Coven

Sladder’s arm. It was withered and gray, the hand drawn into a claw. She’d been injecting glycerin under the fingertips to distend the ridge patterns when the arm twitched to life, its claw hand snatching for her throat…

The sweat on her skin felt chill when she got up. She always slept nude for it made her feel less lonely—often she’d wake with her arms wrapped about the pillow, a stuffed dummy for a lover.

She purged herself in the shower. The water felt wonderful. White had given her a couple days off; he wanted her out of the way until the people from the state left. He would downplay it all, to believe the safest scenario. White was a horse wearing blinders.

Forget it. Think about something else. She soaped herself, imagining someone else was doing it. Some strong beautiful man’s hand glided the sudsy bar around her breasts and stomach.

She gave in, closed her eyes. Then the fantasy showed Sladder’s hand on her flesh. She rushed out to dry herself, grimacing.

“You know what your problem is, Lydia?” she asked the mirror. “You treat everyone like garbage because it’s easier than facing the fact that you’re a rotten, detestable cunt. No wonder nobody likes you. No wonder you don’t have any friends.”

The mirror didn’t argue.

It was all true, she knew that. She pictured herself going from job to job, place to place, with no one. She would grow old and die alone—a wizened wretch.

She sat down naked on the bed, already bored. Television was useless, she hadn’t watched it in months. On the nightstand, next to her Colt Trooper Mark III, yesterday’s Marlboro stood on end. She’d been too tired to smoke it, so tonight she could have two, which mildly excited her. The cigarette thing was the only promise she hadn’t broken. The others lay in pieces about her life.

Absently she looked down at her feet, her legs, her clean pubic hair and belly button. She had a nice tan already. No one knew that lying on the apartment roof was the bulk of her social life. She always wore a minuscule string bikini. She jogged every day, worked out with dumbbells, and did lots of sit ups to keep her stomach flat. Why she worked so hard to remain physically attractive mystified her: she showed her body to no one, and hadn’t in years. She presumed she was attractive but was unimpressed by the presumption. She’d read in Cosmo that women who felt ugly on the inside compensated for that by making themselves beautiful on the outside. The idea distressed her.

She glanced secretively at the blinds. They were closed, not that anyone could peep in at her on the third floor. She felt silly. She parted her legs, then gently touched herself with her finger. Why should she be embarrassed? Everybody did it, didn’t they? She’d also read in Cosmo that even women with active sex lives masturbated regularly. Well, then…

She filled her head with pictures of muscular men. Broad hands roamed her breasts and thighs, hard penises rubbed against her. Mouths kissed her neck and sucked her nipples. In her mind, she was penetrated and humped by a gorgeous, curved cock. But…

Nothing. Perhaps so much conceit had turned her the other way. She thought of women making love to her but flinched at once. No, this was no good at all. Her finger slackened; the inlet of her supposed passion felt as cold and unresponsive as the rest of her.

She knew the reason. No one liked her because she didn’t like herself enough to let them. The one lover in her life she’d chased away with her sarcasm and ridicule. She was awful to everyone. It was easier that way, wasn’t it? Easier to just be awful.

She’d been awful to Wade St. John, and she’d delighted in it. What was wrong with her? How could I have said those things to him? He was just a harmless punk kid and she’d gone after him like a shark to blood, as if by natural response.

At once she was disgusted with herself.

Lydia Prentiss stood up. Isn’t this ridiculous? A college-educated twenty six year old nude female police officer making promises to a wall? Yes, it was ridiculous, but just the same, to the wall she made her vow: “I am not going to treat people like garbage anymore. I will not look down on others, and I will not be unkind. I am going to be a good person, and I’m going to start right now.”

She heard the world laughing.

««—»»

And as Lydia Prentiss made promises to a wall, a girl named Penelope blinked and breathed and fidgeted, jammed immobile and plumply swollen in a sheen of some hot, mucoid slime, her face stupidly collapsed against what was now her home.

Her big, squashed eyes stared out, aglow.

—

CHAPTER 13

“Hey, Jerv,” Wade greeted. “Am I interrupting something?”

Jervis turned guiltily. “Uh, no,” he said. There was another guy in Jervis’ room—greasy hair, gaunt face, tacky sports clothes. He looked like a bookie. He gave Wade a fast once over.

“If you have any problems,” the guy said to Jervis, “call me.”

Jervis nodded. The guy slipped past Wade and left.

“Who was that slimeball?”

“Just a friend,” Jervis said. “Have a Kirin.”

Wade got the message that Jervis didn’t want to talk. He opened a Kirin from Jervis’ fridge. The Japanese made beer of notable quality, like their torpedo bombers. “Missed you last night, man. Tom and I went out and had a few beers. We were a little worried.”

Jervis sipped his own Kirin from his desk, inspecting something that looked like a pocket radio. “I was studying at the library.”

Right. Studying. Never mind that classes don’t start till next week. “Well, we’ll be partying again tonight, so you can catch up.”

“Can’t make it tonight either,” Jervis said.

“Why the hell not? We got bad breath or something?”

Jervis went to the fridge for another Kirin. He was acting…funny. “I got some personal business, that’s all.”

“Oh,” Wade said. He wandered to the desk, picked up the radio. A sticker on the back read: “49MHz Simplex Receiver Unit. Not for commercial use, not for sale.”

“Jerv, what’s this ridiculous thing?”

“Just a transistor radio.”

“Oh, yeah? Forty nine megahertz? That’s not a very popular station—it’s off the dial.”

Jervis frowned. He pulled the end off a Carlton and lit up.

“Jerv, Jerv,” Wade said. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong.”

“It’s still this Sarah thing, isn’t it? I don’t know what you’ve got cooking, I don’t know what this thing is, and I don’t know who that scuzzy looking guy was. All I know is my best friend is weirding out. You’ve got to let Sarah go.” Every time Wade said “Sarah,” Jervis winced. “You’re starting to scare the shit out of us, man. We think maybe you’re cracking a little.”

Jervis smiled like a ghost. “Nothing’s wrong.”

“All right, I get the message.” Wade got up, “You seen Tom?”

“I saw him leaving earlier, couple of hours ago, I guess.”

Great, Wade thought. I’ll be drinking alone tonight. “Later.”

“Hey, Wade…don’t worry about me, okay?”

Wade stopped and turned at the door.