by John Coyne
“Yes?” she asked, not moving.
“I spoke to Kathy. She said you were resting.”
“Yes.”
“Well, I came to see if you were okay.” He was beside her. His face, inches away from hers, was silhouetted in the dark room.
“Yes, I’m okay. Thank you.”
They were almost like lovers, Jennifer thought, whispering in the dark.
“Would you like me to give you a massage?” he asked. “I know that past-life recall is very tiring. You go through so many time frames.”
“I’ve never had a massage,” Jennifer admitted, “except when—” She stopped midsentence, remembering how in college her boyfriend had given her massages before they had made love. “What do you do? What types of massage, I mean.”
“I know a lot of different methods, actually. There are the shiatsu and acupressure systems. They use finger and hand pressure on the body’s energy meridians—the same principle as acupuncture, except without the needles. Or Swedish, which is body manipulation. I was taught that as a kid by my uncle. Then there’s reflexology, you know, the kind that focuses on your feet and hands.”
“They’re all different?”
“Yes, and all are for different purposes. Hydrotherapy, for example, uses water and develops muscle tone, helps reduce swelling. Esthetic massage is a way to improve your looks.”
“Good, I could use that one.”
“No, you’re already very beautiful,” he said.
Jennifer smiled, afraid to say anything.
“And then there’s myotherapy for the treatment of muscular pain.” Simon went on. “And sports massage for runners, you know.” He shrugged. “Whatever you want.”
“And you know them all?”
“Kathy sent me to school.”
“Of course.” Jennifer pulled herself up on her right elbow and turned toward Simon. “What massage does Kathy have?” she asked.
“I always give her a Swedish massage.”
“Then that’s what I want.”
“Good!” Simon smiled. He stood up and stepped across the small room, moving carefully in the darkness.
He was out of the wash of light, but still Jennifer could see him open the closet and take out a low, padded bench. He placed it on the floor, then returned to the table and handed her a folded white sheet.
“You’ll need to put this on,” he told her, and turned away.
She swung her legs over the side of the table and put on the sheet. “Oh, it’s cold,” she said.
“That’s okay. I’ll warm you up.” Simon had knelt beside the table and was pulling several thick towels from the bottom drawer of the built-in wall cabinet.
“I’ll be using oil on your body,” he told her. “It’s warm and it will keep your skin smooth.” He was all business.
Now that the early intimacy between them had passed, she felt curiously let down. He glanced around and saw that Jennifer had tucked the long sheet around her body. “Ready?”
“I guess.” She felt foolish now and vulnerable.
“Here,” he whispered, taking her hand and gently maneuvering her into position on the table. He slipped a thick, rolled-up towel beneath her ankles, and another under her head, then turned her head so she faced the corner of the room. Jennifer closed her eyes, aware only of his strong hands on her back.
“I want you to relax and keep your eyes closed,” he whispered. “I’m not going to talk at all, and I want you to focus on your body. Your neck muscles are very tight. Let me begin there.” Leaning forward, Simon placed his hands, wet with oil, on her back. She shivered at his touch, and he whispered, “Relax, Jenny, relax and enjoy.”
He began slowly and steadily to stroke her neck and back muscles with his strong hands, sliding them evenly down her back and up again. Jennifer felt herself grow sleepy, and gradually she let go of her defenses and surrendered herself to the pleasure of the massage.
Simon moved to her legs, kneading the calf muscles. She moaned when his fingers tightened on her legs, and he whispered an apology.
“It’s okay,” she answered, tucking her arms around the thick towel. She could lie there forever, she thought. She loved the feel of his hands on her body. “You have wonderful fingers,” she told him.
“Shhh,” he whispered. Moving to the bottom of the table, Simon began to gently stroke one foot, then the other. He began at the ankle and stroked toward the toes. She felt the tension disappear from her leg.
“I want you to do this to me every day,” she mumbled.
“My pleasure,” Simon answered, smiling in the dark. Slowly, he stroked up her leg, across her calf, up her thigh to her buttocks.
The loose sheet had slipped off her back, but she didn’t care. It was dark in the room; she could not see him and was aware only of his hands and what they were doing to her body.
“Do you do this with Kathy?” Jennifer asked.
“Yes,” Simon whispered. He was close beside her now, and she could smell the warm, fragrant oil on his fingers. “And now I’m doing it to you.”
Simon turned her body with his hands, exposing her breasts. She reached down and draped the end of the long sheet across her waist. Slowly, carefully, he used his fingers and the palms of both hands to stroke her shoulder muscles, to pinch away the tightness and pain. Then he moved down the length of her body, using his hands carefully on her abdomen, kneading her thighs and calves, returning to her feet and stroking her to the tips of her toes.
He was working steadily, breathing harder from his steady effort, but he did not stop, and Jennifer fell silent, following obediently his hand signals, turning her body the way he directed. By now she was naked on the low table, and in the dim light, she saw the crumpled shapes of the discarded sheets.
Then she felt his hands on her thighs, rapidly striking her with the palms of his hands. He stopped and kneaded her legs with his strong fingers, then slipped his hands between her legs. She gasped.
With her eyes closed, Jennifer could not see him. She felt only his breath as he leaned across her body, using his full weight to bring pressure to his strokes. His fingers were warm and oily and lovely. When he touched her breasts, she felt her breath catch in her throat. Then he moved his hands up to her neck and, with his fingertips, massaged the tender skin at the base of her throat.
“Am I hurting you?” he asked.
“No,” she whispered, her eyes still closed.
Again, he moved down the length of her body, silently stroking her flesh, as if her body were nothing more than an instrument for his use. This was what true submission was, she realized as she lay there. This was what real emotional slavery meant.
Jennifer knew now that she would give her body to him.
She would surrender simply and gladly. She wanted to be his lover, if only once. This had nothing to do with Tom, with her life in New York. This moment in the dark room had meaning only to the two of them. It did not matter that Simon was Kathy’s lover. They were all of the same soul; Habasha had told them. They were all connected in another life.
She opened her eyes and lifted her arms to take him into her embrace, and he smiled and whispered, “No. Not yet.” Then he leaned over and slowly, lovingly kissed her breasts, then gently pulled a warm blanket over her. “Lie here a moment,” he whispered, and then he was gone.
She lay still, as he had instructed, stunned by his unexpected refusal. He wanted her to wait. Wait. She was alone in the small room, warm and close under the heavy blanket, with voices coming to her from deep in the house, and the sharp Minnesota wind whipping against the walls. She thought of his lips touching her breasts, his warm cheek brushing against her aroused nipples, then she came.
CHAPTER TWENTY NINE
JENNIFER OPENED HER EYES. It was already evening, and she heard voices in the other rooms, laughing and talking. It must be time for predinner drinks in the living room. Later, Jennifer knew, Kathy Dart would be channeling Habasha.
Naked, Jennifer slipped o
ff the table and quickly put her clothes on, pulling her thick navy blue turtleneck over her head and sliding into her leather pants. Her fear had made her jumpy, and as she left the small clinic, she glanced through the curtains of the windows, half expecting to see Simon’s face there, watching her from the darkness. But there was only a vast expanse of frozen snow, glistening from the outside floodlights. She saw a car swing into the small lot. Its lights swept across the fields before it pulled in.
She was afraid of Simon now, afraid of his power over her. She remembered vividly the past-life regression, how he had condemned her to death as the Grand Inquisitor. She had to get away from him, from this farm, before something else happened to her, before Simon tried to make love to her.
In her bedroom, Jennifer grabbed her parka from the back of the chair, then quickly threw her clothes into her bag and hurried out of her room and down the hall and into the night. Only when she reached the cold did she realize she didn’t know how she would escape the isolated farm.
She glanced around. No one had followed her from the house, and the yard was silent and dark. She ran at once onto the road and waved at a passing car, which slowed for a moment, then sped away. Just as well, Jennifer thought. The driver had been a man, and she didn’t want to tempt fate.
Another car swung out of the farm’s driveway, and for a moment she was pinned in the bright headlights. The car came straight at her, and she backed away from the highway, looked to see where she might run, but there was no shelter, no woods, only miles of farmland and open fields. The car slowed, and she saw the driver lean over and open the passenger door. When the interior light came on, she saw it was the reporter who was doing the article on Kathy Dart.
“Hi!” he said, grinning. “Car break down?”
“Yes, I’m afraid so.” She smiled back. “A rental car. I need to get to the airport in St. Paul. Could you give me a lift in that direction?” She stared at him. Her heart was pounding, and she was suddenly afraid that he was lying, that he knew she was trying to get away and had been sent to get her. He was one of them, not a reporter at all.
“Sure, hop in.” He reached over and moved a stack of audio tapes from the seat. “Where’s your friend?”
“Eileen?”
“Yeah, that’s the one. I met you in Washington, D.C., right?” He was watching her, still smiling.
Jennifer nodded as she tossed her bag in the back and slid in beside him.
“She’s staying longer?” he asked, starting up the car.
“Yes. Yes, she is.” Jennifer took a deep breath and glanced around. No one else had come out of the farm’s parking lot. “I saw you at the Habasha channeling session the other night. Is the article done?”
“Yeah, just about. I’ve got all of my research done on Kathy Dart. You had some reaction to old Habasha last night, didn’t you?” the reporter commented.
Jennifer glanced at him again. He wasn’t quite as young as she had first thought. And she hadn’t realized how good-looking he really was.
“Are you going as far as the airport?” she asked, avoiding the question.
“Yes, I’m going back to Chicago. My name, by the way, is Kirk Callahan.”
“Yes, I remember.”
“And I remember you didn’t want to be interviewed.” He kept smiling.
“I didn’t have anything to say. I’m not into channeling.”
“But you’re here now.” He gestured toward the farm.
“Well, I was.” She kept staring ahead at the dark highway. Each mile, she realized, was taking her away from the farm. What would Kathy do when she discovered that she had left? She glanced again at the dashboard, thankful that Kirk was driving so fast.
“Where are you going?” Kirk asked, and she jumped, startled by his voice.
“Hey, I’m sorry.” He slowed the car.
“Oh, New York. I’m going to New York City.” She glanced out the rear window.
“I’ve never been to New York,” Kirk said. “I’d like to visit sometime, to see a Broadway show or something.”
Jennifer had forgotten what clean-cut, Midwestern kids were like. It was as if he were from another planet.
“You live in Manhattan?” he asked.
“No, Brooklyn. Brooklyn Heights, actually. It’s right across the river.” Still no headlights behind her.
“No one is following,” he said, frowning.
“I’m sorry. I just keep thinking
you know, you’re driving so fast. I’m worried about cops.”
“It’s okay. I’m keeping an eye out. We have nothing to worry about.”
Jennifer nodded. “That’s a nice notion, saying we have nothing to worry about. I wish it were true.” She forced a smile.
“You like some music or something?” Kirk asked.
“Sure.”
“Here.” He handed her a box of tapes.
“No, you pick something you like. Anything.” Jennifer noted with satisfaction how her smile flustered him.
“Okay, how ‘bout a little John Cougar Mellencamp?” He slipped in the tape and hit the play button.
“Great!” Jennifer said. She had no idea whom he meant.
They drove without speaking as they both listened to the music, and Jennifer began to relax. The music helped to distract her, but it was really the car, speeding through the dark night, that did it. She was driving away from the farm with this attractive young man, and she took a perverse pleasure in the knowledge that no one—not Eileen, not Kathy Dart, not Simon, no one—knew where in the world she was.
She slipped down farther in the soft bucket seat. “This is a nice car,” she said. “What is it?”
He grinned proudly. “It’s brand new,” he said. “An Audi 80. Five cylinders, a two-point-three-liter engine. And this is all leather!” He reached over and ran his hand lovingly across the upholstery.
“A present?”
“Yeah. I bought it for myself. I made some money in the market.”
“Congratulations.”
“Thanks. But I was just lucky. I got out when the market heated up. It’s due for a crash.”
“You play the market?”
“I did. Now I’m into CDs and cash.”
Jennifer nodded but said nothing. When she was his age, she had only college loans and debt. She didn’t know anything about stocks. She slid further down into the seat, curling up as best she could in the tight space. She saw Kirk reach over and lower the music, and she smiled at him. Then she closed her eyes and thought how nice he was to leave her alone. She fell asleep in the bucket seat of his new Audi, grateful that he was such a nice guy.
In the last moments of her troubled dreams, in the silent drifting fog before consciousness, Jennifer saw the hand coming at her throat, and she tossed and turned trying to escape.
Then she was startled awake. Kirk Callahan’s hand rested gently on her shoulder, and he was whispering to her.
“Hey, Jennifer? Hey, I’m sorry. We’re getting close to St. Paul; it’s time to wake up.” He withdrew his hand as he slowed the car.
Jennifer saw overhead expressway signs slip past. They were in traffic, and she was aware of buildings, flashing billboards, the roar of trucks. She felt a wave of panic. The car’s dashboard clock read 7:32.
Kirk looked older now. His face was more sharply defined, with a blunt chin, a large, generous mouth, and a straight nose. It was a strong, masculine face, and it was made more masculine by his forthright manner. Jennifer mused as she watched him. A farmer’s son. A Minnesota lumberjack, perhaps. She remembered then that he had been in her Egyptian past life, and to keep herself from recalling anything more, she said, “Okay, Kirk, tell me about yourself?”
He blushed, as she knew he would, and shyly, hesitantly talked about growing up on a farm in the Midwest, about high school football and girlfriends, and going to college on a track scholarship. Jennifer listened attentively for a while, and then she realized she wasn’t listening to him, but was watching the
way his lips moved, and how he cocked his head to the side when he started a new story, and how his eyes brightened just before he came to the punch line of a joke.
“What about it?” he asked.
“Pardon me?” Jennifer sat up, taken aback.
“What about riding with me into Chicago?”
“Are you going to Chicago?” she asked.
“Well, yeah, I’ve got an interview tomorrow afternoon downtown in the Loop, then I’m headed home.”
“But where do you live?”
“St. Louis. But I can drop you at O’Hare, that’s no big deal.” He kept glancing at her.
“I don’t know. That’s a long drive. We’ll have to spend the night somewhere, right?” She thought of the guy she’d shoved into the ice machine on the drive out from the East. She wondered if there was a warrant out for her arrest.
“They’re not going to get you, not if you’re with me,” he said softly, watching her.
“What do you mean?” Jennifer realized her hands were trembling. “Who’s out to get me?”
Kirk shrugged. “Those people at the farm.” Kirk held her gaze evenly. He was waiting her out.
She did not want to lie to him. She wanted to tell him what had happened to her, how she had gotten to the farm, and why she was now running for her life. It was true, she realized, how one would tell strangers the most intimate of secrets and hide the truth from friends. And so, there in the small car as they raced toward St. Paul, she told Kirk Callahan how she had met Kathy Dart and why she had come to the farm in the first place. All she withheld was her crimes.
What startled her most was that he didn’t seem surprised by anything she said. As she talked, he kept glancing at her with his sober gray eyes, never once registering surprise or astonishment at her story.
When she was finished, she finally asked, “Are you a follower of Kathy Dart? Do you believe in this New Age stuff? Are you going to turn me in or what?”
He shook his head as he looked ahead and watched the road. “All this New Age stuff is just a mind fuck. You do it to yourself. I took this course—abnormal psych—last fall, and you know, you start reading these cases, and suddenly you begin to think, Hey, I’m like that. That’s me! Or you know someone who’s slightly off and you think, He must be a paranoid schizophrenic, or whatever.”