Changer's Moon (12 page)

She dealt automatically with the three locks, pushed the door open, kicked her shoes off, dropped her purse on a small table and swung around.

And stopped, her heart thudding.

Five men stood at the far end of the room watching her.

Young men. Not boys. Mid to late twenties. Short clipped hair. Clean shaven. Black shirts. Button-down collars. Neat black ties. Tailored black trousers. Black boots, trouser cuffs falling with clean precision exactly at the instep. Black leather gloves, supple as second skins. They looked like dress-up spy dolls, vaguely plastic, with less expression than any doll.

“Who are you?” She was pleased her voice was steady though the question was stupid, she knew well enough what they were, who didn't matter.

“Julia Dukstra?”

Anger began to outshine fear. “Get the hell out of here,” she said. “You have no right. This is my home.” She scowled, remembering the locks she'd had to open, silently cursed the landlords—who else could get them past the guard and hand them whatever keys they wanted? She started for the phone. “I don't care who you are, get out of here. I'm calling the police.” One of the plastic dolls stepped in front of the phone. She wheeled, started for the door. A second blackshirt got there before her. She swung back around to face the one who'd spoken. “What is this?”

“Julia Dukstra?” he repeated. He had a high, light tenor that rose to a squeak at times. He didn't wait for her to answer but went into what was obviously a set speech. “There are those who corrupt the morals of all who touch them; there are those who spread filth and corruption everywhere, who mean to destroy goodness and innocence in women and children, who advocate adultery and unnatural acts, who incite the poor to rebellion instead of blessing God for letting them be born into the United Domains where hard work and steady faith will reward them with all they need or want. There are those who are intent on destroying this nation which is the greatest on God's green earth. These purveyors of filth must be warned and if they persist in their treachery they must be punished.…” He went on speaking with the spontaneity of a tape recorder. I bet he says that to all us purveyors of filth, she thought and wanted to giggle. They were so solemn, so ridiculous.… Good god, what a tin ear he's got, him or whoever wrote that spiel.

But as the man went on, the stench of violence grew thicker and heavier in the room, as if this pack of wolves smelled her growing terror and grew excited by the smell.

“… must be disciplined, taught to fear the wrath of the Lord, the anger of the righteous man. Your filth will no longer be permitted to pollute the minds of the young and the weak in spirit. Temptation will be removed from them.” He stepped aside and pointed.

One of her bedsheets was spread out in the corner of the room, the mint green one with the teastain at one end. On it was heaped most of her books, the ones she'd written, the others she bought for reference and pleasure, books she'd kept because they meant something to her. Beside the tumbled towers of the books, all her manuscripts, the old ones, her copies, the novel and story just returned, both copies, her notebooks. Fifteen years work. They were going to wipe it out. They were going to take all that away. Her books, her manuscripts, her bedsheet. Take them away and burn them. “No,” she said. “No.” She started for the pile.

The blackshirt caught hold of her arm, jerked her around. Without stopping to think, she slapped him, hard.

He slapped her back, swung her around and threw her at the blackshirt beside him.

Who punched her in the stomach, slapped her, laughed in her face and threw her to the next man.

Violence was a conflagration in the room. Around and around, slapping her, punching her, not too hard, not hard enough to spoil her, around the circle then around again. They began tearing her clothes off, calling her all the names men had dreamed up to get back at women who made them feel weak and uncertain, the vomit of fear and hate and rage. She tried to break away, got to the bathroom, couldn't get the door shut in time, tried to get into the hall, but they pulled her away; she kicked at them, hit out, clawed at them, sobbing with the futility of it and the anger at herself for letting them see her cry, struggling on and on, righting them with every ounce of strength in her, even after they got her on the floor, twisting and writhing, biting and stuggling until one of them cursed and kicked her in the head.

When she opened her eyes, they were gone—leaving the door open behind them, a last expression of their contempt. She stood up, moaned as her head throbbed; she touched the knot and wondered if she had a concussion. At least she wasn't seeing double. She stared at the door for what seemed an eternity, the locks intact, their promise of security a lie now, must have always been a lie. She wanted to die. Filthy, soiled, never clean again, oh god. Then rage swept through her, she ground her teeth together, swayed back and forth, then stopped that as she felt the grind of bone against bone, a stabbing pain that shut off her breathing. Broken rib. At least one. Slowly, carefully, she got to her feet. The room swam in front of her. She crashed back onto her knees, moaned with pain, fought off the dizziness. She crawled to a chair and used it to pull herself back onto her feet, stood holding the chair's back until the room was steady about her. Moving like a sick old woman, she scuffed to the door, pushed it shut and fumbled the chain into place, then stood with her back pressed against the door, looking vaguely about the room. I can't stay here, she thought. Not alone. Not tonight.

The books were gone, the manuscripts. “Choke on the smoke,” she said and pushed away from the door. She shuffled to the bathroom, stood looking at the tub. A hot bath. No chance of that now. She would not have strength enough to haul the pot from the stove. Clutching at a tap handle, bending with exaggerated care, she fumbled the plug in place. A cold bath was better than nothing, she had to scrub away the leavings of those wolves. She started the water running, stood there listening to the soothing splash and tried to think. She looked at her watch. Three. Out over an hour. She stripped the watch off and laid it on the sink, looked into the tub. There were several inches of water in it. She stepped over the side, clutched at the tap handles and lowered herself slowly into the water, the cold sending a shock up through her. She sat quietly for a while, watching a red mist move out into the water from between her legs. One thing about cold water, it wouldn't make her bleed more than she already had. She pumped some soap from a soap bottle and began scrubbing at herself, her final admission to herself that she wasn't going to the police. In the best of worlds it would be difficult talking about what had happened and this was far from the best of worlds. Besides, stories were common enough among the folk she'd been with recently about how the police always turned a blind eye to what the blackshirts did. I've been drifting in a dream too long, she thought, too involved in my own troubles. Suddenly dizzy, she pressed her head back over the rim of the large old tub. After a minute she realized she was crying, salt tears sliding off her cheeks into hair. Irritated, she pulled herself up again, splashed water onto her face, then used the towel rack to lever herself onto her feet.

Dizzy again with the effort it took to get out of the tub, she began drying herself, dabbing very cautiously at her body with the clean bathtowel she'd hung there that morning. It would have been easier on her if she hadn't fought so hard, but she wasn't sorry she'd refused to give in. It seemed to her if she gave up in any way, if she stopped trying, she would die. Which was funny in its macabre way because she was dying, or would be dying if she didn't somehow finance the operation. She looked at the towel. Still bleeding. Shit. She slipped the watch back onto her wrist, went into the kitchen, found a clean dishtowel, then into the bedroom where she found a pair of safety pins. She pinned the folded towel into her underpants. Holding onto the back of a chair, she stepped into the pants, grunting as the movements shifted the cracked rib and pulled at sore muscles. She had to stop several times because of the pain, but she wouldn't give up. You can always find a way to do what you have to do, she told herself. You only get lax and lazy when there's someone around to do for you.

Moving with patient care, she got dressed, flat sandals, a skirt and blouse because a woman in pants was unnecessary provocation these days. She stood holding onto the chair back for a short while, gathering her strength, then went into the living room, her mouth set in a grim line, her eyes half closed. She reached for the phone, intending to call Jim, let him know she was coming and why, pulled her hand back, knowing with sudden dreadful certainty that she was marked now, typhoid Mary for all her friends and anyone who might help her. The phone might not be tapped or bugged or whatever they were calling it these days, but she was in no mood for taking chances. Money, she thought, I'll need money. For a panic-filled moment she wondered if they'd found her stash, but they hadn't been looking for money and they hadn't torn the place apart. She went slowly into the bedroom, a wry smile for her shambling progress, tortoise, old, old tortoise, slow and steady wins the race. We'll beat you yet, you shitbags. That was a favorite word of the old woman she'd sat next to one whole afternoon a couple weeks ago. Good word for them, expressive. She stretched up, grunting with pain, unscrewed the end of the curtain rod, thrust her fingers inside. And went limp with relief as she touched the rolled up bills. She took enough to pay for a cab, tried not to think about how fast the stash was dwindling.

She phoned for a cab, not caring about listeners, arranged for him to pick her up in a half-hour, promising to be waiting outside—not that she wanted to, but drivers wouldn't leave their armored enclosures for anything. She eased herself onto the edge of a chair, wondering if she could make it down the stairs without passing out. She looked at her watch. Quarter to four. Time to start down, might take a while. She got slowly to her feet, pushed the purse's strap over her shoulder and shuffled across to the door, stood looking at the locks, wanting to laugh, wanting to cry. She did neither, just pulled the door shut, twisted the key in the landlord's flimsy lock and didn't bother with the others.

She started down the hall, moving a little easier with each step; going somewhere seemed to loosen her up and ease the pain, so that could manage the stairs.

The door to the apartment nearest the stairs was open partway. She started past it, stopped when she heard a low sound filled with pain. She wanted to go on, to ignore that moan, but she knew only too well what that open door meant. I won't give in, she thought; I won't let them make me a stone. She reached into her purse, got her dark glasses, put them on to cover the swelling around her eyes, and went into the room.

He was on his knees beside the sprawled body of his lover, the boy who'd come to help her some months before, who'd grinned at her after that if they chanced to meet on the stairs, who'd helped her tote her packages up the stairs. His friend's head was turned so his profile was crisp against the dark blue of the rug, his head tilted at an impossible angle against his shoulder. He looked as if some giant had picked him up, snapped his neck and thrown him carelessly aside. The youth, whose name she still didn't know, was crying very quietly, rocking forward and back, his arms closed tight over his chest, his mouth swollen, bleeding, his nose swollen, perhaps broken.

“Hello,” she said. It seemed absurd, but what else could she say?

The boy jerked around, somehow propelled himself away from her and onto his feet, reminding her of a wild cat she'd seen late one night when she was supposed to be in bed but couldn't sleep because the moon was so bright it made her want things she couldn't name. She'd come on the cat while it was tearing at a rabbit's carcass. It had leaped up like the boy, put distance between them, then waited to see what she would do, unwilling to abandon the rabbit unless it had to.

The boy's face changed when he recognized her and saw her injuries. “They got you too?” His voice was mushy, lisping, his arms up tight against his ribs again, an automatic movement dictated by pain.

“Little over an hour ago.” She walked slowly to the man's body, stood looking down at it, then lifted her head and looked at the boy. “What are you going to do?”

He turned his head, with a farouche look, but he said nothing.

She glanced at her watch. The cab wouldn't wait, she had to get downstairs. She dug into her purse, brought out her spare keys, held them out, said, “Look, I don't know you, nor you me, and I've got no right to tell you what to do and maybe you already know what to do, but I suggest you get the hell out of here. Leave your friend. You can't do anything for him now. Those shitbags who did this, they'll call the police on you. This isn't a time when you could get anything like a fair trial. You probably wouldn't even survive long enough to have a trial.” She jangled her keys. “Take these. If you want, you can go to ground a little while in my apartment. Think things out. Be out of the way if the police do come. I'll be back … um … in a couple of hours probably, going to see my doctor.” She smiled, winced as the cut in her lip pulled. “Look, I've got to go. Make up your mind.”

He gazed at her a moment longer. “You sure you want to do this? Could make trouble for you. More trouble.”

“Hnh! More trouble than I got already? You notice they had keys? The police come down on me, you won't make more hassle for me. I've got a feeling.…” She touched her ribs then her cut lip. “I wouldn't last longer than you.” He gaped at her. “Purveyor of filth,” she said. “I'm a writer.” She looked at her watch. “Last time—you want the keys or not. I'm going.”

His face went drawn and bleak, gaining ten years in that moment, and he came to her, taking the keys. “Thanks. Mind if I pack some things and shift them over?”