Brides Of The Impaler (7 page)

scritch scritch scritch scritch scritch
—

—continued to whittle.

John Rollin absently turned the ring round and round his finger—a fat silver ring with the strangest crest: a dragon strangled by its own tail. He was still doing this when he got out of the cab and looked up.
Unbelievable
, he thought. The cab drove away.

Just about the worst thing that could possibly
…

Inside, the familiar walls of his home seemed alien now. He’d only been gone for six months, his first hiatus in a decade. It had been the best of his life—

—
and I come back to this…this calamity
.

He didn’t even take his bags to his room; instead, he was upstairs in the front reading room, reaching for the binoculars. It was almost funny.
Over forty years of training have
led me to this: peeping in windows
…

How could they have sold the annex house without consulting Rollin first?

He let his eyes acclimate, made sure the hall light was off so not to be detectable from outside. He carefully swung open the window, and in leaked the distant sounds of the city at night. Car horns, a siren, a late bus roaring by on 67
^th
. One of the street lamps on Dessorio flickered on and off. It seemed to tranquilize his quiet rage.

And his fear.

A scuffing noise came from the street. Footsteps? Rollin raised the binoculars and looked.

Yes. Two girls. They wore ratty clothes and flip-flops.
Addicts
, he presumed.
Or homeless
. Often the two were synonymous. The optics of the binoculars seemed to magnify the meager available light to something surreal. He watched the two women shamble away, carrying their shrill chatter with them.

Now the street stood dead.

Rollin lifted the binoculars to the annex house…

Dim yellow lights burned on the first floor (which was actually raised half a floor above the street); the remaining three stories were dark.
Close to midnight
, Rollin observed. Were they still up at this hour? An attorney had bought the house; that’s all Rollin knew.
One very HAPPY lawyer
, he thought, considering the price he’d paid. Paul Nasher was the man’s name. But did he have a wife? Children?

Rollin gulped at the consideration.
Good God, I hope he
doesn’t have children with him in there
…

Drapes were left open on the elaborate, pointed windows fronting the house, but the designer blinds hung down, open to slits. The slits provided enough open space for Rollin to effectively continue his voyeurism. He spied an indulgent living room on one side, and an equally overopulent kitchen on the other.
He must’ve converted one
of the back rooms for the bedroom
…Rollin manipulated his slightly elevated vantage point, then—

Ah. There’s something
.

The center pane of glass on the fanlight over the front door was keystone-shaped and clear, while the glasswork on either side was multicolored. Rollin found that when he moved over several inches, the binoculars could be zoomed right through that center glass. A door stood open at the end of a hall. The room was dark yet the bathroom door could be seen standing open, some lights on.

Movement in the bathroom urged Rollin to zoom closer.

A glittery shower curtain flung back, and now an attractive blonde woman, wet and naked, could be seen.
I’d say
that’s definitely NOT Paul Nasher
. So he
did
have a wife or significant other. Rollin struggled with some shame, trying to attain an optimum focus as the woman dried herself with a black towel. When she turned and bent over, Rollin winced at the exotic sight, then—worse—she reversed her pose and stretched upright, displaying a flat stomach and dark blonde pubic area. Rollin closed his eyes and sighed.

He didn’t feel like so much of a pervert when the woman donned a robe, then strode out to the kitchen. He noticed a stunning tamber cabinet topped with crystal against one wall, and then recognized a kitchen nook with flooring made of herringbone Waterfall maple. He only knew this because he’d been to a billionaire’s home once in Barcelona, trying to convince the magnate to contribute to some European orphan charities. Rollin groaned as more of his own material lust cringed.
Travertine marble,
good Lord! These people have a lot of money
…

His thoughts re engaged when a man walked into the kitchen, boldly naked, and came up behind the blonde woman. He caressed her from behind, gave her a smiling start.
Pretty girl
, Rollin noted when she grinned over her shoulder. The man stood trim but stocky, well-muscled, had short dark hair, clean shaven.
Mr. Paul Nasher, attorney-
at-
law, I presume
. He and the woman laughed silently as some cat play ensued.
Oh, please
, Rollin thought, groaning: Paul Nasher had removed a can of whipped cream from the double-doored refrigerator and was now cornering the woman with it. Nasher mock-muscled her against a dining table, shucked the robe off of her, and began to lay her back as she halfheartedly objected. Rollin frowned when Nasher kneed right up on the table, which probably cost five or ten thousand dollars, and began applying lines of the whipped cream around the woman’s breasts and belly.

I guess I really shouldn’t be looking at this
…

He peered more closely at the rest of the floor, then examined the dark windows upstairs. Some moonlight filtered
in through a rear window on the second floor, and Rollin noticed stacks of moving boxes.
What do they even
need a house that big for, especially if it’s just the two of them?
But then he frowned at his own oversight.
But of course,
he’s a LAWYER who deals in REAL ESTATE. To him the
house is an investment that will turn into a cash cow
…

Then, Rollin aimed the binoculars down toward the basement. Good, he thought. The sidewalk-level basement windows remained securely covered by iron bars…

But tomorrow I’ll have to check the windows in the back
…

There was no conscious thought when he roved the glasses back to the dining room table and saw at once that the previous whipped-cream frivolity had now been abandoned in favor of full-blown and rather frenetic sex. Nasher had the woman on her hands and knees on the sumptuous table, he behind her, thrusting. The look on Nasher’s face appeared focused, determined, very much like an attorney in court.
How hackneyed
, Rollin thought.
He makes love like he’s deliberating over a lawsuit
. And the woman…

She shined in sweat now, her full breasts rocking beneath her. Her head rocked as the muscles of her lithe physique tensed, highlighting a raw, primal beauty. Rollin knew he shouldn’t be watching, because he knew it was from something primal in him as well. Now the woman’s head arched back, her blonde hair disarrayed as her climax became evident. Rollin actually heard her ecstatic shriek through the windows…

The woman collapsed on the table, a cheek flat against the expensive wood. Her eyes closed and she made a sated grin.

Rollin had a feeling he knew what Nasher was about to proceed with next, and that’s when he pulled the binoculars from his eyes.

But how much of his deeds had been motivated by sin?
Forgive me, God
, a thought whispered. It was a
test—something God was known to do to him quite often, a real-world circumstance that his duties had forced him to see, and then the notion that threatened to be the saddest regret. What he’d been watching on the table was an act he’d never in his life performed himself. He felt better when he recalled the crucial words from his ordination:

Thou art a priest forever
…

A moment later, Father John Rollin, the custodian and pastor of St. Amano’s Church, walked out of the room and back down to the chancel, to pray.

Forgive me, God. Sometime’s it’s REALLY DIFFICULT
being your servant
…

But what would happen now? How much of it was actually true, and how much myth?
Those people across the street
have no idea what they’ve moved into
…

Nor did Rollin have any idea that Paul Nasher and the blonde weren’t the only ones in the house. Instead of allowing his binoculars to drift to the ribald scene on the table, he should’ve looked more attentively at the second-floor windows. There he would’ve seen those two homeless women lurking about in the shadows, as well as a third figure, who looked like a nun…

Paul felt about as masculine as he ever had when he carried Cristina in his arms and put her to bed.
Three times tonight
, he thought.
Not bad for forty
.

Or maybe it was simply her…

The new Cristina
, he considered.

Whatever had gotten into her was fine with Paul. She murmured in his arms, made a luxurious stretch when he laid her down on the bed’s black satin sheets.

Her eyes looked up at him, as if beseeching. “Thank you,” she said.

Paul laughed. “For what? Sex?”

“No, silly. Thank you for giving me the time I needed. Most guys would’ve dumped a moody ditz like me by now.”

How odd. He tried to joke back, “Well this lawyer ain’t gonna be dumpin’ nothin’ except maybe some clients who pay lousy retainers.”

Cristina curled atop the sheets, perfect white skin glowing against the luxuriant fabric. “I’ve haven’t felt this good, this complete, since…well, ever. And I know it’s because
you
convinced me to move here. This environment, plus you, has made me a new person, and I just know it’s the person I’ve always been inside but could never…show.”

This was getting deep, not that he objected. He sat down and stroked her thigh, which felt as satiny as the sheets. “You’ve always made me happy, and I want you to be
just
as happy. All that’s going to happen now. We have our lives together, and now we both have the careers we’ve wanted more than anything.”

She kept looking at him. “I owe you so much…”

“Quit talking like that. People in love don’t owe each other anything.” Seriousness in the bedroom often duped him; he didn’t know how to respond. “What you owe yourself is a good night’s sleep. You’ve got your meeting with that developer guy coming up.”

“Bruno—”

Paul buffed off some of the seriousness. “Is he as good-looking as me?”

“He’s gayer than Liberace, and, no…”

Paul splayed a hand over her breast. She was so
arousing
like this.
I could probably do it again
…He felt the large, warm nipple between his fingers; it seemed to get firmer in seconds.

“And I guess this sounds pretty crude,” she added, “but you’re the best lay of my life.”

“Crude works.”

“And if I wasn’t so tired right now…”

“Ah, I wore you out?” he chuckled.

“No shit.”

“You really know how to pump a forty-year-old’s ego.”

“Crude-ism Number Two. I’ll pump more than your ego tomorrow.” Then she brought a hand to her mouth. “I can’t believe I said that.”

“Believe it. So this is the new
crude
you, huh? I have no objections…”

“I love you, Paul…”

He kissed her, a kiss that lingered.
Give her a break, she’s
tired
, he told himself, even as his arousal became more apparent.
I love you, too
, he thought.

She was asleep. He carefully got up and slipped out.
A
nightcap seems in order
…Naked, he walked boldly to the bar and poured a small scotch. The mirror reflected back his nakedness, his broad shoulders and well-defined chest.
Nope. Not bad at all
.

He browsed around the living room, then the kitchen.
Can’t think of a single reason why I shouldn’t be able to walk
around my own house buck-
naked
. The freedom made him feel unrestrained; it made him feel much more human than he generally did at his job.
Damn
, he thought.
There’s
one reason not to
. He sidestepped to the front window, noticing the blind’s walnut louvers open an inch.
Good
job, Paul. Give everyone on the street a show
.

Before he closed them, he noticed the church across the street. The place looked abandoned.

He kept wandering, sipping his drink. He examined a Pollock print on the stairwell—
Eyes in the Heat
, it was called. Even the painting’s dozens of eyes seemed to look at him with approval, or even envy.
All the cards are starting
to come up aces
, he realized.
Now that I’ve got Cristina out of
her shell, I’ve got damn near everything
.

An undefined curiosity took him up to the next floor. Blocks of moonlight and street light jagged here and there
from the high undraped windows. He stepped into one small room, sniffing those familiar scents of new plaster, carpet, and paint. Then he tensed—

click
…

creak
…

It sounded like a door opening, then a careful footfall creaking the old wood.
Impossible. The house is locked, and I
checked the bars on the basement windows myself
. It was just a house noise, he resolved but remained mildly perturbed.

Then, very faintly, he heard the oddest words:

“Singele lui traieste…”

What the hell?
and then he stalked out of the room and across the hall to where he swore he heard the words.

A woman’s voice…

He was surprised by how fearless he felt, even knowing that he’d heard a voice, but in the next barren room, he relaxed. He could hear a television squawking through the wall. The next building, he knew, was all condos for wealthy retirees.
They’re hard of hearing
, he reasoned, and
keep the volume up
. He made a mental note to look into soundproofing down the road.

He froze again when he stepped back into the hall and faced the back room…

Now he
did
feel a twinge of fear.

The shadow of a figure lay across the bare floor between moving boxes.

Holy shit
…