She negotiated her way over these unmarked roads, across the narrow bridges, and finally pulled into the rutted lane that led to the property.
To look at it, you might guess the place abandoned, except for the barking that emanated from the Quonset hut-the kennel situated fifty yards down a sloping grade to the right of the old cabin and driveway. A light was on in the cabin. He was here!
She parked and hurried through the rain. Her wet blouse glued to her chest. Her jeans absurdly tight-were soaked from just below her crotch to her knees. Her hair was matted and a mess. She twisted the handle-it was locked. She crossed around to the cellar entrance and in doing so passed two glowing basement windows that had been painted over from the inside. She didn't need to see through these windows to know he was working inside. Now drenched, she approached the thick wooden door and pounded on it loudly. A moment later, he called out, 'Who's there?' When she answered, he opened the door, The hall was dark, though to his left the impromptu operating room glowed brightly beneath the surgical lamps. He stood in shadow, his face partially hidden. She slicked back her hair and shook the water off her, Behind her, the loud barking continued inside the kennel. She glanced into the operating room where a sedated woman lay stretched out on the operating table, green surgical cloth covering her. Pamela experienced the horror of exclusion. He was prepared to do a harvest without her! Unthinkable! 'So,' he said in that grating voice of his, 'you've come.'
The fear of abandonment penetrated so deeply that she felt paralyzed, unable to move or speak.
But he touched her elbow and steered her into the cabin's basement room-his operating theater and shut the door. The ceiling of exposed floor joists hung low over their heads, woven with a network of old pipes and electrical wiring. He had created a false ceiling by stapling a thick clear plastic to the underside of the joists. He had done nearly the same thing to the stone walls-had placed a series of two-by-fours around the perimeter of the room and had fixed the transparent sheeting to them, creating plastic walls. This room was kept immaculately clean even the plastic was wiped down with disinfectant following every surgery. He was a cleanliness fanatic-you only had to look at his hands and nails to see that. And although in terms of equipment they got by with only the bare necessities- anesthesia, lights, autoclave, and various monitoring devices-it was all state of the art. There was even a backup generator in case the power failed. Tegg was overly cautious with every aspect of his surgery. obsessive. She considered him a great teacher. The overhead lights burst with enough candlepower to light a small stadium.
Only his eyes were visible above the surgical mask as he studied her. He glanced quickly from her to his patient on the table. He seemed briefly confused. She couldn't remember ever having seen him with this particular expression-as if he had been caught in some wrong. Perhaps he knew how much such a discovery would hurt her. Perhaps he could sense even that.
Her eyes welled with the tears of rejection. He didn't need her.
He had deliberately excluded her. just like her parents! just like everyone! But then he raised and dropped the green cloth as if it meant nothing to him, as if discarding his patient, and stepped toward her with a renewed confidence, strong, even mesmerizing. 'My pager must be broken,' she said to him in a dispirited voice, looking for some excuse. She knew it wasn't broken, but she wanted to offer him a way out. Even now, she felt obliged to protect him.
He replied, 'No, your pager is not broken. I didn't call you.' Only now did she notice that he held a scalpel in his gloved hand. Devilishly sharp. Dangerous. 'I didn't want to … bother you.' These were the words he spoke, but it was not the message carried in his voice. This contradiction confused her. 'Bother me? You never bother me. I'm always available for you. For any reason. Anything at all.'
She strained again to see the patient on the table, but he stepped into her line of sight and placed the scalpel flatly against her cheek. He clearly didn't want her looking.
She glanced into his familiar eyes and saw something new there.
Her legs trembled. She felt herself flush a crimson red as sexual excitement rushed through her. Here? Now?
He stepped closer to her and ran the scalpel down her neck to between her breasts. 'Elden?' she asked, her heart racing furiously.
One by one, he cut free the buttons. 'Is this all right?' he asked.
She nodded. 'I guess so.' Keeping his mask on, he kissed her then for the first time. He took her pouty lips between his masked teeth and bit down hard in a way that both thrilled and terrified her. She felt powerless next to him. 'Is it all right?' he asked again. 'Hmm?
She hesitated. 'You want this, don't you, Pamela? I know you do. Tell me you do.'
Her shirt fell open. He pulled it back and studied the long scar below her rib cage. He touched it and hummed softly. 'Tell me,' he repeated. She thought she might faint. He used the scalpel to cut her bra. it too fell open, exposing her. He didn't look. He held her eyes. He said, 'This is what you want, isn't it?'
'Yes.'
'Good.' He ran the flat of the blade over her breasts. A penetrating, exhilarating chill raced through her. The danger that blade represented … He then held out his empty hand and offered it to her. She kissed his gloved fingers then, one by one. She drew each of his fingers into her mouth, suckling them and curling her warm tongue around them, ignoring the odd odor of the latex. All the I while, Tegg continued to stare into her eyes. What did he see? What was he after? He withdrew his fingers from her mouth, glanced once quickly nervously? — over his shoulder at his patient, then quickly back at her and said, 'You won't need these.' He tugged her jeans away from her soft middle and drew the scalpel all the way down one pant leg, then the other. Her jeans came off like a pair of chaps. Her head swam, feeling his hand touch her there.
All at once she could smell her own excitement, and it embarrassed her. It mixed with the musty and medicinal odors of the cellar. 'You'll like it,' he said, reading her thoughts. He pulled the severed blouse from her and left it on the floor. He led her-underwear, running shoes and peds-to the end of the operating table.
He positioned her facing him with her back to the patient, standing between the unconscious woman's bare feet. She resisted the urge to cover her tried not to think of the way her flesh must belly, look in the glaring light. His eyes glowed behind the operating mask. She could hear his coarse, exciting breathing.
She felt dizzy, almost drunk. This wasn't how she had imagined it. He was scarcely himself. is this how men were? She ached with longing and fear. He reached past her and moved the patient's feet out of Pamela's way, clearing a small space between them on the operating table.
Suddenly, he scooped Pamela up and planted her sitting in this space on the end of the high operating table, centered between the patient's ankles. He took one of her hands and placed it on her raised knee, then the other, so she held herself open for him. He spun the scalpel before her eyes. Light glinted from its edges. He lowered it. He nicked the waistline of her underwear, and then threw the scalpel to the floor. He placed both hands on her underpants, and tore them open.
He asked, 'Are you sure?' She nodded, unable to speak. 'We can stop,' he offered. 'No.' He touched her with his gloved hands. She rocked her head back and stared open-eyed into the harsh, sterile light. Her left leg cramped; she wanted to let go of her knee, but she didn't dare do anything. This was all so new to her, not at all what she had imagined. Better in some ways. Worse in others. He felt removed and distant, and yet his touch was intense and knowledgeable. She wanted him to want her.
He unfastened his belt. She grew light-headed. He took her legs and pulled them toward him, drew her to him, causing her to plant her arms and lean back, her head nearly touching the patient, her legs wrapped around him, her body half on, half off the metal table. The farther back she leaned, the easier it was to support herself, but the more contact she made with the woman behind and beneath her. Humming one of the operas that he played during their surgery, he penetrated her. A sharp pain. She cried out. She could tell by his reaction that he liked it, so she didn't try to stifle the sounds that shuddered through her with each of his thrusts. He went after her with a frenzy.
Her body went numb as all of her senses focused, instead of on herself, on him. His eyes closed. He smiled! He liked this!
Then nothing. He stopped. Was it over? He withdrew and shoved her away from him, back onto the table.
She was filled with a vague longing for something soft-muted light, a pillow, a kind word. 'Was it any good?' she asked. 'You can't answer that yourself?'
'It was wonderful!'
'There, you see?' Then he said mechanically and without emotion, 'Now put on a smockthere's work to be
