Beware

by Richard Laymon

  “I.”

  “For he who partakes of the flowing river shall inherit all powers.”

  “The power of life, the power of death…”

  “…shall vanquish all enemies…”

  “The strong and the weak shall perish at his command!”

  “…shall do what he will!”

  “What thou wilt shall be the law!”

  “Who shall drink at the river?”

  “I!” they roared.

  The drums rumbled. The congregation, still kneeling, swayed to the rhythm.

  “The river flows!” Laveda yelled, wandering among her people. “It flows and winds. We shall drink from its shores, this night. We shall drink its all powerful waters and take its power into ourselves. The river is endless. Its waters flow forever. Eternal power shall be ours!”

  She stopped and placed her open hand on the head of the beautiful young mulatto. The woman rose to her feet.

  “We shall drink at the river!”

  Dukane winced as Laveda jerked the woman’s head back by the hair and flicked her knife across the throat. She pressed her mouth to the spouting wound.

  Two men held the convulsing mulatto from behind, and Laveda stepped back. Her face was smeared with blood. It streamed down her body.

  “Drink, all of you, at the river!”

  As the drums roared, the whole mob rushed forward. Including Alice. They caught the blood in their mouths and hurried off, smearing their bodies, dancing with sudden fury as if they’d all gone mad. Laveda, herself, leapt and spun like the others, her golden hair flying, flesh shimmering in the firelight, breasts slick with blood. A huge, black man fell to the ground at her feet. She dropped onto him, impaling herself. As she rode him, she took a man into her mouth.

  Everywhere Dukane looked, bodies were falling upon each other, mounting and thrusting to the thunder of the drums.

  Alice, on her back near the center of the group, was barely visible under the pale body of a middle-aged man.

  Slinging the rifle across his back, Dukane climbed down from the tree. He propped his rifle against its trunk. He tried to ignore the lump of fear in his belly as he disrobed.

  A piece of cake, he told himself.

  Cakes get eaten.

  Screw that analogy, he thought, and managed a smile.

  When he was naked, he mussed up his hair until it hung over his eyes. Then he slipped his Buck knife from its sheath.

  The things I’ll do for money.

  Even as he cut into his forearm, though, he knew this wasn’t just for money. Now that he’d located the girl, he could think of several less hazardous ways to snatch her from the cult. But none were this daring, this exciting. None would give him the same thrill.

  Gonna get myself killed one of these days.

  With a trembling hand, he smeared blood over his cheeks and mouth and chin.

  He stabbed his knife into the trunk of the cypress, then made his way toward the clearing. His heart pounded with the thudding drums. His mouth was parched. Licking his lips, he tasted his own blood.

  From behind a bush, he studied the fire-lit congregation. No one was standing, no one keeping watch. All were busy writhing in groups of two or more, or crawling off to join new partners.

  Six feet from where he stood, two women were entwined, faces buried between widespread thighs. The one on top was a lean, white woman with a strawberry birthmark on her rump. Dukane crawled forward and nipped it. Her buttocks clenched and she yelped with surprise. Twisting her head around, she gazed at him with wild eyes. Dukane leered. He threw himself onto her sweaty back. Together, they rolled off to the side. She squirmed on top of him, moaning as he nibbled the side of her neck and fondled her breasts. The other woman scurried to join in. She pried apart their legs and knelt between them, her mouth going to the girl, her hand groping Dukane.

  It squeezed him, massaged him, stroked him. He grew hard, his erection rising and pressing against the groin of the girl on top of him. He felt a tongue.

  Then the woman tumbled away, sprawling as a burly black man fell upon her and rammed in.

  Dukane threw himself over, rolling onto the girl who’d been on top of him. She clawed at the grass as he wedged her legs apart. Kneeling behind her, he stroked her wet opening. Then he clutched her hips and thrust into her. His quick, hard lunges soon brought her to a quaking orgasm. He withdrew, rigid and aching, concentrating to prevent his own body from finding its release. With a pat on her rump, he crawled away from the girl.

  He spotted Alice. She was several yards away, on her back, her heels embedded in the rump of a fat man, pressing him down deeper. As Dukane crawled toward her, a hand darted from behind and gripped his erection. Lowering his head, he looked between his legs.

  A chill swept up his spine.

  Lying on her back, one hand clutching him, was Laveda. She licked her lips. Her eyes looked dull and glazed.

  Maybe she’s too far gone, Dukane thought, to realize I don’t belong.

  He started to crawl backward as Laveda pulled him.

  There are thirty others here, he told himself. At least thirty. She couldn’t know them all on sight.

  Could she?

  No. The New Orleans group was only one of a hundred. She had followers all over the country. Several thousand. New members all the time. She couldn’t possibly keep track.

  Her face appeared between his legs. Lifting her head, she sucked him into her mouth. He felt her tight lips, her pressing tongue, the edges of her teeth.

  If she knows, Dukane thought, she’ll bite. Or ram that dagger…

  But she didn’t. Her mouth held him tightly, sucking.

  At least she can’t see my face, he thought.

  And then he was lost in the growing ache of need. Images flashed through his mind of Laveda writhing in the firelight, her skin glossy, her firm breasts tipped with rigid nipples.

  Her hands spread his buttocks. She pushed a finger in, and he burst with release. She sucked hard as he pumped inside the tight wetness of her mouth. After he was done, she continued to tug at him for a few moments.

  Then her head lowered. Her eyes were shut. She licked her lips.

  Dukane crawled forward. Looking back, he saw her curl onto her side and reach out for the foot of a nearby girl. The girl, astraddle an older man, freed herself from his embraces and scurried toward Laveda.

  He looked for Alice, and found her in the same place, still gasping under the fat man. He hurried to them. The fat man was grunting and pumping, his rump shaking like Jell-O.

  Dukane pinched his carotid artery, felt him go rigid for a moment, then limp. He rolled the man off Alice, and took his place.

  She smiled languidly. Her hands stroked his back. Her heels caressed his rump. She was hot and slick beneath him. She shivered as Dukane gnawed the side of her neck.

  He pushed himself to his hands and knees. Alice clung to his neck, at first, when he started to crawl forward. Then her grip loosened. She fell to the ground and he kept crawling. Her hands trailed down his belly as he passed over her. They fondled his penis.

  Dukane lowered his head to look at her. “Ride me,” he said.

  Alice made a husky laugh. Then she rolled over and climbed onto Dukane. She straddled him, thighs hugging his hips, breasts against his back, arms wrapping his chest. “Giddyap,” she whispered.

  He crawled past several squirming piles of bodies. Once, Alice reached out to squeeze a looming breast and fell from Dukane’s back. She quickly remounted.

  Dukane continued forward.

  “My turn,” Alice whispered in his ear.

  “Huh?”

  “You ride me.”

  Dukane dropped to his elbows. She slid forward. Dukane climbed onto her back, but kept his feet on the ground for support. With one hand, he gripped her hair. He raised her head and pointed her toward the bushes. With his other hand, he slapped her rump. She whinnied and started to move.

  Dukane walked, keeping most of his weight off her
back while he guided her away from the group. At the edge of the clearing, she halted. She began to chew the leaves of a nearby bush.

  Hunching low, Dukane pressed himself to her back. His right arm reached under her and caressed a breast. His left hand pinched her carotid. She started to collapse. He threw her over and they rolled together under the sheltering bushes.

  For a long time, Dukane lay motionless on top of the girl. He watched the crowd.

  Apparently, the disappearing act had drawn no attention.

  He climbed off Alice. Staying low, he dragged her deeper into the undergrowth. When they were well away from the clearing, he hoisted her over his shoulder and ran.

  Oasis Tribune

  Wednesday, July 16

  GUARD DOG SLAIN

  The dismembered body of Rusty, bartender Red Peterson’s German shepherd, was found yesterday morning inside Hoffman’s Market where the dog had been left, overnight, to guard the store against recurrent vandalism and grocery thefts.

  Says proprietor Elsie Hoffman, who found the slain canine, “I’m just sick about it, just sick. We shouldn’t have left that poor dog in here. I just knew he’d come to no good.” In tears, she added, “That dog was the world to Red.”

  Red Peterson, owner of the dog and bartender at the Golden Oasis, was unavailable for comment.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Lacey climbed onto a bar stool. She tapped a cigarette out of its pack, and pressed it between her lips.

  George O’Toole swiveled toward her. His ruddy, broad face crinkled with a smile, and he struck a match.

  “Thank you.”

  “And what’ll it be you’re drinking to night?” he asked, with a lilt Lacey assumed he had picked up from Barry Fitzgerald movies.

  “A little red wine.”

  “A dainty drink for a dainty lady,” he said. He raised a thick, weathered hand and caught the bartender’s eye.

  The bartender was Will Glencoe.

  “A spot of red for the lady, Will. And another Guinness for himself.” The bartender turned away. “You did Red a fine turn, writing up your story the way you did. He was almighty ashamed of the way he carried on about Rusty. I can understand a grown man weeping over the loss of a good dog—done it myself more than once. But it’s a private thing, and a man doesn’t want it blatted about. You did him a fine turn.”

  “He’s right, there,” said Will, setting down the drinks. “Take your average reporter, he’d have a field day. Bunch of blood suckers, that’s what they are.”

  “But not our Lacey. You did yourself proud, young lady.”

  She reached into her purse.

  “You put that away.”

  “Thank you, George.”

  He paid, and Will stepped away to take an order down the bar.

  “Where is Red to night?” Lacey asked.

  George narrowed one eye. “Now where would you be, if a heartless soandso had done your dog that way?”

  “Elsie’s?”

  He turned his wrist over, and peered at his watch. “She’ll be closing up in ten minutes. Red’s there with his twelve gauge. He’ll be camping there to night, hoping the filthy beggar shows up again. I offered my services—two guns are twice one—but he’s after doing it alone, and I can’t say I blame the man.” George lifted his stein. “ To your health,” he toasted.

  “And yours, George.”

  He winked at her, and drank.

  Lacey sipped her wine. “What’s Red planning to do, shoot the man?”

  “The beggar cut down his dog, Lacey.”

  “I know, I saw it.”

  “And was it as bad as they say?”

  “My God, George. I’ve never seen anything like…” She gagged. Tears filled her eyes.

  “Now, now.” George patted her shoulder.

  She wiped the tears away, and took a deep breath. “I’m sorry.” She managed a smile. “I don’t normally go around gagging in public. Just thinking about that…” She did it again.

  “Careful there. Say now, do you know how to tell the groom at a Kerryman’s wedding?”

  She shook her head.

  “He’s the one in the pinstriped Wellingtons.”

  She wiped her eyes, and sighed.

  “Feeling better, now? Have another wine, and we’ll talk of other things. I’ve a raft of Kerryman jokes. They’re sure to gladden your heart.”

  “Thanks, George. I really should be going, though.”

  Outside in the warm night air, she felt better. She climbed into her car and rolled down the window. Her hand paused on the ignition. She wanted to go home, take a long bath, and get to bed. But she couldn’t. Maybe it was none of her business. Knowing Red’s plan, though, she wouldn’t feel right if she didn’t at least talk to him, warn him of the possible consequences.

  You don’t blow a man apart with a shotgun because he killed your dog. Not unless you want a prison stretch. Even shooting an intruder, unless the man is armed, could mean more trouble than Red probably bargained for.

  She started her car and drove the three blocks to Hoffman’s Market. Its sign was brightly lighted; it hadn’t closed yet. She pulled into the parking lot, and stopped beside Red’s pickup truck. In the past, she’d rarely seen the pickup without Rusty pacing its bed, tail wagging, fur ruffled by the wind. She used to fear for the dog’s safety. Suppose it leapt over the low panel as the truck sped along? Once, she’d voiced her fear to Red. “Would you jump off a moving truck?” he’d asked. “No, but I’m not a dog.” Red grinned at that. “You can say that again.”

  Lacey ran her hand along the tailgate and looked into the empty truck bed, then hurried away.

  The door of the market wasn’t locked. She pushed it open, and stepped inside. Nobody at the counter.

  “Hello,” she called.

  Swinging the door shut, she glanced at the pale gash left by the meat cleaver.

  “Elsie? Red?”

  She looked down a bright aisle. At the far end, just in front of the meat counter, a shotgun lay on the floor. An icy chill washed over Lacey, raising goose bumps. Even the skin of her forehead felt stiff and prickly. She rubbed it as she walked between the grocery shelves, eyes fixed on the shotgun.

  The air, she noticed, had the faint but pungent odor she knew from shooting skeet with her father.

  Only when she was standing over the shotgun did she lift her gaze to the meat counter and see Elsie’s head wrapped in cellophane.

  Lacey’s mouth jerked open. Her scream came out voiceless, a quiet explosion of breath.

  She dropped to a crouch, grabbed the shotgun, and pivoted. Nobody coming up behind her. She worked the pump action. It made a loud metallic snicksnack, and a blue shell tumbled to the floor.

  Keeping her eyes averted from Elsie, she walked along the meat counter. Just ahead, a display of Diet Rite had been blasted apart. Cans lay in all directions, half of them pierced by shot. The floor was slippery with a thin layer of cola.

  Beyond the display, barely hidden by the shelves of the next aisle, she found Red. He lay on his back, alive, reaching across his chest, trying to fit his severed left arm into place.

  “Oh boy,” he whispered. “Oh boy.”

  “Red?”

  He glanced up at Lacey, then looked back at his arm. “Oh boy,” he mumbled.

  “I’ll get help,” she said. Keeping the shotgun ready, she ran for the front. Elsie, she knew, kept a phone on a shelf behind the cash register. Should she go for that, or…

  She was tackled from behind. She hit the floor flat-out and hard. The wind burst from her lungs. She tried to push herself up, but a weight on her rump and legs held her down. Her collar jerked back, choking her. Then something struck the side of her head.

  She opened her eyes and saw the ceiling. On either side were shelves of groceries: cans of soup and chili on the left, cookies and crackers on the right.

  Even without moving, she knew what had been done to her. She could feel the gritty, cool wood under her bare skin. She cou
ld feel hot areas where her skin had been mauled. Her nipples burned and itched. So did her vagina. She felt stretched and battered inside. Her eyes filled with tears.

  Raising her head, she looked down at herself. Her breasts were red as if they had been wrung. She saw teethmarks on both nipples. Fingernail scratches trailed down her belly. Propping herself up with stiff arms, she felt a slow trickle inside her.

  At the end of the aisle lay Red. His severed arm lay across his chest. He was motionless.

  With tissues from her handbag, she cleaned herself. She wasn’t afraid. She felt dirty and sick and ashamed. When she used her last tissue, she picked all of them up off the floor and stuffed them into her bag.

  She started to dress, watching the door, worried that someone might enter before she could finish. Her pan ties were torn apart; she put them in her bag. Both straps of her bra were broken, the catches in back ripped loose. She pushed it into her bag, and stepped into her jeans. She struggled to pull them up. They encased her, snug and protective. She wished her blouse were as sturdy and tight as her jeans, but she felt bare even after putting it on.

  The walk to the checkout counter seemed to take a long time. She moved slowly, carefully, feeling that the slightest jostle might shake something loose inside her body.

  Finally, she reached the counter. She picked up the phone.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  “Okay, Lacey. If you remember anything else, though, give me a call.”

  “I will.”

  Rex Barrett drew a thumb along the handlebar moustache that he’d raised since becoming chief of the Oasis Police Department. To Lacey, it made the lean lawman look like a twin of Wyatt Earp. She often suspected that he’d grown it for that reason.

  “You’ll be writing this up for the Trib?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “I’d appreciate your not mentioning specifics about the way he did Elsie.”

  “Fine,” she said, leaning back against the counter. There were other specifics she planned not to mention.

  “Now, if I were you, I’d drag my doctor out of bed for a quick onceover. You took some good knocks to night and you just never know, with a head injury.”