Night Chills (23 page)

This morning his willpower shattered. For the past four nights, his sleep had been disturbed by grotesque dreams that featured his mother and Miriam and sudden violence and blood—and an eerie, indescribable atmosphere of perverted sex. When he came awake this morning, shouting and flailing at the bedclothes, he thought of Emma Thorp—deep cleavage in an orange sweater—and she seemed to him like an antidote for the poisons that had churned through him while he slept. He had to have her, was going to have her, today, soon, and to hell with self-denial.

The smooth stream of power in him was again transformed into a rhythmic, alternating current, crackling across countless arcs, a hundred million synapses. His thoughts ricocheted with great energy from one subject to another, submachine-gun thoughts:
tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat
...

At 7:45 he left Pauline Vicker’s rooming house and went to the cafe on the square.

The sky was cloudy, the air humid.

At 8:25 he finished breakfast and left the cafe.

At 8:40 he reached the Thorps’ place, the last house on Union Road, next to the river.

He rang the doorbell twice.

The chief of police himself answered. He hadn’t gone to work yet. Good. Wonderful.

Salsbury said, “I am the key.”

“I am the lock.”

“Let me in.”

Bob Thorp stepped out of his way, let him by, then closed the door after him.

“Is your wife here?”

“Yes.”

“Your son?”

“He’s here too.”

“Anyone else?”

“Just you and me.”

“Your son’s name?”

“Jeremy.”

“Where are they?”

“In the kitchen.”

“Take me to them.”

Thorp hesitated.

“Take me to them!”

They went along a narrow but brightly papered hallway.

The kitchen was modern and stylish. Mediterranean cupboards and fixtures. Coppertone refrigerator
and
upright freezer. A microwave oven. A television set was suspended from the ceiling in one corner and angled toward the big round table by the window.

Jeremy was at the table, eating eggs and toast, facing the hall.

To the boy’s right, Emma sat with one elbow on the table, drinking a glass of orange juice. Her hair was as golden and full as he remembered it. As she turned to ask her husband who had rung the bell, he saw that her lovely face was still soft with sleep—and for some reason that aroused him.

She said, “Bob? Who’s this?”

Salsbury said, “I am the key.”

Two voices responded.

At 8:55, making the weekly trip into town to lay in a fresh supply of perishables, Paul Annendale braked at the end of the gravel road, looked both ways, then turned left onto Main Street.

From the back seat Mark said, “Don’t take me all the way to Sam’s place. Let me out at the square.”

Looking in the rearview mirror, Paul said, “Where are you going?”

Mark patted the large canary cage that stood on the seat beside him. The squirrel danced about and chattered. “I want to take Buster to see Jeremy.”

Swiveling around in her seat and looking back at her brother, Rya said, “Why don’t you admit that you don’t go over to their house to see Jeremy? We all know you’ve got a crush on Emma.”

“Not so!” Mark said in such a way that he proved absolutely that what she said was true.

“Oh, Mark,” she said exasperatingly.

“Well, it’s a lie,” Mark insisted. “I don’t have a crush on Emma. I’m not some sappy kid.”

Rya turned around again.

“No fights,” Paul said. “We’ll leave Mark off at the square with Buster, and there will be no fights.

Salsbury said, “Do you understand that, Bob?”

“I understand.”

“You will not speak unless spoken to. And you will not move from that chair unless I tell you to move.”

“I won’t move.”

“But you’ll watch.”

“I’ll watch.”

“Jeremy?”

“I’ll watch too.”

“Watch what?” Salsbury asked.

“Watch you—screw her.”

Dumb cop. Dumb kid.

He stood by the sink, leaned against the counter. “Come here, Emma.”

She got up. Came to him.

“Take off your robe. ”

She took it off. She was wearing a yellow bra and yellow panties with three embroidered red flowers at the left hip.

“Take off your bra.”

Her breasts fell free. Heavy. Beautiful.

“Jeremy, did you know your mother looked so nice?”

The boy swallowed hard. “No.”

Thorp’s hands were on the table. They had curled into fists.

“Relax, Bob. You’re going to enjoy this. You’re going to love it. You can’t wait for me to have her.”

Thorp’s hands opened. He leaned back in his chair.

Touching her breasts, staring into her shimmering green eyes, Salsbury had a delightful idea. Marvelous. Exciting. He said, “Emma, I think this would be more enjoyable if you resisted me a bit. Not seriously, you understand. Not physically. Just keep asking me not to hurt you. And cry.”

She stared at him.

“Could you cry for me, Emma?”

“I’m so scared.”

“Good! Excellent! I didn’t tell
you
to relax, did I? You should be scared. Damned scared. And obedient. Are you frightened enough to cry, Emma?”

She shivered.

“You’re very firm.”

She said nothing.

“Cry for me.”

“Bob ... ”

“He can’t help you.”

He squeezed her breasts.

“My son ...”

“He’s watching. It’s all right if he watches. Didn’t he suck these when he was a baby?”

Tears formed at the corners of her eyes.

“Fine,” he said. “Oh, that’s sweet.”

Mark could only carry the squirrel and the cage for fifteen or twenty steps at a time. Then he had to put it down and shake his arms to get the pain out of them.

“Cup your breasts with your hands.”

She did as she was told.

She wept.

“Pull on the nipples.”

“Don’t make me do this.”

“Come on, little animal.”

At first, upset by all the jerking and shaking and swinging of his cage, Buster ran in tight little circles and squealed like an injured rabbit.

“You sound like a rabbit,” Mark told him during one of the rest stops.

Buster squealed, unconcerned with his image.

“You should be ashamed of yourself. You’re not a dumb bunny. You’re a
squirrel.”

In front of Edison’s store, as he was closing the car door, Paul saw something gleam on the back seat. “What’s that?”

Rya was still in the car, undoing her safety belt. “What’s what?”

“On the back seat. It’s the key to Buster’s cage.”

Rya squirmed into the back seat. “I’d better take it to him.”

“He won’t need it,” Paul said. “Just don’t lose it.”

“No,” she said. “I’d better take it to him. He’ll want to let Buster out so he can show off for Emma.”

“Who are you—Cupid?”

She grinned at him.

“Unzip my trousers.”

“I don’t want to.”

“Do it!”

She did.

“Enjoying yourself, Bob?”

“Yes.”

He laughed. “Dumb cop.”

By the time he reached the edge of the Thorp property, Mark had found a better way to grip the cage. The new method didn’t strain his arms so much, and he didn’t have to stop every few yards to rest.

Buster had become
so
upset by the erratic movement of his pen that he had stopped squealing. He was gripping the bars with all four feet, hanging on the side of the cage, very still and quiet, frozen as if he were in the woods and had just seen a predator creeping through the brush.

“They’ll be eating breakfast,” Mark said. “We’ll go around to the back door.”

“Squeeze it.”

She did.

“Hot?”

“Yes.”

“Little animal.”

“Don’t hurt me.”

“Is it hard?”

“Yes.” Crying.

“Bend over.”

Sobbing, shaking, begging him not to hurt her, she did as she had been told. Her face glistened with tears. She was almost hysterical. So beautiful ...

Mark was passing the kitchen window when he heard the woman crying. He stopped and listened closely to the broken words, the pitiful pleas that were punctuated by long sobs. He knew at once that it was Emma.

The window was only two feet away, and it seemed to beckon him. He couldn’t resist. He went to it.

The curtains were drawn shut, but there was a narrow gap between them. He pressed his face to the windowpane.

10

Sixteen Days Earlier: Wednesday, August 10, 1977

At three o’clock in the morning, Salsbury joined Dawson in the first-floor study of the Greenwich house.

“Have they begun already?”

“Ten minutes ago,” Dawson said.

“What’s coming in?”

“Exactly what we’d hoped for.”

Four men sat on straight-backed chairs around a massive walnut desk, one at each side of it. They were all household servants: the butler, the chauffeur, the cook, and the gardener. Three months ago the entire staff of the house had been given the drug and treated to the subliminal program; and there was no longer any need to hide the project from them. On occasion, as now, they made very useful tools. There were four telephones on the desk, each connected to an infinity transmitter. The men were referring to lists of Black River telephone numbers, dialing, listening for a few seconds or a minute, hanging up and dialing again.

The infinity transmitters—purchased in Brussels for $2,500 each—allowed them to eavesdrop on most of the bedrooms of Black River in perfect anonymity. With an IF hooked to a telephone, they could dial any number they wished, long distance or local, without going through an operator and without leaving a record of the call in the telephone company’s computer. An electric tone oscillator deactivated the bell on the phone being called—and simultaneously opened that receiver’s microphone. The people at the other end of the line heard no ringing and were not aware that they were being monitored. These four servants were able, therefore, to hear anything said in the room where the distant telephone was placed.

Salsbury went around the desk, leaned down and listened at each earpiece.

“... nightmare. So vivid. I can’t remember what it was, but it scared the hell out of me. Look how I’m shaking.”

“... so cold. You too? What the devil?”

... feel like I’m going to throw up.”

“... all right? Maybe we should call Doc Troutman.”

And around again:

“... something we ate?”

“... flu. But at this time of year?”

... first thing in the morning. God, if I don’t stop shaking, I’ll rattle myself to pieces!”

“... running with sweat but cold.”

Dawson tapped Salsbury on the shoulder. “Are you going to stay here and watch over them?”

“I might as well.”

“Then I’ll go the chapel for a while.”

He was wearing pajamas, a dark blue silk robe, and soft leather slippers. At this hour, with rain falling outside, it didn’t seem likely that even a religious fanatic of Dawson’s bent would get dressed and go out to church.

Salsbury said, “You’ve got a chapel in the house?”

“I have a chapel in each of my residences,” Dawson said proudly. “I wouldn’t build a house without one. It’s a way of thanking Him for all that He’s done for me. After all, it’s because of Him that I have the houses in the first place.” Dawson went to the door, paused, looked back, and said, “I’ll thank Him for our success and pray for more of the same. ”

“Say one for me,” Salsbury said with sarcasm he knew would escape the man.

Frowning, Dawson said, “I don’t believe in that.”

“In what?”

“I can’t pray for your soul. And I can only pray for your success so far as it supports my own. I don’t believe one man should pray for another. The salvation of your soul is your own concern—and the most vital of your life. The notion that you can buy indulgences or have someone else—a priest, anyone else—pray for you ... Well, that strikes me as Roman Catholic. I’m not Roman Catholic.”

Salsbury said, “Neither am I.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” Leonard said. He smiled warmly, one Pope-hater to another, and went out.

A maniac, Salsbury thought. What am I doing in partnership with that maniac?

Disturbed by his own question, he went around the desk again, listening to the voices of the people in Black River. Gradually he forgot about Dawson and regained his confidence. It
was
going to work out as planned. He
knew
it. He was
sure
of it. What could possibly go wrong?

11

Friday, August 26, 1977

Rya flung the cage key high into the air and a few feet ahead of her. She ran forward as if she were playing center field, and she caught the golden “ball.” Then she flipped it up and ran after it again.

At the corner of Main Street and Union Road, she tossed the key once more—and missed. She heard the metal edge ring as it struck the sidewalk behind her, but when she turned she couldn’t see the trinket anywhere.

Emma Thorp bent over and braced her arms on the kitchen table. She accidentally knocked aside an empty coffee cup. It fell off the table and shattered on the tile floor.

Kicking the fragments out of his way, Salsbury stepped in behind her and with both hands stroked the graceful curve of her back.

Bob watched, smiling primly.

Jeremy watched, amazed.

Tat-tat-tat-tat-tat:
the power, Miriam, his mother, the whores, Dawson, Klinger, women, vengeance ... Ricocheting thoughts.

She looked over her shoulder at him.

“I’ve always wanted one of you like this.” He giggled. He could not suppress it. He felt good. “Scared of me. Of
me!”

Her face was pale and streaked with tears. Her eyes were wide.

“Lovely,” he said.

“I don’t want you touching me.”

“Miriam used to say that. But with Miriam it was an order. She never begged.” He touched her.