Succubi Read online

“It’s providence,” whispered the wifmunuc. “What a wondrous thing, yes? To lay our hands upon the flesh of providence.”

  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 genitals.

  “No, honey, you mustn’t do that. He’s a very special hüsl.”

  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.

  “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 hüslfeks. 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 hidden 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 pulling 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 outta 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 Reagan 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 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 III’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 papers 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 figure 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 situation.

  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 station wagon.

  “Two cars out front,” Erik observed. “That means one customer in the store. The second car belongs to whoever’s working the register. Here’s what we do. We walk in like we’re looking 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 behind the counter looked up. Erik had been correct in his prediction: there was only one customer, a ruddy looking blonde in cutoffs and an orange halter. She stood on skinny, knobbykneed legs before the rear reach in, furiously tapping a sandaled foot. “Jaysus Chrast, pops,” she complained in a bent twang. “Dollah ninty 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 ninety fer a dag half gallon of milk.”

  “Fine. Buy milk somewhere else.” 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, I said.”

  “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 ninety
, I say I cain’t bull leave it!”

  “We don’t want no magazine, pops.” Duke lumbered up to the counter.

  “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 biting his face.

  “Damn if you weren’t right, fairy”’ Duke celebrated. “Looky!” Under the counter he found a big old Webley revolver. 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?”

  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 approved, 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 unbuckling his pants.

  All my fault…

  Duke raped the girl twice; after the second climax, she appeared dead. “You die on me already?” he asked, and stuck his knife right into her anus. She bucked and wailed. “Guess not!” Then he worked on her some more with the knife, for good measure, until she was dead.

  “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 6

  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 responses 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 privileged,” she went on, yet her fingers did not come away from the tickets. “I 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’ve 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 anticipation of litigation.” Jolly Roger was what they called the opposition 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 Avionics trial. You’ll have to hump on that too.”

  “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. Today, 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 tickets. “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.

  “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 café where Sartre met deBeauvoir. What an inspiration,” Martin said. “Maybe I should bring a typewriter.”

  “Bring a pad and a pencil, Martin,” Ann suggested. “Sartre wrote No Exit with a pencil.”

  “Good point.”

  “Can we go to the Métal Urbain?” Melanie asked. “It’s a famous 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.”