by Edward Lee
Her legs tightened further. Annabelle's desire was cresting in what felt like a wave about to break. Her breasts bobbled, her moans flew around the room. Just another minute and she'd be there.
His thrusts trembled; his face looked absolutely pained, eyes crushed shut.
"Oh, baby, I can't hold off any."
Mark's climax released, and his arms snaked around her back, pulled her chest to his during the last spasms. Then he relaxed in an instant, letting out the longest sigh.
"Honey, I'm sorry. I couldn't help it. It's just that you turn me on so much I can't control myself."
Annabelle leaned up, her smile full of warmth and love. Her hand stroked his face. "That's okay, dear. It was wonderful for me, too," she consoled him, and then-
CHUNK!
She rammed the point of the hunting knife straight down into his heart.
"Yeah, wonderful. In a pig's ass," she finished.
She'd placed the oversized Bowie knife under the pillow before they'd started, and had caught him at the perfect moment of distraction. She remained there, straddling him. Now before the blooming eyes of her companion. She'd plunged the knife deep; she kept her hands on its handle and could feel it thumping with the final beats of his heart. He'd never even had time to cry out.
Beautiful, the Messenger thought.
A few loops of blood had pumped up, spattering her. Blood dripped off the tingling pinpoints of her nipples. It felt delicious, but what excited her even more was that this was just the beginning.
Eventually she got up, padded absently about the room, bare feet sinking into plush carpet. Had she ever felt this happy?
You did very well. I'm proud of you. Let's go over here now.
The seductive force that flowed through her limbs walked her over to the large, framed mirror over the dresser. She could see her dappled skin in the darkness tinged by moonlight. She stared, stared harder, until.
I can see you, she thought.
I know, and I can see you.
It took a few moments for her eyes to adjust but soon she could see the figure standing right behind her. No details at all, and scarcely any features save for basic shape.
Tall, wide shouldered, but gaunt somehow. A head larger than the proportion and oddly angled. It reminded Annabelle of a vise.
And something...What were they? Two protrusions seemed to curve outward from the forehead, like horns.
Yes, Annabelle. You're all mine. Let me luxuriate in you.
When Annabelle's hands rose, she could see that it was actually the Messenger's hands raising them. He brought them around, then began to caress her, to adore the feel of her flesh and the curves of her breasts with her own hands.
Then he brought the hands lower where they tended to her in the special ways that only she could know.
But the Messenger knew too.
Later, when her bliss was done, she yanked the Bowie knife out of her husband's chest and began to finish the message.
Chapter Ten
I
Bacon sizzled, and eggs over easy sputtered in the aromatic pan. Bread was plunged into the toaster, and fresh orange juice was poured.
Please, Jane thought. Let this be a normal, perfectly dull day. She milled about the kitchen in a pink terry robe, wearing fluffy bunny slippers that the kids had gotten her for a past Mother's Day. The kids, pajama-clad, busied themselves too, clanking plates out of the cupboard and setting the table. The sun blared through the front window, reinforcing Jane's hope that this would be the start of a regular day with no mishaps, fainting spells, or tragedies. Something didn't feel right, though.
"Are you feeling better today, Mom?" Jennifer asked, arranging the silverware.
Kevin clumsily laid out the patterned place mats. "Yeah, Mom. We were worried yesterday."
"I'm feeling a whole lot better" she replied. "Had a whopper of a headache after Dr. Mitchell left, but I'm great now." She watched a lump of butter melt in a big nonstick pan. "And now that we don't have to worry about that anymore, how do you want your eggs?"
"Scrambled, please," Jennifer requested.
"Sunny-side down!" Kevin jumped in. "I don't want 'em runny! Yuck!"
"Scrambled and sunny-side down," Jane acknowledged. "Coming right up."
Kevin rushed out of the room, assuring her, "Be right back!" while Jennifer sat at the table.
"Oh, wow, I just remembered, Mom. Last night I dreamed I was riding a unicorn through this big sunny field full of flowers."
"Sounds wonderful."
"Did you dream?"
Jane forced herself to think. She knew she dreamed quite a bit but often lost the memory shortly after waking. Did I? she wondered over the eggs. She stood still, spatula in hand. Then something-an image, a memory, something very dark-began to bother her. "Yes, honey, I-I think I did dream last night."
"What did you dream about?"
More images formed in the back of her mind, then some memories of sensations. The sensations were exciting yet unpleasant at the same time. Then her stomach began to turn. She stood there, motionless, staring at the hood over the stove.
"Mom?"
"My dreams weren't very good," Jane finally said. Better that than the truth. What she recalled was terrifying. She'd felt smothered. Some other consciousness had been inside of her own mind, prowling about at will. The consciousness seemed entirely bodiless, so how had it been able to touch her? Something or someone had been touching her, erotically at first but then violently. The impact of those two opposite notions made her stomach turn even more. I dreamed that I was being choked, for God's sake, she recalled. I was being caressed and then choked. Someone was trying to strangle me.
Jane gulped and shivered. Why would she dream such an awful thing anyway? In a sense, though, it was understandable. Awful dreams often followed awful genuine events, and Danelleton had certainly had its share of that lately. But the final realization made her grit her teeth.
She remembered who'd been strangling her in the dream.
Myself.
"No, I had a lousy dream, honey. Dreams are weird that way. You can't figure them out. After you think about them, though, they seem pretty silly."
"Well, mine wasn't silly. It was great. I hope I dream about the unicorn again tonight. I could even smell the flowers in the field."
Jane got back to the eggs, or at least she tried to until a slow plodding movement snagged her attention at the corner of her eye. She turned toward the kitchen entrance. It was Kevin.
He looked absolutely morose. He stood there still as a fence post, something in his cupped hands. A second glance showed Jane that he had tears in his eyes.
She put the spatula down and rushed to him. "Honey, what's wrong?"
"Oh, no," Jennifer said when she saw what was in her brother's hand. "What happened!"
Jane strained her vision. What is that?
Now Kevin's tears bubbled up. "Mel's dead."
That's Mel? Jane thought.
What sat still in Kevin's hands looked like a small hunk of roadkill but as Jane squinted she noticed the horned toad's overall features. But there was something else wet and glimmer that seemed connected to the pet's head.
Its innards.
"Somebody killed him, Mom. Somebody killed Mel."
"Well, honey" Jane began. "I'm sure it was just some kind of accident."
"No!" the boy insisted. "Somebody did it to him!"
"Kevin, are you sure you didn't step on him?" Jennifer looked at the mess and made an appropriate face. "It looks like his guts came out. You must've stepped on him or dropped something on him."
"No, I didn't!" Kevin pouted. Now the tears were flowing freely. "He was inside the terrarium-I couldn't have stepped on him! And nothing could've fallen on him either. The lid was on! Somebody must've snuck into my room and squashed him in their hand!"
"Kevin, you're letting your imagination get away from you," Jane told him. "No one snuck into the house. The doors are locked. Mel just-" Sh
e didn't know what to say to console him. "He just had an accident, or maybe he got sick, some ... toad disease."
"Yeah, and he upchucked his guts," Jennifer added.
"No!" Kevin was almost shouting now. "I know it was somebody who did this-they did it on purpose!"
"Kevin, who would do a sick thing like that?" Jennifer asked.
"A sick person, that's who! There's sick people all over the place. Like Marlene and Carlton-they were sick in the head but nobody knew. Like the guy who killed Dad!"
Oh, jeez, Jane thought. There was no reasoning with him. Poor kid. Father killed by a psycho. Two mass murders in the same week. Now this. He doesn't know which end is up. "Kevin, calm down. Nobody did this deliberately. It's impossible."
"Kevin, really," Jennifer said, trying to help. "No one broke into the house just to kill Mel. Mom's right. He must've gotten some disease in his stomach."
"Somebody killed him!" the boy shrieked, then stormed out.
Jane sighed. So much for a perfectly normal day.
Breakfast was shot, most of it being dumped down the disposal. Jane grabbed a spade from the garage and helped Kevin bury the toad in the backyard near the rose bushes. A small Tupperware container sufficed for a coffin; when they were done, Kevin placed a makeshift cross in the earth, made from popsicle sticks. By now the boy's anguish had simmered
down to quiet sobbing. Later, she drove to work, making starting time by just a few minutes. Already the day was in the wrong gear, and it had just started. The twisted images of her nightmare-the erotic fused with the revolting-haunted her for the first hour of her shift. Where did that all come from?, she kept wondering. She didn't like getting off on the wrong foot-it would taint the rest of her shift-but what could she do? Her little west branch post office was now double-timing until the main branch could be reopened. Get your mind back on your job, Jane, she told herself. You wanted to be station manager-well, now you are. Don't screw it up.
Her office door stood open a few inches; she could hear several carriers talking in front of the coffeemaker, but it was disconcerting talk. More of the same, she thought. They were rehashing the murders, speculating about Marlene and Carlton, and the like. When something bad happens in a town, people can't stop talking about it. But never when something good happens. A sad trust. She was just about to start working on the routing
reports when a rapping caught her attention.
"Good morning, Ms. Ryan. May I come in?"
Steve could be seen in the gap in the door. God, I wish he'd stop calling me Ms. Ryan, she thought. It sounded stilted. "Have a seat," she offered. Seeing him made her instantly feel better.
She wondered about that.
"I hope I'm not bothering you," he said and took the chair next to her desk. His blond hair looked damp- he'd probably just gotten out of the shower. Today he wore no jacket and no gun holster, just slacks and a light short sleeve shirt, but when he sat down and crossed his legs, his ankle holster could be seen. He's a good-looking man, no two ways about that, Jane thought.
"I know you're busy. I was in the area so I thought I'd stop by to see how you're feeling."
Jane relaxed. "I'm good, thank you, and thank you again for all your help yesterday. Would you like some coffee? I'll warn you though-post office coffee is bad coffee."
"The only thing worse is police coffee, and I've already had my morning cup, thanks."
Jane was slightly taken aback. He stopped by just to see how I was doing. How sweet. "I'm actually trying to give up coffee. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn't." When the phone rang, she frowned. It was Kevin.
"Yes, I know, honey," she said into the phone. The boy was still distressed about the horned toad. "But you've got to understand that these things happen sometimes. Like we talked about this morning. Sometimes pets get sick, sometimes accidents happen. I know you're still upset but you'll feel better soon, just wait and see. Mind your sister now, okay? I'll try to be home early tonight. You and Jennifer can make pizza like you did last time. How's that sound? 'Bye, honey. I love you." Then she hung up, flustered.
Steve could sense her unease. "What was that about pets?"
"Oh, my son's pet toad died this morning-"
"Aw no, not Mel. He showed it to me yesterday when I brought him and Jennifer back to the house. What happened?"
"We're not sure. It just died; it looked squashed. Kevin's still really upset about it; he loved that little toad. My husband gave it to him."
"Divorced, huh?"
Jane's eyes flicked down. "No, my husband was murdered a few years ago."
"Jesus, I'm sorry," Steve said, totally taken off guard.
"Some nut escaped from a psych ward," she said, not even really hearing the words.
"I'm really sorry to hear it." Steve tried to shift through his discomfort. "It must be tough, you know, running the post office and raising two kids on your own."
"Not really. Jennifer's really good about keeping an eye on Kevin. She's very mature for her age."
"Yeah, they're both great kids."
"Do you have children?"
Steve chuckled. "Me? Nope. No wife, either."
"How come you're not married?" she asked but immediately regretted it. The tone was too personal.
"I was a couple times," he lazily answered, "but it just never worked out. Divorce lawyers love me. Got no one to blame but myself."
"Why do you say that?"
"It's like the old cliché, like on some cop show you'd see on TV. I wound up being married more to my job than to my wives. They couldn't hack it-can't say that I blame them. It actually happens all the time with cops, part of the territory."
It was sad the way he'd compartmentalized it. And Jane felt guilty at the secret pang of interest in knowing now that he wasn't married. "I guess we all have our territory," she said. Now, though, she noticed a different discomfort about him. It wasn't the tragic topic of her husband's murder, nor was it his failed domestic life.
"Something else on your mind?" she asked.
"Yeah, I guess, er...well, no."
"Chief Higgins, you're really giving yourself away. What's wrong?"
"The first thing that's wrong is you calling me Chief Higgins. Call me Steve."
"Sure, but only if you lose the 'Ms. Ryan' and call me Jane."
"Deal." He scratched his nose. "Well, there is something. You don't need to know all the details, but-"
"Why not?" she almost snapped back. "Why don't I need to know the details? I've got two employees who just went on double murder sprees, and a whole lot of other employees dead as victims, but I don't have a right to know whatever it is you're hiding?"
"The rest doesn't really have anything to do with your employees," he said.
"What, more stuff about cults? More stuff about that bell-shaped symbol found at both murder scenes?"
He sighed, was about to say something, but then-
His pager went off.
Jane smiled. "You're right, it's like the old cliché, like something on a cop show."
"Tell me about it." He just shook his head. "Can't sit down, can't talk, and can’t even blink without this thing going off. Most days I don't even have time to eat. We'll talk later, okay?"
"Okay." Jane had to repress herself. More and more, even within the last few minutes, her attraction to him was growing. "And if you don't have time to eat, feel free to come to the house tonight after work. Kevin and Jennifer make excellent pizza."
Steve stood up, grabbed his keys, and smiled again. "I just might take you up on that. See ya."
I wonder, she thought when he left. Had she put him on the spot? Probably doesn't even have time to think about it. But at least she'd opened the invitation and perhaps broken some professional ice. Sometimes I amaze myself.
After a while, she left her office to scout about the station. She made a round through the processing area, speaking briefly to the handlers and making sure everything was running properly. Delivery-point-sequence mach
ines clattered in their factory like racket, launching letters automatically into separate piles. More busy staff nodded and smiled when they passed her, pushing hoppers full of mail sacks. In the open loading dock bays, their contents were rolled off ramps by more staff, only to be refilled with outgoing mail to the central processing and distribution centers in Jacksonville and Miami. A typical day at the post office, Jane thought. It was second nature to her. It seemed strange that other people's mail was such a large part of her life. The average person could never realize all that the job entails, along with the astonishing fact that the US. Postal Service delivered more mail in one month than the rest of the world delivered in a year.
She turned down an aisle and immediately soured. Martin Parkins was the senior handler, which was sort of a polite way of saying he was practically unpromoteable. Stoop shouldered, overweight, around fifty. He'd dyed his hair almost jet black, which didn't work at all with the aged face. Big callused hands jacked letters into two-foot trays.
Martin regularly made his disgruntlement known; Jane simply put up with it. Whenever he was up for a level promotion he wound up blowing the interview with his bad attitude, to the extent that Jane didn't know what to do with him. She'd written him up in the past several times but as a federal employee, it was nearly impossible to fire him. She couldn't even fire him for drinking. Each time he was reprimanded, he'd simply enter a alcohol-abuse program for seven days, get out, and start all over again. This time, though, Jane thought she might try a new approach.
Martin glanced up at Jane's approach; the anger-wrought wrinkles in his face reminded her of a mud slide.
"Hello, Martin," she said.
Martin didn't answer directly but grunted something under his breath. He focused his attention back down on his station, hauling out more two-foot trays.
"Look, Martin. I know you and I have never particularly liked each other."
"Oh, we haven't?" he said back very quickly. "Gee, all this time I thought I was your best friend. You know, since you suspended me last year, and filled my P.E.R. with a bunch of crap and reprimands."