Coven

Ten days? That was plenty of time. That was his whole life.

“You can find guys who’ll do it cheaper, but not better.”

Jervis nodded. He wasn’t about to go hunting in the PennySaver. “I don’t have a key to her dorm anymore, but I got a funny feeling that you’re not particularly troubled by the inconvenience of locks.”

“Don’t worry about locks. Does she have a burglar alarm?”

“No,” Jervis said.

“Then anything she’s got on her door I go through in two seconds.”

“When’s the soonest you can have it in?”

“Tomorrow night, max.”

Jervis passed him six more hundred dollar bills. “Do it,” he said.

««—»»

Jervis drove half drunk back to campus. His arrangement with Czanek would only lead him to further despair, he realized, yet he looked forward to it, as a masochist looks forward to the whip. It didn’t make sense. Why was he pursuing this?

His driving began to falter. The yellow line looked like a smear to oblivion. His thoughts spoke to him like an alter ego, a secret sharer of despair.

I’m crazy, he thought.

Of course you are, his thoughts answered. You’re an English major; English majors are crazy to begin with. It’s all that existential shit they made you read, all that Sartre and Hegel— what a pile of crap. You took it seriously, Jervis, you thought it would save you. Jesus Christ, you’ve become obsessed with this girl. Private investigators? Bugs? It’s crazy. Your love has made you crazy.

“I know,” Jervis whispered to his id. “I’m crazy, and I still love her. What am I going to do?”

The black thoughts seemed to snicker. Kill them, they said.

“Kill them?”

Kill them. Then kill yourself.

««—»»

Wade’s first day as toilet cleaner proved as expected: shitty. His clothes reeked of mop water; it permeated him. Back in his dorm room, he turned on all the lights and the TV, let the room surround him in familiarity. He sat on the bed with a bottle of Samuel Adams lager, pushing the day and its myriad toilets from his mind. He needed mirth, he needed cheer. The TV picture formed, a cable flick called The Louisiana Swamp Murders. Raving toothless hillbillies chased topless blondes through the bayou with hatchets.

So much for mirth.

At least the day was over. He hit the Play button on his answering machine, hoping more girls had called, or friends, or anyone to make him feel better. Instead…

Beep: “Wade, this is your father. Call home at once.”

Oh, no, Wade thought.

Beep: “Wade, this is your goddamn father. I know you’re there; you’re probably sitting on the fucking bed with a beer right now. Call goddamn home at once or you’ll be goddamned sorry.”

Wade dialed the phone in slow, comatose dread.

“Hi, Dad. This is—”

“I know who it is, goddamn it. What the hell are you trying to pull down there? Three traffic tickets? On your first day back?”

Wade flubbed. “How did you find out about—”

“Dean Saltenstall told me all about it.”

Wade seethed. Why that blue blood no dick piece of garbage! So help me, I’ll— “Dad, I can explain.”

“No, you can’t. There’s no excuse for irresponsible shit like this. You’re supposed to be shaping up, not fucking up.”

“Really, Dad, I—”

“Heed my words, son. You’re at the end of your own rope. One more fuckup and you can start packing for the Army.”

Click.

Nice talking to you too, Wade thought.

There was a knock at the door. Tom entered, dressed for town and bearing a bottle of Spaten Oktoberfest. “Hey, Wade. Here’s an old one. Carter walks into the White House groundskeeping office. He’s holding a pile of dogshit in his hands, and he yells, ‘Goddamn it! See what I almost stepped in!’”

“That’s the worst joke I ever heard. Anyway, dogshit, bullshit, it’s all the same to Republicans. They’ve got plenty of both.”

Tom stopped midstep, sniffing. “What’s that smell?”

“I don’t smell anything,” Wade lied.

“Smells like that stuff janitors use to clean toilets.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Wade said. “We partying tonight?”

“Of course.” Tom looked at the TV and frowned. Inbred psychotic bumpkins were yanking the pants off a bug eyed blonde. “What’s this? A new campaign ad for the Democrats?”

“No, it’s the reruns of the last Republican Convention. Don’t you remember?”

“Hey, I’m laughing… See if you can drum up Jervis for tonight. I haven’t seen him all day. And… Jesus, that smell’s really strong. You been cleaning toilets?”

“I’ll tell you about it later,” Wade balked. “Much later.” If anybody—anybody—found out he was cleaning toilets for minimum wage, his reputation would be…flushed. “I need some time to get ready. Meet me at the inn in an hour.”

Tom nodded, sniffing, and left. Wade finished his Adams and dropped the bottle into the trash compactor. The sound of it being crushed made him picture himself being crushed by Dad, the dean and Besser. He quickly gathered his shower gear, but stopped. On the TV a girl with large breasts was being dismembered by an obese, drooling slob in overalls. Wade grimaced. Whatever happened to happy movies? He knew it was only the power of suggestion, but the grimy hillbilly madman on the TV screen bore a distressing resemblance to Professor Besser.

—

CHAPTER 8

Professor Besser! The name screamed in her head.

Had she been sleeping? Penelope wasn’t sure. Nevertheless, the image remained, crisp and bright as neon. The big face in the moonlight… It was the last thing she remembered before blacking out—being carried into the woods by…Professor Besser.

She pressed against her memory. What had happened?

The power failure. The stables and…my God, the ax! The horses!

She remembered escaping, but she hadn’t escaped, had she? She’d made it to the car, but before she could drive away—

There’d been someone in the car, hadn’t there?

Someone waiting.

The woman, Penelope remembered.

Something clicked, a snap like a tiny bone. Then the rest of the memories siphoned back into her head.

—Hello, Penelope, the woman said.