Succubi Part 12

"I don't know, honey," she said, but she was thinking, Maybe Dad's already died. Maybe Dad's already died. What else could explain the crowd of vehicles? What else could explain the crowd of vehicles?

The cast of Martin's face indicated he had similar thoughts. Instead, he just said, "Let's go."

Walking up, Ann thought the rest of the town must be jealous. The house was old but well kept. The s.p.a.cious yard and topiary were meticulously maintained. Ann knew her father had never made lots of money working farmland, and her mother accepted no pay for running the town council. The town had incorporated itself years ago; the farmland to the south was not privately but collectively owned, which was common in these parts. The profits were shared, yet Ann couldn't imagine that they were significant. How did this town maintain itself? Moreover, how did her parents? All towns had their share of poor and wealthy. Everybody here seemed to be the same, save for the Slaviks.

The silence weighed her down. They approached the house, saying nothing, and ludicrously paused at the porticoed front door. Nothing could be heard within, yet she saw subtle movements past the narrow windows. Like people standing around.

Like a funeral reception, she had to think. she had to think.

Her hand locked in midair. That door knocker always rasped her eye-a small oval of dull, old bra.s.s in the shape of a face. But the face was bereft of features, save for two, wide empty eyes. There was no mouth, no nose, no jawline really-just the eyes.

That's what bothered her-it always had. The eyes, though ominous, seemed somehow to welcome her.

"I'm sure you've all heard about it by now," Dr. Greene supposed. He sat at his big ugly gray metal desk, eating a Chunky. He had very short blond hair and was built like a fireplug, which never quite helped him look the part. He was chief of Psychiatric Services at the state mental hospital. A welter of psychiatric paraphernalia filled his office: Smith, Klein, and French calendars, Stelazine paperweights, a desk set advertising Lily pharmaceuticals. He drank juice out of a Haldol coffee cup and wrote with a pen that read "Xanax (alprazolam) 0.5mg tabs. Use it first!" He got all the stuff free from drug reps. These guys were like car salesmen, hyping themselves over the compet.i.tion. Large orders often promised paid vacations. Dr. Greene didn't want vacations in return for providing drugs that frequently turned human beings into docile dayroom potatoes. But he did like the pens and coffee cups. "Serious elopement yesterday," he said.

Dr. Harold sat down. "How many?"

"Two."

"Not bad."

"Not good," Greene countered. "They killed two people before they even got off the grounds. Today they killed a munic.i.p.al cop."

"What are their profiles?"

Dr. Harold, though a successful private pract.i.tioner, did free consulting and inpatient profile evaluation on the side. Many private doctors did this as a gesture of professional goodwill. The state hospitals were overcrowded and understaffed, some to the breaking point. Dr. Harold offered his services a few hours per week to allow state staff to tend to more essential duties.

Greene took another bite of his Chunky. "First we got Richard 'Duke' Belluxi. Thirtyfive years old, I.Q. 113. Stage sociopath. They got him on a rapo fifteen years ago, but we know he did a lot more. We Amytaled the son of a b.i.t.c.h and figure he killed at least half a dozen people in his late teens, all s.e.xually motivated. LH levels out the roof, this guy would f.u.c.k a brick wall if there was a hole in it. He did about ten years here before we gave him a roam status."

"Why isn't he in prison?"

Greene laughed without smiling. "He Gansered his way in. Made up a detailed delusion and stuck to it, then started doing the word salad for the court. You know how the judges are in this state. The guy raped a sixteenyearold girl and cut off her arms for kicks, and the judge makes Belluxi look like the victim. Tell that to the girl-she lived. Anyway, we were stuck with him. A decade went by and he never caused much trouble, just mouthing off, a few confrontations with some techs. ACLU lawyer said he was going to sue the hospital if we didn't give Belluxi some GB status. Said we were violating the guy's rights. The way I see it his rights went out the window when he chopped off that girl's arms, but you know how that is. Bet those grapeheads would sing a different tune if it was their their daughters that Belluxi was cutting up." daughters that Belluxi was cutting up."

"Like Kojak says: 'The system stinks, baby, but there ain't a better one.'"

"Sure."

"Who's the second elopement?"

"Tharp, Erik, twentynine, I.Q. 137, but he doesn't do much on the diagnostics. A drug burnout. Never a problem. Been in almost five years. We gave him Cla.s.s II last week. We figure he's calling the shots, and Belluxi's the muscle."

"What did he do?"

Greene put his feet up on the desk, sighed. "We're not sure. He got caught burying bodies, but there was never any evidence that he killed anyone. He's no killer, you can see that. But there was a big todo because a lot of the bodies were kids and babies. So they sent him to us."

"Diagnosis?"

"Unipolar depression. We put him on Elavil and he evened out. He was delusional and probably hallucinotic when we first got him. Read his story, it's wild." Dr. Greene pointed to a big leather bag on the floor. "It's all there."

"What can I do to help?" Dr. Harold inquired.

"Update the evaluations, augment them. Look for anything we might've missed; it would help if we could figure out where these guys are going. After twentyfour hours the stats for reapprehension go into the ground. Try to have something for me soon; I need something to show the state mental hygiene board, and right now I'm too busy with the cops and the press."

Dr. Harold nodded and rose.

This should be some very interesting reading, he thought. he thought.

The bag was very heavy.

"Why...is it-Ann?" asked the astonished face at the door.

"h.e.l.lo, Mrs. Gargan," Ann greeted.

"Come in, come in," the woman hurried. "I almost didn't recognize you at first. It's been so long."

"Yes, it has."

Ann, Martin, and Melanie entered the dark halfpaneled foyer. At once, familiarity struck home, and memory. This was the house she grew up in. It never changed. The same old paintings were on the walls, the same carpets on the floor. The same grandfather clock she remembered tolling in the wee hours as a child. The moment seemed surreal. She was not merely stepping into her parents' house, she was stepping back into her past. Ann felt instantly morose.

"Melanie! How are you, child?" Mrs. Gargan leaned over and gave Melanie a big kiss. "Look how big you've gotten, and how beautiful!"

"Melanie, you remember Mrs. Gargan."

"Hi," Melanie said, a bit stunned by the sudden gush of affection.

"And this is Martin White," Ann introduced.

Mrs. Gargan had been a close friend of the family's for as long as Ann could remember. She was in her fifties but didn't look it; she beamed good health and didn't have a single gray hair. Her husband, Sam, ran the farm supply store on Pickman, which served the entire town. They were nice people, if not a bit weird-Sam, like a lot of the men in town, seemed withdrawn against his wife's popularity and outgoing demeanor.

Just like my father Ann thought. Ann thought.

Though Mrs. Gargan tried not to show it, her enthusiasm hitched down a bit upon introduction to Martin. "Oh, yes, you must be the poet," she said. "We've heard lots about you."

"Very nice to meet you," Martin said.

Ann lowered her voice. "How's Dad?" she asked.

But Mrs. Gargan turned. Had she ignored the question deliberately? "Everybody, Ann Slavik and her daughter are here."

Dim lights glowed in the large colonial dining room. Cold cuts, cheese, and the like had been spread out on the table, around which at least a dozen people stood quietly conversing. The room went dead silent when she entered. Suddenly, she saw them all as they looked when she was younger. Mrs. Heyd, the town doctor's wife. The Crolls and the Trotters. Mrs. Virasak, whose husband had been Lockwood's police chief until he'd died several years back. In fact, there were many widows here, whose nowdead husbands Ann ghostily remembered. These were staunch, robust women, conservative, and polite with an edge, and who looked good for their ages. Several younger women-Ann's age, she guessed-stood in the background, with what seemed attendant daughters. Ann had indeed lost touch; the more she looked around, the more she took note of people she didn't know at all. No, she didn't know many of them. So why did she have the gut feeling that they knew her?

They went through the round of grueling introductions. The elders constantly fussed over her and Melanie, yet all but ignored Martin. All the while Ann felt like wilting. These people. This place. Her father sick upstairs. Perhaps he had already died-that would explain this bizarre scene, but certainly someone would've told her by now.

"Your mother's upstairs, dear, with Josh," Mrs. Croll said.

"She'll be down presently," added Mrs. Virasak.

This was frustrating, cryptic. Ann still didn't quite know what was going on. She took Mrs. Gargan aside. "How's my father? How bad is it?"

The woman stalled but maintained her cordial smile. "He's resting," she said. "He's-"

"Is he even conscious?"

"Well, sometimes. We'll go up when you're ready."

But that was it: Ann didn't know if she was ready. She felt threatened by images. images. The image of her father as she'd always known him, and the image of what he must look like now: bedridden, sallow. The image of her father as she'd always known him, and the image of what he must look like now: bedridden, sallow.

Abruptly, then, Mrs. Gargan hugged her. "Oh, Ann, it's so good to see you. I'm just so sorry it has to be under these circ.u.mstances."

Ann stiffened in the embrace. For her whole life she'd felt distanced by the townspeople, and now it seemed like a homecoming. More images crashed.

Again, the room fell silent. Ann turned.

A figure stood in the entry-a solid figure, unflinching as a chess piece. She was sixty but looked fortyfive, well bosomed, s.h.i.+ning dark hair pinned in a bun. Fine lines embellished rather than depreciated her face. That face, like this house, the town, like everything here-hadn't seemed to have changed at all. Stoic touched with kindness. Hard and compa.s.sionate at the same time.

The figure stepped into the dining room.

"h.e.l.lo, Mother," Ann said.

Chapter 10.

"Women sure are noisy sons of guns, ain't they?" Duke chuckled.

Erik remained numb in the driver's seat. They'd parked on an old abandoned logging road, figuring they'd wait out the heat; the police probably didn't even know this road existed. This, however, left them with time on their hands, and Duke Belluxi was never one to waste time.

The girl screamed and screamed.

She'd fainted after Duke had blown her boyfriend's head off, but she'd come to real fast when Duke had pried off one of her long, s.h.i.+nypainted fingernails with a pair of Craftsman pliers he found in the toolbox. She'd lurched awake, screaming. "Sleep tight?" Duke asked, and began tearing off her scant clothes. Little as she was, though, she put up a formidable objection to Duke's plans, clawing, slapping, trying to bite, so Duke clunked her in the head a couple of times with an empty Corona bottle to take some of the zing out of her. By now Erik knew the futility of trying to intervene-the guns were all in back with Duke. Now all the girl could do was moan and churn a little. Duke spraddled her out right on top of her dead boyfriend and began raping her at once. "Some bed, huh, honey?" he said, chuckling. Erik had no desire to watch this, yet every so often something-guilt perhaps-forced him to take a glance. "Oh yeah, oh yeah," Duke was going. When the missionary position lost its thrill, he flipped her over and began to sodomize her. She jerked into full consciousness again and vomited. "Aw, s.h.i.+t, girl!" Duke objected, thrusting. "Look what you done! Puked all over our nice van!" Soon the girl started screaming again, in gusts, so Duke gave her another clunk with the Corona. "Simmer down, sweetheart," he advised, then laughed.

He pushed her face down into her dead boyfriend's crotch. "Give your honey a nice big kiss from Duke!" Then he yanked her head back by her hair, stepping up his thrusts. Erik stared blankly out the winds.h.i.+eld.

This cannot go on, the thought hammered in his mind. Once Duke got going, he was beyond reason, beyond control. He was on a killing spree, and it was Erik's fault. He had to do...something. the thought hammered in his mind. Once Duke got going, he was beyond reason, beyond control. He was on a killing spree, and it was Erik's fault. He had to do...something.

He glanced in back again. The Remington and the Webley lay beside the rear wheel hump. No way I can get to them, No way I can get to them, Erik realized. The box of stuff they'd taken out of the Luntville car was reachable but useless. All it contained were a few boxes of shotgun sh.e.l.ls, some road flares, and the bulletproof vest-nothing he could use to fight Duke. Erik realized. The box of stuff they'd taken out of the Luntville car was reachable but useless. All it contained were a few boxes of shotgun sh.e.l.ls, some road flares, and the bulletproof vest-nothing he could use to fight Duke. I'm going to have to kill him, I'm going to have to kill him, he reasoned. he reasoned. But I've got to get to those guns. But I've got to get to those guns.

"Aw, come on, Duke!" he yelled when he saw what his a.s.sociate was doing.

Duke chortled like a farm hog, grunting. His o.r.g.a.s.m was obvious, spurting into the air and onto the girl's back as he slowly strangled her with a battery cable. Duke wiped himself off with her panties, laughing. "Thanks, baby. Hope it was as good for you as it was for me."

Erik just stared-at this monster he'd helped escape.

Again, he thought: Yeah, I'm going to have to kill him. Yeah, I'm going to have to kill him.

"Hey, partner, we got any more of them Twinkies?" Duke asked.

The Lockwood police station was a small brick extension of the fire station on Pickman Avenue. It had two holding cells, an office for Chief Bard, whose only window offered a resplendent view of the garbage dumpster in back, and an anteroom where they kept their files and supplies.

Sergeant Byron trudged into the office. He was a young big brawny kid, and a good cop. Now, though, he looked pale, disgusted.

"Where the h.e.l.l have you been?" Bard asked. "I could've used some help out on the state roadblock."

"I was on that 5F, remember?" Byron sat down, sighed. "You sent me on it."

"That was hours ago."

"Took the d.a.m.n M.E. that long to get out there. I had to secure the scene and wait. Unless you want me to leave two cooked bodies sittin' in a pickup truck."

Bard set down his coffee. "What do you mean...cooked?"

"They was burned up, Chief. Somebody iced these two fellas, doused 'em with gas, and lit 'em up. Right on the town line, past Croll's fields."

"Lockwood residents?"

"Naw, two guys from the other side of the line. Gary Lexington and Lee More, both twentyfive. No rap sheets, no trouble."

"How were they killed?"

"M.E. don't know yet. It was hard to tell anything by lookin' at 'em, burned as they were. They was naked, though, clothes throwed in after. Ready for the best part?"

Bard gazed at him.

"M.E. said some of their organs were gone. Someone gutted these fellas, then torched 'em. Ready for more?"

Bard nodded, though he thought he already had a good idea.

"Fellas' heads were busted open. Brains were gone."

Bard opened his proverbial smalltown police chief desk drawer. He removed two gla.s.ses and a bottle of Maker's Mark. He poured them each a shot.

"I know you're thinkin' what I'm thinkin', Chief. Heads busted open. Brains gone. Sheeit."

Bard tossed back his shot, smirked, and nodded. But what could he say? What could he tell him?

"Just like some of the bodies we caught Tharp buryin' five years ago," Byron finished. He threw back his Maker's and put his gla.s.s back up for another.

"How have you been, Mom?" Ann asked.

She followed her mother up the heavily banistered staircase. On the landing wall hung a mirror which had always scared her as a child-at night she'd come up the stairs to find herself waiting for her.

"Thoughtful of you to ask," her mother replied.

Here we go, Ann thought. Ann thought.