Coven, p.3
Coven, page 3
He stowed his bags in his own room two doors down. Its sameness somehow comforted him. Wade’s room came with every luxury. There was a small kitchen, a fridge, a separate bathroom and study, even a trash compactor. How could Dad expect him to do well in school without a trash compactor?
The red light blinked on the answering machine. But nobody even knows I’m back, he thought.
Beep: “Wade, I know you’re back,” said a voice on the machine. “This is Jessica. I…oh, shit, I miss you! Please call me!”
Old flames never die. Sure, babe, I’ll call you. Next century.
Beep: “Wade, I know you’re back,” claimed the next voice. “Word gets around when the best-looking guy on campus returns unexpectedly. This is Sally, in case you’ve forgotten my voice. Maybe you’ve forgotten my body too, so why don’t you come over right now, and I’ll give you a little lesson in refamiliarization.”
No thanks. Body by Fisher. Brains by Mack truck.
Beep: “Wade! I can’t believe you haven’t called me yet—”
He reset the machine, ignoring the nine remaining messages. It was nice to be wanted, but Wade figured that was their tough luck. Only so much of this handsome devil to go around, girls. Be patient. Chuckling, he locked his room and went out to the Vette.
The campus roads were close to empty. Wade sped past the liberal arts buildings, watching for the famed Exham police, who all seemed to have an affinity for radar guns. Wade’s Corvette was definitely on their Ten Most Wanted List, and so was Wade. He probably had enough tickets from these chumps to paper his dorm room.
The campus glowed green with grass and sun, placated in lazy tranquility. Crosswalks stood vacant, hall entries deserted. This vast emptiness made him feel sentenced; it reminded him of all the fun he’d be missing out on. Summer school, he thought, in disgust and despair. The rest of the world will be partying, and I’ll be stuck here.
Next he passed WHPL, the campus radio station—progressive, not pop, he thanked God—and around the next bend the Crawford T. Sciences Center loomed. Wade felt dismal driving by. Here, he’d not only be retaking a biology course he’d flunked last year but also starting his new job in toilet maintenance. Wade valued his reputation very much—handsome rich kids in Corvettes had appearances to maintain—but if people found out he was cleaning johns for minimum wage, he could kiss the rep goodbye. He pondered this potential nightmare so intently he missed the next stop sign.
A horn blared. Wade slammed his brakes.
A burgundy Coupe De Ville blew by, missing Wade’s front slope by inches. Wade immediately recognized the car as Professor Dudley J. Besser’s, head of the biology department as well as the most miserable ballpopper on the Exham faculty.
You fat hot-air bag! Watch where I’m driving!
As the De Ville turned, Wade noticed a woman sitting next to Besser, and sitting close. Did Besser have a girlfriend? Impossible. Only a prostitute or a vision-impaired Weight Watchers reject would date that anal-retentive walking lard barrel.
Then Wade did a double take, took a closer look.
No fucking way! he thought.
This woman appeared to be Mrs. Winnifred Saltenstall, who was not only beautiful but also the wife of the dean.
Wade eyeballed after the De Ville until it was long gone. It can’t be, he mused. Winnifred was centerfold material; Besser was a fat dolt. No known logic could explain an affair between the two of them.
The student shop sat at the far end of campus. It existed solely as an ill-conceived courtesy; not many rich kids tuned their cars up themselves, but there were a few diehard hot-rodders on campus, and Tom McGuire was one of them. He owned a flawless white 1968 Camaro in showroom condition. The “Eat Dust” vanity plates said it all—this was the fastest vehicle on campus.
“Well, shit my drawers,” Tom yelled, looking up from the custom-rebuilt 350 smallblock. Some old Deep Purple song boomed through the bays. “Since when does Wade St. John go to school during the summer?”
“Since Wade St. John’s father lowered the boom.”
“Bummer.” Tom wiped sweat off his brow. He tossed Wade a bottle of Spaten Oktoberfest. Tom was beefy, broad-shouldered, with forearms thick as softball bats. His hair was dark and short, as conservative as his political views. Straight-leg jeans and a white T-shirt gave him the appearance of a sixties motorhead. He had a fondness for old music, German lager, and bad jokes. “Classes start in a week,” he pointed out. “We’ve got some serious partying to do in the meantime.” Then he paused, a force of habit. “Hey, Wade. Here’s an old one. Did you hear Nixon, Hart, and Kennedy started their own law firm?”
Tom’s notorious jokes were indeed old. “Oh, yeah?”
“Yeah. Prickem, Dickem, and Dunkem.”
Tom roared laughter. Wade shook his head.
“But seriously,” Tom went on. “It’s good you stopped by. I need to tell you about—”
“Jervis,” Wade finished.
“Yeah. You been up to the dorm already?”
“I just came from there. Jerv wrecked his entire room.”
Tom gave a grim nod. “I heard him trashing the place this morning, and throwing up. I tried to calm him down but the lunatic started throwing bottles at me. I guess he just flipped when it happened.”
“What?” Wade asked. “When what happened?”
Stone-faced, Tom said, “Sarah dumped him.”
Wade slumped in place at the revelation.
“She dumped him right after the spring semester.”
Now Jervis’ destitution made sense, Jervis was far more impressionable than most; he was nuts about Sarah Black, head over heels in love. His whole life revolved around her; she was his life. “But I thought they were getting married,” Wade said.
“She’s getting married, all right. But not to Jerv. It’s some German guy she dumped him for.”
“A German guy?”
“Some kraut developer’s son, richer than shit. That’s all Jerv knows. And you’re probably thinking the same thing I’ve been thinking.”
“Yeah,” Wade verified. “That he might go right over the deep end, try to kill himself or something. Could he be capable of that?”
Tom’s laugh was stout and hearty. “Capable? You know how much he loves that smug bitch. This is the absolute worst thing that could happen to him. Right now he’s probably capable of just about anything.”
“Yeah, but suicide?”
Tom shrugged. “He’s got a gun.”
“What!” Wade exclaimed.
“Sure. He keeps it under his bed, some big old British revolver his grandpop gave him. I took the bullets out of it this morning when he was throwing up, and I swiped the rest of the ammo box.”
“Yeah, but he can always buy more. What are we going to do?”
“We’re gonna have to pull him out of this ourselves.”
“You’re right,” Wade said. “He’s got no one else.”
“I’ll meet you back at the dorm later,” Tom said. “We’ll clean him up and drag his ass down to the inn, get some food in him. He’s probably been living on Kirins since this whole thing went down.”
“Kirins and Carltons,” Wade added. “See you tonight.”
Wade took off in the Vette, cranking up an old Manzanera song called “Mummy Was an Asteroid, Daddy Was a Small Nonstick Kitchen Utensil.” Thank God for alternative radio; where would he be trapped in a world of bad rap and Madonna? He checked the rearview, then pitched his empty Spaten bottle into the Circle. With the campus this empty, at least he didn’t have to worry about getting pulled over.
Halfway through the Circle, he got pulled over.
That’s just fucking grand, he thought. But where had the cop been? They must have cloaking devices on their cruisers. Get ready, he primed himself. Wade wasn’t much of a student, but when it came to sweet-talking police, he made straight A’s. He put on his innocent-face as the cop walked up, boot heels clicking.
“Good afternoon, Mr. St. John. My name is Officer Prentiss. I’d like to see your registration and operator’s permit.”
Astonished, Wade looked up. The cop was a woman. Girlfuzz, he thought. A dickless Tracy. “Who are you?” he asked.
“I just told you. I’m Officer Prentiss and I’d like to see your—”
“I know, my registration and operator’s permit.” Lenient cops asked for your license; but only hard-asses called it an operator’s permit. This might take some work. “How come you know my name before seeing my li—I mean my operator’s permit?”
“I know all about you, Mr. St. John,” the cop said. “Chief White has properly familiarized me with all of the campus troublemakers.”
Wade laughed a chumly laugh. “Good old Chief White, always joking around. If you want to know the truth, my—”
“Your police file is the most extensive in the history of this campus.”
Wade paused. It was probably true. “Sure, Officer, I’ve had a ticket or two, but I’m no troublemaker, I assure you. And my father happens to be a significant contributor to the Exham Office of Donations, and is a close personal friend of the dean’s.”
“Which is the only reason you haven’t been kicked out.”
Wade paused again. This girl must work part-time on a rock pile, he considered, and she’s using my balls for the rocks. Disgusted, he gave her the cards. He examined her as she began filling out his tickets. She stood well postured and medium-tall, very storm-trooperish in her black boots and tailored tan uniform. Bright, straight blond hair was tied in back in a short tail, like a whip, and her eyes were a cold mystery behind mirrored shades. Wade supposed she would be cute if not for the inhuman police-traffic-stop set of her mouth. Her prettiness and her cop aura were a marriage of opposites: she invited to be looked at, yet revealed nothing to anyone who looked.
But there was something. Just…something.
“I’m citing you for doing thirty-four miles an hour in a fifteen zone,” she told him.
“What, the Circle?”
“Yes, the Circle. And you get another one for depositing hazardous material on campus common ground.”
“What hazardous material!”
“The beer bottle you just threw.”
“Oh, you mean that Coke bottle?”
“It was a beer bottle, Mr. St. John, but of course you’re welcome to testify in court under oath that it was not. And since possessing an opened alcoholic beverage container in a moving vehicle is also against the law, you get a third citation.”
Wade was getting bombed worse than Pearl Harbor. All these tickets would cost three bills in fines and three more points, which his insurance wouldn’t tolerate.
Okay. B.S. time, he thought. He put on his best poor-boy look, which probably was not very convincing while seated in a car that cost $75,000. “Officer Prentiss, I’m ashamed of myself. There’s no excuse for the thoughtless immaturity that I’ve demonstrated in your presence, and I humbly apologize. But the truth is, Officer, these tickets might cause my car insurance to be dropped, and that would make for some major trouble between me and my father. So I’m at your mercy. I’m going to ask that, in your generosity, you overlook these infractions, and in return you have my word and my personal guarantee that I will never violate the law on this campus ever again. My word.”
“I’ve heard better bullshit from Sterno drinkers,” she replied. She bruskly passed him the ticket book. “Sign, Mr. St. John.”
Wade was getting ticked. It wouldn’t kill this broad to give him a break. “What if I refuse to sign?” he dared ask.
“Then I will arrest you for ignoring a state summons.”
Wade laughed. “You wouldn’t dare. Maybe you don’t fully realize who I am. I’m Wade St. John. My father—”
“Sign the tickets or get out of the car,” Officer Prentiss said, then withdrew a shiny set of Peerless handcuffs.
Wade, boiling, signed the tickets. The cop tore off his copies and rather roughly stuffed them in his shirt pocket. “And if I ever see you throwing anything out of that car again,” she said, and smiled, “I’ll toss your rich-boy behind in my jail in less time than it takes to say collegiate expulsion. Oh, and have a nice day.”
Officer Prentiss then drove off in her cruiser, leaving Wade slack-mouthed. Have a nice day? he thought. Baby, they don’t get any nicer than this.
Chapter 5
The women stirred, moaning out from endless dreams. Their lair was a labyrinth; they lay deep in it. The labyrinth was silent and black, like death.
They lay together naked, their big eyes suddenly, inexplicably open. Something had waked them. Something—a word.
—Who are we? they wondered in unison.
But then they remembered. The labyrinth’s buried blackness began to move. They remembered who they were. They remembered the word, the holy, loving word.
Supremate.
—WAKE!
—Hello! one said.
—Hello! cried several more.
—We love you! We remember now!
They giggled together in their box. In joy, they kissed.
Then, like love, the voice caressed them.
—MY DAUGHTERS, MY LOVE.
The labyrinth was coming alive. Their lair grew warm. The dark and holy light felt beautiful on their white skin.
Memory crept closer. All things to serve their god! But first came an impulse. Sustenance. Hunger. Filling themselves up. The women remembered. They were hungry.
—Eat!
Yes, to eat. To make their bellies swell. Warm meat. Blood.
—We want to eat, please!
The Supremate’s voice was like a promise in the wind. —SOON, DAUGHTERS. SOON YOU’LL EAT. YOU’LL FEAST ON THE NEW PIGS.
Their loins tingled. Their red mouths drooled.
—Blood!
—Meat!
—New pigs!
They fidgeted in their box, reveling in the promises, like kisses. New blood to bathe in, and meat. They giggled and grinned.
—PRECIOUS DAUGHTERS…ARISE.
The Old Exham Inn was an antediluvian brick and mortar catacomb full of dully clashing decor. Upstairs was the pub, downstairs the stage. The inn served pretentious “light fare” only and imported beer. The town, after all, knew who it was catering to—spoiled, rich college kids—which was how they got away with astronomical prices. Only “diverse” bands were billed, to keep out the local riffraff.
They filed down the stone steps to one of the small dining coves far off from the stage.
“Feeling any better?” Tom asked.
Jervis nodded like a wooden puppet. They hadn’t let him shave—his current hand and mentality could not yet be trusted to hold a razor to his throat. But they’d gotten him cleaned up and walking.
“I’ll have a beer,” he eventually said.
“You’ll have coffee, you dumb schmuck,” Wade corrected.
“And food,” Tom said.
Jervis groaned.
Wade ordered from a waitress whose frilled bräuhaus dress exposed enough cleavage to dry-dock a runabout. Tom and Wade glanced warily at each other, contemplating a strategy to open Jervis up. Tom recognized the fragility of the situation. Wade, however, preferred a slightly more direct approach.
“So she dumped you, huh?”
Jervis wailed. Tom shook his head.
“Look, Jerv,” Wade said, “you can’t hide from this thing forever. You’re gonna have to face it, grab it by the balls.”
“Life’s got its ups and downs,” Tom said. “This is one of the downs.”
Jerv’s forehead was on the table. “But I still love her!”
Some can of worms, Wade thought. “Take my word for it, buddy. You’ll get over it. You got your whole life to look forward to.”
“Not without her,” Jervis told the top of the table. “We were gonna get married. I even bought a ring. It was going to be perfect.”
“Jervis, no girl is worth getting this bent out of shape over,” Tom offered. “When things don’t work out, you find someone else.”
“But I don’t want someone else. I want Sarah. I want my Sarah back!”
Wade tried to reason. “She’s not your Sarah anymore. That may sound cold but it’s the truth. Women can be treacherous, cunning monsters. One minute they’re telling you they love you forever; the next minute they’re in the sack with someone else, balling like there’s no tomorrow.”
Jervis jerked upright, pop-eyed. He began to make croaking noises. Then he jumped up from the table and staggered away.
“Good going, Wade,” Tom smirked. “You really have a way with words. Why not just buy him a bus ticket to Lover’s Leap?”
Perhaps the direct approach had been a bit harsh in this instance. Wade had blown it.
The waitress with the St. Pauli Girl cleavage brought their orders, a Spaten Oktoberfest for Tom, a Samuel Adams for Wade, and coffee and gumbo for Jervis. “I knew he was serious about her,” Wade said. “But I had no idea it was this bad.”
“Bad isn’t the word. Jerv’s a sensitive guy. He keeps a lot of things to himself.”
“Too many things,” Wade concluded. “I warned him not to go falling silly in love with that girl. I never liked her anyway.”
“You just never liked her ’cause she’s the only girl on campus who never made a play for you.”
Wade rolled his eyes. “Just because I’m the sharpest-looking dude in the state doesn’t mean I’m conceited.”
Tom laughed out loud.
After some time, Jervis returned, holding two bottles of Kirin Dry, one of which was already close to empty.
“Jervis, I didn’t mean to shake you up,” Wade apologized.
“Don’t worry about it.” Jervis sat down. “You guys are right. I’ve got to put this whole thing behind me.”
“Now you’re talking,” Tom said.
Wade pointed to the bowl. “Eat your gumbo. It’s good for you.”
Jervis dumped the gumbo into a potted plant. Then he began: “She dumped me by letter, during the break. She told me about the German guy, about how they’d been friends for a while, about how caring and ‘sweet’ he was, and all of a sudden she didn’t love me anymore. She’d stopped loving me months ago, she said, but hadn’t realized it till then. That was it, that simple. She said she didn’t want to see me anymore. And the last line”—Jervis gulped—“the last line of the letter was ‘Have a nice life.’”
The red light blinked on the answering machine. But nobody even knows I’m back, he thought.
Beep: “Wade, I know you’re back,” said a voice on the machine. “This is Jessica. I…oh, shit, I miss you! Please call me!”
Old flames never die. Sure, babe, I’ll call you. Next century.
Beep: “Wade, I know you’re back,” claimed the next voice. “Word gets around when the best-looking guy on campus returns unexpectedly. This is Sally, in case you’ve forgotten my voice. Maybe you’ve forgotten my body too, so why don’t you come over right now, and I’ll give you a little lesson in refamiliarization.”
No thanks. Body by Fisher. Brains by Mack truck.
Beep: “Wade! I can’t believe you haven’t called me yet—”
He reset the machine, ignoring the nine remaining messages. It was nice to be wanted, but Wade figured that was their tough luck. Only so much of this handsome devil to go around, girls. Be patient. Chuckling, he locked his room and went out to the Vette.
The campus roads were close to empty. Wade sped past the liberal arts buildings, watching for the famed Exham police, who all seemed to have an affinity for radar guns. Wade’s Corvette was definitely on their Ten Most Wanted List, and so was Wade. He probably had enough tickets from these chumps to paper his dorm room.
The campus glowed green with grass and sun, placated in lazy tranquility. Crosswalks stood vacant, hall entries deserted. This vast emptiness made him feel sentenced; it reminded him of all the fun he’d be missing out on. Summer school, he thought, in disgust and despair. The rest of the world will be partying, and I’ll be stuck here.
Next he passed WHPL, the campus radio station—progressive, not pop, he thanked God—and around the next bend the Crawford T. Sciences Center loomed. Wade felt dismal driving by. Here, he’d not only be retaking a biology course he’d flunked last year but also starting his new job in toilet maintenance. Wade valued his reputation very much—handsome rich kids in Corvettes had appearances to maintain—but if people found out he was cleaning johns for minimum wage, he could kiss the rep goodbye. He pondered this potential nightmare so intently he missed the next stop sign.
A horn blared. Wade slammed his brakes.
A burgundy Coupe De Ville blew by, missing Wade’s front slope by inches. Wade immediately recognized the car as Professor Dudley J. Besser’s, head of the biology department as well as the most miserable ballpopper on the Exham faculty.
You fat hot-air bag! Watch where I’m driving!
As the De Ville turned, Wade noticed a woman sitting next to Besser, and sitting close. Did Besser have a girlfriend? Impossible. Only a prostitute or a vision-impaired Weight Watchers reject would date that anal-retentive walking lard barrel.
Then Wade did a double take, took a closer look.
No fucking way! he thought.
This woman appeared to be Mrs. Winnifred Saltenstall, who was not only beautiful but also the wife of the dean.
Wade eyeballed after the De Ville until it was long gone. It can’t be, he mused. Winnifred was centerfold material; Besser was a fat dolt. No known logic could explain an affair between the two of them.
The student shop sat at the far end of campus. It existed solely as an ill-conceived courtesy; not many rich kids tuned their cars up themselves, but there were a few diehard hot-rodders on campus, and Tom McGuire was one of them. He owned a flawless white 1968 Camaro in showroom condition. The “Eat Dust” vanity plates said it all—this was the fastest vehicle on campus.
“Well, shit my drawers,” Tom yelled, looking up from the custom-rebuilt 350 smallblock. Some old Deep Purple song boomed through the bays. “Since when does Wade St. John go to school during the summer?”
“Since Wade St. John’s father lowered the boom.”
“Bummer.” Tom wiped sweat off his brow. He tossed Wade a bottle of Spaten Oktoberfest. Tom was beefy, broad-shouldered, with forearms thick as softball bats. His hair was dark and short, as conservative as his political views. Straight-leg jeans and a white T-shirt gave him the appearance of a sixties motorhead. He had a fondness for old music, German lager, and bad jokes. “Classes start in a week,” he pointed out. “We’ve got some serious partying to do in the meantime.” Then he paused, a force of habit. “Hey, Wade. Here’s an old one. Did you hear Nixon, Hart, and Kennedy started their own law firm?”
Tom’s notorious jokes were indeed old. “Oh, yeah?”
“Yeah. Prickem, Dickem, and Dunkem.”
Tom roared laughter. Wade shook his head.
“But seriously,” Tom went on. “It’s good you stopped by. I need to tell you about—”
“Jervis,” Wade finished.
“Yeah. You been up to the dorm already?”
“I just came from there. Jerv wrecked his entire room.”
Tom gave a grim nod. “I heard him trashing the place this morning, and throwing up. I tried to calm him down but the lunatic started throwing bottles at me. I guess he just flipped when it happened.”
“What?” Wade asked. “When what happened?”
Stone-faced, Tom said, “Sarah dumped him.”
Wade slumped in place at the revelation.
“She dumped him right after the spring semester.”
Now Jervis’ destitution made sense, Jervis was far more impressionable than most; he was nuts about Sarah Black, head over heels in love. His whole life revolved around her; she was his life. “But I thought they were getting married,” Wade said.
“She’s getting married, all right. But not to Jerv. It’s some German guy she dumped him for.”
“A German guy?”
“Some kraut developer’s son, richer than shit. That’s all Jerv knows. And you’re probably thinking the same thing I’ve been thinking.”
“Yeah,” Wade verified. “That he might go right over the deep end, try to kill himself or something. Could he be capable of that?”
Tom’s laugh was stout and hearty. “Capable? You know how much he loves that smug bitch. This is the absolute worst thing that could happen to him. Right now he’s probably capable of just about anything.”
“Yeah, but suicide?”
Tom shrugged. “He’s got a gun.”
“What!” Wade exclaimed.
“Sure. He keeps it under his bed, some big old British revolver his grandpop gave him. I took the bullets out of it this morning when he was throwing up, and I swiped the rest of the ammo box.”
“Yeah, but he can always buy more. What are we going to do?”
“We’re gonna have to pull him out of this ourselves.”
“You’re right,” Wade said. “He’s got no one else.”
“I’ll meet you back at the dorm later,” Tom said. “We’ll clean him up and drag his ass down to the inn, get some food in him. He’s probably been living on Kirins since this whole thing went down.”
“Kirins and Carltons,” Wade added. “See you tonight.”
Wade took off in the Vette, cranking up an old Manzanera song called “Mummy Was an Asteroid, Daddy Was a Small Nonstick Kitchen Utensil.” Thank God for alternative radio; where would he be trapped in a world of bad rap and Madonna? He checked the rearview, then pitched his empty Spaten bottle into the Circle. With the campus this empty, at least he didn’t have to worry about getting pulled over.
Halfway through the Circle, he got pulled over.
That’s just fucking grand, he thought. But where had the cop been? They must have cloaking devices on their cruisers. Get ready, he primed himself. Wade wasn’t much of a student, but when it came to sweet-talking police, he made straight A’s. He put on his innocent-face as the cop walked up, boot heels clicking.
“Good afternoon, Mr. St. John. My name is Officer Prentiss. I’d like to see your registration and operator’s permit.”
Astonished, Wade looked up. The cop was a woman. Girlfuzz, he thought. A dickless Tracy. “Who are you?” he asked.
“I just told you. I’m Officer Prentiss and I’d like to see your—”
“I know, my registration and operator’s permit.” Lenient cops asked for your license; but only hard-asses called it an operator’s permit. This might take some work. “How come you know my name before seeing my li—I mean my operator’s permit?”
“I know all about you, Mr. St. John,” the cop said. “Chief White has properly familiarized me with all of the campus troublemakers.”
Wade laughed a chumly laugh. “Good old Chief White, always joking around. If you want to know the truth, my—”
“Your police file is the most extensive in the history of this campus.”
Wade paused. It was probably true. “Sure, Officer, I’ve had a ticket or two, but I’m no troublemaker, I assure you. And my father happens to be a significant contributor to the Exham Office of Donations, and is a close personal friend of the dean’s.”
“Which is the only reason you haven’t been kicked out.”
Wade paused again. This girl must work part-time on a rock pile, he considered, and she’s using my balls for the rocks. Disgusted, he gave her the cards. He examined her as she began filling out his tickets. She stood well postured and medium-tall, very storm-trooperish in her black boots and tailored tan uniform. Bright, straight blond hair was tied in back in a short tail, like a whip, and her eyes were a cold mystery behind mirrored shades. Wade supposed she would be cute if not for the inhuman police-traffic-stop set of her mouth. Her prettiness and her cop aura were a marriage of opposites: she invited to be looked at, yet revealed nothing to anyone who looked.
But there was something. Just…something.
“I’m citing you for doing thirty-four miles an hour in a fifteen zone,” she told him.
“What, the Circle?”
“Yes, the Circle. And you get another one for depositing hazardous material on campus common ground.”
“What hazardous material!”
“The beer bottle you just threw.”
“Oh, you mean that Coke bottle?”
“It was a beer bottle, Mr. St. John, but of course you’re welcome to testify in court under oath that it was not. And since possessing an opened alcoholic beverage container in a moving vehicle is also against the law, you get a third citation.”
Wade was getting bombed worse than Pearl Harbor. All these tickets would cost three bills in fines and three more points, which his insurance wouldn’t tolerate.
Okay. B.S. time, he thought. He put on his best poor-boy look, which probably was not very convincing while seated in a car that cost $75,000. “Officer Prentiss, I’m ashamed of myself. There’s no excuse for the thoughtless immaturity that I’ve demonstrated in your presence, and I humbly apologize. But the truth is, Officer, these tickets might cause my car insurance to be dropped, and that would make for some major trouble between me and my father. So I’m at your mercy. I’m going to ask that, in your generosity, you overlook these infractions, and in return you have my word and my personal guarantee that I will never violate the law on this campus ever again. My word.”
“I’ve heard better bullshit from Sterno drinkers,” she replied. She bruskly passed him the ticket book. “Sign, Mr. St. John.”
Wade was getting ticked. It wouldn’t kill this broad to give him a break. “What if I refuse to sign?” he dared ask.
“Then I will arrest you for ignoring a state summons.”
Wade laughed. “You wouldn’t dare. Maybe you don’t fully realize who I am. I’m Wade St. John. My father—”
“Sign the tickets or get out of the car,” Officer Prentiss said, then withdrew a shiny set of Peerless handcuffs.
Wade, boiling, signed the tickets. The cop tore off his copies and rather roughly stuffed them in his shirt pocket. “And if I ever see you throwing anything out of that car again,” she said, and smiled, “I’ll toss your rich-boy behind in my jail in less time than it takes to say collegiate expulsion. Oh, and have a nice day.”
Officer Prentiss then drove off in her cruiser, leaving Wade slack-mouthed. Have a nice day? he thought. Baby, they don’t get any nicer than this.
Chapter 5
The women stirred, moaning out from endless dreams. Their lair was a labyrinth; they lay deep in it. The labyrinth was silent and black, like death.
They lay together naked, their big eyes suddenly, inexplicably open. Something had waked them. Something—a word.
—Who are we? they wondered in unison.
But then they remembered. The labyrinth’s buried blackness began to move. They remembered who they were. They remembered the word, the holy, loving word.
Supremate.
—WAKE!
—Hello! one said.
—Hello! cried several more.
—We love you! We remember now!
They giggled together in their box. In joy, they kissed.
Then, like love, the voice caressed them.
—MY DAUGHTERS, MY LOVE.
The labyrinth was coming alive. Their lair grew warm. The dark and holy light felt beautiful on their white skin.
Memory crept closer. All things to serve their god! But first came an impulse. Sustenance. Hunger. Filling themselves up. The women remembered. They were hungry.
—Eat!
Yes, to eat. To make their bellies swell. Warm meat. Blood.
—We want to eat, please!
The Supremate’s voice was like a promise in the wind. —SOON, DAUGHTERS. SOON YOU’LL EAT. YOU’LL FEAST ON THE NEW PIGS.
Their loins tingled. Their red mouths drooled.
—Blood!
—Meat!
—New pigs!
They fidgeted in their box, reveling in the promises, like kisses. New blood to bathe in, and meat. They giggled and grinned.
—PRECIOUS DAUGHTERS…ARISE.
The Old Exham Inn was an antediluvian brick and mortar catacomb full of dully clashing decor. Upstairs was the pub, downstairs the stage. The inn served pretentious “light fare” only and imported beer. The town, after all, knew who it was catering to—spoiled, rich college kids—which was how they got away with astronomical prices. Only “diverse” bands were billed, to keep out the local riffraff.
They filed down the stone steps to one of the small dining coves far off from the stage.
“Feeling any better?” Tom asked.
Jervis nodded like a wooden puppet. They hadn’t let him shave—his current hand and mentality could not yet be trusted to hold a razor to his throat. But they’d gotten him cleaned up and walking.
“I’ll have a beer,” he eventually said.
“You’ll have coffee, you dumb schmuck,” Wade corrected.
“And food,” Tom said.
Jervis groaned.
Wade ordered from a waitress whose frilled bräuhaus dress exposed enough cleavage to dry-dock a runabout. Tom and Wade glanced warily at each other, contemplating a strategy to open Jervis up. Tom recognized the fragility of the situation. Wade, however, preferred a slightly more direct approach.
“So she dumped you, huh?”
Jervis wailed. Tom shook his head.
“Look, Jerv,” Wade said, “you can’t hide from this thing forever. You’re gonna have to face it, grab it by the balls.”
“Life’s got its ups and downs,” Tom said. “This is one of the downs.”
Jerv’s forehead was on the table. “But I still love her!”
Some can of worms, Wade thought. “Take my word for it, buddy. You’ll get over it. You got your whole life to look forward to.”
“Not without her,” Jervis told the top of the table. “We were gonna get married. I even bought a ring. It was going to be perfect.”
“Jervis, no girl is worth getting this bent out of shape over,” Tom offered. “When things don’t work out, you find someone else.”
“But I don’t want someone else. I want Sarah. I want my Sarah back!”
Wade tried to reason. “She’s not your Sarah anymore. That may sound cold but it’s the truth. Women can be treacherous, cunning monsters. One minute they’re telling you they love you forever; the next minute they’re in the sack with someone else, balling like there’s no tomorrow.”
Jervis jerked upright, pop-eyed. He began to make croaking noises. Then he jumped up from the table and staggered away.
“Good going, Wade,” Tom smirked. “You really have a way with words. Why not just buy him a bus ticket to Lover’s Leap?”
Perhaps the direct approach had been a bit harsh in this instance. Wade had blown it.
The waitress with the St. Pauli Girl cleavage brought their orders, a Spaten Oktoberfest for Tom, a Samuel Adams for Wade, and coffee and gumbo for Jervis. “I knew he was serious about her,” Wade said. “But I had no idea it was this bad.”
“Bad isn’t the word. Jerv’s a sensitive guy. He keeps a lot of things to himself.”
“Too many things,” Wade concluded. “I warned him not to go falling silly in love with that girl. I never liked her anyway.”
“You just never liked her ’cause she’s the only girl on campus who never made a play for you.”
Wade rolled his eyes. “Just because I’m the sharpest-looking dude in the state doesn’t mean I’m conceited.”
Tom laughed out loud.
After some time, Jervis returned, holding two bottles of Kirin Dry, one of which was already close to empty.
“Jervis, I didn’t mean to shake you up,” Wade apologized.
“Don’t worry about it.” Jervis sat down. “You guys are right. I’ve got to put this whole thing behind me.”
“Now you’re talking,” Tom said.
Wade pointed to the bowl. “Eat your gumbo. It’s good for you.”
Jervis dumped the gumbo into a potted plant. Then he began: “She dumped me by letter, during the break. She told me about the German guy, about how they’d been friends for a while, about how caring and ‘sweet’ he was, and all of a sudden she didn’t love me anymore. She’d stopped loving me months ago, she said, but hadn’t realized it till then. That was it, that simple. She said she didn’t want to see me anymore. And the last line”—Jervis gulped—“the last line of the letter was ‘Have a nice life.’”
