by Edward Lee
(III)
“This cracker tan has got to go.”
“What?”
“You have what we call a cracker tan, Clare. Your face and arms are great but the rest of you is white as a ghost.”
So. I’m a cracker. “I definitely need to get out more.”
“Well, we can start on that right now.”
They’d lowered their lounge chairs, and Clare lay on her belly, eyes closed and chin resting on her wrists. Joyce was smoothing suntan oil up the backs of Clare’s legs, and when that was done she moved up to her shoulders..
God, that feels good, she thought. But I better not say that; she’ll think I’m coming on to her.
Joyce’s hands firmly worked the shoulder muscles and back of the neck. “You sure you don’t want to get out of that suit—a full tan is best. Don’t worry, I’m not a dyke; I won’t try to ravage you.”
Clare chuckled. “No, I admit it, I’m a chicken.” It wasn’t her style, the idea just seemed too weird. She just wasn’t confident about her body. Too skinny, breasts too small.
“Well at least pull the top of this damn one-piece down to your waist.”
A long moment’s thought, then, “Okay.” When she sat up, Joyce helped her pull the top of the suit down. She seemed very cognizant of Clare’s unease, never letting her eyes fall on her breasts.
“There. This’ll give you a good start on your back. Nothing looks more wrong in Florida than a girl with a tan line running across the middle of her back.”
Joyce double-timed the application of lotion as an expert back massage, her fingers working stiffly up the spine. Clare felt herself slipping away in the hot, dreamy lassitude. This time it slipped out: “God, that feels good.”
“It’s supposed to.”
As for Joyce herself, she’d verified her earlier implication the moment they’d unfolded their chairs. She’d slipped off the beach robe to reveal total nakedness, and didn’t give it the slightest hesitation, her entire body bronze from the sun. Clare wished she could be that comfortable with herself.
Hard fingertips walked up the long strip of muscle on either side of her backbone. “Now I’m just saying this as a friend,” Joyce commented as her hands continued their magic, “so don’t get your feelings hurt, but you really need to gain some weight. You’re a good-looking woman but you’d be so much better-looking if you’d put on ten pounds.”
Clare wasn’t offended; in fact she appreciated the remark. It was best, of course, not to explain her poor nutrition. Dellin’s own insinuation on her first day was quite right: How credible a security manager could she be if her guards knew she’d come here straight from a homeless shelter? Instead, she just said, “I know. I’ve kind of let myself go since I got out of the Air Force. But all that changes now.”
“Good.”
It was all the last year—the worst year of her life. The remainder of her adulthood had kept her in great physical condition, especially her Air Force time. Even since puberty, she’d never had a bad self-image. She’d always thought of herself as average-looking, normal. What was wrong with that? It had been the stress of homelessness that had dragged her looks down. A vicious cycle. Even when there was food available—the sandwich truck, the soup kitchens—just the sheer stress of her situation killed her appetite. It was more than just eating properly now, she needed to manage her stress properly, and that meant not fretting over every little thing, not worrying about things past a practical point. She could already see it happening now; she could see it becoming a problem if she didn’t keep a rein on her reactions. Atypically large animals and insects, toxins possibly being dumped in the lake, the clinic and Adam Corey and Dellin and everything else. It was all piling up. Should she be worrying about these things? Were her concerns over-reactive?
Probably, she answered herself. Gotta keep a handle on it now. No choice.
Her discovery today hardly helped. Dellin’s military criminal record: the stiff Army lexicon—“Unauthorized redeposition of hazardous material”—meant the same thing that Adam suspected of happening here: dumping toxic waste. His assignment with the Biological Weapons Section only tripled the intensity of the implication.
But she also knew that she could be wrong about it all.
Worry about it later, she ordered herself, and what a luxurious order it was, lounging on a beautiful beach. But just as she’d vowed to put these concerns behind her, more popped up.
“Have you met the clinic director?” she asked. “I have yet to even catch a glimpse of the guy.”
“Harry? Yeah, I’ve met him. Rick and I both met him when we in-processed. Nice man, fiftyish. Not exactly a ball of fire personally but what do you expect from these egg-head types? We don’t really see him much. From what I understand, he’s the guy who discovered Interthiolate, Dellin’s the guy who administers it to the patients. Harry’s not a hard-ass, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“Hmm. Dellin said I’ll probably get to meet him next week. I was just wondering about him.”
Now Joyce’s fingertips were vigorously stippling up Clare’s back. “I’ll tell ya, the guy I’m still wondering about is Mrs. Grable’s husband. She’s always talking about him like he’s the World’s Greatest Man. Christ, he’s beating her up every night.”
“I saw the husband yesterday,” Clare admitted, but of course she didn’t admit how she’d seen him: through binoculars. “I know how deceiving appearances can be, and I might be dead wrong, but if you ask me, he just doesn’t look like the kind of guy who’d abuse his spouse.”
Joyce shrugged. “Well, somebody’s beating the hell out of her. And it’s real calculated too. It’s almost like he leaves the marks where they can’t be seen when she’s dressed. Today, she was weed-whacking around the flowerbeds and I saw her back when she leaned over too far. It looked like it had bite marks on it.” Now her thumbs teased around the nub of the tail bone. “But I guess there’s always that option no one’s considered yet?”
“What’s that?”
“Who knows? Maybe Mrs. Grable’s into that kind of thing. Masochism and stuff like that. Some women get off on being hit. Pain is part of the pleasure. The whole business sounds crazy to me but I’ve known several girls like that.”
It sounded crazy to Clare too; some things she just couldn’t figure. Of course, she’d heard of the phenomenon also but doubted that Mrs. Grable had such inclinations. “I don’t know,” was all she said. The sun on her back, along with Joyce’s hands, made her so relaxed that she didn’t really want to think about anything of import. Worry about it all later, she told herself, eyes barely open.
The tone of Joyce’s voice softened. “If you don’t like this, just say so.”
Clare was confused by the remark. The back rub? “It’s wonderful,” she said.
“No. I mean this…”
Oh—Christ! Clare thought in a bolt of shock.
Joyce’s soft hands slipped around; now they were on Clare’s breasts. Clare’s muscles tensed in reaction; she opened her mouth to object but—
The hands slipped around her breasts some more, fingertips tweezing the very ends of the nipples. Not too hard but hard enough.
Clare felt turmoil, then her spirit just deflated to surrender. I should have known something like this might happen…
She said nothing, did nothing to indicate she wasn’t comfortable with this.
Joyce’s warm breath brushed the back of her neck: “I didn’t think you’d mind,” and now she was lying flat out on Clare. The wet hands squeezed around the front of her hips, under the pulled-down swimsuit, fingers playing in the private hair. Clare could feel her friend’s nipples hardening against the hot skin of her back. Her entire body went abuzz with clashing emotions and delicious sensations. The shock that locked her up…snapped. Then she just seemed to turn to fluid at Joyce’s touch, floated away in a gush of complex pleasure.
Soon she was struggling with herself. The lewdest impulses swept her, she wanted to turn a
round, fling the swimsuit off, and just wrap her legs around Joyce, slither up right against her perfect bronze body and kiss and caress and touch.
“Stay like that, on your stomach.”
Clare cringed; she wanted to see what Joyce was doing, she wanted to do something in return. She tried to turn around twice, but Joyce gently pushed her back.
“I think you’ll like this…”
The soft humming sound was strange at first but then its familiarity grabbed her. Joyce was running a vibrator slowly up the inside of Clare’s thigh. The exotic sensation stalked her; instantly she wanted more, she wanted it up high, right between her legs.
God, this is too much—
And just as she would moan out loud—
“Clare? Clare, you better turn over now.”
Clare shook out of a vertigo. She felt a momentary disorientation, then she quickly raised herself up on her elbows. Her open eyes flinched over to Joyce, who was lying on her own lounge chair.
“Whuh-what?”
“You’ve been asleep for almost an hour,” Joyce said without looking at her. Her face was turned up to the sun, eyes closed behind the sunglasses. “You better turn over now, or your back’ll burn.”
Clare sighed, astonished. Jeez, another dream. Pretty soon I’m going to need to go to a sleep disorder clinic…
She’d been railroaded again, by her subconscious. Nothing had happened but even so, she still felt an aftermath of excitement, all for naught now. Did the lesbian scene mean something Clare wasn’t consciously aware of? Where did THAT come from? What am I, a closet lesbian now?
She turned around on her back, hoped she was acting normally. It was just another puzzle, just another aspect of herself that she couldn’t control. The frustration crushed her.
I know I’m not a lesbian. I know I’m not sexually attracted to Joyce, or to any woman. What’s wrong with me NOW?
At least there was one bright side—the dream hadn’t been a nightmare. There’d been no images from her rape, no appearances of Stuart Winster and his twisted two-fingered hand.
All right, I had an erotic dream about Joyce, she resigned. It’s not that big a deal…
“Don’t forget the oil. The sun’s really peaking now.”
Clare unscrewed the bottle of suntan oil and spread it over the tops of her legs and feet, then her arms, throat and face. But she was still topless, her suit rolled down to her waist. Her nipples were impossibly erect, and she was sure Joyce had noticed them. This is so embarrassing! Her hands nearly trembled, as if she knew what would happen next. When she smoothed more oil over her stomach and breasts, the surge of excitement almost made her toes curl. Spreading the oil over her own breasts felt like someone else doing it, a lover.
Eventually she lay back, and even chuckled to herself. I’m ALL messed up!
“Why don’t you come to the bar with me tonight?” Joyce asked. “It’s a pretty cool place, we’d have fun.”
“Thanks for the offer, but I really shouldn’t. I’m on call all weekend; I really should stick close to the sight. And I’m not much of a bar person anyway, never been much of a drinker.”
“So drink Coke. It’s a ten-minute drive, right up Gulf Boulevard. If something happens at the clinic, the system will beep you, and we’ll come back and check it out right away. But believe me, nothing’s going to happen anyway. Come on, I don’t want to go there by myself.”
Clare didn’t really want to; she’d never felt comfortable in bars, but then again, it might be a good idea to go somewhere to relax for a little while. “Sure, I’ll go with you, but I’ll just have one drink.”
“Or two. Great! It’ll be fun, you’ll see.”
Seeing new places and acquainting herself with the area would do her good, and maybe it would be fun. She hadn’t been to a bar in ages.
The sea breeze and the sound of the surf had Clare drifting off again, in and out of sleep. No dreams this time, just the short waves folding over and the sun’s warm caress. Fragments of thoughts threatened to take chips out of the wonderful cloud of peace and quiet—Dellin, roaches and frogs, Adam Corey, etc.—but she wouldn’t let them get a foothold. It was such a luxury not being bothered.
“Howdy, girls. Wo-ah, Joyce! That’s the best flesh-colored swimsuit I’ve ever seen.”
“You ASShole!” Joyce bellowed, lurching off her chair and pulling on her beach robe. “Don’t you have any respect at all? What are you doing here!”
Clare’s peace and quiet shattered like a beer bottle on pavement. She knew before she even looked. Adam Corey, ever-present in his park service uniform, had walked right up behind them.
“Adam, that’s low-down even for you,” Clare said and quickly pulled up her top.
Joyce was steaming. “Get out of here, you pervert! What are you doing sneaking up on us?”
Adam made a long face. “I’m not sneaking up on anyone. How was I to know you’d be out here with nothin’ on?”
“Adam, it’s our day off,” Clare complained. “There’s no reason for you to be out here. That’s really vulgar.”
Adam frowned. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. You’re the one who called me, remember? Some kooky message you left on my machine.”
The cockroach? Clare thought. “It was just an FYI, Adam. The clinic’s closed till Monday morning, you can come by and pick it up then.”
“Why not now? I mean, some of us take our jobs seriously. When there’s something to be done, we do it, we don’t sluff if off till Monday because we’d rather sit around on the beach buck naked.”
Clare signed. “It’ll wait, Adam. It’s not that urgent.”
Joyce was still glaring at him. “I can’t believe you’d pull a pervert move like this. You just used that as an excuse to see us naked. I ought to report you.”
The ranger cut a wide smile. “That’s a hoot. Nude bathing on government land is a federal offense. Go ahead and report me. All my boss’ll do is ask for your address so he can send you the summons and the fine for indecent exposure.”
Joyce turned away from him, sat back down in her chair. “Oh shut up, Adam. Consider this your thrill for the day.” Then she over-dramatically pulled her robe collar tighter around her neck. “You got your eyeful, now hit the road. Peep-time is over.”
Adam was ignoring her now, addressing Clare. “And I just thought you might want to know, since you’re the security boss—it looks like Kari Ann Wells ain’t gonna make it.”
Clare leaned up. “What?”
“I called to see how she was doing, but they said her heart started fibrillating a lot last night. She’s in intensive care now, in critical condition.” He began to stalk off. “Sorry to interrupt your important work out here.”
The news, and the whole situation, made Clare feel crummy. “That’s too bad about the girl,” she said.
“Yeah. But what can anyone do? These drug addicts bring it on to themselves. The human body can only take so much abuse.”
Clare supposed this was true but it didn’t make her feel any better. “And—I don’t know. Maybe we over-reacted a little to Adam. Maybe he really didn’t come out here on purpose, just to see our boobs.”
After a moment’s thought, they both looked at each other.
Joyce said, “Yeah, and maybe the Pope shits in the woods.”
— | — | —
Part Three
— | — | —
FEDERAL LAND GRID S27-0078
CENTRAL FLORIDA
JUNE 1995
Neither Fredrick nor Dales could deny what they were seeing with their own eyes. Their wide-lensed flashlights stared blankly as their faces. The westerly wall of the cenote stood far less even than the other walls, more like a pile of sedimentary rubble, but hard as slab shale nonetheless, fused together by eons and geothermic pressure. And what they’d first believed to be a second pit—or a simple hole at the edge of the wall—after closer examination proved to be something more like a crevice in the jumbled stone.
And from that crevice, a hand jutted.
Dales was the first to say it: “That’s not a human hand.” He looked beseechingly at Professor Fredrick. “Right?”
Fredrick’s throat felt dry as the shale floor. “I would have to say that, mmm, it appears not to be—”
“No no no!” Dales insisted. “Just so I know I’m not crazy. If I am crazy, then that’s fine. You tell me that that—” he jabbed a finger violently at the frozen hand—“is a human hand. Go on. Just tell me, and I’ll get out of here.”
Fredrick understood his young colleague’s anxiety—Fredrick, too, was anxious, and confused and excited and a little bit scared. But he remained composed in the grainy dark. “Dales, no, it doesn’t look like a human hand. It’s too large. But there are a few things that could account for its disproportionate size.”
“Like what?”
“Well, the vagaries of the subterranean environment, for one thing.”
Dales’ frown cut like a knife. “Come on, boss. The four priests and the sacrifice victim pickled perfectly down here. Then why didn’t that?”
Fredrick’s mouth opened, closed.
“And don’t tell me it’s swelling from some disease or blood-born infection. You can see the contours of that hand as well as I can. There’s no evidence of edema—it’s morphologically consistent.”
“Dales, we’d need thorough microscopy before we can positively rule out an edemic symptom.”
“Bull-DICK, Prof!” Dales pointed back to the hand. “It’s got claws!”
Well, Fredrick thought. There is that.
The hand was obsidian-black, fully open in its petrification. If he could equate the appearance of the skin with a word, it would have to be crocodilian: segments of varying size, scale-like, hundreds of them.
The claws were another thing.
Each finger came to a vicious point, and there was an excessive ugliness about them; they seemed more part of each fingertip, and less like something that had grown out like human fingernails.