Night Chills

“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 comer 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!”