Edward Lee - The Chosen

“Pretty decent pad, huh?” Kyle observed.

“It’s so beautiful,” Vera slowly replied. “I’ve always wanted a room like this.”

Kyle dawdled to the twin French doors and pulled them open, letting in the crisp winter air. “You’ll have a great view once the trenchers are done.”

Trenchers? Vera stepped out onto the high veranda, oblivious to the cold. The forest rose further up the ridge. Below, several one-story additions stretched. “Spas, pools, Jacuzzis, exercise rooms,” Kyle explained. “We’ll have tennis courts too, in the spring.”

This was magnificent. To her left, though, several big yellow trenching machines idled beside a long deep ditch which disappeared around an outcropping of trees.

“What’s all that?”

“We had to reroute the sewer and waterlines to the county junctures. The old lines are a hundred years old.”

It was another thing that must have cost a fortune. “In the meantime,” Kyle went on, “we’re still on the old system. But everything’11 be hooked up before we open.”

“What about the plumbing in the building?” she asked.

“All brand-new and refitted.”

They came back in and she closed the doors. “And the wiring?”

“The same. The building was gutted when Magwyth Enterprises bought it. Someone tried to burn it down years ago.”

“Why?” Vera asked, and immediately regretted it. She had a feeling what he would say in response. Ghosts…

“I’d rather keep you in suspense. How about later you let me show you around the whole building—the grand tour.” His cocky grin sharpened, and Vera remembered what Dan B. had observed. Scoping my…rib melons? She almost laughed. Dan B. had always been jealous; and it was like a brother’s jealousy—guarded, and negative about any man who expressed an interest in her. He hadn’t even liked Paul. Now she wished she’d listened to him. But was it her imagination, or was Kyle really leering at her?

“Sure, Kyle,” she said. “I’d love for you to show me around.” Perhaps she could turn his confidence game inside out, and use it on him. She could play games just as well as he could.

“Great. I’ll drum you up about seven. Is that all right?”

“That’s fine,” she assured, and finished with the thought, you phony tight-jeaned asshole.

He made to leave, then, but stopped. “I almost forgot. You do have your choice of rooms. I can show you some of the others if you want.”

She paused in the question, and looked around one more time. “No,” she nearly whispered. “This is fine… This is home. ”

— | — | —

CHAPTER NINE

Zyra pondered: What a beautiful night.

And it was: clear, starry, deep as heaven. The moon shone as a crisp, blazing rind of light. It summoned back many other, equally beautiful images, of blood and mayhem, of heads split apart like big ripe fruit, sharp blades sinking into random flesh, and chorales of screams—yes, such wondrous images, and many more, of times gone by. Zyra stood nude before the bedroom window. Her sex felt warm and tender in the denouement of her orgasms. Her appreciation for life felt as wide as her gaze.

What a beautiful night for murder, she thought.

She fancied the moonlight as a ghost’s caress. She could feel it on her skin; it seemed to purify her. What had nutty Mr. Buluski said earlier—earlier, that is, as in before she’d strangled him with the lamp cord? “Oh, pristine siren in radiant light. I bid thee now—be mine tonight.” What a nut. Oh, I’ll be yours, all right, she’d thought. I’ll be yours forever. At least this pair was interesting, and good for some laughs. She and Lemi had answered the personal ad they’d spotted in a magazine called The East Coast Swingers Guide: “luntville: Attractive (and endowed!) quirky couple seek same for concupiscent interlude.” Dumbass Lemi hadn’t even known what concupiscent meant. “It means they like to get it on, Lemi,” Zyra had had to explain. “And that’s just what we’re looking for.”

“Come in, come in!” Mr. Buluski had invited when they’d knocked on the door to his remote rancher which sat miles from any other dwelling along Route 154. “Why, you two are even more delectable than your photos!”

Mr. Buluski had, by the way, answered the door naked.

He was skinny, bald up top, and looked about forty, with this nutty, kinky, torqued-up enthusiasm stamped onto his face. “I do hope you’re all hungry,” he commented. “I’ve prepared a wonderful dinner!” Next, he’d introduced Mrs. Buluski, who was also naked save for pepper-red high heels. She looked about ten years younger, with poshly curled dark hair, and she was kind of cute and fat, which was fine. They didn’t all have to be high-fashion knockouts. Physical diversity was far more important. An additional point of note: her pubic hair had been quite expertly shaved into the configuration of a heart. “Please, friends, make yourselves more comfortable and join us in the dining room,” she urged.

“When in Gnome, do as the Gnomans do,” Lemi figured.

“That’s Romans, Lemi,” Zyra corrected.

Lemi shrugged. They both quickly stripped and took their seats at a long, maroon-linened table. “Oh, what beautiful young bodies,” Mr. Buluski gushed. “Such sights make my heart just sing!”

“He gets carried away sometimes,” Mrs. Buluski then informed them. “He’s a dreamer, a visionary. And he’s very, shall we say, deft of tongue.” The woman promptly winked at Zyra, who doubted that she was referring to his eloquence.

Mr. Buluski had prepared a glazed roast duckling, baby potatoes with bell peppers, and succulently steamed fresh asparagus stalks. The four of them then, as they dined, exchanged opinions upon such intense topics as the future of the Middle East, the difference in inflation rates during Republican and Democratic administrations, the ozone layer, and the possible psychological explanations for Michael Jackson’s addiction to plastic surgery. All the while, Zyra, who was not especially inhibited, felt distinctly embarrassed. Even psychopathic murderesses were not accustomed to dinnerside chats in the nude. This new insight into herself at least struck her as interesting. Events, however, became a trifle more interesting when Mrs. Buluski, large bare breasts bobbling, promptly stood up, remarked “Let me get out of these hot things,” kicked off her pepper-red high heels, placed her rather large derriere on the dining table, and began to masturbate with one of the larger stalks of asparagus. Mr. Buluski was then appropriate enough to comment: “You should see her when I serve corn on the cob.”

What a world, Zyra thought. There were all kinds, that was for sure. At least these two loose-screws were more diverting than the usual acquisitions; rednecks, prostitutes, runaways. Zyra had seen her share of bizarre things in her time, but she could never recall witnessing a portly woman with heart-shaped pubic hair masturbate with asparagus. No, she’d never seen such a thing in her life. Maybe I should try it someday, she considered.

Lemi wasted no time in sampling this new preparation for vegetables. Meanwhile, Mr. Buluski rose and suggested to Zyra, “My dear, shall we adjourn to my parlor of passion?’’

“Lead the way,” Zyra said.

He took her down the hall to a black-and-white art deco bedroom. Her body felt levitated when she lay back on the slogging waterbed. She looked down at herself from a ceiling mirror; it was fun watching this eccentric, reedy man do things to her. She thought of astral projection, of doppelgangers. Mrs. Buluski wasn’t kidding about her husband’s prowess of tongue—Zyra watched her own eyes thin lewdly in the mirror, vising his cheeks with her thighs. Her orgasms issued as a steady, tender pulse of waves. Mr. Buluski seemed delighted. Through a variety of positions, then, he eloquently muttered lines from some of the century’s greater poets: Stevens, Pound, Eliot, Seymour. Zyra’s next orgasms pulsed deeper and more precisely; she felt something in herself letting go.…