Edward Lee - Incubi

HERE IS MY LOVE

Love , Jack mused. In slow horror, his eyes moved to the bed.

White rope fastened her wrists and ankles to the posts. She was blindfolded with tape, and gagged — of course, the whining heard by the neighbor. Again, Jack tried to picture the killer, but his instincts, oddly, did not show him a psychopath. Jack could tell the victim had been pretty. The perp had very tenderly gutted her; he’d taken his time. Organs had been teased, caressed, reveled in for their warmth. Ropes of entrails had been reeled out of her sliced gut and adorned about the body like garlands. Her cheeks had been kissed by scarlet lips. Scarlet handprints lingered on her breasts. The epitaph proved the truth: This was not murder. It was an act of love.

Jack swallowed something hard. “Any prints?”

“Plenty,” the tech said. “The guy didn’t wear gloves. Lots of ridges on her hooters, and in the stuff he wrote on the walls.”

“Anything else?”

“Some pubes, definitely not hers. We’ll know more once Beck signs her off and gets her into the shop.”

Randy stood at the door, looking away. “She was single, lived alone. Cash in her wallet, bunch of jewelry in the drawers, all untouched. The guy next door says he thinks he heard them enter, three-fifteen or so. The whining sopped about three-thirty.”

“That’s it?”

“’Fraid so for now. Might as well let TSD take it from here.”

Jack nodded. He felt dizzy and sick. In his mind all he could see was the girl twitching against her bonds as the blade divided her abdominal wall. He saw the red hands on her breasts, the red lips kissing her.

Randy pointed to the back wall. “Check that shit out.”

Jack hadn’t even noticed it, too caught up in what lay on the drenched bed. More strange writing emblazoned the white wall, and another design.

“What the fuck is it?”

It was a triangle painted in blood, with a scarlet star drawn at each of its three points.

Written below the design was a single word:

AORISTA

“I wonder what Khoronos is like in bed,” Ginny reflected.

Veronica glanced up from her packing.

“Jealous already?”

“Shut up,” Veronica said.

Ginny laughed. “I got invited first, you know. But I’ve always been one to share with my friends.”

“You’re making some pretty big plans, aren’t you? We haven’t even left yet. Besides, for all we know, he’s married.”

“Don’t even think such a disgusting thing!”

Veronica had confirmed her reservation by the number on the card. A woman, who must’ve been Khoronos’ secretary, had curtly given her directions. She and Ginny decided to drive up together.

“What do you think Amy Vandersteen’s like?” Ginny posed.

“I saw her on Signature once. She’s an asshole.”

“Most good directors are.”

“And what about these two guys?” Veronica asked, putting panties into her Samsonite. “The poet and sculptor?” (Two guys picked up the painting, Stewie had told her earlier. “Young but kind of gruff. They gave me a receipt, loaded up Vertiginous Red , and drove away.” Then Stewie, who made no secret of his bisexuality, flashed his famous grin. “I wouldn’t mind going the rounds with them, though. They were what you female types call hunks. Serious baskets, if you know what I mean.” “Not only are you a pimp, Stewie,” she’d informed him, “you’re a horny dog.” “Woof, woof,” he’d replied.)

“We’ll find out when we get there, won’t we?” Ginny complained, “but we’ll never get there if you don’t hurry up and finish packing!”

It was a combination of unconventional tangents that gave Ginny Thiel her attractiveness. She was a little overweight, but in a cute way, not fat, just fleshily robust; she’d always been told that she wore it in the right places. She was about 5’5”. A fresh gleam in her face betrayed her age — thirty — such that she often still got carded in bars. Large brown eyes peeked out from under bangs as severe as Stewie’s; her hair was black and cut straight at the neckline. She’d been married and divorced twice; she’d dumped her first husband, and her second husband had dumped her, which was about the same time she started to become successful. She often claimed that her failed marriages were the best things to ever happen to her professionally. “If my marriages hadn’t turned to shit, what would I write about?” she’d said once. She and Veronica had been friends since junior high.

Stewie came back in, having loaded Veronica’s first suitcase into Ginny’s 450. “I can’t believe you girls are doing this. Talk about spur-of-the-moment.”

“It’s about identifying our self-actualization,” Ginny said, “but you wouldn’t know anything about that.”

“Oh, is that what it’s about?” Stewie laughed, gold chains glittering about his neck. Tails of light shimmered on his knee-high boots. “I think the female sex drive might have a little bit to do with it too.”

“That’s another thing you don’t know about, and Jesus Christ, Stewie, would you please get rid of those ridiculous boots?”

“You two just don’t want to admit that you’ve got the hots for this Khoronos guy.”

“I have no problem admitting that,” Ginny said.

“Neither do I,” Veronica added, then blushed.

Stewie grinned at her. “And what’s old Jackie boy say about that?”

“I told you, we broke up—”

“You mean you dumped him,” Stewie cut in.

Veronica wanted to kick him.

“You ought to least call him,” Stewie suggested. “Let him know you’re on your way.”

“Stewie, don’t be a butthole,” Ginny said. “Why should she call him? They broke up .”

“It just might be nice to give him a call,” Stewie addressed Veronica, ignoring Ginny. “He still worries about you.”

It was weird the way men were. Jack hated Stewie, and Stewie hated Jack, but as far as their former relationship went, Stewie was all for it. He constantly inferred that Jack was good for her and she for him. It didn’t make much sense, but Veronica knew that’s how Stewie felt.

She looked sadly to the phone. I should call him .

“Don’t,” Ginny said. “He’s history. He’s out of your life now. It’s stupid to call him.”

“Well, we’re still friends,” Veronica hemmed.

“Former lovers can never be friends. Get real.”

“Don’t listen to her,” Stewie warned. “She’s a bitter, socio-anarchistic feminist nihilist.”

“I wish I had a dick so I could tell you to suck it.”

“Both of you shut up!” Veronica nearly screamed. She decided not to call. Ginny was probably right. What purpose would it serve now?

They packed the rest of their things into Ginny’s car.

“When are you coming back?” Stewie asked.

Veronica looked unassured to Ginny, “I don’t really know.”

“We’ll come back whenever,” Ginny grandly answered.

“That tells me a lot,” Stewie razzed. “I do have my client’s business interests to manage, you know.”

“You have your vanity to manage, through representing a famous artist,” Ginny balked. “That’s all you have.”

“I’ll call you every night,” Veronica promised. “Keep working on those Abrams people for the book thing, and push for the show at MFA. I want that one bad.”

“Have no fear, O beloved business interest.” Stewie jokingly kissed her fingertips. “Your future is in my hands.”

“Thank God the rest of her isn’t.” Ginny started the car. “And lose the boots, Stewie. The Musketeers are dead.”