands and knees, fellating one man
while another penetrated her from behind. Next, Mrs. Gargan
squatting atop someone's hips. The Trotters swapping marriage
companions. And Milly's daughter, Rena, with her knees
pushed back to her face as some young man mounted her. And
next—
My God.
The next showed Ann's own mother having intercourse with
Dr. Heyd. And next her own father... sodomizing a man as her
mother and several other women looked on, grinning.
Ann was shaking. She thought she'd be sick. Then she turned
the page and stared.
A pretty teenage girl was sitting on another girl's face. The
girl on top was Melanie.
A vacant-eyed man was sodomizing a woman with her but-
tocks propped up. The woman was Maedeen.
The man was Martin.
Ann felt dead standing up.
The second album beggared description.
Naked figures seemed smeared with something dark. It
looked like blood. More figures drank from a cup, all nude, all

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with weird pale pendants suspended between their breasts. Ann
felt all the breath go out of her when she turned the page.
A female corpse hung upside down against a bare-wood wall,
headless. Blood poured into a big pot. Next, a male corpse was
being gutted by a man with a thin, sharp knife. The man was
Ann's father. Dr. Heyd was trimming fat away from what ap-
peared to be a liver. Martin was stuffing offal into a big plastic
bag. Still more photos showed more men stoking an enclosed
pit fire, tossing things in. A black cauldron bubbled. Large
roundish objects lay deeper in the embers. Ann knew they were
human heads.
I must be dreaming again, Ann sickly tried to convince her-
self. None of this could be real.
Then she turned the next page and saw:
Milly lying upon the slab, naked, drenched in sweat. Her legs
were propped up and widely parted. She was pregnant.
Naked women stood about her, gazing down in reverence.
But betwixt Milly's spread legs stood a cloaked figure, with
hands out as if to accept something. And next:
The hands holding up a glistening newborn child.
And next:
Ann screamed.
It was the same. Everything. Milly giving birth was identical
to the scenario of Ann's nightmare. And then the final photo,
the symbol. The odd double circle looked like a flat slab of
stone hanging against a dark wall, but its shape was—
The same, she realized.
It was exactly the same.
"Does it all seem familiar?" queried a cragged voice.
Ann screamed again and dropped the album. She stepped
back and stumbled, glaring up in terror.
A figure stepped out of the back of the basement. He'd been
there the entire time, watching her from the dark.
The figure took another step: a young man with bizarre short
white hair, in jeans, sneakers, and jeans jacket. His face looked

230
Edward Lee
extant, lean in some crushed prevalence. He was holding a shot-
gun.
"Ann Slavik," he said. He looked at her, as if curious. "My
name is Erik Tharp. Though the people around here call me
brygorwreccan."
The shredded voice left no doubt. The same voice that had
called her, had warned her on the phone not to come here.
"They're subcarnates," he told her. "They're monsters, all of
them. And your mother is their leader."
Ann tried to speak but her terror damped her voice.
"They enslave men with her power, they sacrifice to pay her
homage. They've existed for thousands of years, Ann, solely to
worship her."
"H-her? Who?"
Erik Tharp gave her a broken smile. "Of course, you don't
know about it. You weren't supposed to. You're part of a blood-
line that worships a devil."
Ann's head reeled ...
"Does it sound impossible?" Erik Tharp continued. "What
do you think all that stuff is in those albums? Do you dream,
Ann? What do you think those dreams are about? They're not
really dreams, they're visions—visions of the past to reflect the
future."
Visions of the past, she thought. But what could Melanie's
birth have to do with the future?
"Have you seen any male children in this town? Have you?"
"No," she said, still staring up. "I looked at the town birth
records. It said that all the male children ever born here were put
up for adoption."
"Of course that's what it said. Heyd has to cover himself."
"What?"
"The records are falsified, by Heyd. Those kids weren't put
up for adoption. They were sacrificed."
The word seemed to eddy in her head and grow like a blood-
stain.
"Males are not allowed in their bloodline. Any sect member
who gives birth to a male must hand it over for immediate sacri-
fice, to appease her. I ought to know, Ann. I'm the one who used
to bury the bodies."
Ann still couldn't think right. How could she believe this
madness? Erik Tharp was an escaped mental patient. He was

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certifiably insane. But then she remembered the photo al-
bums .. .
"I came back to stop this, Ann. I came back to get you and
your daughter away from here. That's the only way."
"What are you talking about!" Ann finally screamed.
He looked down at her. It seemed painful for him just to talk.
"For the last millennium they've been breeding themselves for
this event, Ann. You and your daughter are part of that event."
"What event?"
"The Fulluht-Loc," he answered. "The doefolmon."

CHAPTER THIRTY
"Doefolmon," Professor Fredrick said.
Dr. Harold squinted back. "Yes, another of the words that
Tharp makes frequent reference to in his sketches. What does it
mean?"
Fredrick relit the big pipe. Its carven face depicted vacant ag-
ony. "It means, roughly, 'moon of the devil,' and it's another
terminology that proves how thoroughly Tharp researched the
Ur-locs before his delusion overtook him. The doefolmon was
considered a portent, like a biblical sign, and a precursor to their
holiest rite—the Fulluht-Loc."
Harold's nose crinkled against the cloying fetor of the to-
bacco. That, and the queer face on the pipe, harassed his
attention.
"It was their incarnation rite," Professor Fredrick said.
Incarnation. Harold considered the word, and its implica-
tions. To make flesh.
"Fulluht is another weird meld of Old Saxon, Old Frisian,
and some older Chilternese constituents; it means essentially
'baptism' or 'baptismal,' and loc, as I've said, is a reference
to—"
"A female demon," Harold recalled. "A succubus."
"Yes. Hence, Fulluht-Loc can be translated as 'baptism of the
succubus.' It's the ritual that their entire system of belief re-
volved around. It's what they lived for."
The window framed full dark now; Dr. Harold had been here
all day scarcely without realizing it. He could glimpse the moon
through the high trees of the campus quadrangle. It seemed
pink.
'The basis of their entire religion was offeratory," the old
professor went on. "The zeal with which they sacrificed inno-
232

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cents was intensively devout. Everything they did was an offer-
ing. Sex. Murder. Cannibalism. They'd even anoint initiates
with the blood of sacrifice victims. They'd paint trees with the
blood, to mark the territory of the succubus, to make it blessed.
The Druids did the same thing centuries later, which might
cause you to wonder about the nature of religious influence."
But Dr. Harold was wondering about a lot more than that. So
many questions itched at him now, like stitches healing. "But
what you mentioned earlier," he said. "The ultimate point?"
Fredrick's ancient face looked grimly amused. "The Fulluht-
Loc. The incarnation. According to the legend, this can only
occur during the doefolmon, and supposedly the Ur-locs
succeeded at it once."
"The incarnation, you mean?"
"Correct. From what could be translated from their manu-
scripts, the Ur-locs claimed that a successful incarnation oc-
curred a thousand years ago, just before their race disappeared."
Dr. Harold contemplated the supposition. No, like Fredrick,
he didn't believe in demons, but... what was he thinking? "I
don't quite follow you. How did this incarnation supposedly
come about?"
"Remember what I said before," Fredrick replied. "Every-
thing the Ur-locs did was an offering. They were devoted to the
notion of the bludcynn, or the sanctity of their bloodline. What
they offered to the Ardat-Lil, ultimately, was themselves."
"I still don't quite—"
"The element of offering, Doctor. Sacrifice. Blood. Faith.
Everything. The Fulluht-Loc was an offering of one of their
own, a physical gift of substitution. What I'm saying is that, on
the doefolmon, one of the Ur-locs' own bludcynn would be-
come the Ardat-Lil. This was foreseen, mind you, years before-
hand, upon the birth of the substituted body."
"Foreseen by who?"
"By the wifmunuc, the leader. They were supposedly clair-
voyant. The doefolmon was considered the holiest time, much
like Christians would consider the Second Coming. This was
essentially the same thing, the return of their god onto the
earth." Professor Fredrick's time-worn hand tapped out the pipe
again. Behind him, in the office window, the moon was rising.
"But what you should find most curious of all," he amusedly
went on, "is the timing."

234
Edward Lee
"The timing?" Dr. Harold queried.
"The doefolmon. Astronomers have recently identified it—a
peculiar astronomical configuration. You've probably been
hearing about it on the news lately."
Had he? The equinox, he thought. "I've heard something on
the weather channels about the equinox."
"Yes. That's what the doefolmon really is. Of course, astron-
omers don't call it the doefolmon"—Fredrick cragged another
chuckle—"they call it a tangental lunar apogee. You've proba-
bly noticed over the past week or so that the moon appears pink.
It's what's known as a straticulate refraction, the moonlight
shining through the upper atmosphere at an anomalous angle.
It's very, very rare, and quite precise—a vernal equinox that oc-
curs at the exact same moment as the moon becomes full."
Dr. Harold's eyes narrowed.
"And that's the curious part," Fredrick went on. "Even an
old, skeptical atheist such as myself must admit. The last time
this happened was exactly a thousand years ago, and exactly a
thousand years ago was when the Ur-locs supposedly suc-
ceeded in incarnating the Ardat-Lil."

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
m
"It's happening now, right now," Erik Tharp told her in the dark
confines of the basement.
He'd been talking, and she'd been listening, staring at each of
his raddled words as though they were deformed faces. Incar-
nation, she thought. Fulluht-Loc. Ardat-Lil. It was insanity, and
this was supposed to be an insane person. Yet the things he'd
told her rang of a spectral memory, inklings dripping like a
wound in the back of her mind. Ann's confusion amassed. It
was the confluence of it all—what Tharp had disclosed, plus the
dream and what she'd seen in the albums—that left her unable
to reckon anything.
"The Ardat-Lil is already here," he was saying through the
haze of her quandary. "But certain things have to take place be-
fore she can be incarnated through the host." He paused, looked
right at her. "That's why I escaped. To make sure those things
don't happen."
Ann felt slick in the sweat of her own dread. Melanie, her
mind tolled again and again. That's what the dream meant:
Melanie's birth was the birth of the host. They want my daugh-
ter to serve as the physical body for this . .. thing.
"Your daughter's a virgin, isn't she?"
Ann nodded.
"She wasn't born in a hospital, was she? She was born here,
in Lockwood. Wasn't she?"
"Yes!" Ann shrieked.
Tharp loaded several rounds into the shotgun. "We have to
find her and get the two of you away from here. We have to do it
now. The doefolmon is tonight."
Martin, Ann thought. "What about—my fiance?"
"Forget him. He's one of them now. Forever."
235

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Edward Lee
Tharp roughly grabbed her arm, yanked her toward the steps.
"They're all at the cirice now—"
"The what?"
"The church. They're getting ready." Tharp paused on the
stairs, as if pricked by the palest vision. He was staring at noth-
ing for a moment, or perhaps at the ghost of what he used to be.
"Come on," he said next. He was thumping up the stairs, with
Ann in tow. "If we can prevent the incarnation rite itself, or
even the kin sacrifice, then they'll be ruined. They won't be
able to do this again for a thousand years."
Ann huffed up the dusty wood steps. What did he say? "The
kin sacrifice? What's that?"
"It's like a trigger for the whole ritual," Tharp's ragged voice
grated on. 'The final offering to the Ardat-Lil. Proof of faith."
Kin sacrifice, Ann was still thinking. Suddenly on the stairs
her joints locked up. Her mind blanked, and—
Slup-slup-slup...
The vermilion vertigo embraced her again, like a desperate
lover. The vision of the great blade plunging down again and
again into the squirming naked abdomen ...
"Come on, come on!" Tharp was commanding. He slapped
Ann hard in the face. She blinked at him, numb. Then he was
leading her up again.
Now Ann understood it, the vertiginous visions and how they
related to the nightmare. Kin sacrifice, she realized more fully.
She tried to assimilate. They want Melanie to be the host. For
the host to become the Ardat-Lil, she must first sacrifice her
own kin. Me.
That's what the vertigo was trying to show her.
Melanie must murder me before she can become the demon.
Again, Ann's thoughts cloaked her. They were on the landing
now; Tharp was leading her to the kitchen. "We'll go out the
back. We'll follow the woods to where I got the van parked.
You'll wait there while I go look for Melanie."
But at the end of the paneled hall, Tharp stopped, oddly turn-
ing to her. "Did you hear that?"
"Hear what?" Ann said, diffused.
His eyes twitched. His shredded voice croaked on, "I
could've sworn I heard—"
Ba-BAM!
Ann screamed. A chunk of the entrance molding exploded

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into splinters. Tharp was pushing her backward as a dark cackle
issued from the kitchen. Then came another loud ba-BAM! as
they dove across the foyer. A hole the size of a fist blew into the
wall.
A figure stepped into the hall, holding a huge revolver.
"Surprise! I'm back!" Duke Belluxi announced to them.
As Fredrick put away the books he'd gotten down, Dr. Har-
old was remembering, for no real reason, the odd coincidence.
Erik Tharp was from a town called Lockwood. Yes, that was
odd. One of his private patients, Ann Slavik, the lawyer suffer-
ing night terrors, was from the same town.
Coincidence, he thought. How could it be anything else?
"I'm afraid that's all I have for you," Professor Fredrick said,
and sat back down. "The Ur-locs were a very obscure society;
there's simply not that much information available about them."
"But enough for Tharp to discover."
Fredrick shrugged. "I've spent my entire life pursuing the
remnants of civilizations whose beliefs were rooted in supersti-
tion. I've been from Nineveh to Knossos. From Jericho to Troy
to Rhodes. And do you know what I've discovered? In all those
places, over all those years?"
"What?"
"There are no superstitions. No credence to any subjective
belief that has ever been asserted. They're just stories, fables,
people making fables in order to explain themselves."
"Of course," Dr. Harold said. "But it is interesting: Tharp's
escape in conjunction with an equinox that occurs only every
thousand years."
"He's no doubt a very good researcher, that's all. Do you sup-
pose you'll catch him?"
"We informed the state police that Tharp would most likely
return to the geography of his delusion, but they didn't put
much stock in it. The most recent murders indicate that he's ac-
tually moving away from the seat of his original crimes."
"That could be a ploy, couldn't it? Tharp's intelligence quo-
tient is quite higher than average."
"I know. That's what bothers me."
"Where exactly do you think Tharp is returning to?"

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Edward Lee
"A little town up on the northern edge of the county," Dr.
Harold answered. "It's called Lockwood."
Professor Fredrick subtly laughed, fingering a tiny stone
statue of Xipe, the Aztec god of the harvest. "You're kidding
me, right? He's from a town called Lockwood?"
"Yes. What's so funny?"
Fredrick's eyes suddenly appeared huge in their amusement.
"It's almost a joke—the name, I mean."
"I don't under—"
"Lockwood," Fredrick said. "Break it down. Lock for loc.
Lockwood, 'wood of the loc.' Wood of the—"
"Succubus," Dr. Harold realized. More coincidence? "That
is strange. And you're sure there's no way an actual Ur-loc cult
could be in existence today?"
"I don't see how. Unless the bloodline really did remain in-
tact, as the legend indicates. The Ur-locs dispersed themselves a
millennium ago, after the last supposed incarnation. They dis-
appeared without a trace, quite like Christ's disciples after his
death. The demon incarnate supposedly blessed them all, then
sent them out into the world to spread her influence for the next
thousand years." Fredrick again chuckled, a sound like creaking
wood. "But of course to believe that, you'd have to believe the
original myth."
This latest abstraction didn't set well with Harold. Actually,
none of them did. I do not believe in demons, he reaverred. He
began putting Tharp's transcripts and sketchpads back into the
big leather bag. One pad slipped from his hand and fell open.
When he picked it up, a page slid off the other. They'd been
stuck together somehow; he'd never noticed it.
His eyes fixed down. It was a sketch he'd never seen.
"What is it?" Professor Fredrick asked.
"I..." Harold replied. He paused. "Impossible."
Fredrick leaned over and looked. The pointillistic sketch
showed a cloaked figure standing between a pregnant woman's
legs. The figure's hands formed a cradle, as if to receive the
newborn. Beneath, Tharp had written the single word:
/

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And behind the figure, the symbol seemed to hover:
Ann Slavik's nightmare, Harold realized. To the last detail.
"It's just more of the same thing," Fredrick said, not realizing
Harold's shock. "The symbol is the nihtmir, the night-mirror,
and the word, dooer, is part of the incarnation litany. It's the fi-
nal acknowledgment of the birth of the host."
"What's it mean?" Harold croaked more than asked.
"Denotatively it's a concrete noun, meaning, essentially,
door. But the religious connotation goes quite a bit further, not a
noun but an elliptical statement of welcome. The mother of the
host was considered the door through which the host of the
Ardat-Lil would come among them."
The revelation seemed to collapse, like a bombed building.
Dr. Harold's eyelids felt peeled open.
"I've got to go," he said. He got his coat, his keys, and made
quickly for the door.
"But it's almost midnight," Professor Fredrick pointed out.
"Where do you have to go at this hour?"
"To Lockwood," Dr. Harold replied.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
m
"Upstairs! Quick!" Erik shouted as three more bullets punched
holes along the wall of the drawing room. Ann screamed after
each heavy, concussive shot; her senses dispersed like confetti.
Laughter black as char rattled from the hall as Erik and Ann
pounded up the stairs. The shadow turned below. A sixth bullet
exploded the mirror at the top of the landing, raining glass.
Impulse had caused him to flee upward; a high vantage point
was easier to defend. He's reloading, Erik thought. He dragged
Ann to the floor around the corner and brought up the shotgun.
Sweat and hysteria glazed Ann's face. "Who is ... thatl"
"My former traveling companion," Erik replied, understand-
ing none of it yet. "Stay behind me, stay down."
Duke, Erik thought. His hands shriveled against the shotgun.
The fucker followed me here. But how?
"Hey, buddy-bro!" erupted the familiar voice from down-
stairs. "Thought I'd come back for some of that dandy head!
Ain't ya pleased to see me?"
Erik replied with a stray shot down the stairwell. Even the
12-gauge report sounded feeble against the Webley's mammoth
.455 concussion. "I killed you, you sick fuck!" Erik grated to
yell.
"Must be that dandy head you give," Duke Belluxi replied.
"Brings a fella back from the dead, ya know?"
Did I miss all those times? Erik wondered in spite of his
prickling, bare-eyed terror. The fact smashed into his con-
sciousness: Duke was back. Duke was here, now, just down-
stairs. And he'd definitely be wanting some revenge. Plus he
still had that giant revolver, which didn't lighten the matter. But
Erik was sure he'd put several shotgun rounds into Duke's chest
back at that second Qwik-Stop ...
240

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241
This is not going to be one of my better days, Erik realized.
He fired two more stray shots down the stairs. "Just get out
of here, Duke!" he attempted to bargain. "If you don't get out of
here right now, I'll have to kill you!"
Duke belted out a good, hard laugh. "You already tried that,
didn't ya, faggot? But just to show you I'm a fair guy, I'll give
you another chance. How about that?"
What the fuck? Erik still couldn't see his enemy, but in a mo-
ment, he could hear him.
He could hear him coming up the stairs.
He must be crazy, Erik thought, and then frowned. Consider-
ing where Duke had spent the last decade, his state of mind was
not even debatable. But the guy was coming up the stairs,
knowing full well that Erik was armed ...
Wait, wait, he told himself. Ann quivered, clinging to Erik's
shirt. Not... yet... The footfalls continued to ascend, each fat
thump! inducing a different image of atrocity. If this guy gets
me, I'm ... but Erik didn't even bother to contemplate the rest
of the conjecture. What Duke would do to him was bad enough
to ponder. But what he would do to Ann was significantly worse
by comparison.
Erik paused another second, then rolled out on the landing.
He had two rounds left in the shotgun. He raised the bead,
touched the trigger... then paused. Memory drew his stare out
like elastic.
Duke stared back, halfway up the steps. His plump, socio-
pathic face grinned almost childlike, all big teeth and chubby
cheeks.
"Hey, fairy. Long time no see, huh?"
Erik's finger depressed. The gun bucked behind a spew of
sparks as the spread of 12-gauge rammed into Duke's chest.
Duke tumbled like a bag of stones down the steps.
That was too easy. Erik, bewildered, stared down at the
Remington's bead, then raised his head. Shooting Duke had
been no more complicated than spearing a fish in a bathtub. It
seemed almost as if he'd let himself be gunned down ...
Gunsmoke drifted. Duke's bulk shape lay limp at the bottom
of the steps, sprawled across the fine slate foyer.
Ann crawled forward, her hair in strings. "Did you—"
"I got him this time. Christ..."
Erik, regrettably, did not weigh the incongruities. Who

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Edward Lee
would? The task ahead summoned him: getting Ann away, find-
ing her daughter, breaking the maleficent thousand-year-old
chain of the Ardat-Lil. He helped Ann up, brushed her hair out
of her face, and tried to calm her down. She shivered in his em-
brace. Probably half in shock, he concluded, not that he could
blame her. How could she possibly deal with all that had hap-
pened and all that she'd learned in the last handful of minutes?
Erik did not expect her to.
"Come on, come on." He led her back down the stairs, keep-
ing the Remington tipped toward Duke's motionless bulk. The
wifmunuc, no doubt, was already starting the preliminaries to
the rite. But they still didn't have Ann, a fact which only thick-
ened the grimness of the circumstances. They needed Ann, and
that could only mean—
That the wifhands are out looking for her, Erik concluded.
"We still have time," he tried to console.
"Time?" Her voice sounded cracked, hoarse. "You said the
doefolmon is tonight."
"Yeah, but not till four in the morning or something like that.
I've been dreaming about it for months, and you have too,
haven't you?"
"Yes," Ann replied.
"And haven't most of the dreams occurred around then?"
Ann's terror-drained face tightened in reflection. "Yes," she
repeated. "Almost every time, I'd wake up, and the clock read
4:12."
"That's why. The dreams were really portents."
They stepped over Duke's body and made for the kitchen.
"Same plan," Erik informed her. "We'll go out the back. I'll
take you to the van, then I'll go look for your daughter. She'll be
at the cirice—the church—now. Getting her out shouldn't be
too risky. Most of the wifhands won't be there."
"Why?"
"They're looking for you, and so are the wreccans. Giving
them the slip is the hard part. The rest'11 be easy."
Ann didn't look convinced.
Erik stopped at the kitchen entrance.
"What?" Ann asked. "Let's get out of—"
Bullets, Erik thought. None of it would be easy if he didn't
arm himself more effectively. He only had one round left for the
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Duke's revolver, he reminded himself.
"Wait here. I'll need Duke's gun too." He went back to the
dim foyer and peered down. The giant revolver still lay in
Duke's grubby, squab hand. Erik knelt, fished around in his ad-
versary's jacket for bullets, then—
Holy sh—
What he noticed in that fraction of a second was all that his
destiny would ever amount to. Duke's plaid flannel shirt lay in
tatters, but there was no blood. Through the holes he could see
smudged, pocked white and several balls of buckshot that
clearly had not penetrated Duke's torso.
Bulletproof v—
In one split-second motion, Duke's left hand grabbed the
shotgun barrel, and his right hand snapped forward. Erik froze.
The revolver was aimed directly at his face.
Duke leaned up, grinning proudly as ever. "Fooled you
again, huh, fairy?" he remarked.
Ann stood in the entry, letting the pulse of her thoughts slow
down in time with her heart. The sweat of her fear sucked her
clothes to her skin. Then the thought replayed:
Kin sacrifice. Melanie must murder me before she can be-
come the demon ...
Time seemed to congeal before her face; all motion, even the
world's, seemed to freeze. Ann sensed something but didn't
know what. She stepped down the short hall to the foyer. Erik
Tharp knelt at the body, rummaging for bullets. Suddenly, he
seemed poised, his joints locked up. Then—
—his skull divided into three segments.
She never even seemed to hear the sound of the shot. She felt
concussion, and heat, then Tharp's head simply ... burst. Wet
hanks of brain slapped her in the chest. It all happened so fast
she couldn't even react. Tharp's body collapsed before a fine
gray cloud of smoke ...
And through that smoke, the figure rose: Duke Belluxi grin-
ning behind the giant revolver pointed at Ann's face.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
m
"So you're the one," the madman observed. The end of the gun
barrel looked big enough to admit a thumb. "You're the one he
came back for."
Ann stood taprooted in her terror. The chunks of Tharp's
brains fell off her blouse, leaving glistening stains. A piece of
scalp, tufted with white hair, stuck to her forearm. Duke's hair
was the same strange color. He took a step forward, his grinning
face broad as a carved pumpkin. Behind the closely set eyes,
Ann saw sheer, raging madness.
"The cocksucking little fairy set me up," Duke informed her.
Old bloodstains streaked his pants. "He used me to help him
bust out, thought he was smarter than me." He veered the mad
grin down and laughed. "How smart are you now, fucker?"
Ann's mind swam. If she tried to run, he would kill her. But
somehow she also knew that if she didn't run—if she tried to
placate him, bargain with him—he'd also kill her. She could see
that fact. She could see it in his eyes.
"Tharp kept talking about destiny, like he was put on earth to
do something special. He wasn't shit. But me, I got a real des-
tiny. Know what it is?"
Ann couldn't reply, couldn't even move.
Duke was all over her at once, wielding his massive body
with a nearly eloquent finesse. Ann screamed as he dragged her
to the floor by a handful of hair. As his weight sidled onto her,
so did the meaty, fetid stench of him. He straddled her chest; she
could only squirm within herself. His mad eyes focused down.
Chuckling, he tore open her blouse, snapped off her bra. Then
the chuckle shrank into a demented stare. Ann gagged when he
drooled into her mouth. His breath grew short as he traced her
nipples with the revolver.
244

SUCCUBI
245
"You're gonna be my best nut yet," he promised her. "Oh,
yeah, you sure as shit are. I can tell just by lookin' at ya."
He opened his trousers and withdrew himself. Suddenly, his
stench stupefied her. Dried blood matted his pubic hair.
Then he plugged the revolver into her navel.
"That faggot Tharp, he used to blow me for quarters. Always
makin' phone calls. He was calling you, wasn't he?"
Look at the moon tonight. Ann remembered the words. She
nodded tensely.
"Why?" Duke Belluxi asked, and pinched a nipple.
Doefolmon, she thought. Fulluht-Loc.
Duke laughed. "Doesn't matter none to me. Now, don't take
this personal, honeybunch, but it's best if you're dyin' slow
while I'm boppin' ya. Gives me a better nut—know what I
mean?"
Ann tremored in her paresis. Duke cocked the big, clunky re-
volver, growing erect in time with his pulse. Through the front
bay window, the moon shimmered pinkiy.
Ann prepared to die. She closed her eyes—
Then the awful weight was gone.
Ann turned where she lay, looking ahead. Duke Belluxi was
being dragged across the carpet by ... something. Ann caught
glimpses of faces, flesh. Duke thrashed as he was pinned to the
floor by quick, snatching hands. Abruptly, he was screaming in
hoarse bursts. What's happening? Ann dumbly wondered. She
felt in shock. Duke's heels and palms pummeled the floor, his
body arching up. Two fingers sharp as masonry nails sank
promptly into his eyes. Two more clawlike hands ripped his
trousers off. Ann could only stare frozen at the dreamlike se-
quence of horror...
Two shapely, concupiscent bodies knelt over Duke with grins
like shards of glass. A long taloned finger raised a skewered
eyeball to a needle-toothed mouth. The eyeball was eaten
whole, like a grape. Humor was licked off die elegant finger.
Lust-swollen breasts shined over the atrocity. Ann could only
continue to catch glimpses at first. Pale pendants swayed as
Duke's body twitched with vigor. The figures persisted in their
delighted butchery—Duke's abdomen was laid open, exposing
glistening organs. Blood flew like spaghetti and sauce. The
closest figure grinned down at Duke's genitals. A mouth like a
knifecut in fresh meat opened heinously wide; rows of glassine

246
Edward Lee
teeth sparkled. A moment later, the mouth lowered, gritting
down. Duke's penis and testicles were quickly eaten out of the
apex of his groin. A river of blood gushed onto the carpet.
Then the first figure's mouth spread likewise. The top of
Duke's skull was bitten off. Orbs of brain glimmered. Duke
Belluxi died in flinching convulsions, atop a blanket of his own
blood and offal.
Holy Mother of G—
The two figures looked at Ann. They seemed amused. Ann's
mind crumpled at the impact of recognition. One figure
straightened up on her knees, her nipple ends erect as coat pegs;
she chortled, smearing Duke Belluxi's blood over her breasts
and abdomen like some luxurious lotion. The other figure was
sloppily eating gobbets of Duke's brains out of the cranial vault.
Milly. Maedeen, Ann realized. But...
It was something she apprehended rather than saw, a recogni-
tion that somehow reared beneath the tainted features:
pronglike taloned hands and feet, elongated heads, bottomless,
primeval eyes.
Not women, Ann's thoughts verified. Things.
Maedeen rummaged for plump morsels amid Duke's plun-
dered gut, while Milly rather greedily slurped blood and spinal
fluid out of the emptied skull. They paused only briefly to grin
at Ann.
By now her incomprehension turned her limp. Laughter fol-
lowed her as she was dragged away suddenly from behind. She
was being helped up, urged out the back door into darkness. She
was insensible.
"Come on!" a voice bellowed at her. Rough hands shook her
at her shoulders. "Snap out of it!"
Ann's eyes roved up, focused on the plump face in moon-
light. It was Chief Bard.
"It's tonight, Ann! We've got to get you out of here!"
Her awareness returned in pieces, in slabs. "What..."
"They're succubi, Ann. They're part of a cult that's as old as
civilization," Bard told her, dragging her now toward the woods
behind the house.
"Then it's all true," Ann muttered. "Everything Tharp
said—"
"Yes!"
"They want Melanie to be the physical body of—"

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247
"Come on!" he yelled again.
But the voice stopped them in their tracks. They turned, star-
ing. In the sliding glass door, Maedeen stood looking after
them. She was holding what appeared to be one of Duke
Belluxi's lungs. Even at this distance, Ann could see the chaotic
features of her transformed face, and the teeth glittering like
chisel blades.
"Bring her back, Bard!" croaked the inhuman voice. "You
can't get away from us! You can never get away!"
Bard yanked her on through the brambles. The moon fol-
lowed them like a distended, pink face. "I'm one of their hel-
ots," he panted to explain, "but they never fully initiated me
because they needed someone on the outside. I'll be god-
damned if I'm going to watch any more innocent people die for
their devil. It's your mother, Ann—she's the wifmunuc.
They've been waiting for this day for the last—"
Thousand years, Ann finished in thought. Tharp had said the
same thing. But—
"Melanie," she said. "We have to get Melanie."
"Melanie's lost! She's part of the bludcynn now. She's not
your daughter anymore, she's hersV
Ann pulled against him. "I'm not leaving Melanie!"
"I might be able to get her later," Bard said. "But the most
important thing right now is to get you as far away from the
cirice as possible. If they don't have you when the moon goes
into complete apogee, then the Fulluht-Loc can't take place."
Could he redly get Melanie back, or was he just placating
her? Ann couldn't think of a way to resist him; he was saving
her life, after all. She supposed all she could do was hope and
pray.
He'd parked his police cruiser at the end of Senlac Street, in
the dark. He was sweating, harried. He rushed her into the pas-
senger side, jumped in himself, and gunned the engine.
He paused on the shift. "It's all true, Ann."
"I ... I know."
"And I'm sorry."
Ann tilted her head. He'd saved her life. What did he have to
be sorry about?
His chubby face turned to her. "I'm very, very sorry."
"But I'm not," rose the voice from the darkness of the back-
seat.

248
Edward Lee
Ann flailed, screaming. Bard's fat hands grappled at her. He
clamped her head in the crook of his elbow. She shrieked at the
sharp deep prick of pain.
"Well done, Chief." Dr. Ashby Heyd's face emerged into the
pink light. "There, fine." He gingerly withdrew the hypodermic
needle from her neck. "That's a good girl," he said.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
m
Dr. Harold didn't know what he was thinking. He'd stopped
only briefly at his house—for his gun. Clinical psychiatrists
easily received state gun permits. But what do I need a gun for?
he queried himself.
What did he expect?
The highway seemed to thwart him, its abandonment, its
wide, open darkness—or something. His high beams stretched
out ahead of the car only to be sucked up by interminable black.
He did not try to calculate the coincidences, and the facts,
that had been revealed to him tonight. What am I thinking? the
question returned. It seemed fat, like a dull, protracted head-
ache. What do I think I'm going to do ? He felt certain that Tharp
had already returned to Lockwood, that he was there now.
But where does that leave me?
He could call the police, but what would he tell them? That
Tharp had gone back to the locale of his crimes to prevent the
incarnation of a female demon? They'd be committing me, he
considered. Besides, the authorities had ignored his and
Greene's early recommendations. Why should they listen now?
Maybe I should listen to myself.
The moon seemed to pace him, its odd pink light flittering
through lone stands of trees. The light and the constant drone of
the tires threatened to lull him at the wheel, or hypnotize him.
Yes, he felt thwarted, he felt pushing upward against some bi-
zarre mental gravity that was bent on repelling him. Paranoia,
he dismissed, or tried to. He felt he was racing against some-
thing, but he couldn't imagine what. Time, perhaps, or unprece-
dented fears.
Or impossibilities, he thought.
The moon was so full now it looked pregnant in its raw light;
249

250
Edward Lee
it looked heavy enough to drag itself out of the sky and fall to
earth. Doefolmon, the strange word came to his head. Moon of
the devil.
And another word, a name: Ardat-Lil.
He could not erase the image from his memory. It seemed
indelible—the sheer beauty wed into the features of sheer re-
pugnance, sheer evil. Most religions were born out of reaction
to other religions; their roots were obvious. But the Ur-locs?
Pre-Christian? Even prt-Druidicl What bizarre sociology
could've created such an idea?
Dr. Harold did not attempt to contemplate an answer.
He felt sick in increments, waning as the car droned on into
the inclement dark. The pinkened moonlight on his face felt
warm, humid. He could see it still, Tharp's harrowing psych
ward sketch transposing into a vision of stunning clarity: the
perfect hourglass physique, the large and perfect breasts, and
then the bestial three-fingered hands with talons like meat
hooks, and—
The face, he remembered.
—a black, thinly stretched maw full of stalactitic teeth.
How long had he been driving now? It seemed like all night,
or a week of nights. Perhaps he'd been driving in circles, his
sense of direction perverted by Tharp's perverted imagery.
Perhaps I've died and gone to hell, and this is how I am to
spend eternity, driving forever in darkness.
Then the big green road sign flashed in the headlights, a bea-
con to his relief.
Lockwood, 15 miles.
The moon shimmered beyond the sign, beyond the night.
Beyond the world.
And beyond the eye of Dr. Harold's mind, the sketch of the
creature seemed to turn to flesh and smile.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
m
The dream is vivid, hot—it always is.
"Dooer, dooer."
"It's always the same: the back arching up, and waves of
moans. The tense legs spread ever wide, the swollen belly
stretched pinprick tight and pushing .. . pushing . . . pushing
forth. . .
Then the image of the cup, like a chalice, and the emblem on
its bowl like a squashed double circle:
She senses flame behind her, a fireplace perhaps. She senses
warmth. Firelight flickers on the pocked rock walls as shadows
hover. A larger version of the emblem seems suspended in the
background, much larger. And again she hears the bizarre
words:
"Dooer, dooer."
She's dreaming of her daughter's birth. Birth is painful, yet
she feels no pain. All she feels is the wonder of creation, for it is
a wonder, isn't it? Her own warm belly displacing new life into
the world? It's a joyous thing.
Joyous, yes. So why does the dream always revert to night-
mare?
The figures surround her, they seem cloaked or enshadowed.
Soft hands stroke the tense sweating skin. For a time, they are
all Ann's eyes can focus on. The hands. They caress her not just
in comfort but also—somehow—in adoration. Here is where the
251

252
Edward Lee
dream loses its wonder. Soon the hands grow too ardent. They
are fondling her. They stroke the enflamed breasts, the quiv-
ering belly. They run up and down the parted, shining thighs.
The belly continues to quiver and push. No faces can be seen,
only the hands, but soon heads lower. Tongues begin to lap up
the hot sweat which runs in rivulets. Soft lips kiss her eyes, her
forehead, her throat. Tongues churn over her clitoris, and vora-
cious mouths suck milk from her breasts.
The images wrench her; they're revolting, obscene. Wake up!
she commands herself. Wake up, wake up! She cannot move.
She cannot speak.
Her orgasm is obvious, a lewd and clenching irony in time
with the very contractions of birth. Behind her she senses fren-
zied motion. She hears grunts, moans—
—then screams.
Screams?
But they aren't her screams, are they?
She glimpses dim figures tossing bundles onto a crackling
fire. Still more figures seem to wield knives or hatchets. The fig-
ures seem palsied, numb. She hears chopping sounds.
The dream's eye rises to a high vantage point; the circle
moves away. Naked backs cluster about the childbirth table.
Now only a lone, hooded shape stands between the spread legs.
It looks down, as if in reverence, at the wet, bloated belly. The
belly is pink.
Moans drift up, and excited squeals. The firelight dances.
The chopping sounds thunk on and on, on and on ...
"Dooer, dooer," bids the hooded shape.
The belly shivers, collapsing.
A baby begins to cry.
"Ann, Ann?" queried the familiar voice.
Ann's eyes opened, but at first she saw nothing. Soft mur-
murs seemed to hover about her like vapor. Color shifted—
orange—and she sensed a pleasant pulse of heat. Again she'd
had the nightmare of Melanie's birth ... but where was she?
She knew she couldn't be in bed. Beneath her felt cold, hard,
like stone. Then, as suddenly as her realizations—
Slup-slup-slup...
Her vision blanked again, bringing the image of crimson
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SUCCUBI
253
The wide knife plunging down—
Slup-slup-slup. ..
"Ann. Wake up."
The face formed, a reverse dissolve. It was Dr. Heyd.
Her eyes at last came into focus. Cloaked and hooded figures
surrounded her, looking serenely down. Ann's gaze panned.
One by one she recognized the ovaled faces: all of Lockwood's
elderwomen. Around each of their necks hung a pale pendant,
like a piece of stone on a white cord. At Ann's feet stood
Maedeen and Milly, and standing between them, in a cloak not
of sackcloth but of black silk, was Ann's mother.
Ann couldn't move from where she lay, though she felt no
lashings of any kind. She was completely naked before them
all. It felt as though ghosts squirmed over her, holding her
down.
In the background, more figures busied themselves. Shadows
bent to stoke the flames within a great brick furnace. They were
all men, she could see, and they seemed faltering, devoid of all
will. Another man poured some dark fluid from a vessel into a
large earthen cup. A chalice.
The women lowered their hoods, their eyes wide in some
deep intent. The man passed the cup to Ann's mother. The man
was Martin.
He did not look at her at all.
"Blud fo cuppe," the wifmunuc intoned. "Nis heofonrice,
bute nisfan."
The coven responded: "Us macain wihan, o Modor. Us
macain fulluht with eower blud."
The chalice was passed around, each woman mouthing a si-
lent prayer, then sipping. When the chalice had made the entire
circle, the wifmunuc, Ann's mother, consumed the rest of its
contents.
Engraved along the cup's rim, the glyph could be seen—the
weird double circle. And when Ann's mother bent to set the
chalice down, Ann saw the glyph again, a much larger version,
behind the circle. It was not a carving, she noticed, but a large
slab of flat stone hanging from the rear wall. Ann's eyes could
only remain fixed ahead. The wifmunuc turned around, her
hands splayed. Then she leaned forward and kissed the great
rectangular slab of stone.
"O Mother, Holy Sister, Holy Daughter—"

254
Edward Lee
"Bless us on this holy night."
Now the heat swelled to a prickling intensity. Ann felt sweat
gather liberally between her breasts and trickle down her sides.
Her sex felt tingling, but from what? Her breasts felt enflamed
with desire.
"Receive this offering ..."
But there was no desire in her heart, only a misshapen terror.
Receive this offering... She shivered in the heat as she realized
what it was she lay upon: a stone altar.
Receive this offering—
A stone altar, a sacrificial slab. The kin sacrifice, she remem-
bered Tharp's words just before he'd died. This rock slab was
what Ann was to be sacrificed upon, by her own daughter.
It's like a trigger to the whole ritual, Tharp had said. The final
offering to the Ardat-Lil.
The coven grinned down at her. From either side, Milly and
Maedeen touched her daintily, as though her naked flesh were
iconic. Her mother remained at the foot of the altar. Her silken
mentel was so fine as to be partly transparent. The woman's
body showed through the sheer material. Though close to sixty
now, her large dark-nippled breasts scarcely sagged at all. Her
body had remained firm, robust.
"You've been dreaming, haven't you?" the wifmunuc in-
quired.
Now the recurring nightmare came together: Melanie's birth
as a foreshadow to this night. Through her mother's malefic
ploy, Ann had given birth to a child destined to become a mon-
ster.
"Yes," the woman said. "You've been shown all along. Do
you understand now? You are a keystone to history. Do you un-
derstand how important you are?"
Ann still felt rooted to the slab, but she could lean up to look
her mother back square in the face. "You want Melanie for this
madness!" she screamed.
"Dother fo Dother," Milly said.
"Daughter of the Daughter," Maedeen translated.
"Our savior," Ann's mother added. "Our deliverer."
"This is crazy!" Ann spat. "You're all crazy!"
"Through this holiest night, our god will come among us in
the flesh, Ann. To bless us for the next thousand years."
Behind her, Dr. Heyd opened a long thin box. From the box,

SUCCUBI
255
Martin and Chief Bard lifted a gossamerlike gown of the purest,
sheerest white.
"Rise," Ann's mother said.
Ann's paralysis loosened. She felt like a puppet being risen
by wires. The elderwomen guided her off the altar, urged her
forward. Her arms raised by no volition of her own. Then the
stunning paralysis returned. She stood upright but could move
no further.
"Bring the mentel."
Martin trudged forward. He slipped the lambent gown over
Ann's head. It slid against her flesh like mist. Martin stood to
look at her; his eyes shone dull, flattened. No recognition was
exchanged.
Then he walked away.
"Melanie has served well," her mother said. "We all have."
The white gown must be some symbolic raiment, a ritual gar-
ment in which to be sacrificed. "Where is she?" Ann croaked.
"You've been dreaming of it all along," her mother replied.
Maedeen added, "But it wasn't Melanie's birth you were
dreaming of."
"It was your own," her mother finished.
Ann felt lost in this information. In her confusion she could
only stare back at her mother's gaze.
" You are the Daughter of the Daughter, Ann. You are the new
Ardat-Lil."
Ann tremored with the words. Her eyes felt skinned open. In
the high ground window, the pink moon bloated to fullness.
Only then did she note that the edges of her gown were wet. In
panic, she glanced down. Her arms were slick to the elbows
with blood.
The circle parted for her to see.
On the earthen floor a naked figure lay: a corpse in a great
spread of blood. The heart had been cut out of the bosom and
laid aside next to a long, wide knife.
Ann gasped through vision like a chasm, or like staring down
from the highest place of the earth. The butchered corpse was
Melanie. It was her blood that now dripped fresh from Ann's
hands.
The wifmunuc pointed to the rear wall of the church. "Look
into the nihtmir, Ann. Look into the face of our queen."
The great slab of stone seemed charged now with some spi-

256
Edward Lee
riferous energy. Its flat pocked surface changed before her eyes,
to a perfect silver plane.
Ann gazed into the reflection of her own face.
Crimson spheres gazed back at her. The mouth opened in
horrid astonishment, a colossal black orifice full of shardlike
cuspids and incisors. Shining silken hair hung adrift in the
night-mirror's radiant static energy.
She raised a hand to touch her cheek, but it was not a finger
that appeared in the mirror's veins. It was a long, sleek talon,
sharp as an awl.
High atop her forehead, two diminutive nubs protruded.
She turned to reface the coven. All members then fell at once
to their knees, voicing prayers of praise and homage to their de-
liverer in the flesh.
The Ardat-Lil smiled down upon its new flock.

EPILOGUE
m
The night had indeed thwarted him, the night in all its loss of
reason, its queer moonlight, and its inexplicability. He'd taken
three wrong turns, and twice he'd found himself driving unlit
back roads in circles. Then the driver's-side front tire had
blown. Half an hour later, the spare had blown. He'd driven on
the rim awhile, and next the oil pump had seized up. It had only
taken a few minutes before most moving parts of the engine had
fused.
He'd had no choice then but to walk the rest of the way. Not
one vehicle had passed him, not one potential ride. By the time
he'd actually made it to the small secluded municipality of
Lockwood, dawn was less than an hour away.
Dr. Harold felt lost even when he'd found it. The town lay in
total darkness. The police station and fire hall were empty. He
walked several residential streets, and found doors wide open,
no persons within. More walking and he realized that he had yet
to see a single car anywhere in the township's perimeter.
Piqued, he made his way back to the main drag. He stood in
the middle of the desolate street and looked up. Just above the
high steeple of the church, the moon shone down. It looked
bloated to hugeness, gravid. Its weird pink light seemed hideous
now. It tinted his face, blurred in his eyes.
Moon of the devil, he thought. Moon of the succubus.
The pink light made him feel enslimed in some portent, or
some chasmal acknowledgment.
What? he asked himself on the dark street. An acknowledg-
ment of what, for God's sake?
It was in the church that he found it, or actually the basement
of the church. Another church of sorts, a chancel of evils which
refused to allow description. The air was warm in these
257

258
Edward Lee
cramped confines. Behind a small room which looked like liv-
ing quarters, he discovered the lair of their black reverence.
Much blood was seen soaked into the dirt floor. The stench of
cooked flesh wafted before his face like ghosts. Perhaps they
were ghosts, the remnants of spirits freed through heinous acts.
Blood had dried to shellacked blackness atop a great stone altar;
charred bones and skulls lay scattered about, amid indescrib-
able scraps of fleshy sinew.
This church was as empty as the entire town. Its population
had fled, but to where, and for what? Where did they all go? he
wondered.
Dr. Harold then walked to the back of the unholy nave.
Twin metal hooks stuck out from the rearmost wall, mount-
ing hooks as if to hang something from. Nothing hung there
now—there was just an outline of dust and age against the old
wood. Whatever had been there had been quickly removed,
taken away.
Dr. Harold's eyes remained fixed upon the spot.
The outline was clearly visible, that of a great squashed dou-
ble circle.

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