This guy has a real bent, she thought.
Crouching to inspect a lower shelf, she found some tides that were more to her liking:
The VCR was a different make from hers. She studied it for a few moments, then turned on the television, pressed a button marked Power and another marked Play. The machine came on. She took her beer to the easy chair and sat down.
The movie opened with a young woman standing under a shower. She turned slowly, humming as she soaped herself and the camera roamed her body.
Werewolf victim number one, Gillian thought.
She was a little surprised by the explicit nudity. They even showed a close-up of the girl’s vagina as she stroked it with a sudsy hand. The picture quality was poor, too. It looked grainy and cheap.
Suddenly, the shower curtain shot open. The girl yelped in surprise as a hand grabbed her hair and jerked her backward. She fell over the edge of the tub and landed with a slap of wet skin against the tile floor. Kicking and whimpering, she was dragged out of the bathroom by her hair.
The screen went dark.
Against the black background appeared the words:
What’s going on? Gillian wondered. She glanced at the plastic box on the
Credits were still showing on the television. Screenplay by Tryon Cleaver, directed by Otto Keller. Obviously pseudonyms created by guys with terrific senses of humor.
Must be some kind of
The credits ended.
The girl from the shower was hanging by her wrists from ropes attached to ceiling beams in the living room of a house. She squirmed and screamed while a man in black clothes stood nearby. His back was to the camera. He was facing a fireplace, holding a wrought-iron poker.
Gillian muttered, “Oh, shit.”
She rushed from her chair, stopped the tape and ejected it. Her hands trembled as she placed the cassette into the box labeled The
What kind of sick crap is this? she wondered.
She stepped over to the shelves and scanned all the titles on the three rows of video tapes. No Torture Slave in the whole collection.
She slipped the cassette back into its place and pulled out Star Wars. She opened the box. The cassette inside had no label at all.
She took it to the television. Crouching there, she inserted it in the VCR and pressed the Play button. For a few seconds, the screen was blank.
Then a young woman inside an elevator approached its opening doors. Before she could step out, two thugs in leather jackets rushed in, knocking her backward. She slammed against the rear wall of the elevator. Laughing, one of the men tore open her blouse. The other yanked her skirt up.
Gillian stopped the show. She ejected the cassette and took it back to the shelves.
Probably
Where did he even get such things? Gillian wondered. Maybe he ordered them through one of those S&M magazines he kept in his bedroom. Did they come packaged as legitimate films? That hardly seemed likely. Pretty expensive, though, if he bought all those popular videos just for their cases.
The guy’s loaded. He can afford to squander money when he has that much of it.
Why would he even bother? He could keep the things in a closet, or something. Maybe he enjoys having them hidden in plain sight. His little secret.
A guy like this, his mind’s warped. He probably has plenty of strange games. I’d just as soon not run into anymore of them, Gillian thought.
She wondered if she should get her camera and snap some photos of his video tape collection. She didn’t much care to have such a reminder; it would be like taking a little of Fredrick the Gross home with her. On the other hand, she already had shots of his book and magazine collection—with the exception of S&M and child porn. If she left without taking pictures of his tapes, she might regret it later. Besides, she had time to kill.
She went to the bedroom for her camera.
I don’t have to put any of these in my scrapbook, she thought. Just throw them in the back of a drawer if I don’t want to look at them. But at least I’ll have the things.
Back in the den, Gillian removed Psycbo, I Spit
Crouching, she took down a dozen of the videos with the phony cases. She spread them on the floor, took a shot, and returned them to the shelf.
She wondered when she’d find time to put all this down into note form-but maybe she wouldn’t want to; the pictures would speak for themselves. She returned to the bedroom with her camera and put it into the suitcase. The clock on the nightstand showed five minutes after four.
The washing machine had probably stopped by now.
Gillian hurried through the house.
I won’t wait for five o’clock, she decided. As soon as the robe’s in the drier, I’ll come in and get ready. By the time I’m set to go, the robe should be pretty dry. Jerry won’t mind if I show up a little early.
Outside, she resisted the urge to peer over the fence again. She walked straight to the laundry room. The washing machine was silent. She opened the lid, reached inside, and lifted out the heavy, sodden robe. She dropped it on top of the drier.
Bending over, she opened the drier’s door.
And groaned.
Fredrick had gone off and left laundry in the machine.
Just what I want to do, Gillian thought. Touch his stuff. At least it looks dry.
Reaching into the drum, she pulled out a washcloth, a shirt, some white socks and a few pairs of brightly colored bikini underpants. She tossed them on top of a drier beside Jerry’s robe. When she dragged out a large blue bathtowel, the machine was empty.
Except for a book.
It was oversized, with a brown leatherette cover, and looked like a photo album.
So what’s it doing in the drier? Gillian wondered.
She supposed that Fredrick had put it there as a precaution, to save it in case the house burnt down while he was away.
She removed it, set it on top of the drier, and stuffed Jerry’s robe into the machine. She dosed the door. She
