A Crying Shame (74 page)

That made him feel good.

She certainly would holler a lot tonight.
Good” would be a moot point.

Come on, Guy,” Katie whispered, fingers busy between her legs.
Stick your head in that door, baby. Mamma's all ready to get it on.”

Guy would not come through the door. Guy would never cum again. But Katie, who had cheated on her husband for years in search of the ultimate cock, would certainly find a more than adequate substitute this night. Several of them.

Guy screamed just outside the door. Just off the porch, Katie reckoned. She grinned. Ol' Guy was gonna play games with her, get her all scared. He sometimes did that, play-pretended he was a boogeyman, a monster-man, circlin' the house, hollerin' and a-gruntin' and a-moanin'. Then she would open the door, there he'd be, grinnin' at her, his big ol' cock in his hand, all hard and swollen up, stickin' out.

Whooo!” Katie moaned, imitating Guy.

A hideous snarl greeted her fake cry of terror.

That ain't Guy,” she said.

The country music moaned in the background. Some woman was trying to make up her mind whether to get drunk and screw the cowboy she'd just met at a bar, or get drunk and go home and screw her husband, who, she figured, had already gotten drunk and screwed somebody else.

Either way, opined the man who could, at best, be only loosely defined as a singer, someone was certainly going to get drunk and screwed.

The picture window shattered. The drapes were flung open by the impact of something sailing through them, the object leaving a crimson trail as it ripped through the music-filled air.

Now, goddamn it, Guy!” Katie squalled.
This shit ain't funny at all. What is that crap on the floor? And you done busted my winder.”

She looked more closely at the object on the floor. Guy's head. Torn from his body. It bounced on the carpet and came to rest on one cheek, eyes open, mouth open, looking up at Katie.

Katie began squalling, standing in one spot, jumping up and down, her breasts jiggling. Her screaming soon drowned out the squalling of the music as the room filled with ugliness, creatures right out of a horror movie. They circled the woman, poking at her with blunt fingers. Through her stark, total, raving terror, she could see their maleness hanging down between their hairy, naked legs.

Made Guy look like a midget.

She had found her ultimate cock.

She started to cut and run, but strong, hard paws grabbed her. She really started to holler as the things forced her to the carpet and held her, shapely dimpled ass up in the air, the recently wet lips spread apart, ready to receive them.

Her screaming reverberated through the house in the country, cutting the night. She would scream until her throat was so raw and abused she could only grunt her fear and pain, her blood mingling with their semen, streaking her soft inner thighs. She would be only half-conscious when the maddened Links would carry her into the swamp, deep into the swamp, where she would be shared with others of their kind.

At the house, Guy's head, with its wide staring eyes and uncomprehending ears listened mutely as the singer sang his lines. Something about jumpin' in the Mississippi River and haulin' ass to the other side, ‘cause that's where his darlin' was, and she was just a-hollerin' and a-cryin'.

The record ended. The needle hit the reject groove. The house fell silent.

And somewhere in the Crying Swamp, something cried.

Jon sat in the den, the room illuminated by only a small-watt bulb in a lamp in a far corner. He sat listening to the night sounds, his ears attuned for any deviation from the norm. He had done this very thing in many countries, many lands over the long years—listened for the sounds that might mean danger ... the end to his violent life style. The women were sleeping, or at least in bed. Jon knew, from body English and eye contact he could have Tammy whenever and wherever he wished, and probably Linda as well, but at this moment his thoughts were not of sex. Besides, he was growing weary of one-night stands, becoming much more selective in his choices of bed partners.

Was he subconsciously looking for Miss Right? He felt, at times, he was.

He had been informed of the fate of the Louisiana Tach Team, and the news had deeply saddened him and angered him. The loss of good men due to the stupidity of a non-combat-experienced leader was a bitter pill for a veteran combat man to swallow. Parker had had no right to send those men into the swamp, into the unknown. There had been no need for those men to have died, leaving behind them families and mortgages and unpaid debts and bitter mourning.

The men of the tach team had not believed fully in the existence of the Links; that had been their first mistake. They had not waited for the coroner's full report on his examination of the Links's brains: his opinion of their ability to think and reason, and of how dangerous they might be. Not that Jon would have placed much credence in the man's findings, but something was better than nothing when dealing with a complete unknown—an unknown that had savagely killed. Another mistake was that they were not combat men in the most exacting sense of the word: they were professional lawmen, and, Jon was certain, highly trained in their field. But they were handicapped in that they were lawmen; they were trained not to shoot first and ask questions later.

They had motored—or paddled, as the case may have been—right into an ambush. All right . . . that information was useful: the Links could definitely think and reason and plan. They were much more than animal in their cunning. Fine.

He had told Mike, when the sheriff had called, about the jeep the foreman had noticed. Mike had said he'd check it out in the morning, but it sounded like Blackwell's ace reporter's jeep.

Suddenly, Jon stiffened ever so slightly in the chair as the outside noises stopped. No birds warbled, no crickets rubbed their dry song. He listened, then smiled.

The Links were outside, circling the house, but they were being very careful.

Jon heard soft footsteps padding quietly down the hall. Linda's step. It was different from Tammy's. If one is to survive in a warrior's world, one learns to quickly grasp the basics of survival. Or one dies.

They're back, aren't they?” She spoke from the archway.

Yes. At least two of them; maybe a third. He's probably in the back of the house. But I don't believe they'll try anything this night.”

Why?” She moved out of the darkness and closer to the chair where he sat. Her perfume touched him: a scent encased in a velvet cloud—his favorite scent—Shalimar.

I think they are telling me . . . proving to me they have more intelligence than Paul allowed them. We're too dangerous, too much death in our weapons; and they have seen what weapons can do. I think they are . . . testing me this night. Looking for weak spots. And they might be attempting to find their dead. Paul said he believed they buried their dead. Where is Tammy?”

Linda moved closer.
Out like a light. She drank three brandies tonight, on top of all those martinis you fixed. She passed out in bed. Those martinis are wicked, Jon. They're so good they should be outlawed.”

Better than sex?”

Nothing is better than that,” she said, moving closer. Her reply was soft, sultry, inviting . . . and sensual.
Providing the two people in question are right for each other.”

Yes. I didn't always agree, but the older I grow the less appealing one-night stands become.”

Linda sat on the arm of his chair.
You're using me—us, now that Tammy's here—for bait, aren't you, Jon?”