The Matriarch (25 page)

“I hope so,” Charlotte says. She closes her eyes, and the two of us finally drift into an uneasy sleep.

Shelly awakens and pulls Lester close. His body is cool now. Her mind is a tangle of wild thoughts. She smiles, turning to face him. The sex was good, yes … but. She studies his face in the faint light. A handsome fellow, she thinks, with a lean, hard body. He has all the makings of a fantastic lover. She’s disappointed, however. Too timid. Almost passive. Now that Shelly takes the time to analyze Lester’s performance, she realizes he’s something of a wimp in the sack. Not that it hadn’t been a rush and a half to seduce him though, to actually
take
him the way she had.

She thinks of stroking his cock, doing him again. Lester’s watch is on the side table, and she leans over to have a look: 4:35 a.m., plenty of time. A drink of water first though, she decides; she needs something wet on her throat. The bottles of Coke are still on the table, so she slides off the bed and grabs one. She pops it open and upends it, gulping the tepid liquid down.

Then she remembers the figs. The ones she left and hid in Frank’s fridge. The very thing she needs to quench her thirst!

Oh sure, I threw them out—you bet. Like I’m going to take that evil-fig shit seriously!

She decides to skip clothes as she’s in a hurry to get to Frank’s, and going there nude adds risk and excitement to her adventure.

“Get some rest, sweetheart,” Shelly whispers to Lester as she tiptoes out of the room. “You’re going to need it.”

In the ranch house, Shelly sees Charlotte and Cass asleep together in the living room and smiles at their obvious sexual after-glow. She makes her way quietly to the kitchen. Shelly had wrapped Frank’s remaining figs in foil and stashed them behind the big jars of juice in the fridge. She removes the packet of figs and places it on the kitchen table. Quietly, Shelly pulls out a chair and sits down.

Ravenous now as well as thirsty, she tears open the foil and swiftly devours a small green one. Delicious, but soft. Almost too soft, and Shelly knows she’d better eat the others before they spoil. That’s no problem, she thinks, grinning to herself, and jams another into her mouth. Its sweet quenching juice runs off her chin and down between her breasts.

She remembers the first time she sampled these figs—after that wild ride on Georgie with Lester. A voice. In her head. Crazy, yes, but there had been a voice, feminine and melodic, a soft urging. So persuasive.

They are idiots. Frightened out of their tiny minds by a fig? You, Shelly, are much too clever for that nonsense. Here luv, help yourself. Enjoy.

Shelly feels special. Chosen. And worried. Worried about those stupid men and what they’re planning to do on Sunday.

Oh dear God! That’s today!

She devours the next one as if it’s necessary fuel. Fuel to clear her mind. She holds the last fig in the palm of her hand and studies it lovingly. It’s plump and orange with bright red spots capped in yellow. Like eyes.

A bright flash of pain runs through her head suddenly, and her mind is alive with thoughts. They ricochet around inside her skull so fast, she can’t make sense of them. The chaos slows then as if those thoughts have become ideas, and they’re about to coalesce into a single, all important one. Shelly knows, her heart pounding, that when that idea comes it will be very important. Some sort of message.
Significant!
Perhaps a directive of some kind? She almost has it now. It’s on the tip of her mind …

They plan to destroy me.

That voice again.

Don’t allow that to happen.

Shelly devours the last fig, rises, and puts the foil into the trash.

“I will destroy your enemies, dear lady, one by one,” Shelly whispers. She feels strong and confident. And she knows the tree hears her.

She selects a large chef’s knife from the holder on the counter and leaves quietly.

Charlotte is suddenly awake. What’s that sound? Like a door, the screen door closing? She shakes her head. That doesn’t make sense.

Her sleep has been light, her mind reliving the dinner talk of burning the tree. And her sister’s weird questions about not hurting it. Odd. She had been excited, almost frenzied in her defense of the tree. Her personality had been different. Charlotte closes her eyes, thinking of Shelly. Hyper. Charged up and excited like she’s on something. She’s fascinated by the tree, that’s clear enough. Or maybe Lester’s the turn on. Or maybe both. Yes, probably both.

Her eyes had looked funny, Charlotte remembers. Bright. Sometimes so bright they were almost golden …

Her eyes! They had changed. Like Carla’s eyes!

She sits up and puts her hand on Cass’s shoulder. “Cass, wake up!” She shakes him. “Wake up! Cass, Shelly’s changed; the figs have changed her. I’m sure of it. Her eyes are different. Blank, you know? Like Carla’s after Dante, you remember?”

I awaken and sit up, rubbing my eyes. “What the—”

“Shelly didn’t throw those figs out, Cass—she’s eaten them! Oh my God, she’s alone with Lester! We’ve got to get to the barn, Cass. We’ve got to stop Shelly. We’ve got to save Lester!”

“Hold it a minute, Charlotte!” I clutch at her arm, trying to shake the sleep from my head. “You think Shelly’s turned into a killer?”

“Maybe, maybe not. But we have to check on her! Come on Cass, we’ve got to go to the barn! We’ve got to find out.” She stands and pulls me to my feet. “Now! Come on, let’s go!”

I frown. “She’s eaten more figs?”

“I’m sure of it.”

I get to my feet, shaking my head. “She said she threw them out.”

“I know what she said.”

I slide into my cowboy boots, pick up my gun belt, and start for the door.

Charlotte stands and starts dressing. “I’m coming with you,” she says.

I spin around. “No.” I turn back toward her. I grasp her shoulders, holding her firmly. “You’re not coming with me. I need you here, Charlotte, with Frank and Dott. Please.”

“Oh please, Cass, she’s my sister.”

“I think you’re wrong about Shelly,” I say and touch her cheek. “But if you’re not, I sure as hell don’t want you there with me.” Charlotte takes a breath to speak, and I place my fingers over her lips. “I’ll handle this,” I say firmly, and hurry off to the barn.

A sound. Footsteps. Someone walking through the barn. Lester’s eyes fly open. He’s on his back under the comforter. He stretches, arms above his head. He feels sick and can’t think why. It comes to him then, flooding back. The sex. The rape.

Rape? How can a guy be raped? Ridiculous, a laugh.

But Lester-Lee doesn’t feel like laughing. He’s pissed. Another feeling floats through him as well. What’s that word women use on those talk shows? He feels
violated.
And ashamed. And scared. The feelings wash over him like cold surf. Like when he was little and helpless. And his Mommy …

No! I’m not going there.

He hears Georgie nicker. It’s Shelly walking by his stall! Oh shit, she’s coming back. What the hell is she thinking? Does she think they’re lovers—that she’s going to get back in bed with him?

He hugs himself, sick with shame. Lester prays for a sensible thought and it finally comes. He can just get up and walk out of this place, Chrissake—he’s not exactly tied down!

He kicks the comforter away and turns to swing his feet off the bed. He hears those footsteps again, right outside his door. It’s dark, just beginning to turn light, and he can’t see much at all. Anxiety rises in his throat, and he lies back down, deciding his best hope is to pretend to be asleep. He hears a soft brushing sound, the door opening. Then comes a hushed tread as she approaches the bed. The footsteps stop.

“Shelly?”

“Hey, Lester,” she says. “Today’s the day, you know?”

“What?”

“The day you idiots burn the tree.”

In the slowly fading darkness, Lester can just make her out. She’s naked, standing near the bed, leaning toward him. She’s holding something in her right hand. She moves her hand slightly and he sees …

It’s a knife!

A wave of icy fear sweeps through him as he remembers the TV ad where the pitchman cuts through an old tennis shoe with a miracle knife. “Never needs sharpening, folks! Will slice through
anything!
”

She lunges. The dim shape of the knife comes down toward his throat, and he flings himself away from it. Hot, searing pain. His right arm, near his shoulder.

She’s cut me!

He reaches the edge of the bed and tumbles to the floor. Lester lands on his knees and tries to stand. As if mired in mud, he can’t get out of slow motion. The doorway out of his room seems miles away, and she’s so near—blocking his way! He hears her laugh as he faces her, still on his knees. She stands over him, looming.

He’s helpless. Lost.

She turns the knife from side to side as she looks down on him. He leans back onto his haunches, panting. Hot blood spills from his upper arm.

“Shelly, why?” he hears himself ask. He raises his left hand, a pathetic shield to the coming thrust of the knife. But Lester knows why. “You ate them, didn’t you.” It’s not a question.

“You’re a fool.” In a calm controlled manner, Shelly lowers the knife. He sees that she isn’t even breathing hard, while his own breath roars in his ears. “You don’t know what’s important here, do you?” She chuckles and waves the knife at his face.

“Tell me.” On one knee now, Lester cradles his injured arm against his body, holding it there with his other hand. He’s getting weak, his energy leaving him along with his blood. “Please tell me.”

“I want to know too, Shelly,” says a voice from the doorway. “Tell us.”