by Edward Lee
“Huh?” He spat a line of brown juice into the water. “Well, do I need to point out that there ain’t any solvent factories around here? But what is around here?”
“The clinic, Adam. What are you saying? That the clinic is dumping toxic by-products into the lake? That’s ridiculous. There are no toxic substances being produced there. They treat elderly outpatients.”
Now Adam lit a cigarette.
He chews AND smokes, Clare observed. This guy is the prize. I’ll bet he’s never put a toilet seat down in his life.
“I’m just thinking about past associations. When something fishy’s going on, you look around and see if there are any fishy people in the immediate vicinity.”
“You mean you, right?”
Adam smiled through the comment. “I mean maybe the guy you work for.”
Clare blinked. “The clinic director? Harry?”
“Naw. Let’s face it. It’s pretty obvious you got some eyes for Dellin Daniels—”
Clare was outraged. “It is NOT! That’s preposterous!” she blared back at him, all the while, thinking, How did he know! “And there’s nothing fishy about him!”
Adam moped back to his truck. “Yeah, well, maybe you’re right.”
“What? What’s fishy about Dellin?”
He pulled a large sack out of his truck. “Let’s just drop it. Forget I said anything. You’re the real authority out here anyway. It’s your job to do the investigating, ain’t it?”
He’s just a total crackpot! Clare decided she wouldn’t even acknowledge his arcane accusation by responding to it any further.
“What are you doing now!” she asked, annoyed.
“Wow, you must really be on the rag today.” He flapped the bag open, leaned over. “You may be the authority on the property, but this is still a government-owned reserve. I gotta take this to my authorities. Want to give me a hand?”
He meant the frog! He was trying to shove the disgusting thing into the bag.
“Uh, no,” she assured him
She headed back to her own truck, too angry to say anything more.
“Aw, there ya go, stompin’ away all flustered. Just like a woman.” He’d managed to flop the dead frog all the way in the bag now; it drooped off his arm like a sack of potatoes. “But when you’re out of your tizzy-fit…think about what I said. You hear me?”
“Go away! Take your frog and get out of here!”
Adam shrugged. “Watch your back ’round that guy.”
Clare slammed her door and drove off.
(III)
“I’m not losing my old Air Force starch, am I?” she asked herself in the mirror. She was absolutely frazzled and so infuriated she could feel her temples beating. Could it all be blamed on Adam Corey? If so, she’d let her professional edge become considerably worn down. Sexism in the working environment—in particular—and crummy people in general were aspects of life she’d learned to deal with. She’d never let it affect her to this degree. It wasn’t in her make-up to let an incident, or an obnoxious person, get her this angry.
Calm down, Clare. Jesus, it’s no big deal. There are a lot of jerks in the world—you can’t let them piss you off.
She knew right away that it was foolish to deliberate the cause of her aggravation. It had nothing to do with her shift last night, and it had nothing to do with the hideous frog. It wasn’t even Adam Corey’s complete lack of couth when he constantly undressed her with his eyes.
Dellin.
That’s what it was. First, there was the ranger’s cocky statement about Clare having “eyes” for Dellin. But even that wasn’t what got her going. Adam had implied that Dellin had less than a pristine past; in not so many words, the lowbrow ranger hinted that there might even be something criminal in Dellin’s background. She gave that some hard thought, then just shook her head at herself. Consider the source. He’s just jealous of Dellin, doesn’t like him for some reason, so he’s making up a bunch of crap. Sure, I have “eyes” for Dellin, but that jackass Adam Corey’s definitely got eyes for me. In Clare’s view, there was a time and place for everything, and there was a big difference between being admired by men and being stared at as a sex object. Stuart Winster had been one to stare at her a lot too, and she’d would up being molested and raped by him. The last thing I need is another pervert gaping at me behind my back.
But these observations seemed confusing right now. Adam Corey’s lusting after me? That’s a mystery… She stood nude in front of the mirror over the long dresser…and didn’t like what she saw. It had been a long time since she’d felt anything close to attractive, and the image in the mirror didn’t help at all. I’ve never looked WORSE in my life. Her ribs were showing, her hipbones stuck out. The huge breakfast made her abdomen stick out, yet her breasts were tiny from the last year of eating from hand-out trucks, often just one meal a day.
She beat her hand on the dresser, then smiled at her reflection.
She refused to let herself become insecure; she wasn’t going to mope and boo-hoo to herself. That was not Clare, and had never been.
Yeah, I’m skinny as a pipe cleaner and I’ve had a bad year. But all that changes today. I’m going to gain weight and get back in shape. I’m going to excel at my job and go forward. And I’m NOT going to let morons like Adam Corey bother me.
Simple.
A final attention made her feel even better: And, besides, Dellin invited me to go to the beach with him, so I must not look all THAT bad…
Even better.
First thing she’d done upon returning to her cottage was take a long cool shower. For bed clothes she wore a simple extra-large t-shirt that she’d picked up at the store; it came down nearly to her knees, and blared LIFE’S A BEACH on the front. She was about to fall into bed that very moment, but the snapshot of Grace Fletcher on the mirror caught her eye, and it reminded her…
That’s right, there were more pictures.
She reopened the wooden vanity box and removed the remaining photos.
A few more of Grace Fletcher, a few of the cottage, the beach, the lake—typical photos anyone would take.
The last photo was a group shot.
“I don’t believe it,” Clare murmured. “That’s not—”
Three people looked back at her from the photo, all smiling and all dressed in security uniforms. One was Grace Fletcher, one was a man with a dark buzzcut and mustache, and the third was…
Donna Kramer, Clare thought. They’d gone to basic training and MP school together; they’d been friends. Now there’s a coincidence. Clare remembered Donna Kramer as a bright spunky woman, a quality recruit and great person. They’d hung out together quite a bit during their training months, had even corresponded a bit after they’d moved on to their separate permanent duty stations. After awhile, though, they’d grown out of touch with each other, which Clare regretted now. Seeing this picture of Donna was a happy reminder of some of the good times she’d had in the Air Force.
She’d never seen the man in the photo. Ex-military too. The haircut told all. Clare couldn’t quite remember but she thought Mrs. Grable had said his name was Rob or Bob. Clare’s eyes narrowed, though—something else immediately came to mind now.
Mrs. Grable said Grace Fletcher and the other guards were fired for partying on duty. Hot tub parties at night. Excessive drinking. A Roman orgy, the woman had inferred. Clare had no way of knowing how much of that owed to exaggeration but she certainly didn’t remember Donna Kramer like that.
Then again, who knows? People change.
Her drowsiness seduced her; the large soft bed and cool air couldn’t have felt more comfortable. Please, no nightmares, no rape dream today, came the hopeful thought. Sometimes she had the dream several times a week, a cruel ploy of her own psyche. Why would some mental part of her make her relive the rape in her dreams? She felt so good now, though, she was sure she wouldn’t have it this time. She drifted off quickly, one arm slung over her head. She had the habit of sleeping on he
r belly, and her forearm dangled in the gap between the edge of the bed and the wall. Yes, sleep, she thought. This is just…so…nice…
Just as she would fall fully to sleep, her fingers touched something.
Her eyes slid back open. With her forearm dangling in the gap, the tips of her fingers landed on something flat. Damn it. There was a box of some sort under the bed, and she knew her curiosity wouldn’t let her sleep until she found out what it was.
All too often, her curiosity was her curse. Next she was on her knees, sliding what she’d touched out from under the bed.
A shoebox.
But there weren’t shoes in it.
Clare sighed through a smile when she lifted the lid. The first thing she saw in the box was a vibrator crafted of green transparent rubber. Grace Fletcher, you naughty girl… The device was shameful in the detail with which it duplicated the contour of a penis; if anything it was a caricature, too large, too veiny, too stout. Clare nearly squealed when she picked it up. The clear kiwi-green rubber that surrounded the battery housing was warm and jelly-soft. It looked beastly, alien. Clare couldn’t imagine using one like this on herself yet she giggled just the same.
But there was something else in the shoebox too.
MAXELL, she read. GX-SILVER 3-PACK
Video tapes.
Two VHS tapes were stacked in the slip-box they’d been purchased in. Clare slid them out but discovered nothing written on them, no dates, no topics. The box was for a three-pack, though, and there was no sign of the third tape. Maybe it’s still in the VCR, she thought, but… I’m exhausted. Do I really want to bother with this now?
She frowned at the answer, trudging out to the living room and the more-than-adequate entertainment center arranged in the corner.
There was no tape currently in the VCR.
Still got the first two, she thought. And I guess it’s showtime.
She popped in the first tape, lounging back on the long couch. Probably vacation videos or something like that, she supposed.
But she was wrong.
Quite wrong.
(IV)
He had her all to himself now but probably not for long, so…
Have a little fun while I can.
Her head whipped back and forth when he licked between her breasts. It tasted really salty; he liked it. Then he gripped her face with his hands—“Hold still”—and licked both of her eyes.
Her head shuddered in his grip.
“I’m just licking you—stop it!”
He didn’t know why—he just liked to lick pretty girls.
“There’s worse things I could be doing so just stop. Be nice and you won’t get hurt. Now…stick out your tongue.”
He tightened his grip on her face; her face was getting red. Her eyes were squeezed shut and she was keeping her mouth closed.
No tongue today.
He ran his tongue across her lips, but she had her lips closed so tight it wasn’t any fun. When he started sucking—
“Woe!”
tick, tick, tick!
He yanked his face back just in time. In an instant, she’d jerked her head forward, teeth exposed. She’d tried to bite him!
He was mad now. “I can bite too.”
She actually shrieked this time. They never shrieked, even when he really worked them over. The machine with the nozzles was supposed to stop that, it did something to their brains so they couldn’t make noise and move much.
But the nozzle-machine must not have worked right with this one.
The shriek sputtered down.
He chuckled. “Aw, come on. I didn’t bite you that hard.”
This time he bit hard, high up on the inside of her thigh. Her shriek exploded into a loud, ugly scream, and her whole body lurched up. If her ankles and wrists hadn’t been lashed down, she would have been able to grab him!
This was no fun.
He guessed he shouldn’t be playing with her anyway; no one had told him for sure if they were done with her yet. Sometimes he was allowed to play with them afterward, if they didn’t take, or if there was some problem. Most of the first ones had been like that, hitchhikers, prostitutes—the experiments, and when they were done, he got to play with them and kill them.
He wished he could kill this one.
He walked over to the shorter-haired one, the one on Table 1. She was older but he liked her more. She looked like she would be nice to him if she got to know him. He rubbed her breasts; they felt big and wobbly, like water balloons. Her eyes were open and she was blinking but she didn’t move at all when he’d touched her.
“You’re pretty,” he said. “Even with your stomach like that.”
He touched her pregnant abdomen and rubbed it. When he tickled the pushed-out bellybutton, she didn’t react. When he licked it and sucked it, she didn’t react.
Yes, he liked her.
“I’m-I’m-I’m gonna bite you but just a little and not that hard,” he told her all at once in a long verbal stumble.
He bit her on the side, over her ribs, not too hard at first but—well, harder a few seconds later. He couldn’t help it. He liked to bite them.
She tremored a little; he could see her knees shaking in the stirrup braces. But she didn’t make any noise at all, she hadn’t even turned her head to the other side.
“I like that.”
He rubbed his finger over the mark. It was a crisp purple oval.
Wow, that looks neat.
He wanted to make another one.
He turned her head over on the table. Her eyes seemed to dart around wildly.
“I’m-I’m gonna bite your face now but just a little teeny bit and I promise it won’t be hard—”
He leaned forward.
He was going to bite her on the cheek, right at the cheekbone part, right under the eye—
“No, no,” another voice came in.
The door clicked shut.
“You mustn’t torment her, not that one. The pre-natal environment is just as important as the formative, as any developmental stage for that matter.”
He didn’t know what that meant. “S-sorry.”
Footsteps ticked across the tile flooring, an arm came around his back.
“It’s all right, you needn’t worry. Use the other one for your play—the one that didn’t take.”
He was led back to Table 2.
“She’s no fun. She tried to bite me.”
“Hmm.”
“She made noise too, and tried to grab me. But-but she couldn’t ’cos she—”
“Because of the restraints, of course.” A pause. Then he went over to where the screens were and he turned one on and pushed a blue button on a box.
“My fault entirely. I should’ve taken a bit more care during the first treatment.” On one of the screens an x-ray of the girl’s head appeared.
Neat!
It showed veins and stuff, and when she moved her head, the x-ray head moved too.
Two of the nozzle-things were pulled over, pointed at her head.
“These short-wave nuclear lobotomies have never been that precise. She’s a strong girl, though, I must say. But if she’s still got motor function…that’s simply unacceptable. It’s for their own good, after all.”
He adjusted the nozzles, while looking back and forth at the screen.
“Might as well use her for practice now. Brush up on my technique. Something trans-orbital this time, yes. Let’s just irradiate the entire motor sulcus…and…well—the hypophysis too. Why not?”
Not too much longer, then:
“There. That should simmer her down.”
He walked up, looked down at her.
He wasn’t sure.
“Well, if you’re still that concerned about her biting you…”
A scalpel with a blade shaped like a lemon-wedge flashed in the light. Through the cheek, at the area where the upper and lower back molars met, the blade was inserted, then shoved down.
It made a slight grisly
sound, like cutting through the joint of a raw chicken leg. Surprisingly little blood came out. Then the process was repeated on the other side of her face.
“Ah. Right through the lateral and medial pterygoid groups. She won’t be biting anyone now.”
Her mouth just hung open now. Inside, the tongue seemed to be jumping around.
“Wuh—wow!”
“Go on, have your fun.” Footsteps began to tick back toward the door. “We won’t be needing her anymore, so…when you’re done?”
The finger pointed to the large round hatch on the wall.
“Oh, wow! Thanks!”
A pause. A gentle smile.
The footsteps left.
The door clicked shut behind them.
His bright eyes gazed down at the girl with the unhinged jaw.
I can have all kinds of fun now!
Indeed.
And he would.
— | — | —
Chapter Eight
(I)
Holy smokes! Clare thought when the video was done.
In her entire life, she’d only seen sexually explicit videos maybe once or twice, way back in college during the weekend keggers. And she’d never watched more than a few minutes. All that moaning and groaning, naked people manipulating themselves into asinine positions, every detail of genitalia zoomed in on. It just seemed dumb to her, not erotic at all.
But the tapes she’d found under the bed?
They were quite a bit different.
These were not typical commercial offerings from the adult video industry; there were no foolish titles like Backside to the Future or The Bare Witch Project. These tapes had no titles at all, and no “porn” stars.
The stars of these movies were Grace Fletcher, Donna Kramer, and Rob Thomas, the previous security staff for the clinic.
All of a sudden, Mrs. Grable’s analogy of a “Roman orgy” was proven all too accurate. Clare was absolutely shocked by what she saw. A threesome to the maximum, and every sexual act imaginable pursued. Amid laughter, giggling, and harsh lights, they’d taken turns taping each other during the revelry. The jaccuzi, the couch, the living room floor, all provided stages for the lewd action. In most of the scenes, the antics seemed desperate; in several fleshy vignettes, they still had their boots on when they were going at it. In one portion of footage, Grace and Donna were manically making out on the foyer floor, so caught up in each other, they’d forgotten to close the front door. In another scene, Rob and Grace were having sex on the couch with such ferocity, the couch actually tipped over.