by David Greske
Edna nodded again.
Taking her hand, Lily led Edna through the aisles of fabrics and notions. Lily opened the door to the back room and stepped to one side.
Edna's eyes widened with a show of fascination, wonder, and fear.
When Lily ordered Edna's Italian silk, she ordered a few other things as well. The back room had been transformed into an S&M playpen.
The walls and ceiling were covered in black vinyl. Shelves that once held bolts of colorful cloth now displayed dildoes of all shapes and sizes. Some were so enormous in length and girth that, if used improperly, they'd rip a woman's insides to pieces. There were jars and tubes of lubricants, and bottles of massage oils with such names as Flaming Passions, Night Eternal, and Virgin Flower. There were whips and chains.
In the center of the chamber, a leather sling was suspended from the ceiling by four large brass rings. When positioned in the sling, thick straps were used to bind the ankles and wrists. Fettered in this fashion, the person in the sling felt as if they were floating. They were also defenseless and at the total mercy of their partner.
Lila stood next to the sling. She was dressed in a studded leather harness and black, knee-high boots. A black leather mask, decorated with chrome rivets, covered her head. A pair of holes were cut into the front so Lila could see, but the mouth-slit was closed with a silver zipper. Her fingernails were painted red.
The only light in the room came from the flames of six fat candles—three red and three black—on a nearby table.
"Oh, my,” Edna muttered. Her gut told her if she entered, she'd never come back out, but she was powerless to turn away. There was another force at work inside her. One that was stronger than freewill or rational thought.
Edna felt a fine tickle on the inside of her thigh. From beneath her floral dress, a trickle of blood ran down her leg. After twenty years, she was menstruating again.
Edna stepped into the room. Lily followed and closed the door behind them.
Outside, a streetlight in front of the shop winked on. The light became brighter and more intense until the bulb exploded and sent shards of glass into the street.
* * * *
The drab green Buick traveled west as it headed out of town. They were outlaws now, Lily and Lila, just like Thelma and Louise. Neither meant to kill Edna; it was something that just happened. After the deed was done, the pair panicked, and instead of running to the police, they found themselves on the run.
They'd left the Sew What! with only the clothes on their backs. In Lila's case, that meant leaving wearing only the harness and go-go boots. Lily'd stop at the Wal-Mart and buy them some clothes, but until then, Lila had wrapped herself in a blanket she'd taken from the back seat.
Using their ATM cards, they'd withdrawal the maximum of cash allowed each day. Between the two of them, they figured the account would be drained in three days. Then, they'd destroy the cards and all the information that was stored on them. They had already disposed of their credit cards. That was the problem with plastic, they offered unlimited convenience, but they left a blatant trail that even an amateur sleuth could follow. A person might as well draw a map and hand it to the police. If they managed to stay a step or two ahead of the cops, the women thought they would be okay.
About a year ago, Lily and Lila watched a program on The Learning Channel about a small town (actually, it was more like a wide spot in the road) on the Arizona/Nevada border. It was rumored that outcasts lived there. They had changed identities and started life over again. It was a place where a person could disappear, as if they just fell off the face of the earth. The program said the town had a population of twenty-eight. Lily and Lila would bring that number up to thirty.
Lily reached across the seat to wipe away a smudge of blood from her partner's cheek. Lila smiled. Bits of flesh were stuck between her gore-stained teeth.
"We'll be all right, Lover.” Lily smiled back. “Everything'll be fine once we're out of this damned town."
Lily turned on her signal, changed lanes, and pulled the Buick onto the interstate. The sign that passed the passenger window read: NOW LEAVING PRAIRIE REST. COME BACK SOON!
Chapter 19
Alone.
In the dark.
With the television on.
Four hours earlier, at three o'clock in the afternoon, Jim Anderson put his son in the ground. He'd heard stories of parents that had lost a child and wondered what they did after everything was all over. Now he knew.
Diane came downstairs about twenty minutes earlier. She looked awful—like death warmed over, as Jim's father was so fond of saying when someone didn't look just right. Her hair was a mass of tangles. There were dark, purple circles under her eyes. Her lips were cracked and dry; her skin was as pale as cottage cheese. She was dressed in her tattered robe and worn, fuzzy slippers. She needed a shower. And when she looked at Jim, her eyes reflected only malice.
Like a child lost, she milled about the house for a while, then said she couldn't stand it anymore and went back upstairs.
Jim hadn't seen Molly at all. That was fine. He didn't have any more answers for all her questions. All he wanted right now was to be left alone. He needed time to mourn in his own way.
He pushed himself away from the kitchen table and grabbed a beer from the refrigerator. He popped it open and took a long, slow swallow. Jim gazed out the window above the sink.
The woods looked different now. More menacing. Almost evil. The path that lead from the yard into it seemed obscured. The brush and branches were trying to cover it over. Even the trees looked different. They looked closer to the house than they were before.
"Don't be ridiculous,” Jim mumbled to himself. “Trees can't move."
Are you sure about that, Jimbo? A voice in his head taunted. Just because you haven't seen it, doesn't mean it can't happen. It's kinda like that old saying: If a tree falls in the woods and there's nobody around to hear it, does it make any noise? Tee-hee-hee.
Jim was about to pull another beer out of the fridge when there came a knock on the door.
Rufus looked up from his place under the table, glanced in the direction of the sound, and then put his head back down on his paws. Since Travis died, Rufus had become timid.
Jim opened the door and saw three somber faces staring back at him. He tried to smile. “Hey, guys, come on in."
The men walked into the room, and Jarvis greeted his friend with a hug.
"How're you holding up, buddy?” Jarvis asked.
"Okay, I guess.” Jim looked at Cal and the sheriff. “Nice to see you guys. What brings you here?"
"We're sorry about your boy,” Ebert offered.
Jim dropped his gaze to the floor and nodded. Accepting the condolences was almost more difficult than the funeral. Every time someone mentioned his loss, Jim had to choke down a lump of sorrow. The kind words opened new wounds and the memory of his son flooded back to him. How long would it be before he could accept their sympathies without feeling his heart being ripped to pieces?
"Where are Diane and Molly?” Jarvis asked.
"They're upstairs. I haven't seen much of them since Travis died."
"Right now, that's probably for the best.” Cal stepped forward. “Jim, we need to talk."
"Is this about Travis again?” Jim looked at Jarvis for support. “My boy's dead. Can't you get that through your fucking heads! Leave him alone. No one killed my boy. My son drowned. It was an accident. It happened because I wasn't watching him."
"No, Jim, you had nothing to do with it. It would've happened anyway. Please, Jim, we've got to talk,” Jarvis pleaded. He held his hands in front of his face, prepared to warn off any sudden movement. “We're not going to try to convince you of anything. We just want you to listen to us. That's all. Will you do that for us, Jim. Will you listen?"
Jim looked at Jarvis, Cal, then Sheriff Ebert. “All right.” He sighed. “I'll listen, but I won't believe you."
The group moved to the table. Cal sat at
one end. Jarvis and Jim sat on his right; Ebert sat on his left.
Jarvis reached beneath the table and scratched Rufus's ear. The dog opened its brown eyes, licked Jarvis's hand with its rough, pink tongue, then went back to sleep.
Cal's upper lip was sweating and Jim noticed when the man rested his hands on the table, they were trembling.
"This land, the woods, and this house are cursed,” Cal blurted. He ran his tongue across his lips to moisten them, but discovered he had no more spit. “And unfortunately, Jim, you're caught in the middle of it."
* * * *
Bill Daily finished his beer, wiped the foam from his mouth, and ordered another. He shifted on his stool, tugged at his crotch, and scratched his balls, hoping to relieve the pressure he felt down there.
Ever since the carnival, he couldn't get his mind off Molly Anderson. Ever since then, he seemed to be walking around with a perpetual hard-on.
He'd gone to the funeral today, hoping he'd be able to see her. Maybe he'd talk to her if he could get her alone for a minute, or two, but he never saw Molly. It was apparent she hadn't attended the funeral, which was something Bill understood completely. Funerals gave him the creeps. Always had. There was something unpleasant about seeing a body in a box, dressed in its Sunday best, while the faint stink of embalming fluid floated about the head. But there was something about the kid's service that really creeped him out.
Bill wasn't the church-going type. Never was. There were too many other things in life to do other than waste a Sunday morning listening to a dry preacher damn everyone to an afterlife of fire and brimstone. But aside from his usual, uncomfortable feeling, he felt there was another presence in the church. And it wasn't the Holy Spirit. When the hairs on the back of his neck stood at attention, he knew there was some kind of serious shit going down. He left the church as quick as a jackrabbit being chased by a fox.
Go to the park. She'll come.
Startled, Bill turned to see who had spoken to him. But no one was there. The stool next to him was empty, as was the one next to it. He was alone in his own corner of the bar.
The command came again. This time, Bill realized the voice came from within his mind.
"Hey, Bill, it's your turn,” a pool player hollered from the back of the room. Bill had put his money on the table an hour ago with the intention of playing the winner, but that no longer seemed important.
"You guys go ahead without me,” Bill yelled back. The voice that came out of his mouth belonged to him, but it sounded distant and emotionless. It was almost as if the words were forced from his lips. “I have something else to do."
The boys in the back gave him a strange look. Bill never let the opportunity to beat someone at a game of pool pass him by. Then, a greasy-haired kid wearing a black Metallica shirt pumped the money into the slot.
Bill slopped down the rest of his beer. Most of it splashed the front of his shirt, but he didn't care. The only thing on his mind at the moment was the sweet morsel he'd find between Molly Anderson's legs. Bill slipped off the bar stool, shoved the oil-stained baseball cap on his head, and walked out of the Stumble Inn.
* * * *
Molly riffled through her closet. She had to hurry. Bill wouldn't wait long. Travis had told her so.
She pulled out a pair of Guess jeans that were a size too small and a red blouse trimmed in lace. When she lived in Ventura, her friends teased her about the color. Whorehouse red, they called it. The blouse had puffy, satin sleeves and a plunging V-shaped neckline that showed more than just a tease of cleavage. The bottom came just above her midriff and was fastened with two large buttons. Easy access to the treasure under it.
"Do you think he'll like this?” Molly asked.
Travis nodded. Dressed in his burial suit, a green light glimmered around him. Like a visitor in a house of mirrors, the poster of ‘N Sync that was tacked to the wall behind him appeared distorted through his transparent body. Sharp, triangular teeth poked from rotted gums. Cat-like eyes twinkled in the dim room. A stink reminiscent of cloves, dirt, and death shimmered from the specter like heat off of asphalt.
When Travis first appeared to Molly just moments ago, she wanted to scream, but then she understood. Travis wasn't a ghost, nor was he an angel. Her brother had become something more. He had become a part of something that was so much bigger.
Molly stripped off her clothes and poured herself into the blue jeans. She slipped the blouse over her naked torso and looked at herself in the mirror. She frowned. Although the blouse showed off her smooth belly, it did nothing to accent her breasts.
"Make your nipples erect,” Travis suggested. It sounded as if he spoke through a mouthful of sand.
Of course! Why didn't she think of that!
Molly licked her finger and moistened her nipples. She blew on them. They grew to twice their size. She smiled. Better. Nice and perky.
"How do I look?” she asked, but Travis had already disappeared into a cloud of wispy smoke.
Now, she had to get out of the house. She decided she'd sneak down the back stairs and ride her bike into town. Getting past Mom would be easy. Doc Addlerson had her so doped up that even if she would happen to wake up, she would just wander around the house for a while with a woe it's me attitude, then crawl back into bed. She wouldn't even think about checking in on her daughter. Father might be another problem.
Molly opened her bedroom door and stuck her head out. She heard the murmur of her father's voice filter up the stairs. Good. He had guests. Being preoccupied, he wouldn't hear her leave.
She stepped into the hallway, pulled the door closed behind her, and padded down the hall to the back staircase.
Whore!
Slut!
Startled, she turned around. But there was no one there.
Molly descended the stairs.
* * * *
In Molly's bedroom, Travis materialized from a jade mist. He moved to the window and gazed out the glass. He smiled when he saw Molly pedal her bicycle down the hill toward town.
Travis picked up the porcelain angel from the windowsill. He rolled the statuette around in his small hands, examining the details. He stroked the angel's face and the ceramic figure shifted beneath his fingers. Now the angel had Molly's face.
Travis grinned. The grin turned to a scowl; the scowl turned to a grimace. Then he snapped off the doll's head.
Chapter 20
Daily sat on the park bench next to a bronze statue of a man, woman, and child. The man held the child on his shoulders, while the woman gazed up him. Her mouth was formed into a smile, and her eyes, even though they were nothing but polished bronze, reflected the happiness of her family. The sculpture was in appreciation of all those who made the dream park a reality. That was the proclamation of the brass plate mounted on the granite base. But Bill Daily didn't give an iota about the sculpture, or its dedication. He was only interested in the bright pink bicycle that wheeled his way.
Molly jumped from her Schwinn. It wobbled a few feet before crashing into the statue, then fell to the ground. She jumped into Bill's lap and gyrated her pelvis against his groin.
"Miss me?” she cooed.
Bill's eyes lit up like a Fourth of July celebration. She was a real wild child.
Molly pulled him close, pressed her lips to his, and stuck her tongue in his mouth.
Bill opened the front of her blouse and found her breasts. He was surprised at their firmness. The titties of all the other girls he'd bedded had always been soft and squishy, like an old baseball that had been used for too many games.
Bill broke the embrace. “I know a better place. More private."
"Is it far? I don't think I can wait much longer."
"No, it's not far at all."
"Then, show me.” She slid off his lap like a cat in heat.
Bill took her hand—her small, child-size hand—and led her around the statue to a cluster of mature lilac bushes. The lavender blooms had withered long ago, but the rich, lush leaves pro
vided perfect cover. Bill fumbled with the button on Molly's jeans. He snapped it open and stuck his hand inside. The sparse thatch of hair felt like wet cotton. He probed her sex. God, she was tight. So much so he feared her sex lips might clamp around his finger as tight as a vise and he'd be unable to pull himself free.
Molly pushed him back against the nearby oak tree. “I want to taste you.” She fumbled with his pants. “I want to take you in my mouth.” She pulled Bill's Levi's down to his ankles, then with a single, crazed movement, tore his underwear off.
Bill's sex popped out like a fishing bobber and waggled in front of Molly's face with his every heartbeat.
Anxious, Molly ran her tongue across her lips to moisten them and kissed Bill's anaconda. It bobbed its approval. She kissed it again. This time, she took some of the shaft in her mouth and flicked her tongue across the head.
Bill's body stiffened. “That's nice,” he whispered through clenched teeth. “Real nice."
Molly swallowed the rest of his shaft.
Bill gasped. The inside of her mouth was velvety soft and as warm as melted chocolate. He put his hands on the sides of her head and worked her back and forth. He slid in and out of her like a well-greased piston.
Then, she bit him. Not hard, but enough to make him jump.
"No rough stuff,” Bill chided.
Molly bit him again.
"I said no fucking rough stuff! I'm not into that scene!” Bill slapped her upside the head.
But Molly ignored his outburst and bit him a third time—bit him hard.
"Fuck!” Bill howled, “I told you not to bite, bitch!"
He pushed her face away from his crotch. He balled his hand into a fist. Angry now, he was going to show her he was not someone to fuck with. When he told someone to stop, they'd damn well better do it. But when he looked down, his anger turned to anguish.
His crotch and thighs were painted red. So was Molly's face. Dark liquid pooled in the folds of his jeans. Flecks of it spattered the tops of his beat-up Nikes. Next to his left shoe lay a long, finger-shaped object. Like everything else, it was painted bright red.