Shiver

by Michael Prescott

Again he tipped the cup to her mouth, but he was clumsy this time; Pepsi spilled down her chin, splashing the front of her blouse.

  His tongue clucked. “Oh, dear.”

  He grabbed one of the paper napkins and began mopping up the mess. His hand moved over her chest, scrubbing briskly, then reached her left breast and stopped there, motionless, like some pale scorpion frozen in the instant before its strike. Wendy sat rigid in her chair, watching as his thick, meaty fingers slowly curled into a half-fist. Through the blouse’s thin fabric, he gripped the cup of her bra.

  She felt a scream welling at the bottom of her throat. Her heart pounded in her ears, its beat so loud and insistent she was certain he could hear it too.

  His fingers twitched. She thought of a corpse’s hand, jolted by an electric shock. He began squeezing her breast with a slow, mechanical motion that was not a caress.

  “I want you, Wendy,” he breathed, his voice blurred.

  The scream tugged at her vocal cords, fighting for release. She let out a long shuddering breath and tried to stay in control. Somehow she had to stay in control.

  His hand went on contracting rhythmically, the fingers digging in, then relaxing, then digging in again. A farmer milking a cow.

  “I told you we’d be lovers. Now we will be. And it will be good. So good.”

  Say something, she ordered herself. Say something now, dammit, or else he’s going to do it—oh, my God—he’s really going to do it.

  When she spoke, her voice was flat and almost normal.

  “Before we ... go any further, don’t you think we ought to ... get to know each other better?”

  “I already know everything I need to know about you.”

  “But I hardly know anything about you.”

  “There’ll be time for that. Later.”

  The binding on her wrists seemed tighter than before. She couldn’t feel her hands at all. Her head hummed. The sticky sweet residue of the peanut butter rose in her throat. She was going to be sick.

  “But I wasn’t expecting this to happen so soon,” she said desperately. “You said ... tonight.”

  “It’s night somewhere in the world. I don’t want to wait any longer, not another second. And deep down, neither do you.”

  She whimpered and tried not to lose her mind.

  His hand released her breast. He gazed at her for a long moment, his expression blank and unreadable, and she looked back at him, past the two jars with their white staring faces.

  Then slowly he smiled. An ugly humorless smile.

  He rose from his chair and circled the table, closing in on her.

  Help me, she thought. Help me, somebody. Don’t let him do this. I’d rather be dead. Oh, God, I’d rather be dead.

  He reached her side. His right hand snaked under her buttocks; his left hand crawled up her back, spider-quick. The chair dropped away as he lifted her in his arms.

  She shut her eyes, not to see him leering down at her, breathing hard, his nostrils flaring, his tongue gliding over the tips of his teeth like an eel. But even in the darkness behind her closed eyelids, she could smell him, the cloying greasy smells of sweat and peanut butter.

  He was walking. Carrying her across the trailer like a groom delivering his bride to their nuptial bed. Above the roar of blood in her ears, she heard the thumps of his footsteps on the thin carpet, the staccato hiss of his breath. They were sounds that might be made by some large, antique machine, the kind with steam-driven pistons. Thump. Hiss. Thump. Hiss.

  She felt herself descending, felt a soft foam pad yielding under her. The futon. He was putting her on the futon. Laying her supine with her bound hands pinned under her. Helpless. His toy to play with. His masturbatory fantasy, his life-size doll.

  The scream rose a notch in her throat. She gritted her teeth and held it in.

  When she opened her eyes, she saw him leaning over her, looking down from inches away. He wasn’t smiling anymore. His face was grave, the muscles drawn taut with what might have been passion.

  “I love you, Wendy.” His voice was ash, was dust. “And you love me. I know you do.”

  Then his mouth was devouring hers. She tried to break free, could not. His tongue, so wet and soft and cold, probed her with the urgency of hunger. She tasted the gritty, food-flecked pickets of his teeth. Blasts of hot air from his nostrils singed her cheeks, her eyelashes.

  The kiss went on and on. It was like drowning in stagnant water, like sinking into a quicksand pool, like going insane.

  Hours later he released her mouth. He lowered his head and kissed her neck, his lips like leeches on her skin. Then he was tugging at her blouse, unbuttoning it with the clumsy eagerness of a child unwrapping a birthday present. The flaps parted, and the clay statue tumbled out of her pocket and fell to the floor. His hands fumbled with the strap of her bra, and then she lay half-naked before him, the small white cones of her breasts rising like snow hills against the looming backdrop of his face.

  He planted moist sucking kisses on her cleavage, licking the smooth freckled skin, his tongue as rough and sandpapery as a dog’s. He was making noises, gulping, gasping noises, feeding-animal sounds. His glasses slid down his sweat-slick nose. She squirmed beneath him, twisting her wrists, trying frantically to free her hands.

  Then his mouth stretched wide and swallowed half her breast, and she flashed on a crazy moment of panic at the thought that his jaws would snap shut and rip the breast from her body like a chunk of butchered meat.

  The last of her control deserted her. The scream she’d been struggling to contain surged forward, no longer to be denied; it climbed up her throat and escaped into the open, a long ululant wail of terror and protest. He didn’t seem to hear it. He went on chewing, sucking, biting.

  Finally his mouth pulled free. Her breast was streaked with saliva and measled with red tooth marks. It looked like something an animal had gnawed.

  He raised his head. His face came into the light. With a small shock, Wendy saw the furious anger printed there. His teeth were grinding, the tendons of his jaws standing out like strands of piano wire. He knocked his glasses back into place with a swipe of his hand.

  “Cut it out, Wendy,” he said coldly. “Just cut it out right now.”

  She had no idea what he meant and no time to think about it. As she watched in trembling horror, his hand moved to his fly and unzipped it slowly.

  Then she understood.

  He had no erection. He was limp, flaccid. And he thought it was her fault.

  “God damn you, cut it out!” he screamed.

  She didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

  He stroked himself, gently at first, then with increasing violence. One hand clutched her breast while the other pumped and jerked. Nothing happened. The pale rubbery thing in his fist did not respond.

  Frustration made him still more savage. Snarling, he fell on her. His mouth fastened on her breast like a lamprey. He bit down painfully hard. She screamed, her head whipsawing wildly. He dug his teeth into the tender flesh, and this time she knew, she knew, she knew he really did want to tear the breast free and leave only a gushing cavity. She bucked and jackknifed under him, her legs bicycling uselessly.

  She hated him. God, she hated him so much. She hoped somebody would hurt him this badly before he was through.

  At last he released her breast. Blood streaked his teeth. Her blood. His glasses were hanging from his nose on a string of sweat. He flicked them off his face and tossed them aside.

  “Fucking bitch,” he whispered.

  He got up. For a dizzy moment she hoped he might have given up for now. But no. He knelt on the floor beside the futon, then unbuckled his belt and tugged down his pants. His fist clutched her hair. He pulled her head roughly toward his crotch.

  “Do it to me,” he ordered.

  She stared at his cock, still bloodless and empty. She imagined putting that gray lifeless thing inside her mouth. The thought made her gag.

  “No,” she whispered. “I won’t
.”

  He pushed her face into his groin. “Do it!”

  She had no choice. If she didn’t obey him, he would kill her. And even now, she wasn’t ready to die. Even now.

  Her lips parted. She accepted him. Though he had no erection, still he seemed huge to her, his manhood a grotesque slimy mass crowding her mouth like a second tongue. The hairy bush of his crotch, jammed against her face, reeked of stale sweat.

  “Lick me.”

  She couldn’t do it. She would vomit. Would die.

  “Goddammit, I said lick me.”

  Crying, she moved her tongue over him, hoping she was doing it right, having no way to know.

  He remained limp and soft inside her. She knew now that nothing she did, nothing he could make her do, would bring him the sexual release he wanted.

  He seemed to reach the same conclusion. Angrily he pulled free. She jerked her head away, coughing spit.

  “What are you doing to me, you little whore?” he muttered. “What the hell are you doing?”

  “Not ... not doing anything.”

  “Liar!” He sprang upright, his pants sagging around his knees. “You think you can make me weak. Think you can steal my power. You’re wrong, bitch. Very goddamned wrong.”

  He thrust his hands between her thighs and pulled her legs apart, then scrabbled at her underpants, shredding the thin fabric. She heard herself screaming. Then he was on top of her, mounting her, grinding his pelvis desperately, humping her like a dog. She felt him in her, the head of his cock tickling her sex, but still he wasn’t swelling with the erection he needed. He would never reach a climax, never. And she was glad. No matter what he did to her afterward, no matter how awful his punishment might be, she was grateful that his semen would not bloom inside her body.

  “Bitch!” he shouted again and again, as his legs pumped and his back arched and the silver shield on his shirt flashed in the candlelight. “Goddamned sexless bitch!”

  Finally, in fury and shame and frustration, he withdrew. Wendy turned over on her side and retched dryly, tasting peanut butter and Pepsi and death.

  When she looked up, she saw him standing over her, his belt buckled once more, his shirttail hanging out in disarray. He had retrieved his glasses and put them on. Rage colored his face.

  “All right, Wendy. All right.” He was nodding furiously, as if in agreement with something she’d said. “I guess it’s not going to work out between us, after all. You can’t say I didn’t try. You can’t say I didn’t give you every possible chance to prove yourself worthy of me.”

  “I did ... everything ... you asked for. Everything.”

  His hand flew at her, and his knuckles cracked hard against her jaw.

  “You did nothing!” He slapped her again. “You gave me nothing!” He planted his fist in her belly, and she doubled up in pain. “You fucked with me, you lying slut! You fucked with me! Playing your evil tricks. Making me weak. Making me weak!” He grabbed her hair and slammed her facedown into the foam pad.

  She waited for another blow. None came. Instead he backed away. Suddenly, inexplicably, his voice was calm again. Calm and thoughtful and almost sad.

  “I guess I was wrong about you, wasn’t I?” He sighed. “You’re not special. You’re not my equal. You’re nothing but a dumb, frigid cunt, like all the others. I’ve got no use for you now.”

  He looked at her, and she swallowed.

  “Or at least,” he whispered slowly, “I’ve got no use for you ... alive.”

  31

  At eleven-thirty, half an hour after putting out an APB on Franklin Rood’s 1963 Ford Falcon, Delgado received word of an almost definite sighting.

  Patrol units had been advised to be particularly alert when cruising Sepulveda Boulevard, since Rood was believed to have switched cars in an alley near that street, one of the city’s main north-south traffic corridors. When two Studio City patrol officers stopped in a Union 76 service station on Sepulveda to use the rest room, they asked the employees if any car resembling the Falcon had been seen there that morning. The answer was yes.

  The attendant on duty at the full-service island said he filled the tank of a car matching the Falcon’s description at approximately nine-thirty. Furthermore, he was told by the man in the passenger seat that the car was a 1963 model. Although he didn’t get a good look at the man, the attendant remembered the woman behind the wheel as attractive, blonde, and young-looking.

  Five minutes after he heard the report, Delgado was speeding north on the San Diego Freeway. He wanted to interview the attendant personally in the hope of eliciting further details. More than that, he wanted—needed—to be in motion, to be active. It was the only way to combat the heavy, suffocating sense of helplessness that pressed down on him otherwise.

  “I already told them everything,” the young man in orange coveralls said with a shrug when Delgado got out of the car, flashing his badge.

  “I know you did, sir, but if you don’t mind, I’d like to go over it with you anyway.”

  Another shrug. “Sure. Okay. You must be awful interested in these people. They fugitives or bank robbers or something?”

  Delgado led him into a corner of the lot, close to the rattle and roar of the service bay. “Not exactly. If the man in that car was who we think he was, then he kidnapped the woman you spoke with. It’s possible he was holding her at gunpoint during your conversation.”

  “I didn’t see any gun.”

  “He might have been concealing it. Did either he or the woman leave the car while they were here?”

  “No. She paid me through the window. Never got out. Him neither.” He brightened. “I get it. You figure he was keeping her inside, huh? With a gun in her back or something?”

  “Possibly. Now, I’d like you to take a look at this photograph and tell me if this is the woman you saw.”

  Delgado removed a four-by-five black-and-white glossy from his pocket. The photo, taken from Jeffrey Pellman’s house, showed Wendy smiling self-consciously, posed against a brick backdrop dappled with sun. Her hair was knotted in a bun, not loose as Delgado remembered it.

  He waited while the attendant studied the glossy. “Yeah,” the young man said finally. “That’s her.”

  “You’re certain?”

  “Sure am.”

  Delgado took back the photo. “Did you see which way the car went when it left the station?”

  “I might have, but I can’t remember now.”

  “But you think you did see it leave?”

  “Yeah, but like I said, I don’t remember for sure.” A note of testiness crept into his voice. “We get a lot of business in here, man. Cars going in and out all day.”

  “All right.” Delgado was not quite ready to drop that subject, but he decided to approach it from another angle. “What time did you service the car?”

  “It was maybe nine-thirty. Little before, little after.”

  “Did you check the oil? The tires?”

  “They didn’t want me to. The lady just asked for a full tank. That’s all.”

  “The bill was paid in cash. Correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “And while you were making change, you talked briefly about the car, what year it had come out, what sort of condition it was in?”

  “Uh-huh. I like old cars. They’ve got, you know, character.”

  “How would you describe the vehicle’s condition?”

  “Good. Real good, considering the model year.”

  “Anything wrong with it?”

  “Some of the chrome had fallen off.”

  “Where?”

  “On the sides.”

  “Rust? Dents?”

  “No rust I could see. No dents either.”

  “Did you notice if the headlights or taillights worked?”

  “He didn’t have the headlights on. It was broad daylight. Taillights ... um, yeah. I saw the brake lights flash when they pulled out.”

  Delgado was careful to show no reaction. “How
about the turn signals? Did they work?”

  “The right-hand one did. It was blinking.”

  “Where were you when you saw the turn signal?”

  “Still at the pump.”

  “And the car was where? At that exit?” He pointed.

  “No, the other one.”

  “So if the car used that exit and the right-hand signal flashed,” Delgado said slowly, “then it must have turned north onto Sepulveda.”

  The attendant blinked. “Hey, I guess so. Jeez. I didn’t even know I knew that.”

  “Well”—Delgado allowed himself a smile—“we both know it now.”

  He asked a few more questions but obtained no further information. After thanking the attendant, he returned to his car and radioed an update to Dispatch, informing them that Rood’s vehicle, when last seen, was heading north on Sepulveda near Magnolia Boulevard.

  Then he left the service station, taking the same exit the Falcon used, heading in the same direction.

  As he drove, he scanned the wide thoroughfare. He knew there was no realistic possibility that he would see the Falcon parked at the curb or nosing into traffic from an intersecting street. He watched anyway, alert for any flash of chrome; and as he did, he pondered the destination Franklin Rood might have had in mind.

  He hadn’t taken Wendy to his apartment. Why not? Presumably because the apartment offered too little privacy. Someone in the neighborhood might hear a woman’s cries. He must have wanted to find a remote, secluded area, where he could do whatever he wished to his captive, with no chance of being seen or heard.

  But then why had he gone to the San Fernando Valley, which was nearly as crowded as West L.A.? True, there were pocket parks scattered throughout the Valley, but on a sunny day they would be brightened with scampering children and their watchful parents. The Sepulveda Dam Recreation Area was large enough to provide places of concealment, but Rood had been within a few blocks of that park when he’d made Wendy pull into the service station. There was no reason to stop for gas, let alone to fill the tank, if he had only a short distance left to travel.

  No, he must have had miles yet to cover. Miles of shapeless, urban sprawl—a grid of streets lined with shops, restaurants, office buildings, apartment complexes, and rows of stucco bungalows. Few isolated locations there.