Resurrection Dreams (37 page)

“It’ll wash.”

“We can throw it in the laundry like your shorts.”

“Not wearing any,” he said.

“I didn’t suppose you were.” Her heart quickened and she felt a warm spreading glow.

She smiled up at Jack as she remembered his embarrassment when his skimpy briefs had fluttered to the floor of Ace’s kitchen. That seemed like weeks ago. It was only last night. Tonight, the place on the floor where they’d dropped was smeared with Ace’s blood.

Vicki’s smile died.

“Come on,” Jack said. He took her hand and led her to the stairway.

She saw her note taped to the top of the newel post. Brushing it with a fingertip, she said, “Didn’t you read it?”

His face looked blank. “I was asleep till you rang the doorbell. I hurried right down.”

“Don’t you want to read it now?”

“It can wait. You’re here. That’s all that matters.”

Vicki felt a small pull of disappointment. Didn’t he care what she’d written to him? Though the note was brief, it told of her love for him, her regret for sneaking out while he slept, her hopes that soon there would be no need for her to leave. She glanced back at it as she climbed the stairs. The note looked abandoned.

He’s right, she told herself. What’s the big deal? I’m here. We’re together. That’s what counts.

At the top of the stairs, he released her hand. “You go ahead and take your shower. I’ll phone the police and make sure they’ve arrested Melvin.”

“All right.” She didn’t want to be left alone. But it would be good to know, for sure, that Melvin was in custody. “When you’re done, why don’t you come in…and wash my back?”

Jack grinned in a way that made something go tight inside her. There was nothing of tenderness or love in that grin. It looked wolfish, leering. She supposed it was meant to be amusing, but it seemed awfully inappropriate.

“Very funny,” she muttered.

Walking through the hallway, she glanced back at him. He hadn’t moved. He was watching her, hands thrust into the pockets of his robe. For a moment, she was reminded of the way Pollock used to look on those mornings when he waited for her in the apartment corridor to lecture her, to ogle her.

She entered the master bedroom. Staring at the bed, she was filled with a rush of memories: the feel of him inside her, his gentleness, their soft words, his hinting of marriage, the way she had ached with love when she covered his sleeping body with a sheet before leaving.

None of that fit in with the harsh, lusting way he’d looked at her in the hall.

What had changed?

Maybe nothing.

He’s tired, she told herself. I’m tired. It was nothing. He was trying to be funny and I’m just not in the mood for it. Too much has happened.

She stepped into the adjoining bathroom, snapped the light on, and shut the door. Her hand curled around the knob. Her thumb jabbed its lock button down.

That’s ridiculous, she thought. What’s the matter with me?

What’s the matter with him?

You invited him in, and now you’re locking the door?

He gave me that look.

Big deal. Forget it.

Shaking her head, she turned the knob. The lock button popped out with a quiet ping.

She moved in front of the mirror, and curled her lip when she saw herself. So much like last night. But instead of black, greasy smudges from Charlie’s body, it was stains of blood from Ace. Even her chin, though she’d wiped it with a tissue at the hospital, had a reddish smear.

Quickly, she turned her back to the mirror. She slipped her blouse off, reached back and draped it over the edge of the sink. Then, she removed her bra.

The blood had soaked through to her skin. Her chest, her breasts, her belly—all were marred by faint spots and blotches as if she’d been sunburned through a torn garment gaping with holes.

She turned toward the sound of the door swinging open.

Jack stood there in his robe.

The nasty leer was gone, but his eyes lingered on her. She had an urge to cover her breasts…but that’d be absurd. “Did you make the call?” she asked.

He nodded. “They arrested Melvin. They’ve got him in jail.”

“That’s great,” she said. But she felt no relief, only uneasiness about the change in Jack. “Is something wrong?” she asked.

“No. Everything’s fine. And you look…terrific.”

“I wish you wouldn’t stare at me like that.”

He came toward her. Vicki took a step backward, then stopped herself.

This is Jack, for godsake. Jack.

He took her by the shoulders, drew her forward, and kissed her. His mouth felt quick and eager. More urgent than before, but so familiar. It opened. It sucked her lips, slid down and licked her chin. Where the blood stain was.

“Don’t,” she murmured.

Then moaned as a hand moved to her breast. His other hand tore the bandage from her shoulder. She flinched as the tape pulled her skin.

“Jack.”

He said nothing. He squeezed her breast. He squeezed her bitten shoulder. The surging pleasure and pain and made her squirm.

“You’re…hurting.”

His mouth went away from her chin. He sucked the side of her neck. Her mouth fell open and she writhed, gasping. She dug her fingers into his buttocks through the thickness of the robe, and pressed him hard against her.

He no longer squeezed her shoulder. The hand roamed down her side, rucked up her skirt, hooked her panties down around her thighs.

His wet mouth slipped over her skin. He kissed her shoulder. Licked the wounds left by Charlie’s teeth last night.

“Don’t do that,” she murmured. “Hey, come on.”

He bit.

Fire bolted through her body. She jerked rigid and cried out. His teeth sank deeper. She shuddered in spasms of pain as she felt them grinding her.

When she tried to twist away, he clutched her buttocks with both hands, lifted her, turned her, slammed her against the bathroom wall. The impact snapped her head back. It struck the wall. Her vision exploded with brilliant lights, then dimmed.

She told herself to move, to struggle. But her body wouldn’t respond to the commands of her dulled mind.

She was aware of Jack sucking blood from her shoulder. She heard wet smacking sounds, slurping sounds. She felt no pain. Just pulling sensations.

Then she felt herself being impaled.

He sucked and thrust, pounding her limp body against the bathroom wall.

It went on and on. Vicki tried to lift her arms, wanting to make it stop. But they flopped uselessly at her sides, bumping the wall each time he rammed.

Later, she realized the wall was no longer against her back. Instead, there was the cool tile of the bathroom floor. She gazed at the ceiling. It took her a moment to become aware that Jack wasn’t on top of her. She tried to lift her head, couldn’t.

She heard thumping, splattering sounds. Familiar sounds. Water bashing down, filling the bathtub beside her.

The noise shut off.

Jack loomed over her. He straddled her hips, staring down. His robe hung open. Across his belly, just above the navel, was a white strip of bandage. It looked like a mouth, the mouth of a strange design carved on his abdomen, drawn in lines that were threads of dried blood, leaking in places, droplets trickling down his skin…an upside-down pyramid inside a circle…ovals like eyes at the corners…the bandage its mouth.

A face. An evil face.

Something from…black magic? That changed Jack, made him evil.

And her mind pulled a memory out of its dense fog—Charlie sitting behind his desk at the clinic, specks of blood appearing on his shirt.

She gazed up at Jack’s face. His mouth and chin glimmered with blood. Her blood. She searched his eyes. They looked down at her, wide, frantic, somehow both gleeful and frightened. She saw no hint of the Jack she had known, had loved.

“Melvin,” she muttered. “Wha…wha’d he do…to you?”

The wild glee vanished from his eyes. His face twisted with fear and rage. “You filthy rotten slut!” he squealed. “You made me do it.” He swept down, bending at the waist, and his open hand smacked her cheek, rocked her head sideways. “I wasn’t supposed to touch you, damn it! You made me! He won’t like it. He won’t like it one bit! It’s all your fault!”

Squatting beside her, Jack rammed his arms under her back and legs. He picked her up, lurched forward, and dropped her.

Into the bathtub. The cold water clenched her, covered her but cushioned her fall. Softly, she bumped the bottom of the tub. She curled upward and caught a breath before Jack’s hand clutched her face and pushed it down. The hand went away. She thrust herself up, gasping, and saw Jack climb into the tub.

He reached down for her feet. She jerked her legs back, knees rising out of the water, but he crouched and grabbed her ankles and pulled them toward him. Her back slid. Her face went under.

Forcing her eyes to stay open, Vicki watched him through inches of water that swirled pink from the blood of her shoulder. He stood, holding her legs up, yelling words that sounded faint and mushy.

Her heart felt like a bludgeoning club. Her lungs burned.

What did Melvin do to him?

He’s gonna drown me.

She squirmed and kicked, but he didn’t loose his hold. She shoved her hands against the sides and bottom of the tub, trying to push herself up. And she did get closer to the surface, but Jack raised her legs higher. Her head pressed the bottom. Through the blurry pink, she saw her legs nearly straight up, saw her pubic hair and belly out of the water, felt her rump against Jack’s legs, felt ripples on the undersides of her breasts. He almost had her standing on her head.

I’m gonna die, she thought. Jesus, this is it.

Then he shoved downward. She felt her back slide, her body unbend and enter the cold water, her head rise as it ran up the slope at the rear of the tub. Her face broke the surface and she gulped air.

Jack, crouching, still held her ankles. He glared at her. “You won’t tell him a thing!”

Vicki jerked her head from side to side.

“I didn’t bite you, I didn’t fuck you! Right?”

“Right,” she choked out.

“You came back and you were bloody so I let you take a shower. I wanted you clean for him.”

“Yes! Yes!”

“You’re not going to tell on me.”

“No!”

“Promise?”

“Yes!” With a palsied hand, she splashed water as she drew an X on her submerged chest. “Cross my heart. I promise. Please.”

Jack released her ankles. He stood and climbed out of the tub. Vicki sat up. “Get out of there and dry off. You can wear this,” he said, and pulled the robe off. He tossed it to the floor, turned away from her, and reached for a towel.

He kept his back to Vicki and rubbed himself with the towel while she clambered over the wall of the tub. She flopped onto the floor, panting.

“Don’t just lay there.”

The ceiling seemed to be spinning slowly, tipping.

“Move it!”

“My shoulder,” she muttered.

A dry washcloth fluttered above her, dropped onto her right breast. Still on her back, she folded the cloth and pressed it gently against the torn flesh of her shoulder.

Moaning, she sat up.

Jack opened the bathroom door. “I’ll be right back,” he said. “Don’t try anything.” He stepped into the master bedroom.

Throwing herself forward, Vicki scurried on hands and knees toward the door. She was almost there when Jack spun around. He lunged for the door. She smashed it shut with a swing of her fist. The door slammed. She rose on her knees. Reached for the knob. For the lock button.

The door flew at her, knocked her hand aside, crashed into her forehead.

She came awake in darkness, her head throbbing and spinning. She didn’t know where she was, but her wet hair forced the memory of looking up at Jack through the bathtub water. She remembered what he’d done before throwing her into the tub. She tried to think forward, to getting out of the tub, but the memories stopped with her still under water and thinking she would drown.

She knew she was no longer in the tub. She was on a cushion. She was wearing something dry and warm on top, sodden and chilly lower where it clung to her rump and legs. Jack’s robe? She remembered him wearing it when he squatted in the tub and grabbed her ankles.

Was she on the bed in Jack’s master bedroom?

She tried to push herself up. The dizziness flipped her stomach. She grabbed the edge of the cushion and dragged herself sideways and vomited onto the floor.

When she finished, she rolled away from the edge. Lying curled on her side, she saw a seatback in front of her. There was dim light above it. And a head. A head that turned. A face that was a pale oval, dark smudges for its eyes and mouth. Jack.

The face turned away, and Jack kept on driving.

She knew where he was taking her.

To Melvin.

She tried to make herself as small as she felt, snuggling her back against the rise of the seat cushion, drawing up her knees, hugging her breasts through the heavy softness of the terri cloth robe.

Taking me to Melvin, she thought.

Following orders.

“Jack?” Her voice sounded small and far away. “What did he do to you, Jack?”

“Remember what I said about telling,” he warned.

“I remember. I won’t say anything. What did he do to you? How did he make you…we loved each other.”

“That so?”

“Oh, God,” she moaned.

“You’re Melvin’s,” he said. “That’s all I know. I wasn’t supposed to touch you, just pretend I was your boyfriend and bring you back to him. That’s all. But you had to flaunt yourself and tempt me, you damn whore, and I lost my cool.”

“It’s that…thing…on your stomach. That face or whatever it is.”

“I wouldn’t know.”

“Do you know who I am?”

“Vicki.”

Her heart seemed to jump, pumping blood into her head, making it throb. Squinting against the pain, she sat up. She scooted across the seat, away from the vomit, and swung her feet to the floor.

Jack twisted the rearview mirror so he could keep an eye on her. “Don’t even think about trying something. Last time, I almost broke your head open.”

She settled down against the cushion and stared at the back of his head. “What’s my last name?” she asked.