That night cold fury exploded under his heart as he stepped into her bedroom.
The slut was not alone!
There was a man in bed with her. Young. Dark. Long hair — longer than hers — falling in wavy ringlets over the pillow. Body — a sculpted thing, muscles in perfect array, shaped and hardened by careful exercise.
Edelman hated him on sight, would have hated him even had he not been in bed with Edelman's property. They lay close, her back spooned against his front. Edelman did not doubt they drifted off to sleep with the man inside her.
Edelman was furious, his first instinct to grab her, pull her from the bed, slap her bloody. He conceived the notion of binding her as he had before and lashing those perfect breasts until they bled.
But another idea came. A better idea.
Smiling, Edelman crossed the bedroom, turned left outside the door, walked down the hall to the kitchen. On the white walls Burt and Carrie Richardson looked down at him from fifty plastic-framed photographs.
The kitchen was as he remembered it: large, modern, with a central carving block of rich yellow wood on stainless steel legs. Suspended between two of the legs, a rack; in the rack, a large assortment of knives for all occasions.
Even the one Edelman had in mind.
He heard her scream through the six floors that separated their bedrooms. He lay on his back, on his own bed, looking up at the cracked and peeling ceiling, imagining the scene in the Richardsons' bedroom as the little whore awoke to find his handiwork.
She screamed six times, long, ululating wails that rose to piercing peaks before dropping down to begin again. A pause. Five more shrieks, each louder than the last.
Edelman could see her in his mind, writhing on the bed as she tried to free herself of the bonds that held her, wrists and ankles bound as one. Twisting and turning under the weight of the thing sprawled on top of her, dark blood staining white sheets, flesh peeled away in great, broad strips that looped around her arms and legs. If she turned her head enough…
Another scream, startled, horrified even beyond the horror of what lay on top of her. Edelman smiled. She'd seen her partner's penis and testicles, nicely arranged in a tidy — if bloody — little pile on the pillow next to her.
Half an hour later Edelman heard the thumping of feet, the crash of the Richardsons' door being broken down. The screaming stopped.
Pity about the door, he thought. I'm almost sure I could have found the key for you.
From his bedroom window he watched the ambulance pull out of 75th Street, turning right onto Central Park West. He smiled at the success of his evening's work. The little tramp — how could he ever have idolized her? — had been justly punished, as had the creature who usurped Edelman's place in her bed.
Edelman looked out across the lush greenery of the park — how resilient those venerable old trees, to grow so full and green in the foul air of New York — contemplating the marvels lying ahead.
Rachel was of no further interest, but this amazing power opened untold possibilities. He would begin to test them as soon as it was dark tonight. See how far he could float. How fast. A world of women and girls out there, all his, now. His to use as he liked.
Invigorated by the concept, Edelman left his apartment. He was going to wander through the park, study the lithe young bodies jogging, walking, tossing Frisbees. A smorgasbord laid out for the consumption of Robert J. Edelman. Almost as an afterthought he tucked the leather-bound Nocturne volume under his arm. He could read it in the park, sitting under a tree, watching all the pleasures that would be his in the nights to come.
There were other things he could do, too. No bank was sealed to him. Donald Trump's wallet might as well have been Edelman's.
He rode the elevator down to the lobby. Police were everywhere, as he'd expected. Edelman lingered awhile, listening to their words, their astonishment as they tried to understand what had happened.
A big man in plain clothes stood in the middle of the marble floor, everything flowing around him. Edelman heard one of the dozen or so uniformed officers call the man "Lieutenant," another plainclothesman called him "Shaw."
Lieutenant Shaw spent much of his time talking to a thin-faced man in drab civilian clothes who referred frequently to a small notebook. He carried a black bag, like a doctor's bag, Edelman thought. Edelman sidled close enough to hear the men's soft words.
"Not a professional job, for sure," the smaller man said. "Never seen such a mess. Clumsy."
"Not the girl, though, you think? She couldn't have tied those knots herself. And she sure wasn't faking the hysteria."
"No. And, anyway, the bloody hand prints everywhere…"
Edelman frowned. Hand prints? She couldn't have got up. He'd left her tied. They said she was tied.
"Yeah. Not her hands, for sure," Lieutenant Shaw said. "Or his. Too big. And, anyway, he wouldn't have been moving much."
"Plus there's the ether. You smelled it, didn't you?"
"Yeah. Like a goddamned hospital in that room."
Edelman remembered her mentioning a hospital smell. He'd not thought about it then. Now… A flicker across his mind's eye. The storeroom at DeVere. The little brown bottle. He tried to catch the image, but it was too fleeting.
"So you think somebody got in there," Shaw said, "probably brought along some knockout stuff to dope her…" He shook his head. "No sign of forcible entry, though. And the windows were closed and secured from the inside."
Edelman's frown deepened. He'd gone out by the window, as he always did. He left it open. Didn't he? Another flicker. The elevator. The Richardsons' door. The key…
"Inside job of some kind," the little man said. "She's subletting the place. Maybe there's a spare key floating around."
Shaw nodded. "Anyway, with all those prints, a room full of clues, it shouldn't be too hard to nail our man."
Edelman was trembling. His head pounded. Something was very wrong. The only hand prints they could possibly mean were his. But according to the book… The book…
The headache was very bad. The walls of the lobby wavered, dreamlike. The book…
He looked down at the copy of The Fisherman's Bible in his hand.
THE TUB
Richard Laymon
Hello?"
"Guess who, Kenny." She spoke into the phone using her most sultry voice, which, she knew, was exceedingly sultry.
"All right!"
"Whacha doin'?"
"Nothing much. Hanging around. How about you?"
"I'm languishing in bed."
"Yeah?" Joyce heard his husky laugh. "You sick?"
"I'm sure running a fever," she said. "I'm hot. I'm just so hot I had to strip myself stark naked. I don't know what could be the matter with me."
"How high is your temperature?"
"I just don't know, Kenny. I don't have the strength to get up and fetch the thermometer. Why don't you come over and bring yours? That big one you've got between your legs."
Silence for a moment. Then Ken asked, "What about Harold?"
"Oh, don't you worry about him."
"That's what you said the last time, and he almost caught us at it."
"Well, it's absolutely safe tonight. I can guarantee it. He went off to New York, New York, and he won't be back till Sunday evening."
"When did he leave?"
"You are a nervous nelly."
"I just don't want any trouble."
"Well, he left this morning. And you needn't worry that he missed his flight. He phoned me just a few minutes ago from his room at the Marriott. He's three thousand miles away, so I'm sure there's no danger whatsoever of him popping in on us."