The Sphinx (16 page)

“Lorie,” he
hissed, “what the hell’s going on? Lorie, talk to me!”

She lay there
for a few more minutes, panting deeply and ignoring him, but then she slowly
turned her head and stared at him. Her green eyes, with pupils tightly closed,
looked menacing and cruel, and he remembered with a sensation of dread the
merciless animal eyes that had watched him while he slept after his mauling by
the dogs.

“Lorie?” he
asked. “Lorie, is that you?”

Still staring
at him, she gradually drew back her lips in a broad, vicious, naked snarl. Her
teeth were yellow and curved and sharp. She lifted herself up on her hands, and
began to crawl toward him across the bed. For a paralyzed moment, he thought he
was going to find himself powerless to move, but as she crept closer he rolled
off the side of the bed and stumbled halfway toward the bedroom door.

She crawled to
the edge of the bed on all fours, and knelt there, her lips still drawn back in
that leonine snarl, watching him and panting.

He felt chilled
and prickled with fright. Whatever this beast was, it didn’t seem to be Lorie
at all.

All of the
evening’s gentleness and radiance had drained out of her face, and she was
glaring at him now with utter animal impassiveness. Her hair was ruffled now,
like the mane of a lion, and the whole bedroom was pervaded by the musky scent
of her body.

“Lorie,” he
whispered.

The beast’s
eyes opened wider and watched him.

“Lorie, if
you’re inside there, if you’re inside that body... Lorie, listen!”

He edged back
toward the door, picking up his bathrobe from the chair and wrapping it slowly
around his right forearm. He had seen someone do that in a Tarzan movie when
threatened by a lioness, and for some ridiculous reason it seemed like the best
defense. But he didn’t take his eyes off her, and she didn’t take her eyes off
him, and the tension between them– stalked and stalker, victim and intended
prey–was unbearable.

“Lorie,” he
said huskily. “It’s me! It’s Gene! Don’t you recognize me? It’s Gene!”

What happened
then had him stammering with terror. Lorie bounded down from the bed, on all
fours, and leaped quickly towards the half-opened window. She pushed it wider
with her hand, and then climbed up on to the narrow sill. She turned her head
slowly around and regarded him with those green, closed, impenetrable eyes–and
then before he could stop her, she jumped out of sight.

“Lorie!” he
yelled.

He ran to the
window and looked down. It was thirty feet down to the gravel, and she must
have dropped like a stone. But in the shadowy darkness of the night, with the
oaks rustling in a chilly October wind, there was nothing down there at all. No
white nightdress sprawled on the drive.

No broken
Lorie, Nothing.

Out of the
corner of his eye, he glimpsed a pale-shape running toward the copse. It ran
faster than almost anything he had ever seen, in long, loping strides.

Then it
vanished in the darkness, and there was nothing at all but the creaking of the
old house and the banging of a window that someone had left ajar.

Gene, trembling
and numb, went across to the washbasin and drank a tumbler of water. Then he
sat down on the bedside chair and lit himself a cigarette. His immediate
response was to do something positive, like wake up Lorie’s mother, or knock on
Mathieu’s door, or call the police, but he was beginning to understand that,
with Lorie, he was going to need patience and subtlety.

Thinking about
it now, a few minutes later, he could hardly believe Lorie’s uncanny
transformation. Maybe Peter Graves was right, and she was suffering from some
kind of hysteria that made her believe she was a lion-person. But how did that
account for a thirty-foot leap into the darkness–head first–with no apparent
injury? And what about her scent, which still lingered?

It seemed from
what he had witnessed tonight that there were two distinct sides to Lorie’s
personality. One side was gentle and caring, and unquestionably human. The
other side was animal to the point of absolute cruelty. Yet he guessed that,
somehow, these two personalities overlapped. When Lorie was in a state of
complete humanity, she was obviously aware, from all the warnings she had given
him, that she also had an animal side to her nature. And when, tonight, he had
reminded the beast she had become that he was Gene, her husband, she seemed to
be able to recognize him for what he was, and leave him safe.

There was
something else that worried him, though. He went across to the bedside
telephone and picked it up. He dialed Maggie’s number, and waited for his
persistent ringing to wake her.

After almost
five minutes, she answered. She sounded terrible.

“Who the hell
is this?” Do you know what time it is?”

“Maggie, it’s
me, Gene.”

“Gene, for
God’s sake! It’s two in the morning! I just got to sleep.”

“Maggie, I’m
sorry, but I have to ask you something.”

Maggie sighed,
but it was plain from the tone of his voice that he was alarmed and anxious,

“Okay Gene, she
finally said, “fire away.” I just hope you haven’t rung to ask my recipe for
cinnamon cakes that’s all.”

“Maggie, it’s
the dogs.”

“Dogs? What
dogs?”

“You said you
were going to ask Enrico to check on the Semples’ dog licenses.”

She sounded
blurry. “That’s right, I did.”

“Well, what did
he say?”

“He said they
didn’t have any dog licenses, and he even made sure by calling a buddy of his
out at Mer-riara who knows the Semples pretty well He doesn’t think they have
any dogs at all.”

Gene took the
phone away from his ear. Then that was it. On the night that he’d crept into
the grounds of the Semple estate, looking for Lorie, he had probably found her.
The beast which had dragged him down from the creeper and attacked him so
viciously was his own wife.

“Thanks,
Maggie. I’ll probably call you tomorrow.” Then he went across to the window and
closed it. He also went across to the bedroom door and turned the key. He
dressed and lay down on top of the bedcovers to get some rest and await Lorie’s
return. Although he dozed, he didn’t actually sleep, and horrifying images of
Lorie’s snarling face kept rising from out of the darkness.

Around dawn,
when a grim washed-out light was just ‘appearing at the window, he heard noises
outside the door. He lifted his head from the pillow and listened hard. There
were soft, scuffling sounds, like someone walking barefoot down the corridor.
He rose as quietly as he could and tiptoed across the soft carpet to the door.
He put his ear to it and strained to hear what was outside.

After a while,
the door-handle slowly turned, and someone pushed firmly against the door.

Realizing the
door was locked, they rattled it, and pushed harder. Gene could feel the weight
of a body against the pine paneling, and the hinges creaked.

There was
another silence, and then the door was struck so hard from outside that it
rattled.

More silence.
Heavy, harsh breathing, and an odd sniffing sound.

Then a voice
said, “Gene?”

He was sweating
beads of icy perspiration, and he wiped his forehead with the back of his
sleeve. It was Lorie, or the animal that Lorie had become. He found that his
teeth were chattering, and he felt as if he was running a fever.

“Gene?” said
the voice again, more coaxingly.

He kept his
shoulder against the door, and his mouth tight shut.

“I know you’re
in there, Gene. Please open the door.”

It sounded so
much like the sweet, loving Lorie that he had married that he couldn’t believe
it.

What the hell
was he doing, keeping her locked out of their bedroom, when she was nothing
more nor less than his own beautiful wife?

“Gene?” she
whispered. “Open the door, Gene.”

He said
hoarsely. “I can’t.”

“Oh, please,
Gene. It’s cold out here. I’m cold.”

“Lorie, I’m...
I’m frightened.”

A short
silence.

“Frightened of
me, Gene? Why?”

“Don’t you
know? Do I have to spell it out? How can I open this door when you might jump
on me, the same way you did that night I climbed up the creeper?”

“Gene, you’re
not making sense.”

He coughed.
“Come on, Lorie, I’m making sense and you know it. As a matter of fact, I spent
most of yesterday having my secretary look up the history of the Ubasti. I know
what the Ubasti are now, Lorie, and I know why you look the way you do, and why
you’re proud of it.”

“Gene,” she
said tenderly, “open the door. Let’s talk.”

“We’re talking
now.”

“But it’s cold
out here, Gene. It’s drafty. Let me in, I’m not going to harm you.”

“How do I know?
I might open this door and then you might leap on me.”

“Gene–did you
see the way I was? Did you see what I did, and how I couldn’t even talk to you?

Gene, I’m not
like that now. Can’t you hear that Tm just your wife?”

Gene bit his
lip and stared thoughtfully at the key In the door. If he turned it, and let
her in, he might be surrendering himself as weakly and easily as a Smith’s
gazelle. On the other hand, she might be right. Now that the animal phase
seemed to have passed, she might be as harmless and affectionate as always.

“Wait a
minute,” he said. He stepped away from the door, and picked up a small wooden
chair from the corner of the room. Then, keeping it raised in his right hand,
he gingerly reached out with his left and turned the key.

“I’ve opened
it,” he called. “You can come in now. But, please, no sudden moves.”

She didn’t
answer. Slowly, she turned the handle, and the latch clicked free. The door
opened with a small shudder and swung gradually back on squeaking hinges, He
couldn’t see her at first. Although it was dawn, the landing was still dark,
and all he could make out was a tall, shadowy shape. He could hear her
breathing, though, in low, purring gasps, and he could see the glint in her
eyes.

“Okay, Lorie.
Step inside.”

She came forward
two or three paces into the room. He backed off warily, holding the chair up
like an amateur lion-tamer. When she reached the center of the room, next to
the four-poster bed, she paused. It was still so gloomy that he found it hard
to make her out.

“Lorie,” he
said. “Just stay there. I’m going to switch on the bedside lamp.”

Reaching behind
him, keeping his eyes on her motionless form, he groped for the switch. He
found it, clasped it in the palm of his hand, and clicked it on.

He thought for a split second that she was dressed in a
scarlet robe. But then, with almost intolerable disgust, he saw that she was
naked, and that she was smothered in dripping blood. It clung in congealing
grumes in her wild nahrana surrounded her mouth as-if she’d been guzzling at
gory flesh. All down her front, all over her breasts, all down her thighs, the
bright red liquid ran wet and glossy like a butcher’s apron.

“W
hat have you done?” he whispered Then shouted: “Lorie! What have
you done?”

She pulled
across to the washbasin, leaving bloody footprints on the carpet, and turned
both faucets on full. Then she splashed her face and chest with water and wiped
off the worst of the gore with a facecloth and a towel.

“Lorie,” said
Gene, shaking, “Lorie, will you tell me what’s happened?”

“I saved your
life,” she said quietly, looking away.

“You did what?
Lorie, for Christ’s sake...”

She turned and
stared at him. “I saved your life by slaughtering a sheep. If I hadn’t, then it
might have been you.”

He couldn’t
believe it. He was nearly hysterical. “You went out there tonight, with no
clothes on, and you found a sheep and you killed it and ate it raw?”

She washed off
some more of the blood. She seemed calm, but quite unrepentant.

“Does it
surprise you?” she said. “You knew I was a Ubasti. You knew that we are
lion-people, my mother and I. Why is it any worse for us to kill and eat a
sheep in the field than it is for you to eat a sheep that’s been roasted and
brought to the table?”

“But you said
it might have been me, supposing you hadn’t saved my life? Supposing the lion
instinct in you was too strong?”

She dried
herself, and went to the wardrobe to choose a new nightdress. “It wasn’t, and
you were safe. That’s a…”

Gene felt a
tide of nausea rising in his throat. He set down the chak he had been holding
and reached in his pockets for a cigarette. There was only one left, and it was
crumpled and bent. He straightened it and lit it.

“Lorie,” he
said, “you know that this is the end.”

She was tying
up the ribbons of a floor-length nightdress in yellow embroidered cotton. “You
mean you’re going to leave me?”

“I don’t see
what else I can do. I can’t take any more of this. I can’t trust you anymore.
How can I sleep with you, knowing that you might turn on me in, the night and
tear out my throat? It’s not possible.”

Lorie combed
out her hair, then switched off the light over the washbasin mirror. She sat
down on the edge of the bed, and looked up at Gene sadly and pensively.

“You must hate
me,” she said. “You must think I’m totally loathsome.”

“Lorie,” he
said, “I don’t think that. But I can’t take this kind of situation any longer.
It frightens the hell out of me. Don’t you understand that?”

“Of course. I
know what you must be feeling. But don’t you see, Gene, that feeding like this
is natural, to me? To me, it’s just as ordinary and uncomplicated as
breathing.”

He ran his hand
through his hair. “Lorie, I can’t take it! There is no way, no way at all, that
I can take-Jt. I mean, how often do you get like this? Is it every eight? Or
once a month? Or what?”