Succubi Page 15

  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 himself 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.”

  “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, listening 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 another 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 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 whispered, 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 someone 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.”

  “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 something. 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 forbidden, 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 15

  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 backward 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, l0mm, you name it. Slug’s so big, you hit a guy in the face with one, his whole head’ll explode.”

  “And they also got the 870 from the Luntville car.”

  “Yeah. Ain’t that grand?”

  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 Tha
rp 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 someone else.”

  “Don’t be a moron,” Bard said. “Who else would do something 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 blockage, 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 into 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 portion of his brain. Therefore, when he is conscious, he’s completely 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.”

  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 understand.”

  “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, thanking 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 nightmare 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?”

  “Well, 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, because there really are no individuals. We’re all part of something 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 herself known, she only listened.

  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 daughter?”

  “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 seventeen years to wallow in confusion. Isn’t it time you started explaining some things to her?”

  “What? About plans? About heaven? Since when do you have the 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 concerned about litigation and lawsuits than your own daughter’s upbringing.”

  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 a little later. They were going for a drive. “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 minute 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 goi
ng 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 stubborn. 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 mother’s contempt? Was everyone against her?

  “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 entered. 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, everything 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-looking, and had thick straight brown hair to her shoulders. “I’m Maedeen,” she said.