by Edward Lee
Westmore took out his wallet. "Faye, if you think I'm lying about the safe, look. Here's the slip of paper we found in it." He passed it to her. "Do you know what those numbers mean?"
She looked astonished at the paper, then-
"Faye, no!"
--she ate it.
Westmore's shoulders dipped in frustration. "That wasn't very cool, Faye. That paper may have had important information on it. I needed it."
A broader, dopy grin. "Well, now it's in my stomach. If you want it bad enough, you can come and get it."
Westmore feigned aggravation-of course, he'd previously saved all the information on the paper in his computer. "That was a lousy thing to do. Why don't you just tell me what that paper meant? Why are you afraid to tell me?"
"Because something's going to happen at the house ..."
"Yeah? What?"
"None of your beeswax."
"Does it have to do with the numbers on that paper?"
"Look at my kitty," she said next and jerked up the hem of her gown.
Westmore dragged his eyes away, appalled. Faye's vagina looked mutilated.
Oh, Christ ...
He had to grit his teeth to continue talking to her. "Who did that to you? The men at the mansion?"
"It felt good."
Westmore sighed. "Faye, I have to leave soon. Why don't you do me a favor and tell me what's going to happen?"
Now she was masturbating, her tongue stuck out one corner of her mouth. "They're gonna open the Rive."
"When?" Westmore asked, trying to hide his desperation.
"It's on the piece of paper." She patted her stomach and grinned.
"It's all about Belarius, isn't it?"
Faye burst into a high-pitched shriek, shot off the bed, and lunged at him.
Holy CRAP!
She was all over him in an instant, slapping at his face, poking fingers at his eyes. The shriek rose: "You're not allowed to say his name! You're NOT ALLOWED!"
Her mouth snapped open and closed before his face, teeth clacking. Another half inch and she'd have taken off the tip of his nose. Her bulk slammed against him; it was all Westmore could do to protect himself.
"He is the Sexus Cyning! He is the Lord of the Flesh, and you will bow down to him in his holy temple!"
She had Westmore's throat now, thumbs digging in, trying to thrust him to his knees. "Pay homage to him by giving succor to me with your mouth!"
She jerked up the front of her gown, and it was all in Westmore's face at once. Even in his strife, he managed to think, That's one thing thatAIN'Tgonna happen, honey ...
She was wedging his neck back by fistfuls of hair. She meant to clamp his face between her sagging thighs when-
nd
She fell backwards as if jerked, her back slapping the floor like a side of raw beef.
Wells and two of his men had subdued her. When Westmore's vision cleared, he saw that they'd used some kind of stun gun to get her off him.
"Come on, Faye," Wells said. "You know what happens when you act like this."
Her face looked swollen from pain, eyes puffed.
"We're going to get the bed-net -"
"No, please!" She was sobbing, physically and mentally dilapidated in her schizophrenia.
"Then be good, and calm down." Wells' men urged her to lie down. When she did, she wrung her hands, staring up at the ceiling.
"You ready?" Wells asked.
"Yeah," Westmore said, still a bit winded. What a day. And it's just started. He turned at the door. "Good-bye, Faye. Thank you for talking to me."
"Watch out for the Adiposians," she suddenly snapped her gaze around and said. Her eyes were filled with portentous dread.
"The what?"
"They're going to open the Rive again ..."
Westmore shook his head. "Explain that to me, please."
Now, a huge insane grin. "They're gonna turn that house into a great big mouth that's gonna eat you. It's gonna suck you all down and swallow you."
Westmore grabbed a coffee and cigarette in the security break room.
"I told you, man," Wells said. "Totally nuts."
"But coherent at times. It was a strange mix."
"Some of them are like that. It ain't dual personality. Chemicals in their brains switch on and off. One minute they make sense and you can get something out of them, the next they're living in fantasyland but believe it's real. Like with her-all that occult shit."
Westmore didn't look forward to the next question. "What, uh, what happened to her genitals?"
"Ten to one it's self-inflicted. Sexual self-mutilation. Happens a lot with psych patients. That's how they kill the pain of their abuse or some shit. You should see some of the things mental patients do to their works, especially dope burn-outs."
No, Westmore thought. That's one thing I should NOT see. He felt horribly sorry for her. Forced into drug-addiction, sexually degraded time and time again. And God knew what her childhood had been like. "Will she ever recover?"
"Naw. Receptors in her brain are burned out. She'll be schizo the rest of her life."
"Thanks for your time," Westmore said, and walked out feeling about as bleak as he'd ever felt.
II
"Has somebody here mentioned a term," Westmore asked behind the bank of monitors in the communications room. "Apidosians, or adiposians?"
Nyvysk looked up from his tinkering, with interest. "Adrianne and Cathleen claim to have seen them-in their jaunts. Where did you hear the term?"
Westmore lied. He didn't want anyone to know that he knew about Faye Mullins. "I heard somebody here mention it, can't remember who."
"Well, they're thought to sexually molest women-and men-in a discorporate, or subcorporeal, state. The revenant rapes of Cathleen, Adrianne, and Karen, for instance. Which would make sense."
"Not to me. What are they? Demons?"
"Actually, no. They're significantly less than demons. It's more of a Hex-Entity, if you follow older sources which may or may not be reliable. An Adiposian is one of many such entities. They're soulless but not spiritless, if that's not too confusing. According to the Morakis Compendiums of the 1500s, Adiposians are fashioned in Hell from rendered fat, and then animated by spells. Supposedly. They're sentinels, so to speak, guardians."
"Of what?"
"Adiposians specifically? They're the guardians of certain domains, or prefectures, in Hell. Domains supposedly granted to hierarchal sexual demons."
"Like Belarius," Westmore said more than asked.
"Exactly. Think of sacks of congealed bacon grease shaped into a humanish form. They have no faces save for mouths. They have tongues. And they have genitals. They can be generated as male or female. Supposedly. Since they're soulless, they can easily pass from the physical boundaries of Hell to our world, as discorporates. Deniere's Index of Demonographies, from 1618, claims that sex with a discorporate Adiposian is an opium-like experience. And anyone raped by a physical Adiposian in Hell will experience an eternal climax. Supposedly."
"Supposedly," Westmore said.
"Of course. Who can know for sure?"
Not me, that's sure as shit. But Westmore remembered the other odd reference from the psychiatric ward, yet one he'd heard here too. "What's a Rive? I've heard you use that term. A doorway or something? A doorway to hell?"
Nyvysk seemed piqued by the question. "In a sense. Every religion and counter-religion has something like that. Christians believe that one day a Rive will open in the sky and through it will pass all whose names are in the Book of Life-in other words, those worthy of Heaven. Ancient Egyptians believed that death itself was the Rive through which they'd access the afterlife."
"And satanists?"
"Some believe that a threshold to Hell can be opened by certain rites, incantations, and gestures of sacrifice. That's probably what Hildreth thought he was doing on the night of April 3rd. Trying to open that threshold."
Westmore looked at him. "Do you-"
"Do
I believe that such Rives genuinely exist?" He looked right back. "No, of course not ... And, yes, of course."
"Great."
Nyvysk smiled. "It's founded in myths and legends that go back to cave man days. Later, as mankind learned to leave a record of himself, those myths were written down. Grimoires and compendiums and more occult tomes than you can shake a stick at-from just after Christ's death, through the Middle Ages, and even on into the early 20th Centurythese sources areJWI of references to Rives, portals, doors to the underworld, and the mystical secrets needed to open them. In my opinion? Do you want to know the truth?"
"Yes," Westmore said.
"It's mostly poop, Mr. Westmore." Another subtle smile as Nyvysk adjusted a sensor panel. "Ultimately faith is the Rive. I believe in all I need to believe in. I believe in Heaven and Hell. Do you?"
"Man, I don't know"
Nyvysk's smile was gone. "I suspect you will by the time we're all through here."
Westmore worked in the office most of the rest of the day, forgetting to even come down for a meal. He scarcely saw anyone else in the group for more than a few moments. When he'd passed Karen in the hall, she'd merely smiled and nodded, walking on in some buried distress. It was obvious she'd forgotten-probably because she'd been too drunk-their wee-hour kiss and sleeping together last night. It had been strictly platonic yet arousing in some exotic way. She'd left his bed before he'd wakened, leaving only the scent of her hair all over him.
At one point, out the window, he spotted Cathleen strolling barefoot toward the opening in the trees which led to the graveyard. She wore only a white bikini and sarong. She stood at the opening for a moment, hair up in the breeze, the sarong flowing--then suddenly turned and strode away almost at a trot. Bad memories, Westmore thought. But it only reminded him that he'd be entering the same graveyard--tonight-with Clements.
If he shown uµ
After several more hours of inputting notes, he fiddled with some web searches of the numbers and information on the slip of safe-paper. Only the word "apogee" yielded many results but they were all endless and uselessly basic. Knowing he was out of his league, then, he called again on his friend Tom, who begrudgingly agreed to try some more skilled searches.
Restless, he decided to prowl about. Tonight before midnight he'd have to find the hidden door that Clements' bizarre companion had mentioned. She'd told him how to get there, an area he'd already seen. And that's how you get then, he thought, looking at the narrow red-wine colored curtain in the office corner.
He went through, entering the network of shoulderwidth passageways lit by tiny mounted lights. The passages seemed to lead around the mansion's outer walls, zigzagging downward via several just-as-narrow stairwells. Eventually he emerged into a plush but cramped library. This is it, according to the girl ... Oak bookshelves lined the wall; he began pushing and pulling on them. Along the way, he noticed the strangest titles on the spines of the books, many of which seemed extraordinarily old: Cultes Des Ghoules, Terra Dementata, Megapolisomancy, and many more. "Weird place," Westmore muttered. Something cloyed in the air but he couldn't tell what it was. He felt watched but he knew it was just atmosphere and paranoia. In a far corner, then, he noticed a pale curtain, looked behind it, and saw the heavy metal-braced door.
That's it, he knew.
Simple enough. A carriage clock showed him it was 8 p.m.; he had four more hours. He could go back to the office but all at once, fatigue assailed him. I guess I'm gonna take a nag he realized, feeling old. But where? Not in his cubicle, not with everyone else walking around.
Right here would do.
A long bench with plush upholstery and brass studs sat beneath a framed canvas that was totally black. That would have to do. Westmore lay down and fell asleep at once.
He dreamed that he was awake but paralyzed, on the same cushioned bench he lay on now, in the same library. Figures stood around him yet he couldn't turn his head to get a look. Terror propped his eyes wide open; a figure stepped over the bench---a naked figure, he could tell--and-
Oh, shit!
--and sat right on his face. Fat hung down, his face compressed by it. He knew who it was, even before the hand clenched his hair and twisted, and the voice spoke very quietly:
"You're not allowed to say his name."
Over the roll of fat, he could see Faye Mullins' face looking down, deadpan.
"Now pay homage to him by giving succor to me with your mouth. And do it right, or-"
click!
"-you'll meet him sooner than you think."
She'd put a gun to his head and cocked it. Westmore, helpless, did as forced, his tongue roved upward against the shredded flesh ...
"That's good," she complimented. Her broad hips fidgeted for better purchase. Hands-or things like handspulled his pants down on the bench, but he couldn't see who or what was doing it. Then a mouth that felt inhuman. Something much thicker and warmer than saliva worked with the act.
Westmore was repulsed yet his responses would not obey the commands of his emotions. His arousal was instantaneous, a bucking orgasm not far behind. He emptied himself into whatever it was that fellated him, yet as he ejaculated, he began to smother: Faye Mullins' groin completely covering his mouth and nose. Meanwhile, Faye's own responses were cresting, and the basest part of Westmore's fading conscience wondered if he would smother to death first, or have a bullet fired into his brain when she climaxed. His lungs swelled and swelled. He began to convulse.
Long moans swirled around his head as his face was vised tighter but a second later, Faye went lax, moved back a few inches, and his mouth and nose was cleared.
Westmore sucked in breath as she climbed off him. His eyes followed the amorphous, nude bulk. She was walking toward a half-circle table festooned with carvings. She opened a tiny drawer in the table's front, looked in it, then closed it. Then her gaze met his.
"Now you know how I felt every day," she said, grinning.
Westmore couldn't speak.
"Something's going to happen here," she said. Her voice seemed to be reducing to a gurgle.
Westmore stared.
"You better not be here when it does."
Westmore shot awake.
All right, Westmore. Don't lose it. Don't be an idiot. That uws not a discorporated molestation, for God's sake. That uws not a visitation, a psychic vision or any of that shit. It was JUST A BAD DREAM.
Then he looked in the tiny table drawer and found several DVD's. No big deal, no big deal. So what? There's DVD's all over this house. Coincidence!
Nevertheless he pocketed the DVD's. At the same moment, the carriage clock began to chime: twelve times.
Damn! I'm supposed to meet Clements outside!
Westmore rushed through the curtain, turned the locklatch, and opened the stout door. He stuck a pen in the door's gap once he got outside. Twilight glittered beyond, a bright half moon and stars like diamond chips spewed across the sky. A pleasant heat radiated, but he reminded himself, It won't be so pleasant when we're behind those shovels. He walked briskly straight away from the side of the mansion, to the woods, then walked slower toward the access road. He could barely see.
"Jesus, I thought you were stiffing me," Clements said, buried in shadows. Connie stood with him, but Westmore was surprised to see four other men there too, in jeans, boots, and t-shirts. Each one had a shovel over his shoulder.
"Who are these guys?"
When Clements dragged off his cigarette, the heightened glow of the ember tinted his face orange. "You said you needed help digging a grave? There's the help. Younger muscle. You and me both are too old for that shit."
Speak for yours f Westmore thought half-heartedly. In truth, though, he was relieved.
Clements introduced the others: "Higgins, watch com mander for Florida SPD, and my cousin; Butler, assistant deputy for county public safety, and my nephew; Skibiniski, with the bailiff's office-he was one of my students when I taught training blocks at the academy, and my other
nephew Jimmy Wells, who you met today."
The guy from the psych wand, Westmore thought of the latter. He traded nods with the others, then Clements said, "Lead the way. Voices down, stick to the inside of the woodline and try not to sound like the fuckin' Germans marching to Stalingrad."
Westmore carefully led them around the property, to the other side of the house, crickets trilling about them in a sound that was palpable as the humidity. "In here ..." The night sounds grew louder when they entered the dense path.
Wells elbowed him. "Your girl was asking about you."
"What? Faye Mullins?"
"Yeah, about eleven o'clock. I was just getting off-shift, helping one of the nurses give out the night-meds. Mullins wakes up and looks at me and asks about you."
Westmore frowned. "What did she say?"
"Said she just saw you."
"Huh? Where?"
Wells chuckled. "In some library."
Where I was sleeping ... Westmore didn't let himself pay it any mind.
"Then she said to ask you if you found the drawer in the table."
Westmore's belly jumped.
Wells chuckled further. "These psychos are something, ain't they?"
"Yeah . .
Westmore's eyes were still acclimating. "Anybody got a flashlight? Can't see where Hildreth's stone is, it's too dark."
But the younger men were already in the gates, combing the stones with small focused penlights. "Right here," one of them said.
"Let's stay out of their way," Clements advised, pulling Connie and Westmore aside. The digging commenced. "I'll bet they have this grave open in ten minutes."
Connie stood rubbing her eyes. She looked twitchy, miserable, her thin face even more pale in the moonlight. Clements put his arm around her, gave her a pill. "Take another one now, it'll take the edge off."
She nodded, swallowed the pill, and washed it down with soda.
"What's that?"
"Some prescription stuff that eases coke withdrawal. I can get 'em anytime I want from my sister's best friend."
"Pharmacist?"
"Naw, she's the senior manager for county rehab services." Westmore rolled his eyes.
It was actually less than ten minutes when Wells announced, "We're down to the lid, Bart. You want us to open it?"