The Need

by Andrew Neiderman

  “I sat up quickly, revived. Alison rose without speaking and went out to get a garbage bag. While I dressed, she slipped the bag over the corpse and tied it neatly closed.

  “‘Can you drop this in the incinerator?’ she asked. ‘I have to get ready for an audition. I’m up for a network commercial.’

  “‘This was the best you could do,’ I said disdainfully, pointing to the shrouded corpse. She was smiling with ugly self-satisfaction. I could feel Clea rising, her anger now creating stronger impetus for a metamorphosis.

  “‘On a moment’s notice, yes. I would think you would be a little more appreciative,’ she said, which only inflamed Clea’s ire more.

  “I seized the bag and lifted it off the bed with one hand.

  “‘Will we have supper together?’ Alison called, ‘or will Clea be returning?’

  “‘I don’t know,’ I said. I didn’t. I only knew I had to go out and hunt for myself, for my hunger hadn’t been satiated and Clea demanded more nourishment.

  “Late that evening I did return, swollen, spry and strong. I had taken a beautiful young NYU co-ed in Washington Square Park, who happened to have been a drama student on scholarship. Her talent enriched both my and Clea’s blood.

  “The apartment was dark when I arrived. I was set to go to our room and retreat. Clea was gaining on me, her strength growing every moment.

  “At first I thought neither Alison nor Nicholas was home, but when I flicked the light switch, I found Alison sitting in the darkness. She looked distraught, even somewhat dazed.

  “‘What are you doing sitting there in the dark?’ I asked. When she didn’t reply, I thought I knew the answer. ‘You didn’t get the commercial?’

  “‘I didn’t even go to the audition,’ she replied.

  “‘Oh? and why not?’

  “‘After you left I started to get ready. When I gazed at myself in the mirror, I sensed something different. There was something different about the way I was thinking … the sound of my thoughts … something different in my eyes…’

  “‘Oh?’

  “‘You know what I’m talking about. You knew before I left, didn’t you?’

  “‘No,’ I lied.

  “‘I’m pregnant. I didn’t sense it before because I was so concerned about you, I didn’t think about myself. But Nicholas…’

  “She looked down, the tears streaming.

  “‘Alison,’ I said moving toward her. She cowered away.

  “‘No!’ she cried. ‘Don’t touch me.’

  “Her eyes were wide, wild. I stood still, waiting. She began to sob.

  “‘You did this to me, to us. Poor Nicholas,’ she said shaking her head. ‘When I close my eyes, I see him sleeping in a coffin.’

  “‘Alison, you can’t … you shouldn’t blame me. You wanted it as much as I did; you were driven by the same passions. You neglected to take precautions.’

  “‘You knew what you were doing; it was deliberate, planned…’ she said, her eyes red with accusation. I shook my head.

  “‘You’re rationalizing your own guilt,’ I said, but I could see how it was and I didn’t want to get into an argument. Besides, Clea was pounding on the door. My voice was up in pitch, my skin was tightening.

  “I left her sitting there and retreated to the bedroom.”

  “What happened after that?” the detective asked as I was closing Richard’s diary.

  “In the morning when I emerged, Alison was already gone. She couldn’t abort the child, but she wanted to make arrangements immediately for some other Androgyne to adopt it. She wasn’t ready to be a mother. Actually, she’s never been ready and never will.”

  “So where is the child … Richard’s child?”

  “I don’t know. Alison wouldn’t tell, and neither Richard nor I pursued.”

  “Richard would have no say in its disposition?”

  “No.”

  My detective was thoughtful for a long moment.

  “What happened afterward, when Nicholas could reappear?”

  “I told you … he was angry; he accused Richard of rape. I had moved out of the apartment by then. My New York days were coming to an end. I had been seen in a play by a movie director, and he offered me a part in a film, a lead.”

  “Playmates. You played that woman imprisoned in the home of that mad family.”

  “You’ve seen that?”

  “I’ve seen all of your films.”

  I studied him. I shouldn’t have any reason to be suspicious of that, I thought. I had many fans who had seen every one of my films, but somehow, I had never expected so much devotion from him.

  “Yes, well it wasn’t my best performance by any means, but it had sufficient enough impact to start my career rolling.”

  “Rocketing would be more like it. And so you returned to La-La Land?”

  “Yes, but it wasn’t pleasant at first. For one thing there was my mother’s unexpected death.”

  “Strange way to refer to murder,” he said. I looked up sharply.

  “It was officially labeled an accidental death.”

  He shook his head.

  “A cover-up if I ever saw one. But now, after hearing all that you have told me, I have one question for you—why did you and your people want to disguise a murder as an accident?”

  “How did you know we did?”

  “I didn’t,” he said smiling. “I only suspected someone had. Thanks for confirming it,” he added and sat back with a smug smile of self-satisfaction smeared over his face.

  “You bastard.”

  He shrugged.

  “I told you—I’m a good detective. Now, will you tell me why?”

  “Why should I?”

  “I have a feeling you never approved of what they did; you never liked the cover-up, and that’s part of why you came to me in the first place, part of why you are disgusted being what you are.”

  He really was a good detective. He was right, of course. I would tell him all of it.

  TEN

  I ROSE FROM the bed and went to the window, parting the curtains to gaze out and up. Santa Ana winds had swept the sky clean of clouds and the unobstructed stars blazed brightly, their light more magnified and clearer than ever. Such a sky always made me more aware of how insignificant we all were, even the Androgyne. That and the mention of my mother’s death reminded me just how much I missed her. We had often had nights like this where she had lived in Pacific Palisades after she had retired from modeling and doing television commercials.

  “Maybe you shouldn’t stand by the window like that,” the detective said softly. He, too, had risen from the bed and stood behind me. I felt his hands on my shoulders as he drew me back. “I’d hate to lose you before I heard your whole story.”

  “Thanks for your sincere concern.”

  He turned me to him and smiled.

  “I’m just kidding. I’d hate to lose you, period.” He brought his lips to mine, just grazing them at first and then pressing them harder and harder until I responded. I felt his erection build as he pressed it between my legs and for a moment, it felt like Richard’s erection in the midst of a metamorphose. I gasped.

  The detective began a slow descent down my body, kissing his way between my breasts. His hands traveled down my back and settled on my rear. He hovered over the small of my stomach and then pressed his lips against my pubic hair. His tongue moved like a small creature, groping until the tip of it settled comfortably inside me. I moaned again, surprised at how quickly my legs weakened, but delighted by the electric tingle that fanned out over the inside of my thighs.

  His hands urged me down to the floor. Never retreating from the pocket between my legs, he manipulated me until I was on my back, my legs up and around his head. Then he appeared, his eyes luminous and he slithered in between my legs, drawing himself up and over my torso until his erection parked itself firmly within me. We moved slowly, building our rhythm in gentle, gradual increments like two experienced and talented musician
s playing a duet.

  I welcomed it. Sex had been a panacea for sadness and loneliness since time began. All the bad memories and melancholy moments were driven away by the rush of blood, the pounding of the heart and the quickening of breath. The explosive nature of passion brought so much light into me that all the shadows and pockets of darkness were washed out in an instant. Every climax was another eruption of light and heat. I was a volcano, spewing my hot lava over myself, cremating sorrow.

  And it was my detective who was lighting me up. I clutched his hair and cried out. Never had a man, not even my beloved Michael, brought me to this peak of pure animal pleasure. I could hear his laughter, his damn male superior laughter, confident, egotistical, dominating. I wanted to get hold of myself and take control, but by that point control was beyond me.

  On and on he thrust. My head began to spin. Before I passed out, I thought, this was what it must be like for an inferior female when a male Androgyne is taking her for prey. With a great climax raging through my body, I felt myself grow completely limp and then all went black.

  I awoke on the bed, disoriented, unsure of the time of day. I felt the wet cloth on my forehead and started to sit up. My detective was seated at my desk scribbling on a pad. He wore his pants, but no shirt and no shoes.

  “How are you doing?” he asked when he saw I had regained consciousness.

  “I don’t understand,” I said, taking the wet cloth from my forehead. “This has never happened to me before.”

  He shrugged.

  “There’s a first time for everything,” he remarked rather casually. He didn’t seem impressed with his own ability to overwhelm me sexually. “I guess you were just tired … the strain of all this … reading the diary, telling your story, being shot at … all of it takes its toll.”

  “You don’t look very tired.” I gazed at the clock. “It’s nearly morning.”

  “I have this reserve tank I run on when I’m deeply involved in an investigation,” he said. “Afterward, it will hit me just like it hit you and I’ll pass out too. I’ll sleep for days.”

  “What are you writing there?”

  “Just scribbling some notes so I can recall some of the things you told me.” He sat back, his arms folded over his muscular chest. The muscles in his shoulders tightened, their definition sharpening.

  “You’re rather a good lover … for an inferior male,” I added. He laughed.

  “That’s what you call a half-ass compliment, if I ever heard one.”

  I began to get out of bed.

  “Why don’t you try to sleep?”

  “I’d rather take a shower and dress. I’ve got a lot to do today, including a meeting with the director of my new film.”

  “‘Winter of the Virgin Dead.’”

  “How did you know that?”

  “Hey,” he said holding his arms out, “Hollywood is my beat, remember? I read it in one column or another. Surprised you took the part,” he added.

  “It’s an above-average horror movie. Vampires are portrayed in an almost sympathetic light, portrayed as victims of themselves.”

  “I see. You saw something familiar in it.”

  “Precisely, and I like the director, who also wrote the script.”

  “He’s not…”

  “No, but the producer is,” I said. He raised his eyebrows and nodded. “If you want to shower, you can use the guest room,” I said.

  “Not Richard’s?” he teased. It was remarkable how despite everything I still had a need to protect the sanctity of Richard’s quarters. How it would infuriate him if I ever permitted my detective to use his bathroom facilities. But why should that matter now? I wondered. Why worry about Richard being upset over something so trivial compared with the ultimate betrayal? The detective provided an answer. “Old habits die hard,” he said. “I know. I know. I’ll use the guest room. Thank you.”

  He rose and went out.

  After I showered and dressed, I found him dressed and waiting in the kitchen. He had made us coffee. The sun was just coming up. Dawn had a special meaning for me. Not only did the morning light drive away the caverns of darkness in which the evil of the world dwelt and from which it watched and waited to pounce, but it stimulated a rebirth of hope and promise. Each day brought a new opportunity to confront each night successfully. Never had I felt this as much as I had been feeling it recently.

  “You look revived,” my detective said. “And very beautiful, like a flower opening its petals.”

  “You? Poetic?”

  “Hey, what can I tell you? You inspire me.” Trying to cheer me up, he got up and poured me a cup of coffee. He affected the pose of a short-order cook. “Ma’am. What’cha want for breakfast? We got grits and eggs and oatmeal and stuff.”

  I laughed.

  “Don’t tell me you add short-order cook to your list of talents,” I said.

  “What’cha think? Of course. I make a wicked omelette if you’re hungry.”

  “Fine.”

  He proceeded. “While I’m doing this, tell me about your early Hollywood days. Did you live with your mother?”

  “In the beginning, but only for a few months. She had moved to Pacific Palisades by then and was doing less and less modeling and commercial work. I took an apartment in the marina and not long after, I bought this house. But I always spent a great deal of time at her house. She still had parties often and there were always interesting people visiting. Sunday brunch was a ritual. I never missed one unless I was away on location. Time with my mother was precious to me.”

  “Was she happy to see you had returned so triumphantly from New York?”

  “Oh yes, she was very proud of me. We were very close, more like friends by then than mother and daughter. And she was very knowledgeable about the whole Hollywood scene. Between her and William, I couldn’t have had better advisers in those days.”

  “Who was this William? I mean, what did he do?”

  “In his female state, as Mary, he was a noted therapist with a long list of celebrity clients. What is it they say, ‘In L.A. you’re not normal unless you’re in therapy, whereas everywhere else you’re not in therapy unless you’re not normal.’”

  He laughed.

  “She wasn’t Mary Williard, was she?”

  “Yes. You knew of her?”

  “Only in reading about her. I never knew her personally. So, now she’s in an old age home herself?”

  “Yes, sadly.”

  “Does that happen often to androgynous females after they’ve passed their time?” he asked.

  “Unfortunately, yes. Occupational disease,” I said.

  “Do they all go to any special place? I mean, a place run by your people?”

  “Yes.”

  He nodded and flipped the omelette in the pan. It did smell very appetizing.

  “But that wasn’t your mother’s fate,” he said, moving to get two plates.

  “No.”

  He put the omelettes on the plates and served them with toast and jelly.

  “It looks delicious,” I said.

  “Dig in.”

  “Very good,” I said chewing on a succulent morsel. “Maybe you should do this full time.”

  “I’m considering it. Less stress. So,” he said, “not long after your arrival on the scene, your mother went into retirement.”

  “Yes. Many of her accounts tried to talk her into returning. She was still strikingly attractive and looked nowhere near her true age, but she was tired of the spotlight and was quite satisfied living vicariously through my experiences, even the unpleasant ones.”

  “Producers trying to bed you down, trying to force you into crummy roles, jealousy of other new actresses, tension on the set…”

  “You’ve got it.”

  “Tell me,” he said, sitting back and sipping his coffee. “How did you get out of marrying Tony Patio? Everyone was convinced that was simply a matter of setting the date. It was the ideal Hollywood marriage—the glamour couple harking
back to couples like Clark Gable and Carole Lombard, Humphrey Bogart and Lauren Bacall. The two of you were on just about every magazine cover, in every column, attended every important opening and premiere … did you finally have to tell him what you were?”

  “Hardly,” I said, laughing.

  “I don’t understand. You’re not telling me Tony Patio was one of you.”

  “Hardly,” I repeated, laughing harder. He waited. “Tony Patio was gay,” I said.

  “You’re kidding. America’s young heartthrob? All those hot and heavy love scenes … Patio, gay?”

  “Terrified of women, too. He was seeing Mary because he had this phobia that if he put his precious pecker into a woman, she would clamp down on it and cut it off and swallow within her vaginal lips. Honest,” I said, raising my hand like a witness to be sworn in.

  “I suppose head was out of the question.”

  “Only if he would give it. I used to have fun teasing him. Terrifying him would be more like it, I suppose. You can’t imagine how much he sweated under that makeup whenever I clung to him or kissed him and pressed my bosom to him.”

  “That had to be one of the best kept Hollywood secrets. But how … who were his male lovers?”

  “He had only one constant lover … his brother.”

  “What? That’s sick. Incest, too, and with a crippled man?”

  “Mary said he was far less threatened because of that.”

  “And everyone thought how wonderful it was he looked after his less fortunate younger brother. I suppose his drug overdose had something to do with all this.”

  “Of course. Mary made it a point not to prescribe medication of any sort unless it was truly necessary, but she couldn’t control the unscrupulous physicians who filled out orders for every upper and downer under the sun. Some of them should have been tried for murder.”

  “Dark days, yet you survived it and went on to win bigger and better roles until you played the mother in Surrogate Child and received a nomination. That scene when your husband was trying to get you to see that your foster child was evil … you were great, so convincing. You seemed so genuinely needy. Had it already started by then?”

  “What?”

  “Your aversion to what you are?”