Slave Wife

by Frances Gaines Bennett

  Chapter Ten

  The understanding had lodged so deep it seemed like race knowledge. And perhaps it was – the idea of his own racial superiority was wonderfully beguiling – but which race? In one horrible and ecstatic inflow, the blackness had given him centuries of arcane knowledge. Since, his aunt, Marie, had demonstrated its use with gloriously aphrodisiacal and blood-soaked precision.

  In old Louisiana, where every structure was replete with ghosts and ghouls both living and dead, he’d not had to search for settings suitable to his activities. The family’s elegant Creole townhouse with its rear carriage house and dank Civil War cellar hidey-hole was surrounded by the French Quarter’s noise, bustle and indelible shadows. Grandpere Charles’ remote mouldering old Mississippi River bank plantation likewise was wonderfully appropriate. But here in D.C. he clearly needed a place.

  LaVeau glanced out the expanse of curved windows toward the glowing lights of the Kennedy Center and the darkly glistening river. His newly acquired apartment certainly wouldn’t do it. The idea amused him. Though he didn’t remember any mention of it during the infamous Nixon era break-in, he was willing to bet the Watergate’s eminent walls had witnessed the flow of life’s blood on many so-discretely obfuscated occasions.

  He had a clear image of what was needed and an idea where to find it. Though it was approaching midnight he rang the estate agent he’d used to buy his apartment – the wife of one of his senatorial clients, who sold real estate to buy herself expensive trinkets – on her husband’s private line. The Senator jerked wide awake at the sound of LaVeau’s voice, no doubt thinking the worst, and was first surprised, then soothed and finally apathetic when LaVeau asked for his wife. Given the Senator’s fondness for young blond interns, Carter was interested – and made a note to himself – that the Senator obviously shared his wife’s bed.

  “Good evening Elaine.” Carter didn’t bother to apologize. “I want to buy a farm … tomorrow. Can you arrange it?”

  The 150 year old four poster bed he’d brought from New Orleans was thigh high with a mattress three feet thick. He’d occasionally wondered why old beds were so high – not that it was inconvenient to his lanky frame. His mother said it was to gain the little additional warmth provided in unheated houses by being far above cold, damp floors. Perhaps he should ask his aunt. He smiled at the concept. The “lady” was far too concerned with other things. He nestled into the down pillows and fell instantly asleep. His aunt whispered approbations and omens into his dreams.

  In accord with his new political calling – Washington was an early rising town – at 6:30 am sharp he sat at his dining table sipping blue black café au lait with chicory and eating brioche from the Watergate’s excellent bakery. When his mobile rang he was taking his last steaming sip. “Excellent! Thank God for early rising farmers! You have an SUV, correct? I’ll meet you in the parking lot at Rosecroft Raceway in forty five minutes.”

  He rang the doorman. “George, please bring my car up as soon as possible.”

  LaVeau loved his old car – a silver grey 1973 Jaguar XKE 2 + 2 model. One of his father’s friends, a crusty old Cajun patriarch, had bought it on a whim and driven it only once. “Too little and,” his lip had curled with a disdain Carter well remembered though he’d seen it almost fifteen years earlier, “Anglais.”

  The car’s speedometer still read only 32,000 miles, the black leather seats were supple and unmarked, and the engine hummed silent and frictionless as a spectre. Indeed the low, moulded car slid through Louisiana bayou and now early morning Potomac River fog with ghostly kinship.

  The fog was lifting and golden rays shot through the cracks in the grey sky illuminating the adjacent wilderness of bare winter trees when the Jaguar at last made its way up the long drive to the empty parking lot. Elaine’s champagne coloured Landcruiser, an almost perfect match to her very au courant hair, was waiting for him by the stables – a choice he approved since, with jockeys and track personnel going in and out, it was the one spot at the closed racecourse he knew his car would be protected.

  Back they went, out the drive onto Brinkley Road, this time turning right, the opposite direction from their arrival. Once past the racecourse’s manicured grounds, the road narrowed and curved through forest and then the farmland that still comprised most of Fort Washington. Elaine glanced in his direction. “I won’t ask why you want this – particularly since with DC’s growth it’s a great investment. But how do you know about it?”

  “You’ve heard about Maryland’s 5th District’s colourful, controversial Congressman and his crazy businesswoman opponent?” Carter waited for Elaine’s nod. Of course she’d heard. Everyone in DC, Maryland and probably Virginia had, since the businesswoman had inflamed the media with scandalous stories that were, for a change, lies. “He’s asked me to give him a little help even though, really, there’s not much chance he’ll lose. We went to an event at the racecourse and afterwards he took me on a small district tour.”

  Elaine expertly manoeuvred the tall boat of a car to the right onto a dusty gravel drive running between thick trees and fallow farmland. A few minutes and they emerged in front of a sprawling farmhouse with an upper story and wings from diverse eras ranging, LaVeau judged, across two hundred years.

  A slim weathered man wearing work boots, jeans and a heavy jacket, stepped out onto the porch, a suspicious, unfriendly grimace on his hard, dry countenance. “Come in.” He turned and strode determinedly ahead of them through the old front hall and into a homey dining room with a beautiful polished oval mahogany table surrounded by eight different size but obviously matched Victorian chairs. Even from a distance, LaVeau could see that the delicate lace curtains on the leaded windows were fine handwork. The air was thick with cooking smells, eggs, bacon, biscuits. Carter inhaled deeply and thought of his mother’s kitchen.

  The man sat in the tallest chair and motioned LaVeau to the second tallest at his right. Elaine ignored his disregard and sat next to Carter. “Mr. Evers, this is Mr. LaVeau.” She smiled politely.

  When Mr. Evers silently took his measure, Carter waited, returning the appraisal and feeling right at home. The old guy reminded him of his father’s taciturn friends. “Why do you want to buy my farm?” Carter repressed a smile. Evers was familiarly direct.

  Carter spread his fingers on the tabletop, letting Evers see his appreciation. “My family have been farmers for a hundred and fifty years,” he looked around the room, “just like yours.”

  Evers eyes narrowed in surprise. “You want to farm?”

  “No, I want the land.”

  Anger bloomed in Evers’ wizened face. “You want to develop my land?”

  “Maybe,” he paused, letting Evers’ anger grow in the face of his honesty, “I won’t promise otherwise. But not for quite a few years, at least. Right now I just want to own the land.” Carter saw Elaine’s dismay at his answers.

  Mr. Evers, on the other hand, seemed to find the answer perfectly reasonable. Some of his anger subsided.

  Carter took a piece of paper from his shirt pocket and unfolded it on the table. He pushed it toward Evers. “I plan to pay you a lot of money for your farm. You can retire to somewhere warm. But if you want to continue farming the land, we can work something out.”

  Evers lifted the paper. His eyes widened then he dropped his chin and stared contemplatively at the small white rectangle. Carter waited and discreetly signalled Elaine to do the same.

  It must have been half an hour. Beside him, Elaine was surreptitiously fidgeting and looking at her watch. Finally Evers stirred. He pushed the paper back across the burnished surface. His gaze was sly when he raised it to Carter. “If I’m going to sell to a developer why should I sell to you? If I wait I’ll get much more.”

  “What if I raise my offer?”

  Leaving not a trace of doubt, Evers shook his head. “Nope.”

  Carter knew the old man wouldn’t change his mind but he made another fifteen minutes effort to demonstrate respect an
d good faith. He paused at last, showing a touch of distress. Then his expression cleared. “Well … how about selling me a piece – something on the edge, something hard to farm? How about some of your woods?”

  He turned to Elaine. “Do you have the map?” She pulled a paper roll from her briefcase. Carter laid it flat and examined it closely. On the property’s edge, northwest of Evers’ farmhouse, were fifteen acres of woods enclosing about an acre of secluded fields. He grabbed a pen from Elaine’s briefcase and made a big circle. On the corner he wrote a new number. “How about this? And I won’t develop unless you say it’s okay.”

  Evers looked up, clearly trying to hide his sly satisfaction. Silently, he held out his hand and silently Carter took it. Evers turned his head toward the kitchen, “Mother, bring us some coffee and cake.”

  A plump woman pushed backward through the kitchen door carrying a big tray. She turned a lined but still remarkably pretty face toward them and set down the tray. Mr. Evers said, “This is our new neighbour, Mr. LaVeau.” He ended the name with an “O” almost Cajun in its length and roundness.

  Carter’s mouth opened but before he could speak the door opened again and a girl came through, a big china coffee pot held carefully by handle and spout, and he was stopped cold. Fortunately, after a few stilled heartbeats his lawyering experience kicked in. He whipped his face into nonchalance and nudged Elaine, whose mouth gaped inelegantly, under the table.

  The girl was remarkable. She was perhaps 13 years old, her body in the first blush of womanhood. In her flawless face Carter saw how beautiful the girl’s mother must once have been. Her magnificent hair hung to her waist in a soft drape of carrot red. But most shocking and simultaneously pleasing to the sensibilities was her skin, as pale and translucent as blue veined marble.

  In old Louisiana, even at his advanced age of 29, Carter could – if he’d desired – asked Evers for his daughter’s hand in marriage with faultless propriety. But this was Maryland, not the South, and he had no inclination toward marriage, at least not yet. He was relieved when Mrs. Evers hustled the girl back into the kitchen. “Come along Teresa. Let’s leave your Pa to finish his business.”

  Teresa slipped silently from the room, leaving behind the memory of a quick glance of purest blue. Evers’ head twitched in her direction with casual pride. “My youngest.”

  Carter let Elaine respond, “She’s lovely – just like your wife.” Much safer.

  “Mr. Evers.” The man turned his attention back to Carter and business. “Do you have an attorney?” The man nodded.

  “And one more thing.” Carter appeared reflective. “I was thinking. Do any of your friends or neighbours have an old cottage on their land they might like to sell? I’ll buy it and move it here. I’d rather find something old than build something new.” He met Evers’ gaze with perfect sympathy. “I don’t like new.”

  The old man thought a moment then answered with rural economy, “Maybe.”

  When they were back in the Landcruiser Carter said, “Let’s go look at my land.” They headed up the rutted dirt track behind the farmhouse through the dense trees and out into the open patch of farmland.

  Though occupied navigating the deep furrows, Elaine rakishly dared lay one hand on his arm. “Congratulations. You did a great job.”

  “I told you I’d manage him.”

  “But you got exactly what you wanted.” Elaine shook her stiff blond coif in wonder. “I’m impressed.” Her surprised voice broke into his euphoria. “What’s that?”

  In the distance across the clearing not quite hidden in the trees was a small, square, light wood building, once probably white, with a steepled roof. “It’s an abandoned church. The locals think it’s cursed.” A burst of euphoria returned. “It’s quite a story.” He smiled happily. “I’m sure the old man thinks he’s well rid of it.”

  They passed through a narrow copse and turned north onto a wide band of bare earth bordered on both sides by forest that marked his property line and also, he guessed, formed a firebreak. Half a mile and they were on Brinkley Road heading back to the racecourse and the city.

  Chapter Eleven

  Delia gratefully looked around the empty space. The dojo was open on Saturday afternoons for anyone who cared to give up prime free time to practice. Surprisingly, a handful or two of students did so regularly, probably because they’d only just awakened after a very late Friday night and it gave them the opportunity to sweat out excess alcohol before Saturday night’s resumed consumption. This afternoon, though, a very small handful had come and gone and now it was only her. No one to watch, thank heavens!

  She bowed to Sensei, who sat cross legged on a mat, and began the kata. She tried not to think, simply to let one movement flow into another as she’d done a thousand times. Punch, block, turn, kick. Methodical combinations, one after the other. Let training dictate which movement. Only concentrate on making each motion perfect.

  After a few interminable minutes, with one final turn, her right foot stomped the floor and it was over. She brought her feet into alignment and stood still, head slightly bowed, fists clenched at her sides in the formal attention position, waiting for his verdict.

  “Do it again.” Dismay, anxiety and also a streak of anger rushed through her. Was the bastard going to fail her? Silently she bowed and began again.

  This time he deigned to nod endorsement. He stood, effortless as a cobra uncoiling. “Now kumite. I will attack.” He assumed the ready position before her and – she knew he moved at quarter speed – attacked, hands first then feet. She concentrated on blocking punches and kicks, simple but from all directions. After fifteen minutes his breathing remained slow and calm while she panted and sweated. But she knew he’d truly tested her, not abused her. She’d not been on her ass even once.

  He paused and she thought it was over. But he smiled broadly into her eyes. She’d learned to distrust that smile. It portended something mean and a little too dangerously sexual for comfort – though she’d periodically contemplated seeing how far he’d go if she indicated willingness. He was hot as hell! The massive black dick lying, she was pretty certain, ever-ready underneath his gi was an image that leapt far too readily into her mind.

  Again he began his attack. Now the punches and kicks were a little faster than she could handle. With harrowing concentration she strained to block him.

  Was it her imagination? Were his attacks becoming faster, more purposeful? Though he was certainly pulling them (if he hadn’t, she’d be unconscious), more punches and kicks were connecting. She was losing the ability to keep up. Now any attempt to remember countermoves vanished and good form was routed by the need for speed.

  Finally she took action she knew was a mistake. But there was no choice. Caustic breaths exploded inside her. She felt bruises rising on every body part. In a callow act of helplessness she covered her face with upraised arms and screamed “Stop! I surrender!”

  Just below consciousness, she’d known how he’d respond. He strove relentlessly to teach them the “real” skills required to survive danger. He paused. The evaluation was infinitesimal but painfully acute. “There’s no surrender if you’re being raped.”

  She’d expected the vicious smile. What she got was far more frightening. His expression flattened to total neutrality and his warm – hot – brown eyes became fixed and dead as, she imagined, a killer’s would. She had no idea what was going to happen and she was terrified.

  She only felt his fingertips touch her wrists. Then she was on her back, his crushing weight forcing her against the mat. He expected his students to fight to unconsciousness … or death, and she marshalled her energy and tried to do so. In his grasp her arms were useless. Her mind and body worked frantically to think of options for her feet, knees, legs and to implement them. In a vivid instant, she remembered hearing – from him? – that because of a man’s greater size only speed or guile could protect a female black belt from a comparable male. She was not even close to a black belt and he
had her pinned tight.

  Brightness sparked in the flat eyes. Unwittingly she gulped hard and began to choke, desperately fighting her own body’s lack of control. She felt his hard pole against her pelvis and knew she’d been right. He was huge! And now she knew something else. He was going to rape her!

  Though she struggled in earnest he somehow managed to hold her immobile with only one arm while he stripped off her loose pants and lowered his own. The next sensation was her vagina burning, bruising and tearing.

  Thankfully his penetration was slow at first. He seemed to enjoy watching the panoply of expressions racing across her face as his dick forced its way into her, all the way to her cervix – no, far beyond – then withdrew, only to inexorably return. It hurt – not only the stretching. He pressed into her to unbearable depths, farther than he could possibly go. The giant ramrod hit nerves in her hip joints that sent pain shooting down her legs.

  She fought silently, all her energy focused on defence, until those electric jolts. One tortured scream poured out of her into his face. Again he paused, for one second before his arm slid threateningly against her throat, restricting but not quite cutting off all oxygen. And his speed – not a rapist’s frenzy but dead, calculated calm – increased. Her vision swirled with multicoloured shapes and in their centre hung those flat brown eyes.

  Her strength and will had slid away leaving dull lassitude when with a soft grunt – graceful, she was incongruously aware, like everything else he did – he pulled out of her and forced the massive mushroom cap between her lips. Suddenly she was choking on something that felt and tasted like library paste.