But George McNeely did not sleep. He had been full of sleep only an hour before. Now his eyes were wide open, staring at the shadowy walls of the worn, down at the naked woman pressed against him, down at his own body, shining with the thin sweat of passion.
He had made love to her.
The knowledge was blinding, staggering. She had come to him with caresses and desires and he had responded to them and gloried in them, filled with the need for her. He had loved her like a man loves a woman, and his body had satisfied her with its hardness, his touches with their softness.
And she had satisfied him. The things he had felt were unparalleled in his experience, even in the best times with Jeff, his own Jeff, whom he tried now to conjure up in a sense memory, to recall his touch, his tenderness.
The memory came, and left him unmoved. He could recall the acts, the words, but none of the passion, none of the love was remembered. He forgot it like a surgery patient eventually forgets his pain. McNeely frowned and swallowed to drive the lump from his throat, but it would not leave. He had a sense of something, a teasing notion in the back of his mind that whispered to him that this was what he'd really wanted all his life—this woman in his arms to love and to hold. It had seemed so natural to him, so overwhelmingly right, as if this were the way it had always been meant to be. In contrast, the mind pictures of himself with Jeff seemed awkward, desperate, almost ugly. They seemed unnatural.
Unnatural.
That was not the worst he had been called. Faggot, cocksucker, he knew the pantheon of epithets well, although few people had wielded them within his hearing. Those who had, he had ignored, or simply stared at without expression until, discomfited, they moved grumbling back to their bedroll, or out of the bar. He had never fought for his sexuality, never struck a man for telling the truth as he saw it. He liked to think of it as dignity, but at times he feared it was guilt, the same guilt that had tortured him in high school, that had knotted his stomach as he lay in his bed in the big house he lived in with his parents in Larchmont; the guilt that made him call Tommy Reynolds a fairy when the other guys did, and that made him hate himself for doing it when all the time he knew he was the real fairy—Quarterback and Student Council Vice-President George McNeely the Fairy.
It was that same guilt that had made him enlist after he was graduated from high school. He'd gone to his father's office one morning in mid-June, had sat across the desk from him like some nervous client, and told him that he had decided not to take prelaw at Temple in the fall, but to join the Marines instead. When his father asked why, he told him it was because he was homosexual and thought the service could help him, make a man out of him. Then his father began to cry. McNeely had never seen this before, and it frightened him. He told his father that he would talk to him about it later at home. That evening his father would not look at him, and said in a chilly tone that if he wanted to enlist, it might be the best thing. His mother remained stonily silent, her thin lips pressed together so tightly that she could have dried rose petals between them. He had never been close to either of them, and in the three weeks before he went to boot camp, only the absolutely necessary words were exchanged. He boarded the bus with great relief.
The guilt had lingered, but slowly faded out of sight like a scab that leaves only a pale white scar. He soon found others with his preferences, and learned that guilt did not have to be the screaming monkey on the back of a homosexual. His liaisons were very infrequent and securely discreet, and when on occasion a perceptive and vocal comrade would make a suggestion that McNeely might have less than totally masculine leanings, he would find McNeely thoroughly imperturbable on the subject, and, receiving no satisfactory bites from his baiting, would reel in his line and shut up. McNeely was so popular among his fellow Marines that nine out of ten of them didn't give a damn if he fucked donkeys. Even in combat, when tensions were strung as tight as Cong wire traps, McNeely's sexuality was not a point of conflict. He had learned to live with it until he had ceased to think of it as a flaw. It was natural, for him at least. Natural.
Until that limey in Africa. He'd been a Colonel Blimp type—early fifties, overweight, large gray moustache, bald head that shone like crystal. McNeely couldn't imagine why Briggs had hired him until he saw him shoot. McNeely had seen good marksmen before, but the limey was something special, putting every round of an automatic clip into a body target at fifty yards. When McNeely went to talk with him after their first round of practice fire, the limey had politely but firmly told him that he didn't wish to fraternize with McNeely, that his reputation had preceded him, and that, although he would fight with him and die for him if necessary, he would not be his friend "because I find what you do unnatural." Then he turned and walked away as casually as if he'd told McNeely the time.
Unnatural. The word had shaken him as no gutter slur ever had, and the next day he killed a rebel whom he could as easily have taken prisoner. The power of the word had done that to him. And now it returned in the context of his relationship with the person he loved. Compared to him and Gabrielle, his couplings with Jeff were unnatural. It seemed to him as if he saw and understood for the first time, as if his homosexuality had been as perverse as his parents had thought.
So it seemed. So it seemed.
He reached down and passed his fingers over the woman's bare shoulders, across her collarbone, and down to cup her breast. His caresses made the nipple harden, and he felt himself swell once more, felt the need for her rise in him until he had kissed her awake and they made love again, no less intently at having lost the novelty of newness. Afterward Gabrielle turned onto her stomach and looked at McNeely through dream-thick eyes.
"What can I say now that wouldn't sound like a cliché?" she asked.
"Not that," he replied.
She laughed deep in her throat. It was a sound of pure pleasure, joy, contentment. She shook her head in disbelief. "Wonderful," she whispered, "perfect. Do you think that making love is better under stress?"
He smiled. "I don't know," he said, then added, "I've never been under stress."
She laughed again and he laughed with her while she kissed his chest and he mock-combed her short hair with his fingers. Her smile shrank, and when she looked at him again, some of the joy had left her violet eyes. "What happens now?"
He kept smiling for her. "You mean now or later?”
“Both."
He slid down farther in the bed so that he was looking at the ceiling. "We stay here. You paint. I read. I shoot pool with you and Kelly. We play cards. And when the end of October comes, we leave."
"Do we sleep together too?"
"I think so. If you want to."
"I do." She turned on her back and they both watched the ceiling. "And when we leave . . . then what?"
He lay silently for a moment. "I don't know. That depends on a lot."
"Like what?"
"Like if we still like sleeping together."
"And if we still like each other," she added.
"Yes."
"And if we're still alive."
"Nice," he said with enough irony to hide the chill he felt. "Beautiful thought."
"It's a possibility, don't you think?"
"That we'll all be dead before Halloween? Sure, it's possible. But I don't think it'll happen."
"Why not?" she asked. "Tell me why not. Reassure me."
She wanted him to think she was joking, but he could tell how serious she was. He gave a serious answer. "Cummings and David asked for what they got, Cummings more so. He was after power and he got it. Your husband wanted to see if there was really something here, and he found out there was. All we want—you, me, and Kelly—is to just get through the rest of the month. At this point I'm not after a damn thing but freedom."
" 'At this point,' you said. Were you after something before?"
He thought for a while before answering. "Yeah, I was. I wanted to see if there was something here myself. And now that I know there is, that's enough. I jus
t want out."
"Do you think there's any way to get out before the thirty-first?"
"We can try. But I wonder if Kelly will want to.”
“What do you mean?" she said, leaning on her elbow. "Why wouldn't he?"
He shrugged. "Maybe the money. It's still a million dollars."
"No," she said. "You've earned it, both of you. David's dead. I run things now. The money's yours, stay or go."
"That's generous of you," he said with .a chuckle. "I didn't mean . . ."
"I know what you meant." He sat up. "Look, I'm hungry. Why don't we get dressed and cook something. I'll get Kelly and we'll see if there's some way we can get out of here. If not, well, we'll be damned good card players by the time the month is up."
~*~
Kelly Wickstrom was sleeping when George McNeely knocked on his door. The noise from the other room woke him and he opened his eyes to find a white face hovering above his own, staring down at him with a sort of mindless, detached interest, like a man in an asylum watching an ant crawl across a wall.
Wickstrom started, his eyes opened wide, and the face disappeared, shut off like a suddenly extinguished light. Wickstrom relaxed and rubbed the dust of sleep from his eyes. Dreams, he thought. Goddamned place is full of nightmares. He didn't think it odd that he couldn't remember what the dream had been about. He was thankful he couldn't.
There was another knock at the door. He slipped on his old terrycloth bathrobe and went into the living room, but paused when his hand touched the knob. He had locked the door before he lay down, and wondered now if he should open it so freely to whatever might be on the other side.
But then he heard McNeely's voice call his name, and he flung it wide. The moment he saw McNeely's face he knew that something had happened. It was alive and open, quite unlike the friendly but guarded countenance McNeely'd worn before. Only now did Wickstrom think that there was a possibility of going behind the mask and knowing George McNeely. Something had happened—it was either Gabrielle Neville or the house, and for the first time Wickstrom hoped that McNeely was sleeping with Gabrielle. The alternative was unthinkable.
McNeely looked at Wickstrom and gave a small laugh. "Good God, what's wrong with me?"
"Huh?"
"The way you're looking at me. Like I was … a ghost." The last word sounded choked, as if McNeely wished he weren't going to say it just as it left his mouth.
Wickstrom realized that his own mouth was open, and that he was staring goggle-eyed at McNeely. "I'm sorry," he said. "I was sleeping. I guess I'm just not awake yet."
"Sorry for waking you. But since you're up, would you want to come down to the kitchen? Gabrielle and I were talking about what our plans should be and we need you in on it."
It's Gabrielle. Thank God it's Gabrielle. The way McNeely said "our plans" had given it away. It sounded too much like a fiancé planning a future to be coincidental.
"We need you in on it"—almost as if Wickstrom were an afterthought. A third wheel.
"Let me get dressed," Wickstrom said, and walked back into the bedroom. When he returned, McNeely was relaxing on the sofa, whistling softly. On the way to the kitchen he told Wickstrom of Gabrielle Neville's decision to let them retain the money no matter what happened from that point on.
"She figures we earned it," McNeely said.
Sure. Anyway, you earned it, stud. But Wickstrom's thought lacked vitality and conviction. It was as though the jealousy he had felt before at mere suspicion had been feigned, and he could only see it now that certainty was here. Even when he entered the kitchen and saw the cat-and-cream look on Gabrielle's face, there was no flare of anger, only a natural wish that he had gotten there first. But he hadn't, and he felt strangely at peace nonetheless.
McNeely made corned beef sandwiches and tomato soup, and they sat and ate, and drank orange juice, and tried to think of possible avenues of escape. "What about the ventilation system?" Wickstrom suggested.
McNeely shook his head. "The ducts are too small.”
“You sure?"
"I checked the day we got here." McNeely swallowed the last of his sandwich. "I don't think we can force the plates either. If we had a crowbar, maybe, but there's nothing like that here. No tools at all."
"What about the bed frames," said Wickstrom. "Could we tear any of them apart for metal?"
"They're all wooden," Gabrielle reminded him. "But how about the refrigerator, or the other appliances? There's metal there."
McNeely frowned. "Nothing big enough or strong enough. We're talking about heavy steel plates here. And the real bitch is that they're in four-inch-deep slots. Like I said, I'm not even sure a crowbar would work."
"Then the hell with the windows and doors." Wickstrom turned his chair around and straddled it. "What about the walls—or the roof? Is there a cellar entrance we don't know about? And how about the doors to the sun room?"
"Forget those doors," said Gabrielle. "They have the same steel plating as the rest. The walls are thick, though it might be worth a try. As for the roof, I don't even know where the attic entrance is."
"If there is one," Wickstrom asserted, "we can find it and go from there."
"Walls or roof, we've got to have something to pry or dig with." McNeely stood and leaned against the sink. "So what can we use?"
The three of them frowned and thought for a long moment. Then Gabrielle's eyes brightened. "The telescope," she said with a thrill in her voice. "The telescope in the observatory. It's got brass fittings, and the mount is either iron or steel. We could break it apart!"
The two men caught her excitement, and Wickstrorn jumped up. "Let's see." They took the stairs two at a time and practically ran into the high-domed room. The light revealed the huge scope, its lens still fixed on the metallic dome overhead.
"Jesus!" shouted Wickstrom. "The dome!" he turned to the others. "We can get out through the dome! The mechanism's locked, but we can bust it easy enough. With some of these fittings—"
"No, Kelly," Gabrielle said. "It won't work. The dome is locked, but even if we get it open, there's a steel plate over it on the outside."
"Shit," Wickstrom snarled. "Didn't miss a fucking trick around here."
"At least the telescope looks promising," said McNeely. "Some of the parts of the mount could be used as pry irons if we can shape them a little, though it seems a shame to break this apart." He gazed admiringly at the eight-inch reflector, still gleaming brightly and untarnished after seventy years.
"I'd vandalize the Louvre to get us out of here," Gabrielle said. "Let's take what we need."
The three of them worked the scope loose from its mounting, then attempted to lower it gently to the floor. As Wickstrom looked up its tall smooth length, his arms wrapped around it like a Scot about to toss the Caber, it suddenly reminded him of something, something that meant escape quite apart from the iron fittings that had held the shaft in place. And as it came to him, his grip relaxed slightly, so that the poorly distributed weight settled precisely where Gabrielle was supporting the scope. It tipped too far, and despite McNeely and Wickstrom's frantic grab, the top end came crashing down on the hard wooden floor, splintering the objective lens into hundreds of tiny shards.
"Oh, Jesus," Gabrielle moaned. "Oh, shit!"
"What happened to vandalizing the Louvre?" asked McNeely. "Don't take it so hard. At least the fittings are free."
"It wasn't your fault, Gabrielle," Wickstrom said. "I lost my grip. I just had a thought and there it went."
"A thought?" McNeely's face went serious, concerned. It seemed as if sudden thoughts in this house were mostly a danger.
"The long tube," Wickstrom went on. "It reminded me of the chimney."
"The chimney?"
He turned to Gabrielle. "Yes. The chimney wasn't shut off—we've built fires in it. Is there anything over the top?"
"I—I don't know. But, Kelly, it's three stories high and only a bit over a foot in diameter. Besides, it's copper. Nothing to grab hold o
f. It'd be like climbing up a soda straw."
"There's got to be a way," Wickstrom said. "I'll bet anything there's no plate over the top. Neville never would have imagined anyone trying to go out that way."
"He imagined everything else," Gabrielle said, almost defensively. "Windows, doors, dome . . . what makes you think he'd miss the chimney?"
"It's just too unbelievable that we'd try to escape that way. You're the only one small enough to fit up there, and you were in his camp, not ours."
"Wait a minute, Kelly." McNeely frowned. "You want Gabrielle to try and get up that chimney?"
"We can't," said Wickstrom.
"There's no way. How could she climb it? There's not enough room to maneuver even if there was something to hold on to. Christ, even if we had pitons, she couldn't hammer them in. Besides, what if she gets to the top and finds out it's hooked up to the ventilation system?"
Wickstrom shook his head. "I know," he said dejectedly. "I know you're right, but what else can we do?"
"We can try the walls," said McNeely. "We can try the plates, we can try to find the attic. We'll get through somehow."
"And if we don't," Gabrielle said, smiling grimly, "I'll try the chimney. Santa Claus in reverse."
They started in the study, but behind the boards the walls were brick, the mortar tough. Their makeshift pry bars bent when they exerted any great pressure on them, and when Wickstrom and McNeely jabbed at the brick point first, their only reward was a series of small gouges as inconsequential as a pockmark on the face of a titan.
"We'll never get through this way," said Wickstrom, throwing down the metal bar. "Brick," he said, shaking his head. "The outside of the house is stone, not brick!"
"Two walls," said McNeely glumly. "An outer one of stone, an inner one of brick. What the hell did they build this place for? For the ages?"
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