The Hellfire Club

of your goal. 'Let's face it,' he had said, 'we're stuck here for the night, so the kidnapping is out. We have to take care of them all - those three old Pop-Tarts, too. They're calling me a serial killer, I might as well have a little fun and act like one. First of all, we convince everybody that you'll be coming back here by yourself. When we're through with the Pinto, we trot back here and visit the bedrooms so kindly pointed out to us. No alarms or telephones. Safety, ease, and comfort. When we're done, we enjoy a champion's breakfast of steak and eggs in the kitchen, and depart in the Pinto's car.'

Trying to match her pace to Dart's, Nora bent over and ran, able to see no more than the rain sheeting off the brim of the red hat and the mud rising to her ankles. Dart yanked at her hand, and she lost her grip on the bag, which dropped into the mud. The cleaver, the carving knife, and much else tumbled out. Dart yelled something inaudible but unmistakable in tone, dragged her back, and bent down to scoop what had fallen out into the bag. Off to the right, a branch splintered away from a tree and crashed to the ground. Dart rammed the bag into her chest, whirled her around, and pushed her through the mud to the PEPPER POT sign and the ascending path. Her feet slipped, and she slid backwards into him. He pushed her again. Rain struck her face like a stream of needles. Nora tried to walk forward, and her right foot slipped out of the lower part of the boot. Dart circled her waist and lifted her off the ground. Her foot came out of the boot. Dart kicked it aside and carried her up the path.

He set her down on the porch and unfastened the clasps of the slicker to pull the key from his jacket pocket. Rain drummed down onto the roof. An unearthly moaning came from the woods. Hell again, Nora thought. No matter how many times you go there, it's always new. Dark puddles formed around them. A film of water covered her face, and her ribs ached from Dart's grip. He opened the door and pointed inside.

His hat and slicker landed on the floor. Nora put down the bag and fished the candles from the pockets of Marian's coat. Dart took the candles, locked the door, and made shooing motions with his hands. Nora hung Marian's things on a hook beside the door and lifted her foot out of the remaining boot. 'Hang up that garbage I had to wear and find the matches. Then put your bag in the bathtub and get back here to help me pull off these disgusting boots.'

'Put my bag in the tub?'

'You want to destroy a Gucci bag? I have to clean it off and try to dry it.'

Nora carried the dripping bag across the lightless room into the bathroom. Was there a window in the bathroom, a back door? A gleaming black rectangle hung in the far wall. She moved forward until her legs met the bathtub, stepped inside, dropped the bag, and ran her hands along the top of the window. Her fingers found a brass catch. The slide refused to move. 'What are you doing?' Dart shouted.

'Putting down the bag.' She pulled at the slide, but it was frozen into place.

'Get back in here.'

A column of darkness against a background of lighter darkness ordered her to the fireplace on the far side of the room. Holding her hands before her, Nora put one foot in front of another and made her way across the room.

Apparently able to see in the dark, Dart directed her to the fireplace and matches, then told her to walk fifteen paces forward, turn left, and keep walking until she ran into him.

Dart grabbed the matches out of her hands, lit a candle, and walked away. She could see nothing but the flame. He jammed the candle into a holder from the windowsill, lit the other two, and put them into the candlesticks on the table in the center of the room. The rope and duct tape lay beside an ice bucket and a liter of Absolut. Dart took two gulps of vodka and drew in a sharp breath. Muddy boot-prints wandered across the floor like dance instructions. 'Sounds like the inside of a bass drum.' He dropped into a chair and stuck out one leg. 'Do it.'

Nora put her hands on the slimy boot. 'Pull.' Her hands slipped off. 'Take your clothes off.'

'Take my clothes off ?'

'So you can prop my legs against your hip and push. Don't want to wreck that suit.'

While she was undressing, Dart sent her to the kitchen for a glass. He blew into it, held it up to the flame for inspection, and pulled a dripping handful of slivers from the bucket. Before drinking, he drew a circle in the air with the glass, and Nora walked back to the bed and removed the rest of her clothes. 'Hang up your things. Have to look good until we can get new clothes.' He followed her with his eyes. 'Okay, get over here, and put your back into it this time.'

She pulled his outthrust leg into her side. His trousers were sodden, and an odor of wet wool came from him. She held her breath, gripped his leg with her left hand, pushed at the heel, and the boot came away. 'Let my people be!' Dart swallowed vodka. 'One down, one to go.'

When the second boot surrendered, Nora staggered forward and felt an all too familiar surge of warmth throughout her body. Dizziness, a sudden sweatiness of the face, a hot necessity to sit down. 'Oh, no,' she said.

'Mud washes off,' Dart said. Then he bothered to look at her. 'Oh Christ, a hot flash. God, that's ugly. Wipe off the mud and lie down.'

She got to the bathroom and splashed water on her face before erasing the clumps and streaks from her body.

When she came out, Dart pointed to the bed. 'Women. Slaves to their bodies, every one.' She was vaguely aware of his giving her another disgusted look. 'Seven-hundred-dollar Gucci bag, covered with mud. Here I go, doing your work for you again.'

He poured more vodka. 'And wouldn't you know it, the ice is all gone.' Nora watched the ceiling darken as he carried a candle into the bathroom.

Her body blazed. Water ran. Dart spoke to himself in tones of complaining self-pity. Nora wiped her forehead. She could feel her temperature floating up. Bug, where are you, little bug? A hot flash is hardly complete without a touch of formication. Shall we formicate? Come on, let's try for the brass ring. Dick Dart is repulsed by female biology, let's have the whole menopausal circus. Give me an F, give me an O, give me an R. Formication, of thee I sing. The riot in her body swung the bed gently up and back. A rustle of leathery wings and a buzz of glee came from beyond the fireplace. Begone, fiends, I don't want you now. She wiped her face with a corner of the sheet, and it came away slick with moisture.

Dart poked his head through the bathroom door and announced that if she wasn't ready by the time the Pinto came, she'd be sorry. I'm plenty sorry right now, thank you very much.

Having enjoyed itself for some three or four minutes, the hot flash subsided, leaving behind the usual sense of depletion. From the bathroom came swishing sounds accompanied by Dartish grumbles. Nora remembered that he had put the gun in his desk drawer. Surprise, surprise! She wiped her body with her hands and swung her legs off the bed. The sounds of running water and exclamations of woe testified to the absorption of Mr Dart in his task. Despite her ignorance of revolvers and their operation, surely she could work out how to fire the thing once she got her hands on it. She moved silently toward the middle of the room and observed that the desk drawer appeared to have been pulled open. Another six tiptoe steps brought her to the desk. She lowered her hand into the drawer and touched bare wood. What's the matter, Dick? Don't you trust me?

She moved to the door, put on the slicker, and snapped it shut. In the bathroom. Dart was bent over the tub, his sleeves pushed up past his elbows. A candle stood at the bottom of the tub, and flickering shadows swarmed over the walls. Dye dripping from Dart's hair had stained the top of his shirt collar black. A thick line of grit ran from the middle of the tub to the drain, and limp bills had been hung over the side to dry. The cleaver and the carving knife lay encased in mud beside the bag. Various bottles and brushes and other cosmetic devices had already been washed and placed atop the toilet.

He took in the slicker with contempt. 'Grab a towel. One of the little ones.'

She gave him a hand towel, and he passed it under the running tap. 'Wipe up the mud out there before it dries.'

'Aye, aye, sir.' Nora took the towel into the room to swab muddy footprints. By the time she returned, Dart was holding the bag out before him.

'This thing might survive after all.' He handed her the wet bag. 'Get it as dry as you can. Tear the pages out of one those books, wad a towel into the center of the bag, and cram the pages between the towel and the inside of the bag. Don't forget the corners. Do it in here, so I can make sure you do it right.'

She brought the paperbacks into the bathroom and placed them on the floor beside the toilet to buff the handbag with the towel.