The Seduction - Art Bourgeau (21 page)

Next came the white jockey shorts that she pulled on
with brisk familiarity, taking a moment to work the dildo through the
fly as if she was preparing to urinate . . .

When she was ten, she remembered, her father had
taken her to Jacob Reed's and bought her first jockey shorts for her,
telling her that she should wear them when she rode horseback to keep
down the chafing. The intimacy of what he had done didn't embarrass
her, it made her feel good, so good, to know that he thought of her
as one of the boys. That night at home she managed to get him alone
for a few moments and took down her pants to show him that she was
wearing them. At her age it wasn't sexual or even flirtatious. She
just wanted to please him. He looked at her oddly as she stood there
with her jeans pushed down to her knees and her shirt pulled up. It
wasn't a look of disapproval. It was a look that made her tingle, a
look she wanted to see again . . .

Over the jockey shorts she pulled on the latex
cyclist's shorts, again pausing to work the dildo through a hole in
the front of the shorts before she pulled them all the way up.
Turning sideways so she could see her behind in the wall of mirrors,
she kneaded and prodded her buttocks until they, too, like her
breasts, were flattened into a more square, masculine shape, kept
that way by the elastic restraint of the tight, girdle-like shorts.

Satisfied, she tugged on the dildo a couple of times
to be certain it was still firmly in place and was rewarded with
delicious sensations from its friction. There was no doubt about it,
she would be able to have an orgasm later with Cynthia. Just because
Cynthia was going to die was no reason they shouldn't enjoy
themselves beforehand. That's the way it had been with all the South
Philly girls. She could see no reason to change it.

Originally her intention had only been the seduction.
Nothing more. But the very first one, long before Terri and Marie,
had seen through her disguise. That was before she had perfected
Peter's look. And that little tramp had tried to blackmail her right
on the spot. Either give the money or she would tell her parents.
They wouldn't have any trouble tracing the license number; her uncle
was a cop, she'd said. A real tough one. She'd left no choice.
Couldn't have her father find out something like that. So she'd
killed her out of necessity. But she'd also found a tremendous,
unexpected release. A release she'd sought over and over ever since
then.

Outside her bedroom window the river was shining
darkly. That was where all the bodies had gone. One by one, weighted
down and sent to their watery grave in the river channel. All she had
done was ferry them out from her condo dock in her little runabout
and shove them overboard.

All except Terri and Marie. They were special. She
was closer to Terri than to any of the others, and through her, to
Marie. And when it was over she couldn't leave the parents watching
the door, waiting for the phone to ring, wondering what had happened
to them. It wouldn't be fair. So she had left their bodies behind. As
a favor.

With a rather wistful smile on her lips, Missy picked
up the plastic bag filled with hair and went into the bathroom. She
darkened her skin slightly with makeup and added the illusion of
fullness to her brows with an eyebrow pencil. Then after daubing
spirit gum on her cheeks, chin, upper lip, and jawline, she took the
false beard and mustache purchased from a Center City theatrical
costumer and carefully pressed it into place. The transformation was
complete. Missy was gone, and staring back at her from the mirror was
Peter . . .

She walked back to the bedroom and pulled on the
shoulder holster with the automatic in it. Her phony badge, purchased
along with the handcuffs from a Market Street junk shop catering to
the switchblade crowd, and the gun, a present from her father, were
insurance against something going wrong. With most of the teenagers
no insurance was necessary.

It would be with Cynthia. She was too prim, too
uptight to let herself go and enjoy herself. She would finally see
through Peter, and only with the help of the gun would Missy be able
to make her relax.

And afterward, when they were both physically
satisfied, Cynthia would die, and Felix would belong to Missy.

She pulled on the leather jacket and draped the white
aviator's scarf around her neck. From the inside pocket of the jacket
she produced the dark glasses that Peter always wore. The stereo was
booming with Tina Turner's "Private Dancer" as she looked
in the mirror and ran her fingers through her hair one last time,
then went into the kitchen, where she took a clean syringe with a
small vial from a pot of warm water near the sink. The vial contained
sperm. A sample she had taken from the office. As always, it was from
a man who was a secretor with blood type O. She always used this type
for two reasons. It was by far the most common type, so it was easy
to get. Most men were secretors with blood type O. Her father had
been. So was Felix. She recalled how cleverly she'd asked him what
otherwise would have seemed a peculiar question: "Most people
exchange zodiac signs when they meet. But I work in a lab, so for me
it's blood type. I hope you don't mind . . . He had looked at her a
little strangely, but then had laughed and told her it was type O.
She couldn't have been more pleased . . . one more thing in common
with her father.

Her other reason for using sperm from a secretor with
type O was her knowledge of police procedure, gained from the lab
work her office did for the department. One of the first things they
did in a rape case was to check the rapist's sperm for the presence
of the water-soluble ABH factors to see if the man was a secretor and
if so, to use them to determine what his blood type was. Then they
would try to match it with any suspects they brought in. A secretor
with type O was the most common and so the most difficult to
identify. They'd need a very wide net indeed to catch Peter. Who, of
course, didn't even exist. It was really quite delicious . . .

She put the syringe into the inside jacket pocket she
had taken the glasses from. Taking the vial in her hand, she unzipped
her pants and reached deep inside, pulling out the leg of the tight
Latex cyclist's shorts and shoving it up inside, as high on her thigh
as possible to keep it warm in a natural way. After she finished with
Cynthia, she would inseminate her. She pulled on the driving gloves
with the holes over the knuckles and left by the door that led
directly to her downstairs garage. Inside her car she checked one
last time. The automatic was loaded, she had the neck chain and
handcuffs, she had the sperm, and she had cigarettes and a silver
flask filled with brandy for the wait. Satisfied there was nothing
left to chance, she punched the "Open" button on her remote
control and the garage door quietly began to swing up.

As she backed her car out she happened to glance at
her front steps. There, clutching Strawbridge & Clothier shopping
bags, were two little girls in their Halloween costumes. One was
dressed as Snow White, the other as a cowboy. Missy saw them turn to
look and hurriedly pulled the sun visor across the open window on the
driver's side to keep them from seeing her face. The tinted glass on
the other sides kept anyone from seeing inside.

At the end of the driveway she spun the wheel and
stopped long enough to get a good look at the trick-or-treaters, who
were no longer looking at the car but were busy peeking into each
other's shopping bag as they trudged down the steps and headed for
the next house. Missy did not recognize them, which didn't signify:
they still probably lived in the Delaware River townhouse complex;
she just hadn't noticed them. She watched them walk away, certain
they offered no threat, put the car into gear and pulled out into the
Delaware Avenue traffic.

The area around Second and Chestnut was still quiet
even though it was Halloween, and Missy easily found a parking place
with a clear view of Lagniappe. As she settled down to wait behind
her tinted windows, she looked at the clock. It said five-fifty.
Good, she was early. Felix wasn't due to meet Cynthia until six.

She lit a cigarette and made herself comfortable. She
would wait until they left, then follow. Sooner or later the date
would be over, Cynthia would be alone, and she would move in. At two
minutes past six a red and white United cab pulled up in front of
Lagniappe. Cynthia got out. Felix was nowhere in sight. Missy guessed
he'd been inside all the while having a quiet drink before the
fireworks began.

As Cynthia paid the driver and went inside, Missy in
a low, soft voice, the voice of Peter, said, "Don't worry,
darling. It won't be long now." She could have been talking to
Felix, to Cynthia, or to herself.

The time dragged slowly. The twilight turned to full
darkness. Twice, Missy thought about the little trick-or-treaters at
her front door. The first time she thought how they had been so cute,
especially the one in the cowboy outfit. But at seven or eight they
shouldn't have been out without an adult. There were too many bad
things that could happen to them. The second time she wondered what
it would be like to be the mother of one of them, how much fun it
must be now that they were old enough to do things for themselves.
Maybe soon she would find out . . . The kit she had purchased to
predict her cycle of ovulation showed more blue today than yesterday
when she tested her morning's urine, indicating her fertile period
couldn't be more than a day or two away. She had to get a grip on
herself. Perhaps if she loaded up on Valium and smoked some dope she
could close her mind to what was happening, get through it without
screaming. Ideally she would prefer a Quaalude with a little Southern
Comfort to go along with her dope, but she didn't think Felix would
be turned on by a limp rag doll . . .

She was brought back with a start when a young man
dressed like a chimney sweep in top hat and high-top Converse
sneakers smacked the hood of her car with the flat of his hand before
going into the Khyber Pass. She reached for the door handle to get
out and give him a piece of her mind, remembered how she was dressed
and dropped the idea.

It was seven-twenty-four by her watch when Felix and
Cynthia emerged from Lagniappe. She watched them walk north toward
Market Street and past Rib-It, Los Amigos, and Brownie's Pub. At
Nick's Roast Beef she began to lose sight of them in the costumed
crowd now beginning to fill the street. Knowing that Felix habitually
parked on Market Street, she started her engine and pulled out of her
parking place, retracing much the same route she had used earlier in
the day to Carl's, down Second past Wa1do's to Walnut, up to Third,
only this time she continued past Chestnut and on to Market. Felix
did not take Cynthia to his car but hailed a cab. As he opened the
door she put her arms around him and gave him a kiss that confirmed
Missy's worse suspicions. After a moment he gently pushed her away
and helped her into the cab. As it pulled out into traffic he watched
for a moment, then turned and headed back in the direction he had
come from.

lt was what Missy had been waiting for. Half a block
down she did a U-turn in traffic and started to follow the cab, the
sound of Warren Zevon's "Sentimental Hygiene" filling her
car. Following them on Market Street through the tangle of
construction was tricky but she stayed on their tail, not concerned
about discovery, just about losing them.

As she maneuvered the car through the sights and
sounds of jackhammers, backhoes, and bulldozers she thought about her
plans for Cynthia's funeral. Naturally Felix would want to make all
the arrangements. He was that sort of kind and considerate person.
And she would help him, like the good wife she was going to be.

At Twelfth a cop was parked at the corner, so
Cynthia's cabdriver turned off his blinker for the illegal left turn
he had intended to make and continued up on Market Street and around
City Hall. Missy did the same. Around the west side of City Hall the
cab veered off and headed south on Fifteenth. Missy followed, barely
making the light at Chestnut as a stream of people from B. Dalton
crowded the intersection. At Locust she was prepared to turn, since
she remembered Lois saying that Cynthia lived in the nearby Locust
Towers, but they continued on to Fifteenth and Pine and took a left.
Missy stayed with them across Broad Street and down Pine to Twelfth,
where the cab dropped Cynthia in front of her business, the Pine
Street Charcuterie. Missy passed them and pulled into a vacant
parking place further down the block.

The moment she had hoped for had arrived. Taking the
automatic from the shoulder holster she waited until the cab pulled
away and Cynthia was busy opening the door of her darkened store
before she got out and approached her.

Cynthia didn't look up until Missy was beside her,
and even then there was no recognition on her face. It was the
confirmation Missy needed. She jammed the gun into Cynthia's ribs and
shoved her inside before she could scream or cry out.

Without taking her eyes off her prey, Missy closed
the door. Cynthia wheeled around and backed deeper into the darkness.
"What . . . ?" She was staring at the gun, not at Missy.
Missy took two steps forward and swung the gun hard, catching Cynthia
near the temple. Cynthia let out a little cry as the force of the
blow dropped her, taking with her a display of crab pots and Old Bay
Seasoning.