Dean r koontz, p.22
Dean R Koontz, page 22
Chyna was repelled by the prospect of drinking from a glass that he had handled, but she really was dehydrated. Her mouth was dry, and her throat was vaguely sore.
Because of the cuffs, she picked up the glass in both hands.
She knew that he was watching her for signs of fear.
The water didn’t slop around in the tumbler. The rim of the glass didn’t chatter against her teeth.
She truly wasn’t afraid of him any more, at least not for the moment, although maybe later. Certainly later. Now her interior landscape was a desert under sullen skies: numbing desolation, with the angry flicker of lightning toward a far horizon.
She drank half of the water before she put the glass down.
“When I entered the room a moment ago,” the killer said, “you were sitting with your hands folded, your head bowed against your hands. Were you praying?”
She thought about it. “No.”
“There’s no point in lying to me.”
“I’m not lying. I wasn’t praying just then.”
“But you do pray?”
“Sometimes.”
“God fears me.”
She waited.
He said, “God fears me—those are words that can be made from the letters of my name.”
“I see.”
“Dragon seed.”
“From the letters of your name,” she said.
“Yes. And…forge of rage.”
“It’s an interesting game.”
“Names are interesting. Yours is passive. A place name for a first name. And Shepherd—bucolic, fuzzily Christian. When I think of your name, I see an Asian peasant on a hillside with sheep…or a slant-eyed Christ making converts among the heathens.” He smiled, amused by his banter. “But clearly, your name doesn’t define you well. You’re not a passive person.”
“I have been,” she said, “most of my life.”
“Really? Well, you weren’t passive last night.”
“Not last night,” she agreed. “But until then.”
“My name, on the other hand, is a power name. Edgler Foreman Vess.” He spelled it for her. “Not Edgar. Edgeler. Like ‘on the edge.’ And Vess…if you draw it out, it’s like a serpent hissing.”
“Demon.”
“Yes, that’s right. It’s there in my name—demon.”
“Anger.”
He seemed pleased by her willingness to play. “You’re good at this, especially considering that you don’t have pen and paper.”
“Vessel,” she said. “That’s in your name too.”
“An easy one. But also semen. Vessel and semen, female and male. Would you like to craft an insult out of that, Chyna?”
Instead of replying, she picked up the glass and drank half of the remaining water. The ice cubes were cold against her teeth.
“Now that you’ve wet your whistle,” Vess said, “I want to know all about you. Remember—scrimshaw.”
Chyna told him everything, beginning with the moment that she had heard a scream while sitting at the guest-bedroom window in the Templeton house. She delivered her account in a monotone, not by calculation but because suddenly she could speak no other way. She tried to vary her inflection, put life into her words—but failed.
The sound of her voice, droning through the events of the night, scared her as Edgler Vess no longer did. Her account came to her as if she were listening to someone else speak, and it was the voice of a lost and defeated person.
She told herself that she was not defeated, that she still had hope, that she would get the best of this murderous bastard one way or another. But her inner voice lacked all conviction.
In spite of Chyna’s spiritless recitation of events, Vess was a rapt listener. He began in a relaxed slouch, lounging back in his chair, but by the time Chyna finished, he was leaning forward with his arms on the table, hunched toward her.
He interrupted her several times to ask questions. At the end, he sat for a while in contemplative silence.
She could not bear to look at him. She folded her hands on the table, closed her eyes, and put her forehead against the backs of her church-door thumbs, as she had been when Vess had come out of the laundry room.
She wasn’t praying this time either. She lacked the hope needed for prayer.
After a few minutes, she heard Vess’s chair slide back from the table. He got up. She heard him moving around, and then the familiar clatter of any cook being busy in any kitchen.
She smelled butter heating in a pan, then browning onions.
In the telling of her story, Chyna had lost her appetite, and it didn’t return with the aroma of the onions.
Finally Vess said, “Funny that I didn’t smell you right away at the Templetons’.”
“You can do that?” she asked, without raising her head from her hands. “You can just smell people out, as if you were a damn dog?”
“Usually,” he said, taking no offense, and with what seemed to be utmost seriousness. “And you must have made a sound more than once through the night. You surely can’t be that stealthy. Even your breathing I should have heard.”
Then came the sound of a wire whisk vigorously beating eggs in a bowl.
She smelled bread toasting.
“In a still house, with everyone dead, your movement should have made currents in the air, like a cool breath on the back of my neck, shivering the fine hairs on my hands. Your every movement should have been a different texture against my eyes. And when I walked through a space where you’d just been, I should have sensed the displacement of air caused by your passage.”
He was stone crazy. So cute in his chambray shirt, with his beautiful blue eyes, his thick dark hair combed straight back from his forehead, and the dimple in his left cheek—but pustulant and canker-riddled inside.
“My senses, you see, are unusually acute.”
He ran the water in the sink. Without looking, she knew that he was rinsing the whisk. He wouldn’t put it aside dirty.
He said, “My senses are so sharp because I’ve given myself to sensation. Sensation is my religion, you might say.”
A sizzling arose, much louder than the cooking sound of onions, and a new aroma.
“But you were invisible to me,” he said. “Like a spirit. What makes you special?”
Bitter, she murmured against the tabletop, “If I was special, would I be here in chains?”
Although Chyna hadn’t actually spoken to him and wouldn’t have thought that he could hear her above the crisp sputtering of eggs and onions, Vess said, “I suppose you’re right.”
Later, when he put the plates on the table, she raised her head and moved her hands.
“Rather than make you eat with your hands, I’m going to give you a fork,” he said, “because I assume you see the pointlessness of throwing it and trying to stick me in the eye.”
She nodded.
“Good girl.”
On her plate was a plump four-egg omelet oozing cheddar cheese and stippled with sautéed onions. On top were three slices of a firm tomato and a sprinkling of chopped parsley. Two pieces of buttered toast, each neatly sliced on the diagonal, were arranged to bracket the omelet.
He refilled her water glass and added two more cubes of ice.
Famished only a short while ago, Chyna now could hardly tolerate the sight of food. She knew that she must eat, so she picked at the eggs and nibbled the toast. But she would never be able to finish all that he had given her.
Vess ate with gusto but not noisily or sloppily. His table manners were beyond reproach, and he used his napkin frequently to blot his lips.
Chyna was deep in her private grayness, and the more Vess appeared to enjoy his breakfast, the more her own omelet began to taste like ashes.
“You’d be quite attractive if you weren’t so rumpled and sweaty, your face smudged with dirt, your hair straggly from the rain. Very attractive, I think. A real charmer under that grime. Maybe later I’ll bathe you.”
Chyna Shepherd, untouched and alive.
Uncannily, after a further silence, Edgler Vess said, “Untouched and alive.”
She knew that she had not spoken the prayer aloud.
“Untouched and alive,” he repeated. “Is that what you said…on the stairs earlier, on your way down to Ariel?”
She stared at him, speechless.
“Is it?”
Finally: “Yes.”
“I’ve been wondering about it. You said your name and then those three words, though none of it made sense when I didn’t know that Chyna Shepherd was your name.”
She looked away from him, at the window. A Doberman roamed the backyard.
“Was it a prayer?” he asked.
In her desolation, Chyna hadn’t thought that he could scare her any more, but she had been wrong. His intuitiveness was frightening—and not entirely for reasons that she could understand.
She looked away from the Doberman and met Vess’s eyes. For one brief moment, she saw the dog within, a dark and merciless aspect.
“Was it a prayer?” he asked again.
“Yes.”
“In your heart, Chyna, deep in your heart, do you truly believe that God really exists? Be truthful now, not just with me but with yourself.”
At one time—not long ago—she had been just barely sure enough of what she believed to answer Yes. Now she was silent.
“Even if God exists,” Vess said, “does He know that you do?”
She took another bite of the omelet. It seemed greasier than before. The eggs and butter and cheese, too rich, cloyed in her mouth, and she could hardly swallow.
She put down her fork. She was finished. She’d eaten no more than a third of her meal.
Vess finished the food on his plate, washing it down with coffee that he didn’t offer her—no doubt because he thought that she would try to throw the hot brew in his eyes.
“You look so glum,” Vess said.
She didn’t reply.
“You’re feeling like such a failure, aren’t you? You’ve failed poor Ariel, yourself, and God too, if He exists.”
“What do you want with me?” she asked. She meant, Why put me through this, why not kill me and get it over with?
“I haven’t figured that out yet,” Vess said. “Whatever I do with you, it’s got to be special. I feel you’re special, whether you think you are or not, and whatever we do together should be…intense.”
She closed her eyes and wondered if she could find Narnia again after all these years.
He said, “I can’t answer your question as to what I want with you—but I have no doubts about what I want with Ariel. Would you like to hear what I intend to do with her?”
Most likely, she was too old to believe in anything, even just a magic wardrobe.
Vess’s voice came out of her internal grayness, as if he lived there as well as in the real world: “I asked you a question, Chyna. Remember our bargain? You can either answer it—or I’ll slice off a piece of your face. Would you like to hear what I intend to do with Ariel?”
“I’m sure I know.”
“Yes, some of it. Sex, that’s obvious. She’s a luscious piece. I haven’t touched her yet, but I will. And I believe she’s a virgin. At least, in the days when she still talked, she said she was, and she didn’t seem like the kind of girl who would lie.”
Or there was the Wild Wood beyond the River, Ratty and Mole and Mr. Badger, green boughs hanging full in the summer sun and Pan piping in the cool shadows under the trees.
“And I want to hear her crying, lost and crying. I want to smell the purity of her tears. I want to feel the exquisite texture of her screams, know the clean smell of them, and the taste of her terror. There’s always that. Always that.”
Neither the languid river nor the Wild Wood materialized, though Chyna strained to see them. Ratty, Mole, Mr. Badger, and Mr. Toad were gone forever into the hateful death that claims all things. And the sadness of this, in its way, was as great as the sadness of what had happened to Laura and what would soon happen to Chyna herself.
Vess said, “Once in a while, I bring one of them back to the room in the cellar—and always for the same purpose.”
She didn’t want to hear this. The handcuffs made it difficult to cover her ears. And if she had tried, he would have shackled her wrists to her ankles. He would insist that she listen.
“The most intense experiences of my life have all taken place in that room, Chyna. Not the sex. Not the beating or the cutting. That all comes later, and it’s a lagniappe. First, I break them down, and that is when it gets intense.”
Her chest was tight. She could breathe only shallowly.
He said, “The first day or two, they all think they’ll go out of their minds with fear, but they’re wrong. It takes longer than a day or two to drive someone insane, truly and irrevocably insane. Ariel is my seventh captive, and the others all held on to their sanity for weeks. One of them cracked on the eighteenth day, but three of them lasted a full two months.”
Chyna gave up on the elusive Wild Wood and met his gaze across the table.
“Psychological torture is so much more interesting and difficult to undertake than the physical variety, although the latter can be undeniably thrilling,” Vess said. “The mind is so much tougher than the body, a greater challenge by far. And when the mind goes, I swear that I can hear the crack, a harder sound than bone splitting—and oh, how it reverberates.”
She tried to see the animal consciousness in his eyes, which she had glimpsed unexpectedly before. She needed to see it.
“When they crack, some of them writhe on the floor, thrash, rend their clothes. They tear at their hair, Chyna, and claw their faces, and some of them bite themselves hard enough to draw blood. They maim themselves in so many inventive ways. They sob and sob, can’t stop for hours, sometimes for days, sobbing in their sleep. They bark like dogs, Chyna, and screech and flail their arms as if they’re convinced that they can fly. They hallucinate and see things more frightening than I am to them. Some speak in tongues. It’s called glossolalia. Do you know the condition? Quite fascinating. Convincingly like a language yet meaningless, a ranting or pleading babble. Some lose control of their bodily functions and wallow in their filth. Messy but riveting to watch—the true base condition of humanity, to which most people can only admit in madness.”
As hard as she tried, Chyna could see no beast in his eyes, only a placid blueness and the watchful darkness of the pupil, and she was no longer sure that she had ever seen it. He wasn’t half man and half wolf, not a creature that fell to all fours in the light of the full moon. Worse, he was nothing but a man—living at one extreme end of the spectrum of human cruelty, but nonetheless only a man.
“Some take refuge in catatonic silences,” Vess continued, “as Ariel has done. But I always break them out of that. Ariel is by far the most stubborn, but that only makes her interesting. I’ll break her too, and when her crack comes, Chyna, it’ll be like no other. Glorious. Intense.”
“The most intense experience of all is showing mercy,” Chyna said, and had no idea whatsoever where she had found those words. They sounded like a plea, and she didn’t want him to think that she was begging for her life. Even in her despair, she would not be reduced to groveling.
A sudden smile made Vess look almost like a boy, one given to puns and pranks, collector of baseball cards, rider of bikes, builder of model airplanes, and altar boy on Sundays. She thought that he was smiling at what she’d said, amused by her naiveté, but this was not the case, as he made clear with his next words.
“Maybe…what I want from you,” Vess said, “is to be with me when I finally make Ariel snap. Instead of killing you in front of her to drive her over the edge, I’ll drive her some other way. And you can watch.”
Oh, God.
“You’re a psychology student, after all, almost a genuine master of psychology. Right? Sitting there in such stern judgment of me, so certain that my mind is ‘aberrant’ and that you know exactly how I think. Well, then, how interesting it would be to see if any of the modern theories of the working of the mind are undone by this little experiment. Don’t you think so? After I break Ariel, you could write a paper about it, Chyna, for my eyes only. I’d enjoy reading your considered observations.”
Dear God, it would never come to that. She’d never be a witness to such a thing. Though in shackles, she would find a way to commit suicide before she would let him take her down to that room to watch that lovely girl…to watch her dissolve. Chyna would bite open her own wrists, swallow her tongue, contrive to fall down the steps and break her neck, something. Something.
Evidently aware that he had jolted her out of gray despair into stark horror, Vess smiled again—and then turned his attention to her breakfast plate. “Do you intend to eat the rest of that?”
“No.”
“Then I’ll have it.”
He slid his empty plate aside and pulled hers in front of him. Using her fork, he cut a bite-size piece of the cold omelet, put it in his mouth, and moaned softly in delight. Slowly, sensuously, Vess extracted the tines from his mouth, pressing his lips firmly around them as they slid loose, then reaching with his tongue for one last lick.
After he swallowed the bite of eggs, he said, “I could taste you on the fork. Your saliva has a lovely flavor—except for a faint bitterness. No doubt that’s not a usual component, just the result of a sour stomach.”
She could find no escape by closing her eyes, so she watched as he devoured the remains of her breakfast.
When he finished, she had a question of her own. “Last night…why did you eat the spider?”
“Why not?”
“That’s no answer.”
“It’s the best answer to any question.”
“Then give me second-best.”
“You think it was disgusting?”
“I’m just curious.”
“No doubt, you see it as a negative experience—eating an icky, squirmy spider.”
“No doubt.”
“But there are no negative experiences, Chyna. Only sensations. No values can be attached to pure sensation.”
“Of course they can.”
“If you think so, then you’re in the wrong century. Anyway, the spider had an interesting flavor, and now I understand spiders better for having absorbed one. Do you know about flatworm learning?”
