Succubi Part 5

Now Ann laughed, bitterly. What difference would it make? "Yeah," she said. "s.e.x has never been a problem for me. I've always been...o.r.g.a.s.mic. Until now. Since I've been having this nightmare, I haven't had an o.r.g.a.s.m with Martin."

"But you do have an o.r.g.a.s.m in the dream?"

"Yes, every time."

"You're afraid that an aspect of your past will ruin your future."

The words seemed echoed, hovering about her head. Is that what the dream meant? And if so, what what aspect of her past? aspect of her past?

Dr. Harold went on, "Do you-"

"I don't want to talk anymore," Ann said. "I really don't."

"Why?"

"I'm upset."

"There are times when being upset is good."

"I don't feel very good right now."

"You have a lot of fixations, the most paramount of which is a fear of seeming weak to others. You a.s.sociate being upset with being weak. It's not, though. In being upset, you're releasing a part of yourself that you've kept hidden. That's an essential element of effective therapy. The exposure of our fears, the release of what we keep hidden. It helps us see ourselves in such a way that we can understand ourselves. When we don't understand ourselves, we don't understand the world, the people around us, what we want and what we have to do-we don't understand anything."

I understand that I need a drink, she thought. she thought.

"I think that it's important for you to continue coming here," he said.

She nodded.

"One more question, then I'll let you go for today." Dr. Harold unconsciously stroked his mustache. "What makes you certain that you're giving birth to Melanie Melanie in the dream? You said that you were very ill, and that you remained barely conscious for several weeks after the birth. What makes you-" in the dream? You said that you were very ill, and that you remained barely conscious for several weeks after the birth. What makes you-"

"The setting," she said. "All I see of myself in the dream is my body. It's almost like a movie, going from cut to cut. I never even really see myself, but I feel things and I see things around me. The cinderblock walls and earthen floor-it's the fruit cellar at my parents' house."

"Melanie was born in a fruit cellar?"

"Yes. There's no hospital in Lockwood, just a resident doctor. I went into labor early, and there was a bad storm, a hurricane warning or something, so they took me down into the fruit cellar where it would be safer."

"And this strange emblem, the one on the chalice and the larger one on the wall, was there anything in the fruit cellar that reminded you of that?"

"No," she said. "It's just a normal fruit cellar. My mother cans and jars her own fruits and vegetables."

Dr. Harold pushed a pad and pencil across his big desk. "Draw the emblem for me please."

She felt sapped, and the last thing she wanted to do was draw. Quickly, she outlined the emblem, the warped double circle on the pad.

Dr. Harold didn't look at it when he took the pad back. "So you're off-where is it? To Paris?"

Ann smiled genuinely for the first time. "We're leaving tomorrow. I've just got a few things to wrap up at the office this afternoon, then I'm picking up the tickets. Melanie's an art enthusiast, she's always wanted to see the Louvre. It'll be the first time the three of us have been away together in years."

"I think it's important for you to be with Martin and Melanie on a leisure basis. It'll give you a chance to get reacquainted with yourself."

"Maybe the dream will go away for a while," she said, almost wistfully.

"Perhaps, but even if it doesn't, don't dwell on it. And we'll talk about how you feel when you get back."

"Okay," she said.

"I hope you have a wonderful time. Feel free to call me if you have any problems or concerns."

"Sure. Bye."

Ann left the office.

Dr. Harold sat in silence. He closed his eyes, thinking. He thought about her. Type A, occupationally obsessive, s.e.xually dysfunctional. Dream methodizing, Dream methodizing, he thought. The emblem she'd drawn on the pad looked scrambled, dashed. Kinesthetically, it was obvious: she'd drawn it hurriedly because it scared her. He knew that a lot of things scared Ann Slavik. he thought. The emblem she'd drawn on the pad looked scrambled, dashed. Kinesthetically, it was obvious: she'd drawn it hurriedly because it scared her. He knew that a lot of things scared Ann Slavik.

An awful lot of things.

Chapter 4.

"So what happened?" Duke asked. "You never said."

Erik finished his Macke cheese dog. He always ladled them with onions-the kind that came in the little tubes-to get the taste out of his mouth. Not the taste of the cheese dog, the taste of Duke.

"What happened what?" Erik asked.

"You know, your voice. How come your voice is so f.u.c.ked up?"

Suddenly, he tasted memory, salt and copper. Blood. He'd tried to break away from them several times. They hadn't liked it.

We offer you everything, Erik. And still you rebel.

That had been weeks before the police had caught him. Holy Mother of G.o.d, Holy Mother of G.o.d, Chief Bard had said, staring into the pit. They all called him "Chief Lard"; he had a belly like a medicine ball. Rumor was he'd been chief of some town in Maryland; a state sting operation had caught him laundering mob money through the town bingo games at the fire hall. They'd told him he could be prosecuted or he could move on quietly. It had been Bard and Byron who'd caught Erik that night. Chief Bard had said, staring into the pit. They all called him "Chief Lard"; he had a belly like a medicine ball. Rumor was he'd been chief of some town in Maryland; a state sting operation had caught him laundering mob money through the town bingo games at the fire hall. They'd told him he could be prosecuted or he could move on quietly. It had been Bard and Byron who'd caught Erik that night. Whatchoo doin' with that shovel, boy? Whatchoo doin' with that shovel, boy? Byron had demanded. Byron had demanded. Holy Mother of G.o.d, Holy Mother of G.o.d, Bard had said. Bard had said.

Erik knew he had been set up. They no longer trusted him.

We love you, Erik, one of them had whispered. one of them had whispered.

We want you to be good, whispered the other. whispered the other.

So we're going to give you a little reminder.

So that whenever you talk, you'll think of us.

They'd tied him down. The one had been blowing him while the other went to work on his throat. The doctor at the emergency room had said that he only had one vocal cord left. He was lucky to have lived.

"A scratch awl," Erik finally answered Duke. "They stuck a scratch awl in my throat."

"Christ," Duke muttered. "Who's they?" they?"

"Muggers," Erik lied. That's what he'd told the people at the hospital and the police. That muggers had done it.

Duke picked his nose. "b.u.mmer."

The girl named Dawn walked in, approached the candy machine without looking at them. She'd recently made Cla.s.s III status too. Duke chuckled under his breath. They'd heard Dr. Greene talking to one of the techs about her. "Katas.e.xual," he'd said. "s.e.xual obsession with a dead person." Erik had heard that before they got her on the right medication, she would m.a.s.t.u.r.b.a.t.e ten times a day. There were a lot of winners on the ward. The threehundredpound schizophrenic who claimed she was pregnant by her collie. "I'm going to give Dr. Greene the pick of the litter!" she'd rejoiced. One night the city police had brought in a raving PCP overdose. "I can fly anything that G.o.d can make!" he'd informed them as he strapped him into a jacket. Lots of the pats had religious fixations. Many were hypers.e.xual yet devoutly religious, like the prost.i.tute who was "tricking for Jesus," or the unipolar serial killer they'd brought in from Tylersville who forced women to accept Christ as their savior and then killed them before they could change their minds. "Lotta people in heaven who wouldn't be if it weren't for me," he'd bragged.

"G.o.d loves you," Dawn turned with a Snickers and said to Duke.

"If He does, tell Him to let me the f.u.c.k out of this dump, you floppyt.i.t psycho b.i.t.c.h. How about sucking my b.a.l.l.s?"

Dawn hmmffed and left.

"Fizzlehead!"

Erik tried the phone again. No answer. Where are they? Where are they? he wondered. "See, that's how I know I ain't queer," Duke was a.n.a.lyzing himself when Erik returned. "That fizzlehead there? I could have her right on this table. Boy, I could he wondered. "See, that's how I know I ain't queer," Duke was a.n.a.lyzing himself when Erik returned. "That fizzlehead there? I could have her right on this table. Boy, I could tear her up." tear her up."

Erik didn't need to be convinced. He was thinking. Duke was a fat, disgusting sociopathic slob with bad teeth and hair like a mop. But he's strong, But he's strong, Erik thought. Three times a week the techs took all Cla.s.s II's and III's to the gym in the other building. Erik had seen Duke benchpress 250lbs ten times. Erik thought. Three times a week the techs took all Cla.s.s II's and III's to the gym in the other building. Erik had seen Duke benchpress 250lbs ten times. Yeah, real strong, Yeah, real strong, he mused. he mused.

"I been thinking, Duke," Erik's ruined voice grated.

"About what, f.a.ggot?"

"You and me, we'll never get out of here. Greene's review board wouldn't okay us for the street in a hundred years."

"I know that."

Erik leaned over the table. "I got something I gotta take care of, on the outside."

"What, kill more babies?"

"I never killed any babies. It was a setup-"

"Sure, f.a.ggot. That's what they all say, ain't it? Just like I never chopped the arms off that bimbo."

"Would you listen to me, G.o.dd.a.m.n it. I think I know a way we can get out."

Suddenly, Duke was listening.

Erik took Duke to the window, pointed out the "safety barrier." A high fence surrounded the hospital grounds, yet beyond was a parking lot where the staff and contractors parked their cars. "See that white van?" Erik asked. "And the pickup trucks beside it?"

Letters on the van read "Lawn King." "Big deal," Duke remarked.

"They're groundskeepers. I've been watching them. They get here every morning at seventhirty and start cutting the gra.s.s. The hospital grounds are huge, these guys are all over the place. They don't have to come in and out the front gate 'cause the trailers they haul their lawn mowers on are too big. There's a service gate, right over there behind those trees. If we can get past that gate, we can drive out the main entrance."

"In what? ChittyChitty BangBang?"

"In one of their trucks. See all those pickups parked next to the van? They belong to the crew."

"Awright. Keep talking."

"At eleventhirty they start breaking for lunch. They break for lunch in four s.h.i.+fts, three at a time. They get to the parking lot through the service gate. The supervisor has to let them out. He's the only one authorized to have the key to the service gate. See that guy there? He's the supervisor."

Duke peered through the wire window. Several workers were fueling tractors which hauled the cutting platforms. A man in overalls stood in attendance. He was tall. Broad shoulders and back. Knurly.

"Big f.u.c.ker," Duke commented.

"Yeah, but so are you."

Duke continued to peer out the window.

"I've been watching him regular," Erik grated on. It hurt just to talk. "He's got a routine. They start breaking for lunch at eleventhirty, like I said. But at eleven he eats his own lunch. He doesn't leave like the others-he brings his own in a bag. That's what he does every day at eleven. He sits down by those trees all by himself and eats his lunch."

Very slowly, Duke nodded.

"No one else is around. All the workers are still out on the grounds cutting the gra.s.s. And this guy, like I said, I been watching him. He's the boss, so he's the first guy out here every morning at seventhirty. He drives that blue and white Ford pickup right there. We wouldn't have to waste time looking for which truck is his 'cause we already know."

"But the gate, the service gate. I don't even see it."

"That's why this'll work," Erik came back. "You can't see the service gate from the grounds because it's behind those trees, the same trees where that big guy sits and eats his lunch every day at eleven o'clock."

"Eleven o'clock," Duke murmured.

"That's an hour from now. And you know what we're doing an hour from now?"

"What?"

"The techs are taking our whole wing outside for volleyball."

Duke had his duties down pat. II's and III's achieved their privileged status by demonstrating good behavior for protracted periods. Nothing ever happened because no one ever expected it to. Three techs supervised the volleyball games: Nurse Dallion, who was so thin she looked like she might blow away, and Charlie and Mike. They would have to take all three of them out before someone could get back inside and hit the security b.u.t.ton. Mike would be tough-most of the male techs were hired for physical size, and Mike was young and strong-but not stronger than Duke. And Charlie, the black guy, was huge. Erik figured they had maybe two minutes after the fight broke out to overpower the lawn supervisor, get his keys, unlock the service gate, and take off in the pickup. Duke's job was to take out Mike quickly, then get over to the trees, while Erik took out Nurse Dallion and Charlie. Though Charlie was big, he was also hopelessly myopic. Without his sodabottlelens gla.s.ses, he couldn't see past his face.

It was sunny out and warm. Spring was just days away.

"Great day for volleyball," Erik grated to Charlie.

"Sure is. Glad to see you're playing for a change, Erik. Do ya good to get out with the others."

Yeah, he thought. He glanced behind him as they chose up sides. At four minutes past eleven, the lawn supervisor was walking down the hills, toward the trees. he thought. He glanced behind him as they chose up sides. At four minutes past eleven, the lawn supervisor was walking down the hills, toward the trees.

"Chad's a f.a.ggot," Duke barked. "I don't want him on my side."

"Enough of that, Duke," Mike warned. "We're all here to have fun."

"f.u.c.k fun, I wanna win."