Authors: Edward Lee
City Infernal (8 page)
Christ, I’m eye-balling statues.
After the divorce, he’d discovered that his wife had been cheating on him for over a year but in truth he’d been doing the same for longer, and much more aggressively. Ritzy high-priced hookers and party girls. He sometimes even did it with associates and interns, girls his daughters’ age.
Got what I deserved,
he thought, despondent. One had gotten pregnant, and he knew that the $50,000 she’d demanded was for far more than the abortion.
Got what I deserved,
he thought, despondent. One had gotten pregnant, and he knew that the $50,000 she’d demanded was for far more than the abortion.
Jesus....
But Bill was fifty now. His oat-sowing days were over, and they needed to be. It was time to be responsible for a change. What success seemed to equate to these days were fancy private cocktail parties full of millionaires and escort girls, in posh brownstones rented through corporate accounts. It was not the way people were supposed to live their lives.
Through the glass-paned French doors he could see Mrs. Conner vacuuming one of the dens.
She’s older than I am but—Christ—what a body.
And there he went again.
Now I’m lusting after the help.
The notion was even more pitiful. Here was an honest hard-working woman who’d never had anything and had been walked on by poverty and misfortune, and here was Bill, if only in his mind, exploiting her all ithe more.
You’re a real piece of work, Heydon,
he told himself. What made it worse was that Mrs. Conner—widowed for years—had clearly taken a fancy to him.
But somehow I doubt that it’s because of my good looks.
And there he went again.
Now I’m lusting after the help.
The notion was even more pitiful. Here was an honest hard-working woman who’d never had anything and had been walked on by poverty and misfortune, and here was Bill, if only in his mind, exploiting her all ithe more.
You’re a real piece of work, Heydon,
he told himself. What made it worse was that Mrs. Conner—widowed for years—had clearly taken a fancy to him.
But somehow I doubt that it’s because of my good looks.
“Howdy, Mr. Heydon.” It was Jervis, Mrs. Conner’s son, coming around the patio. A
bit of a dim bulb,
Bill thought,
but he works hard.
bit of a dim bulb,
Bill thought,
but he works hard.
“I finished up trimmin’ the garden,” the young man said, scratching his belly. “Got the front-walk edged, the rest of your lawyer books down in the basement, and them leaky pipes sealed up on the second floor.”
“That’s great, Jervis,” Bill said. He’d been just about to pull another cigarette out but then he thought better of it. Instead, he pulled out his wallet. “What is it, twenty an hour right?”
“Yes, sir.”
Bill gave him two hundred-dollar bills. “Keep the change.”
The boy gave a big pumpkin grin. “Thanks much, sir!”
“Come back day after tomorrow. I think the lawn’ll need mowing by then. And I’ll have plenty more work for you to do if you want it.”
“Sure will, Mr. Heydon. You’se the best boss I ever had.”
“Oh, and Jervis—”
“Don’t worry, sir. I won’t tell Cassie I seen ya smokin’.”
Bill nodded, embarrassed. “Thank you, Jervis.”
“Have a good evenin’, sir! I’ll be waitin’ out front. My ma’s should be finishin’ up soon.”
Bill watched the boy lope off. He wondered what it must be like for him and his mother. No industry, no decent jobs, just a trailer to call home and a thirty-year-old hunk of junk for a car. He doubted if they’d ever seen a real city at all, or had any idea what the rest of the world was like. It was during times like these that Bill realized how much he had to be grateful for.
He walked back into the house as Mrs. Conner made a few last swipes with the vacuum. She turned the loud machine off when she noticed him.
Her eyes beamed. “I’m about done fer today, Mr. Heydon.”
“That’s fine,” Bill said. “The place looks great.” He handed her an over-estimation of her pay for the day and listened to a gush of drawled thanks. He struggled with himself not to look at her in that way again, was succeeding, but then she bent over to unplug the vacuum.
Bill’s teeth ground.
The collar of the woman’s simple white blouse hung down, and Bill’s unconscious tunnel-vision shot right down. It was plain that no form of brassiere encompassed Mrs. Conner’s abundant breasts, and just as clear now that the forces of gravity had treated her with kindness. Bill couldn’t help himself—he stared down. The image seemed like a vibrant luxury and it only spurred him further to take closer note of the rest of her body when she stood back up. Age-lines were obvious on her face but—
That body!
The word
hearty
came to mind. Blue jeans spread tight across the wide hips. The plush, hourglass figure and thrusting bosom socked him in the eye.
hearty
came to mind. Blue jeans spread tight across the wide hips. The plush, hourglass figure and thrusting bosom socked him in the eye.
Even when she smiled, showing a missing tooth, the image remained intense.
That there is one hot slab of country pie. If I don’t quit looking at her, I’ll probably have another heart attack right here.
He fought to distract himself, thought up some small talk. “I had a lucky day fishing at the creek.”
“Yes sir, I saw them fine-lookin’ fish in the fridge. I’d be happy to clean ‘em and cook ’em for ya, Mr. Heydon. I’ll just send Jervis on home. You ain’t had catfish till you’ve had it country fried.”
It sounded delicious, almost as delicious as the idea of watching her quietly lusty body bending over the range.
Which was why he said, “No, thanks, Mrs. Conner, but thanks for the offer. Cassie really enjoys cooking. By the way, have you seen her?”
“Not since this morning, sir. She was runnin’ off somewheres, town I imagine.”
Bill looked at his Rolex. “Been gone all day,” he muttered.
“I’m sure she’ll be along presently,” Mrs. Conner offered. “We cain’t keep too tight a leash on our young ones—much as we might want to. Gotta let ’em roam, see things on their own.”
“Of course, you’re right.” Bill averted his eyes from her pressing bosom. The nipples shone through her blouse, the size of the bottom of a soda can. “She’s probably just walking around with her Discman somewhere.”
“You sure you don’t want me to stay?”
“No, that’s all right, Mrs. Conner. See you tomorrow.”
“Bye!”
When she strutted off, Bill was helpless to stare after her.
Christmas!
he thought.
I need to get a life!
He chased more distraction, poured himself a soda, turned on the radio for some music.
Ah, Vivaldi. Thank you!
The spacious sonata lulled the edges off his mood.
he thought.
I need to get a life!
He chased more distraction, poured himself a soda, turned on the radio for some music.
Ah, Vivaldi. Thank you!
The spacious sonata lulled the edges off his mood.
Better. Much better.
Beyond the fine windows, the sky had darkened further. He glanced again at his watch.
Where the hell is Cassie?
(V)“Wow!” came a strange, delighted voice. “Who are you?”
“Uh, Cassie,” Cassie said. Her first reaction was defensive, to camouflage her fear with aggression, to demand what this person was doing on her property. But—
The figure facing her was a young woman, probably eighteen or twenty, slim but curvy, and with a demeanor that seemed not really butch but definitely tom-boyish. What took Cassie most aback was the girl’s appearance: shiny leather boots and black leather pants, a studded belt, a deliberately shredded black t-shirt under a black leather jacket. Not Goth but more like late-’70s punk. Buttons on the jacket confirmed the estimation. THE GERMS, THE STRANGLERS, a button of The Cure’s first album cover and another of Siouxie and the Banshee’s THE SCREAM. White haphazard letters on the t-shirt read SIC F*CKS!
“Wow,” the girl repeated. “This is great! A newbie!”
“Pardon me?” Cassie said.
“I love what you’re wearing. Where’d you get it?”
“I—” Cassie began but that was all she could get out.
“And your hair’s great! I’d do anything to get my hands on some dye like that. Where’d you get it?”
“I—” Cassie tried again.
“We’ve never seen you before. How long have you been here?”
“A month or so.”
“Still getting to learn your way around—it takes a while.” The girl reached into her jacket, pulled out a cassette. “Here, have a tape. It’s great stuff. We ripped a bunch of them off the other night, in the city.”
Cassie reluctantly took the cassette tape. The city?
She must mean Pulaski, or Charlottesville.
“Uh, thank you.” The cover was black with silver Gothic letters: ALDINOCH. “I’ve never heard of them. What is it? Metal?”
She must mean Pulaski, or Charlottesville.
“Uh, thank you.” The cover was black with silver Gothic letters: ALDINOCH. “I’ve never heard of them. What is it? Metal?”
“You’ll love it. And it’s really the only thing going on in the city right now.” The girl seemed effervescent, overcharged. Her hand shot out. “Oh, sorry! I’m Via.”
Cassie shook her hand—it felt hot. “Cassie,” she repeated. “So where do you live?”
“It’s just me and two others—Xeke and Hush.” Her thumb pointed behind her, up the trail. “We stay at that big ugly-ass house on the hill.”
What!
Cassie felt bewildered. “You don’t mean Blackwell Hall?”
Cassie felt bewildered. “You don’t mean Blackwell Hall?”
“Yeah. Right up here. On top of the hill.”
This was too weird. “You must mean someplace else. I live at Blackwell Hall.”
Via didn’t seem at all fazed. “Oh, well that’s cool. You can squat with us.”
Squatters.
That would explain it, but—
That would explain it, but—
“We stay up in the oculus room during the day.”
Could this possibly be true? The house was so large that Cassie supposed squatters
could
stay there in some remote area. But how feasible was it that they could remain unheard and undetected for all this time?
could
stay there in some remote area. But how feasible was it that they could remain unheard and undetected for all this time?
“It’s the strongest part of the house,” Via went on. “The basements aren’t bad either, but the oculus room is where Blackwell killed all the babies.”
Cassie suddenly felt rooted to the ground.
What is going on? What is she talking about?
What is going on? What is she talking about?
“You have a really strong aura,” Via added cheerfully. “Did you know that? Bright blue. Why don’t you come with me to the Station? You can meet the others. We’re going to the city tonight.”
Cassie’s thought processes seemed to grind like a series of cogs. Her eyes were fixed on Via’s wrist—and the open slit held together by crude black stitches. She could see dried blood in the wound, as if it hadn’t healed.
But now Via was looking back just as strangely.
At
Cassie’s
wrist.
Cassie’s
wrist.
“That’s impossible,” she whispered. She grabbed Cassie’s wrist and looked at the similar scar, similar only in that it denoted the same intent. But Cassie’s scar was—
“Healed,” Via muttered. “It’s healed.” Then her darkly mascara’d eyes looked stupefied into Cassie’s.
“Oh my God,” Via said. “You’re not dead, are you?”
In spite of the compounding strangeness, Cassie blurted a laugh. “What kind of a ridiculous thing is that to say? Of course I’m not dead.”
“Well I sure as hell am!” Via exclaimed and ran away down the hill.
Chapter Three
(I)Delusion. Hallucination.
What else could it be? At the hospital, they’d told her that some of the psych drugs could produce such side effects. She’d stopped taking them rather abruptly; perhaps hallucinosis was the result.
Either that or I’m just going nuts. I’m going
schizo.
schizo.
Memory of the incident clung to her, unpleasant as the day’s humidity. Had she fallen asleep in the woods and dreamed it?
No. It felt too real.
“Hi, honey!” her father had called out from the spacious living room. “I was getting a little worried.”
“I ... got a little lost coming back from town,” she’d fabricated an excuse. She’d gasped when she opened the refrigerator and saw the hook-line full of catfish. It reminded her of the awful story Roy had told.
That’s what this tall guy had... only it was a hook-line full of babies, and he was draggin’ ’em up the stairs.
“Damn, sorry,” her father said, hustling into the kitchen. “I forgot to clean the fish.” He retrieved the weighty hook-line, thunked it in the sink.
She smelled remnant cigarette smoke, but didn’t say anything. She turned away at the wet grisly sounds of him gutting the fish. She needed to get her mind off her own musings: Via, the story Roy had told, Blackwell and the babies.
But she felt more like an automaton as she turned on the stove and prepared to cook dinner.
Via’s words slipped back:
We stay at that big ugly-ass house on the hill.
We stay at that big ugly-ass house on the hill.
There is no Via,
she told herself.
she told herself.
“So you checked out town today?” her father asked.
She clunked around in the cupboard for the right pan. “Yeah. It’s not really even a town. Just a few old stores on the strip.”
“Well, I know it’s dull around here. Maybe we’ll drive to Pulaski this weekend, do some shopping.”
“Cool,” she said, unenthused.
Her father had piled the fresh catfish fillets on a plate. “You’re awful quiet tonight. Are you okay?”
Peachy, Dad. Today I found out that the guy who used to live here sacrificed infants to Satan. I also met a dead girl named Via. Oh, she lives in the house with her friends.
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