The Seduction - Art Bourgeau

by Art Bourgeau

  Originally her intention had only been the seduction. Nothing more. But the very first one, long before Terri and Marie, had seen through her disguise. That was before she had perfected Peter's look. And that little tramp had tried to blackmail her right on the spot. Either give the money or she would tell her parents. They wouldn't have any trouble tracing the license number; her uncle was a cop, she'd said. A real tough one. She'd left no choice. Couldn't have her father find out something like that. So she'd killed her out of necessity. But she'd also found a tremendous, unexpected release. A release she'd sought over and over ever since then.

  Outside her bedroom window the river was shining darkly. That was where all the bodies had gone. One by one, weighted down and sent to their watery grave in the river channel. All she had done was ferry them out from her condo dock in her little runabout and shove them overboard.

  All except Terri and Marie. They were special. She was closer to Terri than to any of the others, and through her, to Marie. And when it was over she couldn't leave the parents watching the door, waiting for the phone to ring, wondering what had happened to them. It wouldn't be fair. So she had left their bodies behind. As a favor.

  With a rather wistful smile on her lips, Missy picked up the plastic bag filled with hair and went into the bathroom. She darkened her skin slightly with makeup and added the illusion of fullness to her brows with an eyebrow pencil. Then after daubing spirit gum on her cheeks, chin, upper lip, and jawline, she took the false beard and mustache purchased from a Center City theatrical costumer and carefully pressed it into place. The transformation was complete. Missy was gone, and staring back at her from the mirror was Peter . . .

  She walked back to the bedroom and pulled on the shoulder holster with the automatic in it. Her phony badge, purchased along with the handcuffs from a Market Street junk shop catering to the switchblade crowd, and the gun, a present from her father, were insurance against something going wrong. With most of the teenagers no insurance was necessary.

  It would be with Cynthia. She was too prim, too uptight to let herself go and enjoy herself. She would finally see through Peter, and only with the help of the gun would Missy be able to make her relax.

  And afterward, when they were both physically satisfied, Cynthia would die, and Felix would belong to Missy.

  She pulled on the leather jacket and draped the white aviator's scarf around her neck. From the inside pocket of the jacket she produced the dark glasses that Peter always wore. The stereo was booming with Tina Turner's "Private Dancer" as she looked in the mirror and ran her fingers through her hair one last time, then went into the kitchen, where she took a clean syringe with a small vial from a pot of warm water near the sink. The vial contained sperm. A sample she had taken from the office. As always, it was from a man who was a secretor with blood type O. She always used this type for two reasons. It was by far the most common type, so it was easy to get. Most men were secretors with blood type O. Her father had been. So was Felix. She recalled how cleverly she'd asked him what otherwise would have seemed a peculiar question: "Most people exchange zodiac signs when they meet. But I work in a lab, so for me it's blood type. I hope you don't mind . . . He had looked at her a little strangely, but then had laughed and told her it was type O. She couldn't have been more pleased . . . one more thing in common with her father.

  Her other reason for using sperm from a secretor with type O was her knowledge of police procedure, gained from the lab work her office did for the department. One of the first things they did in a rape case was to check the rapist's sperm for the presence of the water-soluble ABH factors to see if the man was a secretor and if so, to use them to determine what his blood type was. Then they would try to match it with any suspects they brought in. A secretor with type O was the most common and so the most difficult to identify. They'd need a very wide net indeed to catch Peter. Who, of course, didn't even exist. It was really quite delicious . . .

  She put the syringe into the inside jacket pocket she had taken the glasses from. Taking the vial in her hand, she unzipped her pants and reached deep inside, pulling out the leg of the tight Latex cyclist's shorts and shoving it up inside, as high on her thigh as possible to keep it warm in a natural way. After she finished with Cynthia, she would inseminate her. She pulled on the driving gloves with the holes over the knuckles and left by the door that led directly to her downstairs garage. Inside her car she checked one last time. The automatic was loaded, she had the neck chain and handcuffs, she had the sperm, and she had cigarettes and a silver flask filled with brandy for the wait. Satisfied there was nothing left to chance, she punched the "Open" button on her remote control and the garage door quietly began to swing up.

  As she backed her car out she happened to glance at her front steps. There, clutching Strawbridge & Clothier shopping bags, were two little girls in their Halloween costumes. One was dressed as Snow White, the other as a cowboy. Missy saw them turn to look and hurriedly pulled the sun visor across the open window on the driver's side to keep them from seeing her face. The tinted glass on the other sides kept anyone from seeing inside.

  At the end of the driveway she spun the wheel and stopped long enough to get a good look at the trick-or-treaters, who were no longer looking at the car but were busy peeking into each other's shopping bag as they trudged down the steps and headed for the next house. Missy did not recognize them, which didn't signify: they still probably lived in the Delaware River townhouse complex; she just hadn't noticed them. She watched them walk away, certain they offered no threat, put the car into gear and pulled out into the Delaware Avenue traffic.

  The area around Second and Chestnut was still quiet even though it was Halloween, and Missy easily found a parking place with a clear view of Lagniappe. As she settled down to wait behind her tinted windows, she looked at the clock. It said five-fifty. Good, she was early. Felix wasn't due to meet Cynthia until six.

  She lit a cigarette and made herself comfortable. She would wait until they left, then follow. Sooner or later the date would be over, Cynthia would be alone, and she would move in. At two minutes past six a red and white United cab pulled up in front of Lagniappe. Cynthia got out. Felix was nowhere in sight. Missy guessed he'd been inside all the while having a quiet drink before the fireworks began.

  As Cynthia paid the driver and went inside, Missy in a low, soft voice, the voice of Peter, said, "Don't worry, darling. It won't be long now." She could have been talking to Felix, to Cynthia, or to herself.

  The time dragged slowly. The twilight turned to full darkness. Twice, Missy thought about the little trick-or-treaters at her front door. The first time she thought how they had been so cute, especially the one in the cowboy outfit. But at seven or eight they shouldn't have been out without an adult. There were too many bad things that could happen to them. The second time she wondered what it would be like to be the mother of one of them, how much fun it must be now that they were old enough to do things for themselves. Maybe soon she would find out . . . The kit she had purchased to predict her cycle of ovulation showed more blue today than yesterday when she tested her morning's urine, indicating her fertile period couldn't be more than a day or two away. She had to get a grip on herself. Perhaps if she loaded up on Valium and smoked some dope she could close her mind to what was happening, get through it without screaming. Ideally she would prefer a Quaalude with a little Southern Comfort to go along with her dope, but she didn't think Felix would be turned on by a limp rag doll . . .

  She was brought back with a start when a young man dressed like a chimney sweep in top hat and high-top Converse sneakers smacked the hood of her car with the flat of his hand before going into the Khyber Pass. She reached for the door handle to get out and give him a piece of her mind, remembered how she was dressed and dropped the idea.

  It was seven-twenty-four by her watch when Felix and Cynthia emerged from Lagniappe. She watched them walk north toward Market Street and past Rib-It, Los Amigos, and Brownie's Pub.
At Nick's Roast Beef she began to lose sight of them in the costumed crowd now beginning to fill the street. Knowing that Felix habitually parked on Market Street, she started her engine and pulled out of her parking place, retracing much the same route she had used earlier in the day to Carl's, down Second past Wa1do's to Walnut, up to Third, only this time she continued past Chestnut and on to Market. Felix did not take Cynthia to his car but hailed a cab. As he opened the door she put her arms around him and gave him a kiss that confirmed Missy's worse suspicions. After a moment he gently pushed her away and helped her into the cab. As it pulled out into traffic he watched for a moment, then turned and headed back in the direction he had come from.

  lt was what Missy had been waiting for. Half a block down she did a U-turn in traffic and started to follow the cab, the sound of Warren Zevon's "Sentimental Hygiene" filling her car. Following them on Market Street through the tangle of construction was tricky but she stayed on their tail, not concerned about discovery, just about losing them.

  As she maneuvered the car through the sights and sounds of jackhammers, backhoes, and bulldozers she thought about her plans for Cynthia's funeral. Naturally Felix would want to make all the arrangements. He was that sort of kind and considerate person. And she would help him, like the good wife she was going to be.

  At Twelfth a cop was parked at the corner, so Cynthia's cabdriver turned off his blinker for the illegal left turn he had intended to make and continued up on Market Street and around City Hall. Missy did the same. Around the west side of City Hall the cab veered off and headed south on Fifteenth. Missy followed, barely making the light at Chestnut as a stream of people from B. Dalton crowded the intersection. At Locust she was prepared to turn, since she remembered Lois saying that Cynthia lived in the nearby Locust Towers, but they continued on to Fifteenth and Pine and took a left. Missy stayed with them across Broad Street and down Pine to Twelfth, where the cab dropped Cynthia in front of her business, the Pine Street Charcuterie. Missy passed them and pulled into a vacant parking place further down the block.

  The moment she had hoped for had arrived. Taking the automatic from the shoulder holster she waited until the cab pulled away and Cynthia was busy opening the door of her darkened store before she got out and approached her.

  Cynthia didn't look up until Missy was beside her, and even then there was no recognition on her face. It was the confirmation Missy needed. She jammed the gun into Cynthia's ribs and shoved her inside before she could scream or cry out.

  Without taking her eyes off her prey, Missy closed the door. Cynthia wheeled around and backed deeper into the darkness. "What . . . ?" She was staring at the gun, not at Missy. Missy took two steps forward and swung the gun hard, catching Cynthia near the temple. Cynthia let out a little cry as the force of the blow dropped her, taking with her a display of crab pots and Old Bay Seasoning.

  As she lay dazed in the straw and litter of the display, her skirt up over her thighs, her nightmare began.

  Missy grabbed her hair and pulled her to her knees, forcing her into a kneeling position, where Missy slipped the choker chain with the medallion over her head. Taking hold of her hair again, she slowly brought the gun up. Even in the darkness of the store it seemed to gleam and shine, holding Cynthia's attention as though it was a poisonous snake as it came closer and closer.

  Gently Missy brought the muzzle to Cynthia's lips. Cynthia pulled back, tried to turn her head away, her lips pressed together. Missy tightened her hold on Cynthia's hair and brought her face back close to the muzzle, taking care to be sure that Cynthia could not raise her eyes.

  Even in this providential darkness she was taking no chances on Cynthia getting a long enough look to maybe see through her disguise. That was a surprise to come later. Talking gently, Missy said, "Don't be that way," her voice barely above a whisper, as she increased the pressure of the muzzle against Cynthia's lips, not enough to hurt or bruise them but enough to provide a note of insistence.

  Cynthia wouldn't keep still.

  "Please, you don't want me to hurt you. Just cooperate and I'll be out of here in a few minutes," Missy said.

  It was a voice whose tone, as much as its words, told Cynthia to be reasonable, not to force an escalation of the situation, that this was nothing more than a simple robbery if she didn't make it so.

  She felt the pressure of the muzzle increase against her lips, listened to that voice, opened her mouth.

  Missy slid the gun barrel inside a couple of inches, but not enough to make her gag.

  "Now close your lips around it like it's your lover," she said. Cynthia obeyed.

  "Good, now we can talk without you getting hysterical on me. I want you to put both hands behind you. Do you understand?" Cynthia nodded slightly and did it. When the handcuffs were in place Missy breathed easier. Now there was no chance that Cynthia could resist anything she'd planned for her. Cynthia, too, seemed to realize this . . . she made one last show of resistance after the cuffs were on, but Missy simply held her head with one hand and pressed the barrel deeper into her throat until she either had to stop moving or gag.

  In a scolding whisper Missy said, "Please, don't move around like that again, not yet anyway. This gun has very sharp sights. It could do a lot of damage to your mouth if you get too carried away. I wouldn't want that, would you?"

  Cynthia shook her head slightly.

  "You're wondering why this is happening to you, aren't you?"

  With her free hand Missy flashed her badge in front of Cynthia's eyes, keeping it there only long enough for her to get a glimpse . . . but in the darkness she couldn't see what kind of a badge it was.

  "I'm going to tell you. I'm a private investigator. I've been following you for the last couple of days. You see, your ex-husband—you know, the real estate tycoon—hired me to do that. And he hired me to do something else as well." She paused for effect, then: "He hired me to kill you."

  Cynthia started as if she'd been hit with a jolt of electricity. Missy smiled.

  "I know, you can't believe it. But it's true. There's apparently some beautiful, rich bitch here in town—the daughter of a doctor, I think he said—that he wants to marry, but everywhere he goes you keep popping up and spoiling things."

  Even with the gun in her mouth Cynthia tried to deny it.

  "I told him yesterday that I thought it was too extreme a solution, that you seemed like a reasonable person. Maybe if I talked to you we could work things out. Well, he wouldn't hear of it. He wants you dead, and in the worst way." She stretched the word "dead" for a full effect.

  She felt Cynthia begin to tremble, kneeling there before Missy in the darkened store. With her free hand, the one not holding the gun, she began to stroke Cynthia's hair. The trembling continued, and Missy felt cold chills at the thought of the wonderful excitement Cynthia was feeling. She forced Cynthia's head over, all the while still stroking her hair with her gloved hand, until her cheek rested against Missy's trouser front and she felt the press and hardness of the dildo inside the trousers like a real penis.

  "May I tell you something else? Following you like I have the last couple of days, I've become real fond of you. You're a special person, and I don't think you should die. Do you understand what I'm saying to you?"

  Cynthia nodded as best she could from her awkward position. "I don't know how it happened, but damned if I didn't find myself thinking about you all the time. I just can't handle the idea of killing you. But if I let you go, you've got to help me—"

  Missy paused to let the faint ray of hope sink in. She looked around the store to see where she could take her for their moment of truth. In the rear was a kitchen used for cooking demonstrations and classes that opened onto a small courtyard and herb garden behind. Perfect.

  "You've got to do two things," she went on. "Neither should be too difficult. I want you to promise me that if I let you go, you'll disappear for a few weeks. Go down to the islands, go to Europe, Florida, California, anywhere—just go away so every
thing has a chance to cool down. While you're gone I'll give your husband his money back, and when he sees you're not causing him any trouble I think I can convince him to forget about the whole thing. Then everyone can live happily ever after. Will you do that?"

  Cynthia tried to nod furiously.

  "Now I'm going to take the gun out of your mouth because I need to hear you say it, to tell me that you'll go away, but first you must understand something else. I haven't hurt you yet, except for the little bump on the noggin, but if you try to scream, yell or do anything except be the proper lady you are, you'll be hurting me. Our deal will be off, and I'll finish your husband's contract and kill you."

  Missy slowly, sensually removed the gunbarrel from Cynthia's mouth. Cynthia obediently kept her lips around it, like it was a rare treat, until the sight touched her lips and she had to open her mouth wider.

  "I'll do it," she said. "I'll go away, I promise, tonight as soon as you let me go. Only please don't—" she couldn't even say "kill me"—"don't hurt me."

  "Remember, I said there were two things," Missy said in a stern, half-whisper. "The other thing is that you must let me make love to you. Seeing you like I have the last couple of days, it's all I've thought about. I know it's wrong but this one time I've got to have you. After that we can never see each other again. Will you do it?"

  "Here?"

  Missy took her arm and helped her to her feet. As she guided her through the darkened store toward the kitchen she realized she had never wanted anyone so badly in her life as she did Cynthia at that moment. She hadn't been lying about that. It seemed that Cynthia was feeling it too. Missy heard it in her voice as she stopped inside the kitchen and said breathily, "Where?"

  She led her to the kitchen table in the center, and Cynthia, with her hands still cuffed behind her, obediently bent forward from the waist and rested her cheek and upper body against the tabletop.