Ravenous (16 page)

Adrenaline coursed through Vanessa's body and her ears rang. She was so afraid, she felt as if her shaking were going to tear her apart. She tried to get the shaking under control, but failed.
 

The masked man took her elbow, and they walked away from the parking lot and over to the low, pale building that was the laundry room.

Once inside, he closed the door, then led her to the restroom in back, slowing to feed quarters into several of the coin-op laundry machines along the way. He opened the door, reached in and turned on the light, then shoved her inside. She stumbled and fell to the floor, her right cheek against the cold tile, which smelled of a sickly-sweet cleanser, mixed with the faint odor of urine.

What's he going to do?
Vanessa wondered. She began to shake uncontrollably. A sob tore upward from inside her and made her shudder as it came out.
Is he the one in the news?
she thought.
The Pine County Rapist
? She tried to remember if she'd read that he wore a rubber mask, but her thoughts were jumbled. She knew that, so far, he had not killed any of his victims, only raped and brutalized them.
Raped and brutalized,
she thought.
I'm about to be raped and brutalized.

He came into the restroom, closed the door, and locked it. The click of the lock seemed so loud to Vanessa, like a blow to the skull with a hammer. Then he stood there and looked down at her through the eye-holes in the hideous mask. He clapped his hands and rubbed them together vigorously as he came toward her.

Get a good look at him!
Vanessa shouted at herself in her head.
Remember everything
!

He wore a blue down jacket half zipped up over a blue chambray shirt, above a pair of blue jeans, and a pair of work boots.
Blue,
she thought,
he's blue up and down.
Hands, his hands,
she thought as she noticed he wore a wedding ring on his left hand, a simple gold band. In his other hand he held an evil-looking knife with a serrated edge along the long, silver blade.

He swung his right foot back and then kicked her in the side.

Pain exploded inside Vanessa and she cried out as she rolled against the toilet.

He stepped forward and kicked her again. Then he bent down, grabbed her wrist, and dragged her back to the middle of the floor.

“Get up,” he said.

That second kick had knocked the wind out of her, and as she struggled to her feet, she grunted and gasped for breath. He grabbed her hair and pulled her onto her feet. She screamed because of the burning pain that spread over her scalp.

“Take off your clothes,” he said. “And do
not
scream again.”

She stood there, slightly hunched forward, her arms across her chest. Her entire body quaked with fear. Her arms shook, her knees trembled.

The masked man started walking toward her again, as he said, “You're going to take off your clothes—” He put the tip of the knife against the skin beneath her chin, just the very tip. “—or I will make sure you never talk again. Or worse ... yeah, worse. I'll make you slobber like a retard for the rest of your life.”

Is he that surgically proficient?
a voice asked in the back of her mind.

He finally took the knife away and stepped back. “Okay. Do it.”

She slid her red coat off, tossed it onto the long counter that had two sinks in it and one large mirror above it. She unbuttoned her tan sweater and dropped it on top of her coat.

It was cold, so cold.

She peeled her jeans down her legs, stepped out of them, put them on top of her other clothes, then added her red panties a moment later. She'd worn no bra that day. She hugged herself in the shuddering cold.

“Arms at your sides,” he said.

She lowered her arms, but could not make them stop shaking.

He slowly nodded his head as his eyes traveled down her body, then up again. Standing directly in front of her, he put the knife in his left hand, then used his right to squeeze her breast.

“You could make a lotta money selling these, know that?” he said as he slipped the knife into a leather sheath on his belt. “Might as well. Deep down inside, you're all whores. Alla ya. Buncha money-hungry cunts.”

He squeezed her breast harder as he twisted it. She cried out in pain, and he squeezed it harder, twisted it farther. He put his left hand to the back of her head, then punched her in the face with his right fist, three times, four—

Vanessa lost consciousness.

When she woke up, she was lying on her back, and her entire body was shifting up and down repeatedly; she felt a burning pain between her legs. Her head hurt, and it only hurt worse when she moved it, but in spite of that, she lifted it up and looked down her prone body. Everything was blurry at first. She lowered her head and blinked her eyes several times, tried to focus. Then she lifted her head again.

Ah, yes. Of course. He was fucking her. She was dry, and each hard thrust sent fire rising upward into her belly. It felt as if he were shredding the tender tissue.

He's not wearing a condom,
she thought.
Oh, God, please don't let him have anything, please, God.

Vanessa flinched when he lifted the bottom part of the mask with one hand and spit at her. A thick glob slapped onto her cheek. She lifted her hand to wipe it away, but her arm shook so hard, she could not manage it, and it dropped back to the floor.

She had no idea how long it lasted. She slipped in and out of consciousness as he continued to pound into her relentlessly. He often rattled on profanely about what whores and sluts all women were. He punched her a couple of more times.

She was aware of him only in flashes, separated by lengthy periods of blackness. When she finally opened her eyes to find that he was gone, she felt no safer, no less afraid. She was leary of believing her eyes, thinking he was still there, that she simply could not see him.

But the pounding had stopped, and she wasn't being slugged in the face—or spat upon.

Finally, after a long silent time had passed, Vanessa groaned as she slowly worked herself up into a sitting position. She looked all around her and still did not see him. Her clothes were remained stacked on the counter where she'd tossed them so long ago.

Pain throbbed between her legs. She reached down and touched herself, brought her hand up, and found blood on her fingertips.

She sat there awhile, thinking about what had just happened to her. At first, she focused on her pains, and a little self-pity crept into her thoughts, but it did not last long. All her thoughts were soon tinted the red of rage, of defiance.

I paid close attention,
she thought as she got up.
I might be able to tell them something about this prick that no one else has yet. And I'm keeping his fucking spit so the cops can get some DNA from it!

Once she was standing, she took some toilet tissue from the roll, folded it up, and wiped the thick gob off her cheek. She placed the tissue on the counter by the sink. Then she slowly, stiffly, carefully began to put her clothes on before driving herself to the hospital to report the rape.

 

* * * *

 

Andrea lay beneath Jimmy, reacting to each thrust with a jolt.

He'd come home even more agitated than he'd been before he left. He hadn't said a word to her until he finally said, “C'mon. To bed.” She'd followed him, turning out the lights, and in the bedroom, he was already undressed and getting into bed. As soon as she slipped beneath the covers, he was on her.

She wanted so much to ask where he had gone, what he had done. But she knew better.

Jimmy got more and more frantic on top of her, grunting, panting. There had been no foreplay, no kissing or fondling. There never was, of course. He'd just gotten on top of her and gone at it, like always. He was more angry than usual as he pounded into her. He seemed furious, and as a result, his movements and sounds were savage. And now he was about to finish up. He made a low sound deep in his chest as he came, so stiff and rigid, as if he were afraid to let go, to cut loose, to let the orgasm take him over and make him wild. Sometimes she wondered if he even enjoyed sex—he never seemed to surrender himself to it, always remained in control. There was never any joy in him when they had sex. She had always thought sex should be joyful, playful, fun. Sometimes she wondered if Jimmy had even known how to play when he was a little boy.

He growled obscenities at her, spit in her face, and finally finished. He lay there for a moment, then rolled off of her, got up, and left the bedroom to go clean up. Andrea would go in there after him, wash up, then come back to bed.

She thought of Jason. So far, he was the only man to have given her an orgasm.

When, she wondered, would she see him again?

 

 

 

22

 

Hunger

 

 

Friday

 

Emily Crane embraced her husband and gave him a big kiss with a lot of tongue. He put a hand on her side, just above her hip, something that would normally make her feel very self-conscious because his hand rested on a roll of fat—but oddly, she didn't feel self-conscious at all. She felt strangely amorous.

“I'll see you tonight after work, okay?” she said. “And don't come home tired.”

“Boy, you're really ... frisky, aren't you?” Hugh said, smiling. “That was some pretty nice morning sex.”

“I think it's because I've stopped taking the Valium. It knocked me out the last couple days or so. I feel like I just woke up from a long sleep. I feel good and horny.”

Hugh smiled and nodded once, but there was no enthusiasm in his expression, nothing to indicate he looked forward to getting home that evening. He'd hardly returned her kiss at all.

“Everything okay?” Emily said, her smile gone.

“Sure. Fine. I'll see you tonight.” He looked around for the kids. “Okay, let's go, kids.” Donald and Annie followed him down the hall, then out the door.

Emily stood in the doorway between the hall and kitchen, wearing a burgundy robe and a pair of green Shrek slippers (it was one of her favorite movies), and a frown dug its way slowly into her face. She stood there a long time, frowning, thinking.

She happened to think that things had been wonderful. Didn't he feel the same way? Was it really that different for him because she was fat? Was it possible she'd been the only one enjoying herself?

If she'd known she would feel this good, she would've stopped taking the Valium sooner. She'd taken the Valium as directed, but it had dragged her down into the oily-black depths of a drug-induced sleep. Awake, it had made her feel lethargic.

She had dreamed when she slept—murky dreams, like several colors of paint being smeared together, and the only thing that ever made any sense was ... a house.

There was a horrible scraping sound just outside—loud and gritty and irritating.

This was the first time, since truly waking up, that she'd thought of that house in her dreams. It was a big house, old and once beautiful, now broken down and decrepit, its paneless windows locked in a stare as dead as that of empty eye sockets.

That scraping sound again.

Emily stopped and headed back to the front door, muttering, “What the hell
is
that?”

She opened the front door and stepped out on the porch. Across the street, Mr. Shamblin was raking his leaves. It was January, and he was
finally
raking the soggy leaves all over his front lawn.

But why is it so loud?
Emily thought, wincing. It was hurting her ears every time he dragged that metal-pronged rake over the ground.

She went back inside and closed the door and hurried down the hall, trying to put some distance between herself and Mr. Shamblin's rake.

A shroud of depression suddenly fell over her, so totally and completely and smoothly that she hardly noticed the change. Her slippers shuffled on the floor as she went into the dining room, where the remains of breakfast were on the table. Emily was still hungry.

With Donald and Annie gone, that left only Jeannie. She sat at her little plastic red-and-yellow table beside the big oval oak table Emily had inherited from her grandmother. Jeannie was playing with her napkin, putting it on her head, then thrusting her butter knife through the air like a pirate's sword. Jeannie was very fond of the
Pirates of the Caribbean
movies.

Emily sat down at the table. Her plate was empty, but there were still pancakes left on the others, as well as a short stack on the platter in the center of the table. The platter also held what was left of the scrambled eggs and sausage links. Emily picked up her fork and speared pancakes off the other plates. She poured some maple syrup over them and began to eat. Guilt crept into her thoughts, as well as familiar feelings of self-loathing that came with overeating, but she quickly shoved them back out again. She picked up the platter and scooped the rest of the eggs and sausage onto her plate. She knew the pancakes would fill her up before she got far. She was hungry, though, not just eating to be eating. Her hunger was gnawing at her now, even as she ate. The eggs disappeared, then the pancakes, the sausages. The plate was empty.

Emily frowned, because the pancakes had not filled her up. She was still hungry. Not for pancakes, really, but that was all she had at the moment. She speared the rest of the pancakes on the tray and plopped them onto her plate. She drenched them in raspberry syrup this time.

The house. It bothered her because there was something familiar about it. It appeared so clearly in her mind that it almost took on the feeling of a vision. She'd seen it before. But where? It was off some familiar road—she'd passed by it before, she was certain, but she'd never stopped to look at it closely. Yes, it was a house she frequently drove by. On the nights of her T.O.P.S. meetings, yes, she passed it going out of town and coming back.