Cuts

As he staggered toward her, she pushed herself off the floor, whirled around and ran to the bedroom door.

  I could run out and just keep running!

  She imagined herself hurrying down the stairs, pulling Ian by his good arm. Come on, let’s get out of here!

  And maybe Doc catches them.

  But maybe he doesn’t. Maybe they get away and run next door to call the cops.

  And maybe Doc vanishes.

  For a while.

  Instead of rushing out through the open bedroom door, she slammed it shut and thumbed down the lock button.

  She turned around fast.

  Doc had stopped coming toward her. He stood a few paces away, his feet apart and his arms out slightly as if he might be having trouble staying up.

  “Put down the knife,” Janet said. “Okay? You’re really hurt. We’ll get you to a hospital.”

  His split, drooping cheeks gave Doc a bizarre grin. He tried to say something, but only managed to spit out blood.

  “Let’s just stop,” Janet said. “Please.”

  He shook his head slowly from side to side, then slashed the air with his knife and took another wobbly step toward her.

  She pulled off her shirt, stepped backward until the door stopped her, then wrapped the bulky leather garment around her right hand and arm just as she’d seen it done in the movies.

  Doc stopped coming toward her and fixed his single, bulging eye on her breasts.

  Someone knocked hard on the door.

  She flinched, startled, then realized it must be Ian.

  “Janet!”

  “Don’t come in.”

  Doc’s eye flicked from side to side as he looked at her right breast, then her left, then her right again.

  “The door’s locked.”

  “I know. I did it.”

  Doc’s penis, small and limp a few seconds ago, began to rise.

  You’ve gotta be kidding, Janet thought. But she felt herself go cold and squirmy inside.

  “Unlock it,” Ian said.

  “In a minute.”

  Doc’s eye roamed downward and stopped at the cut he’d made in her belly.

  That’s where he wants to nail me. In my cut, not my …

  “What’s going on?”

  “I don’t want him getting away.”

  “Janet?”

  Gazing at the gash, Doc looked as if he were drooling blood. His penis was now jutting upright, rigid as a pole.

  “Don’t worry, okay?” Janet said.

  Doc took another slow, unsteady step toward her.

  “What’s he doing?” Ian asked through the door.

  “Coming at me with a knife.”

  “Shit!”

  She raised her leather-wrapped arm.

  The door suddenly jumped against her back and buttocks. “Ow!” she yelped. “Don’t do that! I’m here!”

  “Well, move!”

  “Stay out!”

  Doc’s head tilted sideways as if he didn’t understand what was going on. Why was she trying to keep Ian out?

  “Just you and me,” Janet told him. “If I let Ian in, one of you’ll end up dead. I don’t want anybody else dead, okay? Not even you.”

  He stared into her eyes.

  “Why don’t we try to work something out?” Janet asked.

  His single eye moved slowly down her naked body, lingering on her breasts, her cut belly, her groin.

  “No more stabbing, okay?”

  Nodding, he lowered the knife to his side.

  “That’s good, Doc. That’s very good.”

  The knife still down, he took a step closer to Janet.

  “It’s all right,” she said. “Just no knife.” She spread her arms so they wouldn’t be in his way.

  Doc slid his bloody left hand over her breasts, then down to the slit in her belly.

  She flinched and groaned as he fingered open the wound. Writhing with the pain, she grabbed his wrist.

  He made a sound like a growl.

  “Here, Doc.” She shoved his hand downward. Guided it between her legs. “Here. It’s better here.”

  At first, he tried to pull his hand free. Then he began to caress her. She felt his fingers glide gently, spread her open, slip in. As he panted and quietly whimpered, he rested his forehead against the side of her neck. He slid his fingers deeper.

  “It’s fine, Doc. It’s very nice. You don’t need the knife anymore. Why don’t you drop it, okay?”

  She heard it thump against the carpeted floor.

  My God, he did it!

  Somebody up there likes me.

  Somebody here in the bedroom likes me, too.

  “Yes,” she said. “Thank you.” She shook her arm until the doeskin shirt fell off. Then she put her hands on Doc’s shoulders and eased herself against him.

  He was so hard. How could he possibly be so hard with such awful wounds?

  “Here’s what you get for dropping the knife,” she said.

  Clutching his shoulders, she pushed him backward across the room until he fell onto the bed. Then she climbed onto the mattress. Knees on both sides of his hips, she eased herself down, slowly impaling herself.

  As she sank lower, she felt the rigid thickness push its way higher, deeper.

  Then it was suddenly jumping, pumping, spurting.

  Doc grunted and whimpered under her.

  And Janet saw a single tear slide down from the corner of his remaining eye.

  When they were done, she climbed off the bed. Seeing herself in the closet mirror, she realized she was still wearing the red bandana around her head. She pulled it off and tied it around her thigh as a makeshift bandage for the stab wound there.

  She had plenty of other wounds, but decided they might as well wait.

  She put on her panties, her jeans, and then her doeskin shirt.

  Doc stayed on the bed, crying softly.

  In front of the door, Janet crouched and picked up the butcher knife. Then she turned the knob. The lock button popped out with a ping, and she opened the door.

  Ian was sitting on the floor on the other side of the hall, holding his left arm and looking up at her. He raised his eyebrows.

  “It’s over,” Janet said.

  “You all right?”

  “I’ll live. How about you?”

  “Okay.” He struggled to his feet, then looked past Janet and into the bedroom. “What happened in there?”

  “I fucked him up pretty good.”

  Ian grimaced. “Looks like it.”

  “He won’t be any more trouble,” Janet said. “Why don’t I stay here and keep an eye on him, you go find a phone?”

  Ian turned toward her, frowning.

  “What?” she asked.

  “Are you sure you’re all right?”

  “A few cuts.”

  “Why didn’t you let me in?”

  “I had it under control.”

  “I wanted to help you.”

  “I know.” She shrugged. “Anyway, it worked out.”

  “You sure you’re okay?” he asked.

  “I’m fine. Really.”

  His eyes suddenly went shiny with tears. “I was so worried about you,” he said. Then he put his one good arm around her back and pulled her in against him.

  She tilted back her head.

  His face lowered slowly, becoming very large, and Janet stared into his eyes until she felt as if her own eyes might cross if she kept looking.

  So she shut them.

  And then she felt his lips.

  PART TWO

  AUGUST, 2000

  SIXTY-EIGHT

  MALIBU, CALIFORNIA

  The ringing doorbell woke Lisa up. Rolling onto her back, she opened her eyes. Her bedroom was bright with sunlight. The curtains above her head swelled outward, filled with a cool morning breeze. She heard the squeal of seagulls, the smooth shushhhh of the surf.

  The doorbell rang again.

  Frowning, Lisa sat up and looked at the alarm clock on her nightsta
nd.

  8:17.

  Who would be coming to the door this early on a Saturday morning?

  None of her friends even knew she was staying here.

  She climbed out of bed and slipped into her moccasins.

  Whoever it is, she thought, let him wait. Maybe he’ll get tired of waiting and go away. Him, her, whatever.

  She certainly had no intention of answering the door in her nightshirt.

  The bell rang again.

  Insistent son of a bitch.

  She pulled off her nightshirt, folded it and stuffed it into her dresser drawer. Then she took out a pair of faded red shorts and put them on. In the closet, she found the blue work shirt that she liked to wear around the beach house.

  The doorbell rang again.

  “Hold your water,” Lisa muttered.

  She put the shirt on and buttoned it. On her way to the door, she rolled its sleeves up her forearms.

  “Just a minute,” she called.

  She opened the oak door. Through the mesh of the outer security door, she saw a man standing on the front porch. His gray hair was pulled back in a ponytail; he wore dark sunglasses and had a thick mustache and beard. His white knit shirt hugged a pumped-up torso and flat belly. A beeper hung on his belt. His tan trousers looked brand-new. So d id th e white Top-Siders on hi s feet.

  Has to be a movie guy, she thought.

  “May I help you?” she asked.

  “I’m here to see Evan Collier,” he said. There was a thickness, a sluggishness to his speech as if his tongue didn’t work quite the way it should.

  “I’m afraid he’s not here this morning.”

  “Oh? This is his residence?”

  “It’s his beach house, but he isn’t here. Was he expecting you?”

  “I thought he was. I’m Wayne Kemper. I’m here to interview him for Film Weekly.” He shook his head. “There must be some sort of a mix-up.”

  “Looks that way,” Lisa said.

  “Would you know how I might reach him?”

  “Far as I know, he’s at the other house.”

  “Oh, dear. I suppose that’s where I’m supposed to be. I’m afraid I don’t even have the address for the other house.” He glanced at his wristwatch, then shook his head. “I’m already late. Oh, this is awful. I’ll be in so much trouble.”

  “Let me give Dad a call,” Lisa said. “I’ll let him know…”

  “Dad?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Then you must be Lisa!”

  She nodded.

  “I didn’t recognize…well, of course, I can’t see you through this door. But I haven’t laid eyes on you since you were…oh, four or five years old, I should think.”

  “We’ve met?” she asked.

  “Why, of course. I knew your father and mother very well. In fact, I knew Janet before she married your father.”

  “You knew her before?”

  “Oh, yes. Very well. They’ve never spoken of me?” he asked. “Wayne Kemper?”

  Lisa shook her head, then realized he couldn’t see her through the door’s mesh. “I’m not sure. The name does sound a little familiar.”

  “Anyway, I am late for our interview. Your parents must be wondering why I haven’t shown up yet. Would you give your father a call, explain the situation and tell him I’ll be over as soon as possible?”

  “Sure. Glad to.” She unlocked the security door and swung it open. “Why don’t you wait inside while I call?”

  Wayne smiled. “Oh, there you are.” He entered the house. “And what a lovely young lady you’ve turned out to be.”

  “Thanks.”

  He stepped into the house and pulled the security door shut behind him. “So,” he said, “how does it feel to be the daughter of two such famous writers?”

  “It’s all right,” she said.

  “Do you have ambitions in that direction, yourself?”

  “No way. But my little sister might turn into a writer.”

  “And what do you do?”

  “I’m a teacher.”

  “Oh, that’s wonderful. Your mother was a teacher, wasn’t she? Before she became an author?”

  “Yeah, for a few years. But you’re supposed to be interviewing Dad, not me. I’ll…”

  “You bear a striking resemblance to your mother,” Wayne said. “Astonishing.”

  “Well, thanks.”

  “I knew your mother when she was just about your age. She was a stunning beauty.”

  “She still looks pretty good,” Lisa said.

  “You could be her clone.” Wayne took off his sunglasses. “Such a beauty,” he said.

  She tried not to stare.

  He looked as if he’d had a very bad accident at one time—an accident that destroyed his eye and scarred his face from the corner of his eye almost to his ear.

  The left eye was obviously fake. Not a good fake, either; it gazed downward at a lower angle than his real eye so that it seemed to be studying her breasts.

  “I’d better make that call,” she said, and turned away.

  She took only one step before the sunlight started sliding out of the foyer. She looked back. Wayne was shutting the main door.

  “You don’t have to shut that,” she said.

  “Yeah, I do,” Wayne said. “We don’t want anyone hearing your screams.”

  Lisa went cold and numb.

  Wayne reached behind him, took something out of the seat pocket of his trousers, and raised it in front of his face. A blade suddenly flicked out and snapped into place.

  A long, thin blade that tapered to a point.

  “Hey,” Lisa said.

  “Hey, yourself.”

  Her heart pounded hard and fast as if trying to smash its way out of her chest.

  “What do you want?” Lisa asked.

  He grinned. “I’m Albert Mason Prince.”

  “Big whoop.”

  “You don’t know about me?”

  “What am I supposed to know?”

  “Your mother did this to me.” He swept his empty

  hand in front of his face. “She never told you about her encounters with the infamous killer, Albert Mason Prince?”

  Infamous killer?

  “I never heard of you,” she said.

  “Ever see scars on your mother? On her hands and arms, on her leg, on her belly?”

  “She walked through a plate-glass door.”

  Laughing, he said, “I’m the door.”

  “You made those cuts on her?”

  “With my little knife.” He gave his switchblade a twirl. “And I fucked her, too. Her and you.”

  “Huh?”

  “I fucked you, too. You were in her when I did it. So I got both of you at once.”

  “She was pregnant with me?” Lisa asked.

  “And so scared I’d hurt you, her precious little fetus.” He gave his knife another twirl. “I was all set to cut you right out of her. Sure glad I didn’t, though. I’d done that, we wouldn’t be having our little fun this morning.”

  “I’m not having fun,” Lisa said.

  “Let’s see what you look like naked.”

  “Let’s not.”

  “Oooo, you’re a fiesty one. I like that. Your mom was fiesty, too. She nailed me good.” He grinned again. “But now it’s payback time. She only thinks she won. She’ll have another thing coming after I get done with you. Now take off your clothes.”

  “You don’t want to do this,” she said, trying to keep her voice steady.

  “That’s what you think.”

  He stepped toward her.

  She stood motionless, trembling.

  “When I get done with you,” Albert said, “your mom’s gonna wish she was never born. She’ll wish you were never born, too.”

  “Don’t do this, Albert.”

  He slid the knife down the front of her shirt. After slicing off every button, he raised the knife toward his mouth. For a moment, he looked as if he might clamp it between his teeth.
Then he let out at iny huff of laughter and moved the blade close to Lisa’s eye.

  “Take it off,” he said, “or I’ll take your eye out. Just like your mom did to me.”

  She spread open her shirt, slipped it off her shoulders and let it slide down her arms.

  Albert lowered the knife slightly. As he pressed its point against her cheek, his other hand began to fondle her breasts. He moaned. His good eye slid shut, but his glass eye remained open and seemed to be watching the activities of his hand without much real interest.

  “Know the last time I felt one of these?” he asked.

  She didn’t answer, but she winced as he squeezed her right breast.

  “I was just seventeen, and it was your mom’s. She had the last set of tits I ever saw…or felt.” His good eye opened and peered at her. “She was the last gal I ever fucked, too.”

  “Been in prison?” Lisa asked.

  “Something like that.”

  Oh, God, he’s probably got AIDS!

  He twisted her nipple, laughed as she cried out in pain, then said, “Loony bin.” He pinched it. “Thanks to your mom.” He released her nipple and shoved his hand down the front of her shorts. “But now I’m out.” He spread her, fingered her. “I’m all well and free as a bird.”

  “Stop that.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Stop right now. Please.”

  “Oh, honey, this is just the start. This is gonna be so sweet.”

  “Somebody’s going to get hurt.”

  “I know, I know. That’s the fun part.”

  “Don’t do this, Albert. Get your hand out of there.”

  “Mmmm.”

  His fingers slipped into her.

  “Don’t,” she said.

  They slithered in deeper.

  “I’m not my mom,” Lisa said.

  “Oh, you’re better. I can already see that. I can already feel that. You’re so smooth and juicy and…”

  She clutched his knife hand and twisted it. As Albert gasped with pain and surprise, the knife flew from his fingers. Then she broke one of them, snapped it backward so it popped like a twig. Before he could get his other hand out of her shorts, she’d popped two more of his fingers.

  “Mom’s the nice one,” Lisa said.

  She drove a thumb into Albert’s good eye and gouged it out.

  “This time you picked the wrong babe…”

  As his knees pounded the marble floor, Lisa drove her right knee into his nose.

  “…to fuck with.”