Hush (32 page)

from the other side of the curtain. But just as he lifted the razor to make

another cut he heard an odd noise. Something moved, then it didn't. Now what the

fuck was that? He reached a cautious finger through the screen, and then another

and another until he had his whole hand inside it. He touched the glass and slid

his hand up until he could feel the top part of the aluminum frame. He hated

wooden windows, the kind you had to wrestle with. This one crawled right along

its tracks. Smooth as smooth can be. Pure fucking magic. Open sesame. Now he

could reach right in and grab her at any time.
He parted the curtain for his first glimpse. The effort forced him to turn to

the side, and he was looking down the length of his arm when he spotted that

black cat on the bed. Goddamn, he hated cats. What's with that fucking eye?

Where's the other one? That single pupil stared back at him in the moonlight,

and he had a powerful urge to pluck it out.
Kill the cat. Kill the cat. Words kept repeating themselves, sending him a

message. He listened. He always listened.
He watched the cat watching him, and tried to stare down that filthy little

creature but it wouldn't look away. Like it's got my goddamn number or

something. Chet would not be stared down, but that cat would not back off. He

tried like hell to put hate in his eyes, and he might have succeeded because lo

and behold, the cat started making noises like it was a deep fryer popping and

hissing and spitting out its oily anger.
Chet was not pleased, not one little bit, because the last thing he wanted was

for Mrs. Griswold to wake up. He finally forced himself to look away, but vowed

to get even. He peeked at her. She lay there as still as the night, and the cat

quieted down.
But just as he was about to make another another vertical cut, Celia turned onto

her back. He heard this and hurried to take another look. He was damn well ready

to rip right through that screen if need be. He saw her face and understood that

she had shifted positions. The cat made a soft brushing noise. Chet peered at

it. He couldn't tell what the hell it was doing. Celia moved again, and he

almost jumped on her. But it was just her hand. She rested it on the cat, and he

stopped himself at the very last second.
When he heard her breathing nice and steady, he slowly withdrew his arm and

sliced open the right side. Zing, smooth as can be, a razor making things right

with the world.
Again, Celia moved her hand but continued to sleep. Then, as he cut open the

bottom of the screen, the unusual sound brought her fully awake.
She held her breath and opened her eyes slowly. She saw the shadow behind the

curtain. The dark figure reached up to the top of the window, and she heard that

sound again—zzziinng. That's a knife, she thought. Or a razor? She wanted to

run, she wanted to flee. She couldn't move. She was frozen, a block of ice

melting madly on the bed. Perspiration ran down her face and neck, cold beads on

clammy skin, and a snapping sound penetrated the room. An opening in time

appeared when nothing happened— silence hovered above the bed, and silence

huddled beneath the covers— and then she heard an explosion of noise as he tore

through the window.
The weight of him tumbled onto the mattress, and Celia felt the hard bones of

his arms and legs striking her. The curtain rod landed inches from her head, and

his hands raced all over her body— everywhere at once— pulling, lifting,

pushing. She screamed and flailed and tried to get away but she was trapped by

his weight and the blankets that bundled her. Pluto screeched, as though

crushed, and Celia tried to sit up. Before she could rise more than a few inches

Chet grabbed the screen he'd cut out and used both hands to force it down onto

her face, a fist on either side of her cheeks. He pressed it so hard against her

nose and mouth she couldn't move, and her eyes were pinned shut. The mesh burned

like a brand, as if a hot little bit of meanness throbbed in every one of those

wires. She tried to push him off, but couldn't. She did manage to turn her head

to the side, away from him, which enraged Chet. He weighted the screen like he

was doing a pushup, and the mesh flattened her ear and stretched tight as steel

across her cheek. He saw her skin ooze up through the screen's tiny holes. It

was like seeing her through nylons or panty hose. He liked it when they wore

that shit over their face. Yeah, do it, he'd tell them, and they would. His cock

was hard, goddamn it was hard, like it was trying to fuck its way right out of

his pants.
"You're hurting me," Celia slurred. He'd squeezed her lips into the shape of a

fish mouth, and she could hardly talk at all. She couldn't see him either.
Hurting you? You think I'm hurting you now? Derision riddled his thoughts, and

there was the corrosive inflection of cruelty when he repeated her words to

himself. Fuck you, Mrs. Griswold, this is nothing.
"Shut...the...fuck...up."
When he spoke she knew it was Boyce. The voice, body size too, and a familiar

odor, piney and sour. That's when she knew he'd been in the house on the day of

the snake, when she drank that glass of water by the sink and noticed the

unusual smell. Now it steamed off his skin and filled her nose again, an awful

presence that stained the air, pillaged the room, and took her prisoner. She

felt a warm drip on her cheek, then another. He was sweating on her, and

breathing loudly, the snorting, snuffling sounds of a man who's working harder

than he's used to...or who's excited. She thought of the knife, or razor, and

stiffened. Jesus, don't cut me. For several seconds her fear fused with his

breathing, and that's all she heard— his hot gamy breath above her— and that's

all she thought about— the knife, the razor. And then her fear returned to those

fragile words: Don't cut me.
He had her good and scared. He could tell by the way she lay there like she'd

melt into the mattress if she could. The covers were down around her belly and

she had on some kind of nightgown. No matter. Not for long. He pressed the

screen down on her face with one hand while he used the other to work his belt

buckle loose. The buttons on his fly pulled apart easily, and he reached into

his jeans. He had to root around to get ahold of his cock, and then he had to

suck in his stomach to make enough room for it. But it popped right out, hard as

fucking bath pipe, and it felt good in his hand. He saw it in the moonlight, the

tip all wet and shiny and loaded like a goddamn gun.
Celia had heard the belt buckle clank like a chain and the impatient sound of

him searching around in his pants. Then the rustling had stopped, and now she

knew what he planned to do.
Oh God.
She rolled over quickly, as she had at the Center when clients had tackled her.

She caught a glimpse of his startled face through the mesh and tried to press

her advantage; but he recovered immediately, grabbed the back of her shoulders,

and forced her down to the bed. He frightened her by how easily he did this. He

was even stronger than he looked. She now lay on her stomach with her face

pressed into Jack's pillow. She could smell her husband, his hair. It was a

relief not to smell Boyce.
Chet pulled down the covers and saw that her nightgown fell to her knees. He

took out his razor. Goddamn.
His cock was thick, and glossy threads of semen dripped from the tip, shiny

filaments alive in the silvery light. His hand trembled as he scooped up a

strand and brought it to rest on the sparkling surface of the blade. He raised

it with great care to his waiting tongue. Even so, as he licked off the semen he

nicked himself, and a red blossom splashed on his penis. He looked down, then

closed his eyes to savor the salty blood and silky seed mixing in his mouth, so

viscous and so pure. He knew that even minutes from now the braided aftertaste

would remain a constant and pleasant reminder. Now he was ready for her. He had

served himself the sacrament of semen, and had received the blessings of blood:

He was the altar boy now God in the dark house of the Lord.
Dominus vobiscum.
Et cum spiritu tuo.
"Don't move," he whispered as if there might have been someone else in the

bedroom, "and I won't hurt you."
He believed that too, that he wouldn't hurt her. Each of those moments had their

own kind of truth, and each of them would prove to be false, for that would be

then and this was now.
She felt both of his hands on her back, the right one curled, as if it might be

holding something— the knife, or razor? Her thoughts kept lurching back to that

staggering fear: Don't cut me.
He circled around Celia on his knees, took one hand off her back and pulled up

her nightgown, then stared at her skin. He felt like a jeweler with a gemstone,

something raw and wonderful waiting to be cut, a man who can see every little

detail in what he's about to handle, the preciousness and precariousness of his

venture, who knows that nothing can be rushed because one little upset, just one

little slip of the wrist could turn all of his efforts to dust.
He had a sudden urge to cup the milky perfection of those cheeks, to fill his

palms as he kissed that dark circle with his lips and tongue. He put his razor

back in his pocket and held them dearly, the plump rectitude alive in his hands,

and he spread them until she was as open as a field.
Celia felt her skin stretch and the invasion of cool air from the window— the

stark utter nakedness of the night— and then she knew his hot breath. His lips

and tongue followed, and she gripped the blanket tightly. She lay with her

buttocks clenched like angry fists and listened to the loud wet sounds he made

without the slightest hint of self-consciousness. Moments later his teeth began

to nibble her, and she slowly became aware of the way his lips were peeled back

and pressed against her skin. That sensation remained— even in the midst of all

this— unnerving, unnatural, and undeniably insistent. He paused and his breath

no longer felt hot, but chilling, passing over the moist remains like a fog. He

kneeled back and used both hands to yank down his pants. The belt buckle clanked

again, and she threw herself to the side, almost off the bed.
He grabbed her gown just below the armpit and jerked it so hard the sleeve tore

open. He rolled her onto her back and saw the look on her face. He knew what she

was going to do before she did. He was so sure of this he put his hand over her

mouth as the noise started to come out. He'd have to gag her. Hammers worked

best. Jam the head of it in her mouth and duct-tape it shut. He smiled when he

remembered how the handle stuck out, and he smiled again when he heard her try

to scream. Try all you want. Try-try-try. He felt his hand crushing her lips;

and then he felt something else, something so completely painful that all he

could do was gasp.
Celia was biting him. Her teeth were grinding through a chunk of his hand right

below his thumb. She was biting down so hard she could feel his skin pressing

against her gums.
He yelled an obscenity and tried to pull his hand free.
Good-good, her thoughts howled as his skin began to tear. She bit down even

more. He pushed her head to the side and held it at arm's length. Celia became

vaguely aware of blood seeping into her mouth and starting to run down her

throat. He tried to punch her face, but landed only one ineffective blow before

she reached up and protected herself. She ground her teeth deeper and deeper

into his palm until her mouth all but filled with his pulpy flesh. Her jaw ached

from the fury of her bite, as if there were hollow spots under every tooth,

throbbing little pockets of pain. And he tasted horrible, like the tough salty

rind of some horrible stinking fruit; but she wouldn't let go, she couldn't.

She'd eat him alive if she had to.
He had never known anything like this— sheer fucking agony. She'd bitten through

to bone— he was sure of it— and when he tried smashing her head up and down, the

pain was so intense he thought he'd pass out. He wanted to rip out her fucking

eyes, do something— anything— that would hurt her forever, but he couldn't do a

fucking thing because first he had to get his goddamn hand out of her goddamn

mouth.
The trickle in Celia's throat grew thicker and thicker until she couldn't keep

herself from gagging. The first cough freed his hand. It flew from her mouth and

rage filled his face. She coughed again and kicked wildly at him, caught him in

the chest and heard a loud grunt as she lunged for the bathroom. She had just

clambered to her feet when he grabbed her leg with his bloody hand. It slipped

from her knee to her ankle, and for one surging moment she thought he'd lost his

grip; but then he yanked her leg and she fell facedown on the floor. He came

tumbling off the bed, but held on. With her free leg she kicked at him

frantically— mule kicks— but he never let go. He was like some large animal too

dumb and driven to consider its pain.
He lay there while she struggled, the two of them linked in the moonlight by his

grip. She clawed at the carpet to try to get away. He let her struggle. She

wasn't going anywhere, and he needed time to regroup. His thoughts were a swamp.