Katt withdrew her fingers and Sherry fumbling brought them to her lips, kissing the moistness. Then, still weak from lost breath, she gasped, “Come here,” drawing Katt to her, downward, torso to torso, the hot sweat, the touch of mouth to mouth, Katt’s arms resting upon fleece (hot here, cool there), the grapple at comfort, animation below where skin glowed, new arousal eager for its twin.
Gunshot! She let out an unformed sound. Scatters of impression. The thoughts wouldn’t cohere, not fast enough for her fear. Not a gunshot. Even as she turned her head and saw the door jittering from the crash, the shape moved like a wraith through the room, the night coolness touched her calves, upraised arm on the thing hurtling toward her, silver gleam, a held silver bone that arced down like dull pewter sweeping through burnished air.
Sherry deafened her right ear with a scream.
A No! almost made it to Katt’s lips.
Then the world thundered out.
***
Well-behaved earth. No twigs snapped underfoot, moon giving sufficient outline to things, the three steps up to the door by the canted flagpole nice and firm, no telltale creak to betray his coming. So when he took a deep breath and burst in, charging at the flames and trusting that his victims would be there, surprise was on his side. Seconds of surprise would be crucial. Two combatants were one too many. He had a clear shot across the carpet, lumpy shapes he processed as clothing only later, chairs and couches at the periphery-and, good fortune, resolving like photos in a tray, their clasped unclothed bodies, helpless, stunned, ready for capture.
His rush was seamless. Get one! was his only thought and all else was action. He clonked the top one, a brutal stroke to the skull. She went out, falling on the redhead where notions of rising had been falling so heavily that he heard a quiver in the redhead’s scream. She flailed at the body above her, trying to escape. Inert buttocky mass blocked his way, too. He shoved at it with his wrench hand and grabbed a fist of red hair, wanting too many things at once, opening himself up. In the next instant, as the old one rolled off, he was tensed to yank the other’s skull to the floor, hard and fast enough to stun her at least, then follow through with the wrench. But her knee she abruptly wedged in his belly, air gone. She was water. He toppled beside the liquid squirm that was the redhead getting away and grabbed her ankle, his remaining strength concentrated in his grab, so that she fell forward. Breath returned in sufficient quantity to leap at her, cover her kicking legs with his body, his wrench hand at her right thigh as if to measure a new silver thighbone. Cold metal on flesh. She struggled to rise, her bare back a curved porcelain ripple below a fury of red hair.
Absurd word above, like odd tan lines: MINE.
He grabbed upward at her left shoulder, felt tension, felt her try to shake him off. But he had her pinned, and he was stronger, and his breath was back in full. Sped-up turde-tug forward. He’d gained a foot upward, leg flails now from chest to thigh. The first blow of his wrench had little power. The second one fell solid and her struggles abruptly ceased.
Out.
His face was burning up. Chest heaving at the exertion but soon okay. He had the urge to pulp her head with blow after blow, silken red hair flying up amid the bloodspray, matted then in stickiness. But there were drillings to be attended to, a pump-priming on the body of this temptress, followed by a weave of screams that would get through loud and clear to their accursed sex across the globe.
He whipped two lengths of rope from his jeans pocket, binding the plain one’s hands behind her with one of them. Enough. Weren’t going anywhere, that one. She’d probably be lying here on the rug, still out, when he came back.
The other rope he used on the sexy one, flopped hands at the small of her back above her sleek butt, that absurd word MINE moving her shoulderblades. He hefted her hot bag of bones and sand, a fireman’s carry, neck canted left to make room for her warm curve of thigh. Behind him, the fire crackled, and the room he passed through reminded him of his den growing up. But he was already thinking of the huge oak where he’d left his things, beside a recently dug and filled-in hole, spade handle poking up from the earth. He hoped the found hole was deep enough to bury them both. If not, he’d have time-their hoarse torment still ringing in his ears-to dig deeper.
He unlatched the door and slipped out, careful not to bump Miss Pretty’s head on the jamb.
***
Skull shiv. Coarse twists of hair tickling her lips. Sheepskin. Wisped fleece. Then it rushed to her knowing. Katt forced her eyes open, expecting them to be there, the man from Alfalfa’s, Sherry bound and gagged.
No one.
The fire crackled behind her. When she tried to push up, she discovered the numb tingle of restraint, wrists in proximity, maybe an inch of give between them. Face down. She brought a knee up, shifted, winced at the agony in her head. Continued. Got her knees under her and aching rose to them, scrape of one elbow against the cold stone of the hearth. She yanked at the rope, arms still feeble and not much strength there. Except for one dangled end, bristles like unshaved stubble, it eluded her grasp. Yanked again. Again. The cabin was oddly calm. She felt like she ought to feel panic, urgency, but she didn’t. Anything might’ve happened to Sherry. They’d been attacked. Now her friend was gone, surely overcome by the maniac who had rushed in. He could be raping her, killing her, far off in the woods. But the stillness of the cabin spoke otherwise. Lethargy, inevitability, kept her quiescent. She felt like a docile farm animal, roped, drugged, stunned. The snap of burning logs throbbed inside her skull where he’d hit her.
Then a muffled scream shattered the stillness.
It knifed into her. In an instant, lethargy was gone and her attendon was riveted on the door. Katt yanked at the rope, over and over. More power behind her movements. Nothing gained. The bastard was hurting Sherry. Hurting her deeply. Katt’s skin felt like it would burst outward, so great was her need to break free and stop him.
She struggled to her feet. Sea of fleece below. She was naked, her hands useless. The thing was absurd. Even if she succeeded in opening the door, there was nothing to be done. Had to get this rope off. Sherry’s scream died. Then a whimper rose into hearing and ratcheted sharply up, a new unbearable scream that topped the first and rode its spiral of agony to new heights.
Katt looked around wildly for something sharp. Thigh backs burned with the nearness of the fire. She could see nothing that wouldn’t take an eternity to do the job-move into position, secure the jag somehow, then rub against it as Sherry endured unspeakable torment outside.
Knives! Katt glanced over at the kitchen and saw the knife handles angling up from a block of cedar shoved back on the counter. Her heart sank. With her hands tied, she had no chance of reaching them, and time was running out.
Then it came to her.
Burn the sucker off. The rope was thin. Felt old as well, from the dangle hanging down. Get it going and snap it free. She’d burn herself too, but that was curable and fast. So swift was the thought, so certain the plan, that Katt fancied the goddess herself was speaking it. She sat on the hearth, sauna stone, and clasped her hands together behind her, willing a protective envelope of healing there as she thrust them backward into the fire.
Curved roar of heat. Image of her hands as torch, an orange wrap of flame about them. She yanked them out, not half a second in there. It was okay, she assured herself. Okay. No pain, no singe, her mind sustaining a protecdve field around them, the twin clasp of hand to wrist drawing healing power from inside and seemingly from the air about her. Trust in it. Sherry’s voice skirled in torment. An instant later, no thought of hesitation, she again plunged her hands deep into the flame. Wrist hair crisped like an army of ants moving with steady purpose, but her skin bore up as though it were covered in water. She felt as if she wore oven mitts, smoldering, browning, threatening to give in to the tremendous heat surrounding them.
Felt right. She drew them out, unclasped, kept alive the protecdon as she yanked. The rope was burning, licks of f
lame at her wrists. Yanked again. The sucker snapped and her hands' swung around wildly forward, almost throwing her off balance. Arcs of fire. Had to douse them. Hands out before her, still resisung burns, she ran to the sink and twisted a faucet and soaked the frayed ends. And then she let lapse the envelope of protection, her skin glowing hot as if she’d just evaded a burn and it hadn’t yet quite decided to blister.
Katt considered the knives. Took one. But knife use called for close-in work. She wouldn’t get near enough to be effective and she was a terrible throw. No, she needed something larger, more like a bludgeon.
She scanned the cabin for a weapon. Bastard had used a wrench on them, nowhere to be seen. Cords of wood, thin branches and thick, were stacked near the hearth. One had her focus at once, more than an inch thick, just under two feet long, black bark with a good solid heft to it. Swift as their attacker had been, she went as swiftly toward the door, pulled it soundlessly open, ventured out into a full moon’s light.
***
Sherry was on a 747, aisle seat, dozing off, her head caught in that half-sleep, creeping forward, brought back, the steady hum of… but there was no engine hum. Just the sound of an exhausted train doing a slow chuff, pause, chuff again, a monumental hill besting it. And she wasn’t sitting at all but somehow on her feet, the seatback rough and gnarled at her spine. She would ask the steward for a pillow, and why the engines were silent. Were they out of fuel? Saving it? The locomotive gave up. Rustle of leaf cover in the carpeted aisle, the steward coming closer, as her eyelids slitted open.
Moonlit building a hundred yards off. A clearing, no plane at all. Her focus was fuzzy, her mind slow to grasp what lay before it. The steward moved into view, knelt at her feet to retrieve something, then he rose. His fingers touched her naked thigh, grubby, earthen. That touch woke her completely, her struggle in the cabin coming back, the rush of die intruder, cold metal against her thigh, a thud of oblivion at her skull. “She returns to the land of the living,” he said. The guy from the Student Center a while back-a soft green Lands’ End shirt, textbook stuffed with papers then-stood before her.
What, she tried to say-but only an mmph emerged. No clothing, warm darkness, her feet planted apart in a Peter Pan stance. She made to move, was surprised at restraint, only a little give below, her arms fixed to a tree lofting high above, her breasts thrust boldly outward.
“I’m getting good at this,” he said. “Wouldn’t do lo have the canvas move under the brush.”
Then she saw the hole, a spade lying to one side, one of the Lyra-holes Katt had mentioned, but dug out again and with the dirt mounded beside it.
“Where’s Katt?” Absurd, her fear that Katt had been buried. The guy wouldn’t know who she was talking about, who she meant by Katt.
“Inside. Trussed up. We’ll get you going, prime the pump, then bring your friend out.”
She could smell damp earth. It amazed her how matter of fact the fucker was, like he owned her, like it was his right to intrude on her life. Derek all over again. That same belligerence, the swagger, the ownership in his eyes. Anger simmered deep down. She’d take none of it, no more, not even naked and open to this bastard’s worst. He would rape them and she very much feared he would kill them, but she would never give up in spirit and she vowed right here and now to maim her captor the first chance she got.
Then the moonlight hit his hand, the one he raised.
Hackles. She said, “Hey now what-”
He whirred it. It fell silent. “You understand,” he said. “Don’t pretend you don’t.”
Oh shit. The stories in the Coloradoan-details left vague to spare the reader-came back to her. Coed Killer. Her voice shook through the scheming that instantly welled up and out: “Hey listen, I’ve read about you-”
He rolled over her, not heeding her words, continuing his train of thought. “The twisted metal leaves a residue inside, a tiny antenna. Bloodspill links all you breeders together, community of be-hind-handers.” He pawed the skin of Sherry’s cheek, pinched it like a Sharpei owner yanking at loose rolls of dogflesh.
“Keep your hands off me!” The anger ran deep. She’d be damned if she’d make it easy on him. She shook but not from fear. Through the rage, returning to her scheme, she struggled to sound reasonable. “No, now listen, you and I can talk this out, I can help you reach your goal.”
At her anger he’d yanked his hand away. Now his eyes fell and he touched her right breast, not a man perversely fondling a woman but a carpenter caressing unspoiled wood. “Two of you under the drill will do the trick-”
“No, that’s what I’m trying to tell you, it isn’t-”
“-double the antennas, twin screams, two blood-spills for every one before, mirror images if I can manage it-”
The unspeakable thing was whirring again, a sound she had once regarded as innocuous but which now contained all the madness humankind was capable of. The curved L of his thumb and index finger taunted her breastflesh just above the right nipple. He raised the drill, angled it.
“-the physics isn’t right, there are better ways and I can help you find them if you’ll just-” Whenever anyone brought a needle close to give her an injecdon, Sherry looked away. But she couldn’t look away for this. Surely he wouldn’t do it. He looked so normal, even now, ignoring her words. He’d stop short, there’d be no violation of her body, she’d get through to him. Drill whinings, smooth silver blur coming on.
“-if you’ll just shut that off, we do have a network and I can tell you the real way to tap into it, I'll help, we’ll get your message across-”
The tip raised a hint of whirlwind where it closed on her skin. She stood paralyzed, in disbelief and rage, all her wiles spilling from her mouth as she watched.
“-but you’ve got to, I can’t if you, shut it off now it has to stop now, no don’t, you can’t, it has to-”
The thing stung. It bit. A wasp sting that sank and sank, getting worse as it went. Dark fluid whipped out to blacken his hand, to spatter her breast in outflingings of blood. It was her. It wasn’t her. The pain kicked over, the unbearable height still unbearable but topped and then topped again. The silver blur grew shorter. Kept coming, kept sinking in, worse than any shot, tearing at her, deaf as machinery to all protest.
Her words crumbled.
But in their place, the sounds that filled her mouth, that howled past her tormentor, were the same sounds Derek had seered out of her so many years ago. Crazy fucker was him all over again, different face, same brutal bastard on a rampage.
And the pain reared up and tore at her, savaging her, attacking her oneness. Helpless again in the face of that outrage, with all the trapped frustration of her will, she screamed to deny it, to shut it out, to reverse the damage he did, the damage Derek did, the damage they all managed, sooner or later, to visit upon her.
The drill bit grew shorter and shorter.
***
Katt steeled herself. Sherry’s screams, purer now in the unmuffled air, increased Katt’s sense of urgency. But she couldn’t afford shock or paralysis, whatever the night was about to reveal. She skirted the cabin facade, mosses soft and cool under her feet. Drainspout at the corner, a moon-angle on the ground. Then she turned it, saw the two of them against the tree, near where Lyra had dug last, an urge to stop and take it in, interpret it, but Katt rushed on, clothed man bent so intently, Sherry spreadeagled upon the tree before him, was he raping her, no, his right hand was swollen, elongated, pressing at her breast, a sculptor in flesh, maniac, they loomed larger, rocky ground hard at the soles of her feet but it didn’t matter, zigs of blood, Sherry’s screams covering Katt’s approach, her eyes locked so intently on the mayhem that she, too, saw nothing of Katt racing toward them.
Bastard looked up, sensed something. Pulled a bloody plug out of Sherry’s breast as if he were a tree-corer and Sherry a tree nymph who’d got in the way. Her eyes caught at Katt, large, terror-stricken. Katt concentrated on the turning man, not near enough to best him thro
ugh surprise. His instincts were sharp. He rallied, took her in, raised the drill before him, surged to meet her.
But for all his seeming advantage, muscular, clothed, weapon more daundng than Katt’s, this was her ground, the place where she drew herself together in strength and will and the power of wholeness. She swung low, her eye on the bulky green drill, broke the fucker’s hand and watched his drill fly up, whirr abrupdy dead like a smacked mosquito, thudding as it fell to earth. He let the pain falter him. That gave her enough time, his attention diverted, to lift the branch and bring it down full force upon his head.
He fell, moaning, eyes agog. Katt smacked him again, so hard the branch broke with a snap and a backspring, and Sherry’s attacker collapsed ungraciously to the ground.
“Kill him,” Sherry urged. “Kill him.”
“Nope,” she said, spying spills of rope out of a bag, taking up one of them, the same sort she’d burned through, “but I’ll truss the fucker up.” She did so, wrenching his hands behind his back so hard his face slammed against the ground. A keychain jangled out of one pocket, fell to the earth. Katt tied his wrists as tight as she could, hoping to cut off his circulation. She left him damaged and out, and went to Sherry.
“Kill him,” Sherry repeated, her eyes burning on the inert sprawl before her. “Kill the bastard.” Twin rivulets of blood coursed down her breasts, eyes weeping red past the nipples. Katt cupped the wounds with her palms, focused in, shut out all else-the damaged milk glands, the lung tissue he’d bit into. Willing it healed, she felt the energy course through her arms, her hands, in its surround of traumatized flesh, fighting off infection, doing in seconds what would have taken weeks.
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