Hrubek’s heart began to pulsate violently as he wondered what to do if the boy confronted him. What will I tell him? I know-I will tell him that I am Will-i-am Tell. I will shoot him in the head, Hrubek said to himself, and tried to control his panicked breath. The raccoon paused cautiously as it heard the boy’s footsteps. Its head turned and, seeing Hrubek, the animal tensed. Baring its fangs it panicked and leapt at the madman’s leg. In a short portion of a second Hrubek lunged, seizing the big animal by the neck. Even before the needlelike claws lashed out, Hrubek snapped its spine with a quiet pop.
Nice try, he thought. No such luck.
The animal quivered once and died.
The boy stepped closer to the doorway and listened. When he heard nothing else he walked slowly back into the house. The backyard spotlight was extinguished.
Hrubek calmed as he absently stroked the fur of the raccoon for a moment then arranged the animal very carefully on its stomach with its rear legs and tail spread out behind, its front paws reaching forward. Salivating with lust Hrubek picked up a screwdriver from a workbench and drove it deep into the back of the animal’s skull. Then he extracted the tool and threw the limp corpse into the corner of the garage.
As he was about to leave he looked above his head and saw a row of six animal traps hanging from pegs.
Well, look at this. More presents… These’ll slow ’em up, make no mistake!
Slipping three of the traps into his backpack, Hrubek stepped outside. He paused in the middle of a dusty patch behind the shop and smelled his hands. Mixed with the gasoline was a musky scent from the raccoon. He held his fingers close to his face and inhaled this smell on the wood-fire-laden air, deep, deep, so deep that his lungs hurt. As if the air overflowed into his groin, he went almost immediately erect. He guided his penis out of his overalls and stroked himself absently, using the slick blood from the screwdriver to lubricate the motion. Eyes closed, he swiveled his head sideways, keeping time with his right arm, feeling the pitch intensify, growing more and more dizzy as he hyperventilated.
He moaned an unearthly sound as he ejaculated, amply and hard, upon the dark earth.
Hrubek wiped his hands on the grass then he adjusted his Irish hat square on his head. Slipping into a stand of bushes he crouched down and made himself comfortable. There was only one more thing he needed right now and he knew in his heart God was about to send it to him.
Owen Atcheson pulled a large pile of burlap bags from a shelf in the greenhouse. They’d made good progress on the shoreline and had already built up one low-lying portion of lawn with several feet of sandbags. His muscles ached and he stretched hard, thinking of a meeting he had scheduled for tomorrow, his trip later in the week.
He glanced outside and saw Lis, beside the lakefront, filling bags with sand.
Moving silently down the aisle he passed plants whose names he neither knew nor cared to know. A timed watering valve clicked open and filled portions of the greenhouse with clouds of mist that obscured plants and the stone bas-reliefs that hung on the brick.
At the far end of the space he stopped. Portia looked up at him with her hazel eyes.
“I thought I saw you in here,” he said.
“First aid.” She pulled her skirt high, turning away from him and revealing on her thigh a small smear of blood a foot above the back of her knee.
“What happened?”
“Came down for a new roll of tape. I bent over and a fucking thorn got me in the ass. Part of it’s still in there, I can feel it.”
“Doesn’t look too bad.”
“Doesn’t it? Hurts like hell.” She turned around and looked him up and down then gave a short laugh. “You know, you look like a lord of the manor. Very medieval. Sort of like Sir Ralph Lauren.”
Her voice seemed laced with mockery but immediately she smiled in a way that seemed to include him in a private joke. Her face contorted as she dug into the tiny wound with a fingernail lacquered red as the blood that dotted her skin.
Four silver rings were on each hand and a complicated spiral earring dangled from one lobe. The other was pierced by four silver hoops. Portia had refused Lis’s offer of more practical clothing. She still wore her shimmering gold-and-silver skirt and loose blouse. The greenhouse was chill and it was clear to Owen that she wore no bra beneath the satiny white cloth. He scanned her figure briefly, reflecting that while his wife with her boyish figure might be called striking or handsome, her sister was a purely voluptuous creature. At times it amazed him that they shared the same genes.
“Let me look at it,” he said.
Again, she turned her back and lifted her skirt. He clicked on a table lamp and shone it on her pale leg, then knelt to examine the wound.
“Would it really float away?” she asked. “The greenhouse?”
“Probably.”
Portia smiled. “What would Lis do without her flowers? Do you have flood insurance?”
“No. The house is below flood level. They wouldn’t write the policy.”
“I don’t imagine the rosebushes’d be covered anyway.”
“It depends on the policy. That’s a bargained risk.”
“Once a lawyer always a lawyer,” Portia said. He looked up but again could not tell if she was taunting him. She continued, “That porch Lis mentioned? On this part of the yard? I think she’s wrong. I don’t think it got washed away. I think Father tore it down to build Mother the greenhouse.” Portia nodded toward a display of tall orange-red rosebushes. “Lis acts like it’s a holy site. But Mother didn’t even particularly want it.”
“I thought that Ruth lived for her flowers.”
“That’s the way Lis tells it. But nope. It was Father who insisted. My own theory is that it was to keep her, let’s say, occupied while he was away on business.”
“Your mother’s name and ‘mischief’ aren’t words I’d ever put together.” Owen dabbed away a dot of blood and peered into the wound.
“One never knows. Still waters and all. But then, was Father paranoid, or what?”
“I wouldn’t know. I never liked him very much.”
“Ooo, that hurts,” she whispered as he probed, and lowered her head. “When we were young we had Sunday dinner on that old porch. Two p.m. sharp. Father rang a bell and we had to be there on the button. Roast, potatoes, green beans. We’d eat while he lectured about literature or business or space flights. Politics sometimes. Mostly he liked astronauts.”
“It’s really in there, the thorn. Just the tip. I can see it.”
“Hurts like hell. Can you get it out?”
“I’ve got some tweezers.” He pulled out a Swiss Army knife.
She dug into her pocket and handed him a Bic lighter. “Here.” When he looked blank she laughed and said, “Sterilize it. Living in New York you learn to be careful about what you put into your body.”
He took the lighter and ran a flame over the end of the tweezers.
“A Swiss Army knife,” she said, watching him. “Does it have a corkscrew on it, and everything? Little scissors? A magnifying glass?”
“You know, Portia, sometimes it’s hard to tell if you’re making fun of somebody.”
“It’s probably my abrasive big-city attitude. It gets me into trouble sometimes. Don’t take it personally.” Portia fell silent and turned away, lowering her face to a rosebush. She inhaled deeply.
“I didn’t know you smoked.” He returned the lighter to her.
“I don’t. Not cigarettes. And then, after we’d have our dessert, which was accompanied by…?”
“I have no idea.”
“Port.”
Owen said he should have guessed.
“Do you like port, Owen?”
“No. I don’t like port.”
“Ow, Jesus, that hurts.”
“Sorry.”
He put his large hand on the front of Portia’s thigh and held it firmly as he pressed the tiny blade of the tweezers against the base of the thorn. “Keep your hem up, so it doesn’t get blood on it.” She hiked her skirt slightly higher and he caught a fast view of the lace trim on red panties. He pressed harder with the tweezers.