The Servants of Twilight (44 page)
Destiny.
That was a word and a concept to which he had never given much thought. If anyone had asked him last week if he believed in destiny, he would probably have said he did not. Now, it seemed a simple, natural, and undeniable truth that all men and women had a destiny to fulfill and that his lay with this woman and this child.
They closed the heavy draperies at the bedroom window, and left a lamp on with a towel draped over the shade to soften the light. Joey fell asleep while they were arranging the towel. Chewbacca had curled up on the bed, too. Christine quietly motioned for the dog to get down, but it just stared mournfully at her. Charlie whispered that Chewbacca could stay where he was, and finally he and Christine retreated from the room with exaggerated stealth, leaving the door ajar an inch or two.
As they went downstairs she looked back a couple of times, as if having second thoughts about leaving the boy alone, but Charlie held her arm and steered her firmly to the table. They sat and had coffee and talked, while the wind moaned in the eaves and grainy snow tapped at the windows or hissed along the glass.
Charlie said, “Now, once this storm is past and the roads are open farther down the mountain, I’ll want to go into the market to use the pay phone, call Henry Rankin, see what’s up. I’ll be going in every two days, at least, maybe even every day, and when I’m gone I think you and Joey ought to hole up in the battery room, under the windmill. It—”
“No,” she said quickly. “If you go down the mountain, we go with you.”
“It’ll get tiring if it has to be done every day.”
“I can handle it.”
“But maybe Joey can’t.”
“We won’t stay here alone,” she said adamantly.
“But with the police looking for us, we’ll be more noticeable as a group, more easily—”
“We go with you everywhere,” she said. “Please.
Please
.”
Please
.”
He nodded. “All right.”
He got a map that he had purchased at the sporting goods store in Sacramento, spread it out on the table, and showed her their back door escape route, which they would use if, against all odds, Spivey’s people showed up, and if there was enough time to escape. They would go farther up the mountain, to the top of the next ridge, turn east into the valley that lay that way, find the stream at the bottom of the valley, and follow it south toward the lake. It was a journey of four or five miles—which would seem like a hundred in the snow-blanketed wilderness. But there would be good landmarks all the way and little chance of getting lost as long as they had the map and a compass.
Gradually, their conversation drifted away from Grace Spivey, and they talked about themselves, exploring each other’s past, likes and dislikes, hopes and dreams, getting a better fix on each other than they’d had an opportunity to do thus far. In time they moved away from the table, switched off all the lights, and sat on the big sofa in front of the stone hearth, with nothing but the softly flickering firelight to hold back the shadows. Their conversation became more intimate, and more was said with fewer words, and finally even their silences conveyed a richness of information.
Charlie couldn’t remember the first kiss; he just suddenly realized that they had been touching and kissing with increasing ardor for some time, and then his hand was on her breast, and he could feel her erect nipple through her blouse, hot upon the center of his palm. Her tongue moved within his mouth, and it was very hot, too, and her lips were searing, and when he touched her face with his fingertips the contact was so electrifying that it seemed as if sparks and smoke should issue from it. He had never wanted or needed a woman a fraction as much as he did Christine, and judging from the way her body arched against him and the way her muscles tensed, she wanted and needed him with a passion equal to his own. He knew that, in spite of their circumstances, in spite of the less than ideal trysting place that fate had provided, they would make love tonight; it was inevitable.
Her blouse was unbuttoned now. He lowered his mouth to her breasts.
“Charlie . . .” she said softly.
He licked her swollen nipples, first one, then the other, lovingly.
“No,” she said, but she did not push him away with any conviction, only halfheartedly, wanting to be convinced.
“I love you,” he said, meaning it. In just a few days, he had fallen in love with her exquisitely composed face, with her body, with her complex mind and wit, with her courage in the face of adversity, with her indomitable spirit, with the way she walked, with the way her hair looked in the wind . . .
“Joey . . .” she said.
“He’s sleeping.”
“He might wake up . . .”
Charlie kissed her throat, felt the throbbing of her pulse against his lips. Her heart was beating fast. So was his.
“He might come out to the gallery . . . look down and see us,” she said.
He led her away from the firelight, to a long, deep sofa that was under the gallery overhang, out of sight. The shadows were deep and purple.
“We shouldn’t,” she said, but she kept kissing his neck, his chin, lips, cheeks, and eyes. “Even here . . . if he wakes up . . .”
“He’ll call to us first,” Charlie said, breathless, aching with need. “He won’t just come down into a dark living room.”
She kissed his nose, each corner of his mouth, planted a chain of kisses along his jawline, kissed his ear.
His hands moved over her body, and he thrilled to the perfect form and texture of her. Each sweet concavity and convexity, each enticing angle, the swell of breasts and hips, the taut flatness of belly, the ripeness of buttocks, the sleek roundness of thigh and calf—all of her seemed, to the millimeter, a precise definition of ideal femininity.
“All right,” she said weakly. “But silently . . .”
“Not a sound,” he promised.
“Not a sound.”
“Not one small sound . . .”
The wind moaned at the window above the sofa, but he gave voice to his own intense pleasure only in his mind.
It’s the wrong
moment, she thought hazily. The wrong place. The wrong time. The wrong everything.
moment, she thought hazily. The wrong place. The wrong time. The wrong everything.
Joey. Might. Wake up.
But although it should matter, it didn’t seem to, not much, not enough for her to resist.
He had said he loved her, and she had said she loved him, and she knew they had both meant it, that it was true, real. She didn’t know for sure how long she had loved him, but if she thought about it hard enough she would probably be able to fix the precise moment in which respect and admiration and affection had been transformed into something better and more powerful. After all, she had known him only a few days; the moment of love’s birth should not be difficult to pin down in that brief span of time. Of course, at the moment, she couldn’t think hard about anything, or clearly; she was swept away, though such a condition was out of character for her.
In spite of their protestations of love, it wasn’t merely love that induced her to cast caution aside and take the risk of being overheard in the midst of their passion: it was good, healthy lust, too. She had never wanted a man as much as she wanted Charlie. Suddenly she
had
to have him within her, couldn’t
breathe
until he took her. His body was lean, the muscles hard and well defined; his sculpted shoulders, his rocklike biceps, smooth broad chest—everything about him excited her to an extent that she had never been excited before. Every nerve in her body was many times more sensitive than before; each kiss and touch, each stroke he took within her, was so explosively pleasurable that it bordered on pain, astonishing pleasure, pleasure that filled her and drove out everything else, every other thought, until she clung mindlessly to him, amazed at the abandon with which she embraced him, unable to understand or resist the primitive rutting fever that possessed her.
had
to have him within her, couldn’t
breathe
until he took her. His body was lean, the muscles hard and well defined; his sculpted shoulders, his rocklike biceps, smooth broad chest—everything about him excited her to an extent that she had never been excited before. Every nerve in her body was many times more sensitive than before; each kiss and touch, each stroke he took within her, was so explosively pleasurable that it bordered on pain, astonishing pleasure, pleasure that filled her and drove out everything else, every other thought, until she clung mindlessly to him, amazed at the abandon with which she embraced him, unable to understand or resist the primitive rutting fever that possessed her.
The need to
be quiet, the oath of silence, had a strangely powerful erotic effect. Even when Charlie climaxed, he did not cry out, but gripped her hips and held her against him and arched his back and opened his mouth but remained mute, and somehow, by containing the cry he also contained his energy and virility, for he didn’t lose his erection, not even for a moment, and they paused only to change positions, remaining welded together, but sliding around on the sofa until she was on top, and then she rode him with a pneumatic fluidity and a sinuous rhythm that was unlike anything he had ever known before, and he lost track of time and place, lost himself in the soft, silken, silent song of flesh and motion.
be quiet, the oath of silence, had a strangely powerful erotic effect. Even when Charlie climaxed, he did not cry out, but gripped her hips and held her against him and arched his back and opened his mouth but remained mute, and somehow, by containing the cry he also contained his energy and virility, for he didn’t lose his erection, not even for a moment, and they paused only to change positions, remaining welded together, but sliding around on the sofa until she was on top, and then she rode him with a pneumatic fluidity and a sinuous rhythm that was unlike anything he had ever known before, and he lost track of time and place, lost himself in the soft, silken, silent song of flesh and motion.
She had never
in her life been so lacking in self-consciousness while making love. For long moments she forgot where she was, even who she was; she became an animal, a mindlessly copulating organism intent on taking pleasure, oblivious of all else. Only once was the hypnotic rhythm of their lovemaking interrupted, and that was when she was suddenly stricken by the feeling that Joey had come downstairs and was standing in the shadows, watching them, but when she lifted her head from Charlie’s chest and looked around, she saw nothing but the shadowy forms of the furniture, backlit by the dying fire, and she knew she was only imagining things. Then love-lust-sex seized her again with a power that was startling and even scary, and she gave herself to the act, was unable to do anything else, was lost, utterly.
in her life been so lacking in self-consciousness while making love. For long moments she forgot where she was, even who she was; she became an animal, a mindlessly copulating organism intent on taking pleasure, oblivious of all else. Only once was the hypnotic rhythm of their lovemaking interrupted, and that was when she was suddenly stricken by the feeling that Joey had come downstairs and was standing in the shadows, watching them, but when she lifted her head from Charlie’s chest and looked around, she saw nothing but the shadowy forms of the furniture, backlit by the dying fire, and she knew she was only imagining things. Then love-lust-sex seized her again with a power that was startling and even scary, and she gave herself to the act, was unable to do anything else, was lost, utterly.
Before they were
done, Charlie had been shaken by three orgasms, and he had lost count of the number of times she had climaxed, but he didn’t need a scorecard to know that neither of them had ever experienced anything like this in the past. When it was over, he was still trembling, and he felt drugged. They lay for a time, neither speaking, until they gradually became aware of the wind howling outside and realized that the dying fire had allowed a chill to creep back into the room. Then, reluctantly, they dressed and went upstairs, where they prepared the second bedroom for her.
done, Charlie had been shaken by three orgasms, and he had lost count of the number of times she had climaxed, but he didn’t need a scorecard to know that neither of them had ever experienced anything like this in the past. When it was over, he was still trembling, and he felt drugged. They lay for a time, neither speaking, until they gradually became aware of the wind howling outside and realized that the dying fire had allowed a chill to creep back into the room. Then, reluctantly, they dressed and went upstairs, where they prepared the second bedroom for her.
“I should sleep with Joey and let you have this bed,” she said.
“No. You’ll only wake him if you go in there now. The poor kid needs his rest.”
“But where will you sleep?” she asked.
“In the gallery.”
“On the floor?”
“I’ll put a sleeping bag at the head of the stairs.”
For a moment anxiety replaced the dreaminess in her eyes. “I thought you said there was no way they could get here tonight even if—”
He put a finger to her lips. “There isn’t any way. No way at all. But it wouldn’t do for Joey to find me sleeping in your bed in the morning, would it? And most of the sofas downstairs are too soft for sleeping. So if I’m going to use a sleeping bag, I might as well put it at the head of the stairs.”
“And keep a gun at your side?”
“Of course. Even though I won’t need it. I really won’t, you know. So let’s get you tucked in.”
When she was under the covers, he kissed her goodnight and backed out of the room, leaving her door ajar.
In the gallery, he looked at his watch and was startled to see how late it was. Could they have been making love for almost two hours? No. Surely not. There had been something frighteningly, deliciously animalistic about their coupling; they had indulged with an abandon and an intensity that stole the meaning from time, but he had never thought of himself as a rampaging stud, and he could not believe that he had performed so insatiably for so long. Yet his watch had never run fast before; surely it couldn’t have gained an extra hour or more in just the past thirty minutes.
He realized he was standing there, alone, outside her bedroom door, grinning like the Cheshire cat, full of selfsatisfaction.
He built up the fire downstairs, carried a sleeping bag to the gallery and unrolled it, switched off the landing light, and slipped into the bedroll. He listened to the storm raging outside, but not for long. Sleep came like a great dark tide.
In the dream,
he was tucking Joey into bed, straightening the covers, fluffing the boy’s pillow, and Joey wanted to give him a goodnight kiss, and Charlie leaned over, but the boy’s lips were hard and cold on his cheek, and when he looked down he saw the boy no longer had a face but just a bare skull with two staring eyes that seemed horribly out of place in that otherwise calcimine countenance. Charlie hadn’t felt lips against his cheek but a fleshless mouth, cold teeth. He recoiled in terror. Joey threw back the covers and sat up in bed. He was a normal little boy in every respect except for having only a skull instead of a complete head. The skull’s protuberant eyes fixed on Charlie, and the boy’s small hands began unbuttoning his Space Raiders pajamas, and when his shallow little chest was revealed it began to split open, and Charlie tried to turn and run but couldn’t, couldn’t close his eyes either, couldn’t look away, could only watch as the child’s chest cracked apart and from it streamed a horde of red-eyed rats like the one in the battery room, ten and then a hundred and then a thousand rats, until the boy had emptied himself and had collapsed into a pile of skin, like a deflated balloon, and then the rats surged forward toward Charlie—
he was tucking Joey into bed, straightening the covers, fluffing the boy’s pillow, and Joey wanted to give him a goodnight kiss, and Charlie leaned over, but the boy’s lips were hard and cold on his cheek, and when he looked down he saw the boy no longer had a face but just a bare skull with two staring eyes that seemed horribly out of place in that otherwise calcimine countenance. Charlie hadn’t felt lips against his cheek but a fleshless mouth, cold teeth. He recoiled in terror. Joey threw back the covers and sat up in bed. He was a normal little boy in every respect except for having only a skull instead of a complete head. The skull’s protuberant eyes fixed on Charlie, and the boy’s small hands began unbuttoning his Space Raiders pajamas, and when his shallow little chest was revealed it began to split open, and Charlie tried to turn and run but couldn’t, couldn’t close his eyes either, couldn’t look away, could only watch as the child’s chest cracked apart and from it streamed a horde of red-eyed rats like the one in the battery room, ten and then a hundred and then a thousand rats, until the boy had emptied himself and had collapsed into a pile of skin, like a deflated balloon, and then the rats surged forward toward Charlie—
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