After The Fight Of The Century the rest of that Saturday had continued pretty much as expected. Alan, Annie and Morgan moved furniture and boxes around and began the process of unpacking. The whole time they carried on conversations about such things as movie and literary trivia, shared impressions about the town of Crowley's Corner and its inhabitants, and practically finished off Alan's meager stock of red wine.
More than a little soused, Morgan, trying in vain not to spill any of his wine while he gesticulated wildly, had a little bit to say about everyone in the small town, whether he had met them or not.
"And that Dolly! Whoa! Did you catch a glimpsse of thosse teeth?"
"They were a little yellow," Annie said reflectively.
Morgan tended to get a wee bit goofy when he drank too much, loosening up and losing some of the inhibitions he, for the most part, successfully kept hidden out of sight, while Annie, generally thought to be an airhead, became more reflective, somewhat introspective and when she spoke often revealed that there was more in her head than air.
"Yeah," Alan shrugged, "they weren't that bad."
Alcohol generally had next to no effect upon him. Alan claimed it was that stubborn little Arian fellow in his head who absolutely refused to relinquish control of his brain.
"Not that bad!" Morgan sloshed a bit of wine out of his glass and on to his shirt front. Annie immediately, and without a word, dipped a handy linen rag into a nearby glass of water and started working at the spot as he continued talking. "Camel teeth, tha'ss what they are. Great yellow-brown camel teeth!"
"Actually," Annie continued working on the stain as she spoke, "the discolouration of her teeth may be a side effect of a medication she has taken or is currently taking." She stopped rubbing at the stain with the damp cloth, studied it and frowned. "You should take it off and give it a real scrubbing."
"You think she'ss on drugss?"
"A medication," Annie corrected, sitting back down on the floor against the foot of the couch beside Alan, taking another sip of her wine. "Maybe Halcion or Haldol...perhaps Lithium," she shrugged.
"I like Mr. Merriweather," Alan interjected. "He's an interesting fellow and he began to tell me something before the ruckus outside started. I'll have to return to the curio shop and get the story from him."
"'Antiques, oddities and antediluvi ... diluvianalium ... diluvianalien' ... aw, f___ it!"
"I think it was 'antediluvianalia'," Alan said.
"Thankss, buddy. Antedilovemanleaveem. Auntie... What he said. That issn't a real word, iss it?"
"It is in Crowley's Corner," Alan replied, shrugging.
"And who'ss thiss what'sshissname?"
"Christopher?" Alan asked.
"Yeah. Christstoppedover."
Annie giggled.
"New guy in town," Alan shrugged. "New player in the game and obviously he didn't know the rules."
"I think he's a little," Morgan held out his left hand, palm down, and twisted his wrist from left to right a few times then let it go limp, "you know."
"I think he's cute," commented Annie.
"But maybe a little light in the loaferss."
"Shy, I think." Annie tapped her front teeth gently with the rim of her near empty glass, reflectively looking into space. "It's like he just got back into the real world after being locked away for a long time."
"You think he'ss an ex-con?"
"Incarcerated? No."
"Institutionalized?" Alan offered.
"Hmm. No. I don't think so." Annie tapped her teeth again. "Maybe...cloistered."
"Whatever. But I still think he'ss a little..." This time when Morgan made the gesture with his hand he made the mistake of using his right hand, the one holding the half-full glass of wine, and he sloshed more than a drop on the front of his shirt.
"That does it," Annie sighed. "Take it off. I'll wash it by hand in the sink."
"It'ss jusst a little vino," Morgan slurred, then he leaned towards Alan and raised his eyebrows. "I think your lady iss jusst trying to get me undressssed."
"She probably can't resist your enlightened attitudes and charm," said Alan with a smile.
"Come on, big fellow." Annie began helping Morgan remove his wine dampened shirt.
"Anything you sssay, baby."
"So what do you think?" Annie said.
"About what?" Alan asked.
"About Chris. Gay, straight, prisoner, priest or madman?"
Alan shrugged.
"I don't know."
Alan did know that there was something, some kind of subtle connection that he felt when they shook (held) hands, but he decided to keep his mouth shut about that.
Annie glanced over at Alan while she helped Morgan take off his shirt. He was not saying another word on the subject, but she could see he had something on his mind.
Soon afterwards Morgan passed out on the couch and Annie and Alan went to bed, thinking that they were too tired to do anything but sleep.
That evening they made love, several times. At first they went sweetly and slowly, fingertips lightly caressing naked flesh, covering one another in butterfly kisses, warm moist breath dancing over sex sensitized skin. Later their lovemaking became more physical, wilder, until it ceased to be lovemaking and became joyful f______.
After a while, Alan got up to go to the bathroom and when he returned to the bedroom he saw Annie laying on the bed naked, uncovered, on her stomach. He stood in the doorway admiring her beautiful smooth, pale body--the curve of her shoulder and arm, the sweeping lines of her back and waist, the long dancer's legs he so loved to slide between, and her lovely rounded ass, that beautiful golden ass. His focus quickly fell upon those two rounded hemispheres of taut pale flesh and Alan found himself rising to meet the challenge one more time.
Annie, resting her head on the pillow under which her arms were hidden, turned to face Alan at the door, her blonde hair obscuring half of her face.
"Oh oh! I don't have to see the expression on your face to know what you're thinking!"
"Woof!" Alan said with a smile.
"Nah ah. I don't think so." Annie smiled too.
"Woof woof." Alan, following his erection, slowly walked over to the bed.
"Forget it," Annie giggled. "Don't even think about it."
"Grrrrrr."
"No way. My jaws ache. My p____'s tired. There's no way you are going to wear out the rest of my poor sexually abused body tonight."
"Grrrrrr."
"Down, doggy, down," she giggled.
"You can't keep a good doggy down," Alan said, getting on the bed on his knees, spreading Annie's lovely long legs with his hands then placing his hands under her hip and lifting her beautiful butt upwards. He panted loudly, like an eager pooch, and gave one more "Woof", but the feel of her flesh against his was putting him in mind to get serious and get down to business.
"Down, boy, down," Annie giggled.
Alan caressed her ass, the flesh so soft and inviting.
"Here. Wait a minute, doggy."
Alan was already wet, pre-cum glistening at the end of his hard penis, dripping. He rubbed himself up against her, between the two tight rounded mounds of warm, naked flesh.
"Alan... Will you wait a minute please?"
The need was rising in him, fast. It seemed as if he had never needed anything so bad before in his life. Alan felt an intolerable aching in his groin that went straight through his entire body. He felt as if at any moment he would burst, not just come but explode. He needed to plunge himself into her hot flesh immediately.
"Alan...!"
He grabbed her hips with his hands, holding her tightly, then suddenly pushed himself inside. Annie let out a little scream, surprised and in some discomfort as he thrust his entire length into her, slamming his body up against her buttocks. She tried to protest, but Alan could only hear the beat of his own heart, the blood rushing to his head and the pounding of flesh against naked flesh as he f_____ her.
After a little while Annie stopped trying to protest, no longer wanted to protest, for she quickly adapted to the unexpected situation and her libido always charged as it was, fell in with the program. Physically she was not enjoying it very much, but the absolute ecstasy she could feel and hear Alan experiencing was very satisfactory, so she moved with him, picking up his desired rhythm.
"Annie," Alan said hoarsely, breathlessly as he thrust himself deeply into her, withdrew, and thrust again, "Annie."
His hardness drove into her with an insistent need, again and again and again, and every nerve of his body was on fire. Alan held on to Annie's hips so tightly that his fingers would surely leave bruises, but he was not thinking about that then. He simply was not thinking about anything. He was acting and reacting by instinct. The humanity and sensitivity with which he made love earlier had abandoned him. Now there was only need, intense, animalistic need, and Annie's body was the only means by which he could satisfy that need.
Again and again Alan slammed his hardness into her, f______ her, punishing her, possessing her.
"Annie," he breathed again, saying her name as if it were an invocation in some ancient Greek orgiastic rite. "Annie."
(Hylas)
"Annie."
Then his moans changed to a deep feral growl, as if the man had become a beast. He arched his spine and threw back his head, and his climax was the most intense he had ever experienced in his entire life. Annie could feel the essence of his manhood violently expelled from his body into hers, pumping and pumping what seemed like an endless supply of that which she had previously thought to be exhausted for the night. And he just kept coming.
When Annie felt Alan's body shudder she knew that he was finally done.
Breathing as if he had just run the Boston Marathon, Alan practically collapsed over Annie's back. She could feel his chest heaving wildly, his breath hot against her sweaty flesh. They were both drenched in perspiration.
As gently as she could, Annie lowered her posterior, pulling herself away from him, lowering him to the bed while sliding out from underneath his exhausted body. She was sore, felt truly abused, but she loved Alan and thought only of him. Sitting on the bed she looked down at the sweat glistening body of her lover as he laid perfectly motionless, face down on the bed, unable to speak, unable to move. Delicately she touched his back with her fingertips and his body automatically reacted with a shiver. Every cell of his body was alive, every nerve raw and overly sensitive. She pulled her hand back and looked upon the man she loved with a touch of sadness in her eyes. Something was wrong. She did not know what it was, but something was wrong.
Annie got up from the bed, gingerly, and walked over to the door.
"Can I get you anything?" she asked sympathetically. "Something to drink maybe?"
Alan neither answered her nor moved.
"I'm going to get some ice water. You can have some if you want."
Annie had turned away and taken a step out the door before Alan spoke.
"Annie."
She turned back to look at Alan as he glanced up sheepishly to make the eye contact he felt was necessary.
"I'm sorry."
There was an awkward moment of silence before she spoke, trying to be cheerful for him.
"It's okay. It was...different...for us."
It was different all right.
(Hylas)
"I'm just going to get that water now."
Just as she said that there was a knock at the front door downstairs--two loud raps and a feeble one.
Annie reached for the peach coloured satin robe by the door that she was not originally going to slip on, and slipping into it as she moved, told Alan that she would see who was at the front door, "and tell whoever it is to come back tomorrow if you'd like."
Alan only grunted. It was his that-would-probably-be-best grunt.
He laid there listening to her bare feet pad down the hall, the creaky old stairs and to the front door.
What had he been thinking about?
(Hylas)
He had not even remotely made love to Annie. He f_____ her. Hell. He raped her! He could not remember a single time in his life when his need had been that great or when, as beautiful as it was, the sight of a bare ass had so inflamed him with desire.
He f______ raped Annie, and Annie simply surrendered to him and his sick desire with all the love a woman could ever feel for a man in her heart.
Alan felt like shit.
"Oh my God!" he heard Annie say from downstairs.
Alan raised his head, every tired muscle in his body suddenly growing taut with expectation and fear.
"Alan! You'd better get down here real fast! I need your help!"
Slipping on a handy pair of grey sweat pants, Alan ran out of the bedroom and downstairs so quickly that he almost took a header to go tumbling down the staircase.
"What's the...?"
He did not bother finishing his question. He could see what was the matter. Annie was standing at the open front door holding Christopher in her arms, struggling to keep from dropping him. The young man looked up at Alan. His face was beaten, badly bruised, there were cuts and abrasions on his swollen visage, his clothes dirtied and torn. Alan suspected there would be more injury to his entire body. Somebody had really worked Christopher over.
(Mr. Cakkes)
"You're going to have to show me that super uppercut of yours."
Christopher tried to laugh, but suddenly his eyes rolled up in his head, Annie cried out "Alan!" and they had to struggle together to keep him from hitting the floor when he passed out.
The two of them dragged him to the sitting room couch, wondering at how someone who could not have had more than one hundred and sixty-five pounds on his five foot ten inch frame could seem so heavy. They stripped Christopher to his undershorts and inspected the damage done to him while cleaning and disinfecting his wounds.
"Someone really f_____ him up," Annie said.
She rarely used any variation of the word 'f___', but Alan was not thinking about that.
"Not f______ someone. Cakkes, that son of a bitch!"
She looked up at her lover and saw more hate and rage in his face than she had ever seen there before.
"We'll see the constable tomorrow."
"F___ the constable! The son of a bitch's brother? F___ that!"
"Alan," Annie implored, looking into his burning green eyes and placing her hand gently on his shoulder, "this isn't the Old West. You can't take the law into your own hands."
"F___ the law!" Alan leaped to his feet. "I'll take care of this myself!"
"Alan. Not tonight. I need you tonight. He needs you."
He looked down at the beaten, unconscious man and knew that she was right. Christopher could have a concussion. Anything could happen.
"Okay. You're right." He picked up the large bowl of now bloody warm water. "I'll just toss this out and get some more hot water."
"That's a good idea, sweety."
Alan was pissed, really pissed. He felt so hot that he thought he might be able to heat water to boiling in his bare hands.
Out of the sitting room, Alan turned right to walk along the bottom of the staircase to toss the bloody water out the kitchen back door, rinse the bowl and fill it with fresh hot water, but he did not get that far. He heard something. Something improbable.
Children laughing and playing.
Boys.
Upstairs.
Alan could not even remember seeing children in town the day before. He could not imagine how a couple of kids had gotten into the house without him and Annie noticing.
He set the bowl of water down and, trying to ascend the creaky stairs as quietly as possible, made his way back upstairs. Cautiously he checked the bedrooms, even the hallway's linen closet, and found no one.
But he still heard the laughter.
Then he noticed the pull rope hanging down from the ceiling and looked up at the attic's trap door. The sounds of laughter seemed to be coming from up there. He had not been in the attic as yet. Cellars were next to last and attics last of all when exploring a new house. He did not even bother checking it out when he looked the house over before buying it.
The trap door seemed stuck at first (unless someone was holding it closed from the other side), but another tug on the rope pulled it free to reveal the sliding ladder stairs built-in. This too was reluctant to move, but with a little effort the ladder-like steps slid along their tracks and touched the hallway floor. Carefully, as quietly as possible, Alan tip toed up the stairs, peering around once his head was above the rim of the trap door. He saw only heaps and piles of things in the dark, dusty upper floor.
"Is anyone up here?"
Silence.
The place had a closed in smell of stale, dusty air with just a hint of something musky, but not unappealing.
"Is someone there?"
More silence. He looked about in an almost three hundred and sixty degree turn but saw nothing that would indicate the presence of another person let alone two children.
"You can stop hiding," he said to the darkness. "It's all right. We have some cookies and milk downstairs if you're interested."
Yet more silence.
He shrugged, deciding that he must have been hearing things. After all, his ears were still ringing, first from all the blood rushing to his head with Annie in the bedroom and then later when he felt a sudden rush of rage over what Cakkes had done to Christopher.
Alan backed down the stairs, slid the contraption back together and then pushed the door up into the ceiling, listening for the click of its locking device. It would be a hell of a thing to have that trap door suddenly fall open, the ladder slide out, hit some poor soul in the head and send him flying down the stairs to the first floor!
As he turned away from the trap door and began descending the stairs, Alan suddenly froze in his tracks, the little hairs on the back of his neck rising in superstitious fear.
He heard it again.
Two young boys whispering and laughing.
Suddenly he was certain of one thing. Lizabeth Carstairs had two little boys under her care. Two boys that she one day killed with a double blast from a shotgun. And he was fairly certain that he knew where in the house they had been murdered.
The attic.