The soft touch of the breeze moved over her.
CHAPTER THIRTY
After hearing the toilet flush, Roland counted slowly to sixty. He made the count again and again. Then his mind wandered. He pictured Alison in her attic room taking off her clothes, getting into bed. In his fantasy, she wasn’t covered by a sheet. She wore only a pajama shirt. He saw himself standing over her, carefully unfastening the buttons as she slept, spreading open the shirt. Her skin looked like ivory in the dim light from the window. He reached down to touch her and suddenly she was obese, she was Helen and she was dead, and she grinned up at him. He lurched, bumping his forehead against the boxsprings.
He lowered his head to the floor.
And held his breath, listening, half expecting Helen to moan or turn on the mattress above him, awakened by the jolt.
Don’t be ridiculous, he told himself. She’s dead as shit.
But I’m right under her.
He listened and heard nothing. Helen’s eyes were open, though. He could see them open. She knew he was under her bed.
Roland must’ve spent hours in the narrow space only a couple of feet beneath her corpse. It seemed unfair that his mind should start turning against him now, when he was almost done with the wait.
He still heard nothing.
But Helen was listening as she gazed with dead eyes at the ceiling, and
“You’re dead,” he whispered.
Helen rolled over, got to her hands and knees, ripped open the mattress with crooked fingers and tore out great clumps of stuffing. Then she was staring down at him through the mattress tunnel. She bared her teeth. She snarled and thrust her hand down the hole, clawing toward his face.
It isn’t happening, he told himself.
But he trembled and gasped. He had to get out. He felt as if spiders were scurrying over his body. He scooted sideways over the carpet, but stopped just beneath the side of the bed frame. Helen was waiting up there. Waiting to grab him when he emerged.
With a stifled whimper, he thrust himself into the open and rolled clear. He sat up. In the dim light from the window, Helen was a motionless mound beneath the covers of her bed.
Watching her, Roland got to his feet. He kept his eyes on her as he sidestepped to the bedroom door. He opened the door, stepped out, and pulled it shut. He backed away from it.
No longer in the presence of the body, his fear slowly subsided. He felt angry and embarrassed for letting his imagination torment him.
Why, he wondered, had his friend allowed him to lose control that way? Certainly, it could’ve stopped the horrid thoughts—given him a nice zap to remind him of Alison. Did it enjoy his suffering? Or did it simply not care?
He touched the bulge at the back of his neck.
I’m doing it all for you, he thought.
Then he felt ashamed. This was his friend, who had turned his secret fantasies into reality, who had led him into a new life even more bizarre and thrilling than his most lurid dreams. The fear was his own fault. He had no right to blame his friend.
As if stirred by the reassurance, or perhaps only to remind him of what lay ahead, his friend sent a small tremor of pleasure through Roland.
Had enough time gone by? He wanted Alison to be asleep before he went up to her. Otherwise, she might cry out. Her window had been open when Roland went exploring after he’d finished cleaning the mess in the living room. She wouldn’t have closed it; the house was still too hot. With the window open, a scream might be heard by someone outside or even by the people who lived downstairs.
Roland needed to catch her asleep. Then, there would be no scream or struggle.
He went to the sofa, sat down, and waited.
He savored the waiting. Last night with Celia had been incredible. But Alison had stunning beauty along with an innocent, alluring quality that Celia lacked. She would be…overwhelming.
It
All night with her.
But he needed to wait. Settling back on the sofa, he folded his hands behind his head and stared at the dark screen of the television. He called up an image of Alison in the mall wearing the jumpsuit with the zipper down the front that he longed to slide down. She’d had a bag in her hand. So had Celia. He wondered what they had bought that day.
Roland grinned. Whatever they’d bought, it cost plenty. It cost their lives and Helen’s too. If he hadn’t seen them at the mall…
He would’ve chosen someone else, not the Three Musketeers.
Big enough to share with a friend.
His stomach growled.
Desire pulsed through him. Roland writhed, gasping, until it faded.
Okay, he thought. I get the message.
Leaning forward, he pulled off his shoes and socks. He pulled off his shirt and spread it on the top of the table. Standing, he slipped the knife from its case and placed it on the shirt. He removed his handcuffs from a front pocket of his jeans. Digging into the other front pocket, he took out a smashed and flattened roll of duct tape.
He touched the handcuff key which dangled from a thin chain around his neck.
His hands shook badly as he peeled off a six-inch strip of the broad, metallic tape and sliced it off the roll with his knife. He stuck one end of the tape to his chin. It hung down like a strange beard.
He lowered his jeans and stepped out of them.
This time, there would be no problem of blood on his clothes. He would leave them down here and put them on again after showering. He would be clean when he left the house.
I’m learning, he thought. I’m getting good at this.
He sat on the sofa again, picked up his jeans, and pulled the belt out of its loops. He put the knife case back onto the belt, then stood and buckled the belt loosely around his waist. He folded the knife, slipped it into its case.
Now, he would have both hands free for cuffing her and taping her mouth.
He liked the feel of the cool belt and the weight of the knife against his side.
A naked savage.
Drape a cloth over the belt, and he would have a loincloth.
Better like this, he decided.
He slid a hand down the length of his engorged penis, then picked up the cuffs. He stepped around the end of the sofa. His feet were silent on the carpet. He heard only his thudding heart. He began to tremble. With each step, the tremors grew. He wasn’t cold; he wasn’t frightened. He was shaking with excitement, with delicious shivers of anticipation.
At the bottom of the staircase, Roland shifted the cuffs to his left hand. He curled his right hand over the railing. Slowly, he began to climb.
The staircase was black. But a patch of gray showed at the top.
A step creaked under his weight.
He stopped and listened.
His throat was making an odd, dry clicking sound with each heartbeat. He swallowed, and the sound went away.
He began climbing again. After a few more steps, his eyes were level with the floor of the attic room. The
