Trifecta (72 page)

P
rofessor Vincent Middelton turned to his pretty
female student companion, Suzanne.  He looked at her sideways for a moment, and
said over the droning rumble of the airplane, "Would you like to become a witch,
my dear?"

The girl looked at him incredulously for a moment, and
then she laughed.

"You aren't a virgin, are you dear?  A virgin can't
be a witch."

She knew that, too, and was laughing again. 

As the plane descended to the runway into the Honolulu
airport, he knew Suzanne was wondering who the inductee would be; if it would in
fact be him.  And he knew what her answer would be if he said he would make her
a witch himself.

He was on hiatus for the summer, so had the time to indulge
in his hobby of studying witches who practiced black magic.  The man Vincent hunted
was known on several continents and seemed to be moving in a westerly direction. 
The last time Vincent had caught scent of him was in Las Vegas.  The guy was usually
the leader of a coven of witches, mostly women of course, because everyone knew
that to become a witch, sexual intercourse was a necessary part of the ritual. 
And this man was reputed to be extremely charismatic, handsome beyond belief, and
was alleged to have seduced many women into countless covens.

Vincent Middleton was known affectionately as 'The Intrepid
Vampire Hunter' by his students at Stanford University.  He hated the nickname because
vampires were figments of fertile and inaccurate imaginations.  There were people
who drank blood, but there were no real vampires.  What he did believe in and study
in an intrepid way was paranormal phenomena, and he had been all over the world,
thanks to a rather unending trust fund from benign, wealthy and unreservedly besotted
parents, now deceased.

Vincent had practically haunted castles himself in England,
and had explored the catacombs in Rome.  In Haiti he had witnessed an actual hexing
and the resulting quiet, expected death.  In Russia he had seen objects moved by
sheer willpower.  But his specialty was the phenomenon of black magic in witch cults.

Vincent cultivated a scholarly attitude, sucked on a pipe
and wore the appropriate plaids, tweed with leather patches and shoes with fringe
or tassels, unaware that the look was antiquated.  He was a tough professor and
it always surprised him that his classes were filled to capacity and that he was
so popular with students.  He certainly wasn't an attractive man.  His smile was
rather ruined by narrow, yellow buck teeth. 

Since he somewhat resembled a rodent with the teeth, and
was a small, unshapely and pudgy figure of a man who did not, on sight, demand respect,
he used the ploy of taking a female student on his research jaunts.  The student
was inevitably bright and beautiful, which made up for his own lack of dash. 

He attracted attention wherever he went.  That it was due
to speculation about why the beautiful-young-thing was with the small fat man did
not daunt him in the least. 

Vincent was foppish, pompous and boring, but he was quite
a well known scientist.  In a field which demanded little or no respect from the
'hard scientists' like those involved in physics and chemistry, and even from it's
own parent discipline, psychology, Vincent was respected in his un-esteemed field
of the paranormal.  He had debunked many phony psychics and so-called mediums. 
A wonderful magician himself, he knew all the tricks, so he wasn't easily fooled
by charlatans.

Vincent had come upon his exceptional interest in witches
during his own college years when he had taken a course in the Psychology of Religion. 
The witches had been thrown in almost as a joke.  But Vincent, a good mathematician,
had became intrigued by the sheer numbers.  The religion of witchcraft has over
200,000 adherents in the United States, alone.  There are five times as many witches
as there are Quakers; more witches than there are Unitarians or Buddhists.  There
are at least 5,000 covens in the United States.  It was not a religion to be scoffed
at when one contemplated the numbers.

Vincent's sense of humor was touched by the reason why
people become adherents of the witchcraft movement.  First, there was the sacramental
experiencing of sex.  Imagine making sex into a sacrament, Vincent had thought,
intrigued.  Of course Christianity was oppressively anti-sexual, and that fact had
seemed like a good start to the young Vincent.  Then, witchcraft was reputed to
develop magical, psychic abilities along with its divine spiritual development. 
Who doesn't wish for potions or spells to make that unobtainable someone love you,
or to render enemies helpless and impotent. 

The religion was democratic and did not discriminate on
the basis of gender, so it appealed to many women.  To the witches, God was both
male and female, father and mother of all things.  And Vincent appreciated that
fact that witches believed that the 'New Age Gurus' were money hungry frauds, exploiting
the public.  A strict 'witch's ethic' forbade Wiccans from accepting money for training
or initiating anyone into their religion.

Vincent had been following one man for some time who seemed
to shape black-magic paranormal events wherever he appeared.  He embodied the pinnacle
of secrets in the worldwide religion of witches.  At least of those witches who
practiced the art of black magic.  Hence the trip to Oahu.  Vincent didn't know
if he was on the trail of the correct person, but the man definitely left a course
of paranormal, gruesome events as a personal signature trail.  The man he sought
had been variously called a Sorcerer, Warlock, Wizard, Conjurer or Necromancer. 

Vincent felt a little guilty about using Suzanne as bait. 
He was a bit worried too, for he knew the reputation of the man he sought.  He put
his worries behind him, though, as they taxied down the runway.  They deplaned into
a twilight world smelling as sweet and wet as a damp, fragrant flower.

Vincent was used to the most sumptuous and luxurious of
accommodations.  He had booked rooms overlooking the ocean at the Royal Hawaiian
Hotel.  The hotel had a long and illustrious career as one of the venerable hotels,
which had not changed much in the decades since Hawaii had transformed from a rural
and tropical paradise into the gaudy expensive tourist attraction it had become. 
It had been built by Matson Navigation Company in 1927, and was opened by a grand
ball that the rich and famous came on luxury liners to attend.  Called the 'Pink
Palace of the Pacific,' it had been turned over to American servicemen during World
War 11.  Unlike the monoliths that now march side by side along the beach, it was
only a few stories tall, and the outside was simple stucco, molded and painted a
pale pink. 

Vincent enjoyed showing Suzanne the beautiful old gardens
with tall palms, and they passed ponds with large and colorful imported Koi fish
on the way to their rooms.

The first thing Vincent did when he arrived in his own
room was to unpack his Witches' Almanac.  Witches believe that the dark phase of
the moon and the full moon are sacred periods.  They hold rituals during those times. 
He found that a full moon was due in a few days.

Then Vincent sent for a telephone directory.  He had hunted
for witches in many countries and was an expert in simplicity.  Under the Occult
heading in the yellow pages he found what he was looking for, but he was distracted
for a moment by Suzanne.  She had come across the adjoining balcony to his room
and was tapping on the window. 

"Let's go swim," Suzanne mouthed through the
glass, pointing out at the beach. 

Vincent sat on the edge of the bed looking at her for a
moment, thinking abstractly that she was absolutely perfect for his purposes, now
that he could see her in all her young and nubile glory in a bathing suit with a
scanty shirt covering.  She was so young she still had a layer of baby fat, which
was distributed nicely, Vincent noticed in a detached and clinical manner, but she
was also firm and he could imagine the flesh would be resilient, even springy under
finger touch.  He could see nothing that sagged through his trifocals.

Vincent shook his head and made a go-ahead flipping movement
with his hand.  Suzanne made a come-along gesture, but he shook his head.  She must
have expected his negative reply because when he looked up a moment later she was
gone.  Probably already prancing on the beach.  The thought of exposing his own
pale, hairless and puggy flesh on a public beach did not occur to him as a viable
option of behavior.

His scholarly owlish eyes peered at the advertisements
listed under the Occult heading in the telephone book.  There was the Magical Marketplace,
the Psychic Eye Book Store, the Sorcerer's Shop and the House of Hermetic.  At least
one of those places would have information about the local witch covens on the island
of Oahu.  He would do his scouting alone and then have a discussion with Suzanne
about her possible role in unearthing the warlock. 

Vincent again became a little uneasy when he contemplated
using a student in this matter, but he could think of no viable alternative.  Anyway,
Suzanne was getting a free vacation with her professor.  She didn't have to actually
go through the actual ritual, with sexual intercourse, to become a witch.  She just
had to appear willing and help him flush out the man. 

Vincent did not believe in black magic.

M
ichelle tossed and turned in bed, upset about
the embarrassing episode at the Ilikai Hotel with her new neighbor, Omar.  When
she finally did drift off in the early morning hours, it was to dream of the horrible
event that had happened three years ago. 

She couldn't make the nightmare stop, as she was helplessly
sleep-trapped.  Sleep paralysis prevented her from thrashing around.  Release would
only come when her mind relieved itself of the burdensome memory.

In the dream, she was again awakening to total darkness
in that hotel room in Las Vegas, knowing she had left the bathroom light on as a
kind of night light so she wouldn't trip if she had to get up in an unfamiliar room. 
She felt chilled.  The air-conditioning was still on, or had turned itself on during
the night, and she supposed that was what caused gooseflesh.  Until she heard a
slight noise.  The sound of breathing in close proximity to the bed.  It numbed
her to hear the alien sound because it was sneaky and covert.  No one should be
in her locked hotel room.  But there were tiny noises, scrapes and whispers against
the thick carpet which sent shock waves through her body.  Below the stealthy moving
sounds were strange, inhuman snuffles, so soft it might have been the whispering
of the wind outside the room.  

Her eyes searched a blackness that was almost uncanny,
feeling her eyes open unnaturally wide in her horror.  She knew positively that
she had left the bathroom light on.  Now she couldn't even see the hand she moved
with terrified slowness and held in front of her face.  Gradually, her eyes started
adjusting to the faint light coming from the crack in the drapes.  She could see
some greyness emerging gradually, shapes coming out of the darkness, as she listened
to the garbled exhales of something alive.  From across the room, the chest of drawers
with a mirror above it was gradually materializing out of the blackness. 

The snuffles, she wished was some nice animal, like maybe
a friendly dog which had slunk unnoticed into the room, went on and on quietly. 
But she knew it was not something friendly at all.  The reality was that she was
in a strange dark hotel room, she was not alone, and she was absolutely petrified.

The sound of movement came from the right side of the bed,
in the direction of the door, so that pathway of exit was gone, but there wasn't
any other way out of the room.  Except the window.  That was out because she was
on the fifteenth floor.  She would have to run past the thing on the floor, possibly
step on it because it sounded large, to get to the door and out into the hallway. 
She thought she had better move fast.  There were more slight sounds that she picked
up from her ears, which were pricked sharply, like an animal in the night awaiting
a predator.A feeling of unreality swept through her.  She was on a working vacation
in Las Vegas, checking out some property that her corporation might buy. 

The scuffling noises were a little louder now, like something
was crawling on hands and knees toward the bed.  She was afraid if she moved her
hand to the lamp-switch beside her it would pounce, grab her hand and drag her to
the floor.  Or bite it off.  It was like the terror of the Thing-Under-The-Bed when
she was little, but that had been exciting and fun as well as thrillingly frightening. 
This was so scary she was incapacitated.

She contemplated screaming, but in these plush rooms the
soundproofing would muffle any noise she might make.  No one could come and rescue
her now.

A kaleidoscope of the three previous days at this hotel
flashed through her mind.  She had not noticed anyone, or any event, which would
have precipitated this dangerous situation.  She had not seen anyone who looked
the least bit dangerous or had even glanced at her with lechery, because now she
felt that she would probably be assaulted, raped, and possibly murdered if she did
nothing.  Her brain, in frantic expeditious over-gear saw mind pictures; the valet
who had carried her bags to this room, the waiters in the dining room, the guests
at the swimming pool, the people in the bar, and those in the business meetings
she had attended. 

She couldn't come up with any face that seemed unwholesome,
dangerous, or even the least bit threatening.  No twisted visages.  She hadn't felt
overt anger or lust or hostility directed at her.  Oh well, maybe a little lust,
she was young and relatively attractive, but there had been nothing unnatural or
unwholesome.  Just normal male interest.

Michelle felt her eyes jerking around the room as though
searching independently for some safe place, and that was when she saw the silhouette
emerging in the mirror across from her bed.  She watched as the dark shape started
rising to an inhumanly tall presence right at the side of the bed.  The side she
thought of as her side, nearest the door and close to the lamp.  She was afraid
to move her head in the actual direction of the thing, but the real presence she
saw in the mirror panicked her into sliding on her back, like an up-side-down crab,
to the other side of the bed. 

She thought it might leave if she saw it, if it was observed,
and it took all of her will power to reach up and grab the lamp.  She grappled with
it for a second, her ring hitting its base and making an unnaturally loud metallic
clash.  Finally she found the little knob and twisted it.

The sudden light blinded her for a second.  Then she twisted
around toward the side of the bed where the monster had risen and saw...nothing.

She swivelled and looked into the mirror, as if that was
where the thing had gone, but found herself staring at her own terrified reflection
and nothing more.  She had the horrible thought that maybe it was lying beside the
bed where she couldn't  see it and got scared again, until she nerved herself to
scramble on hands and knees across the king sized bed, and look.  She expected to
be grabbed at any moment by the neck and pulled to the floor when she peeped over
the edge of the bed, but nothing was there.

I am going nuts.  She said it aloud.  But she knew she
had been awake.  It hadn't been a nightmare.

Michelle got up and went to her purse, which was lying
on a chair across the room and looked inside for something lethal.  It still might
be in the bathroom or closet or under the bed.  Maybe it had moved while she was
skittering across the bed and hidden itself. 

She glanced around nervously while feeling in the handbag. 
She took out a nail file.  It was metal, the best thing she had, and she carried
it with her to the phone.  She tried to think of what to say to the front desk people
at three in the morning.  Finally, when confronted by a sleepy clerk on the phone,
she demanded more towels.  She insisted that she needed them immediately.  Then
she sat on the edge of the bed, shaking and careful not to dangle her feet.

Michelle was thrilled with relief when a bell-hop came
with the towels, the housekeeping staff being long gone.  It didn't matter that
he was so young he still had pimples and that his muscles were undeveloped as a
rubber-band.  She didn't care that he hadn't lost his gawky adolescent awkwardness. 

Michelle told him she had heard a cricket and asked him
to check the room.  She told him truthfully that she was scared of insects.  It
was a phobia.  She blathered on and on about phobias and watched him search.  She
could tell he didn't mind.  She could tell he loved being in a hotel room searching
for bugs with a gorgeous older woman.  He was dazzled by her fear and felt wonderful
and powerful, perhaps for the first time in his life, the way he was acting.  She
kept him with her as long as she could manage and promised solemnly to call and
ask for him if she heard the cricket again.  He left with his manhood inflated and
Michelle thought that maybe she could sleep.

She decided she must have been asleep and dreaming
when she saw the phantom in the mirror.  She searched the room again by herself
after the boy left.  She clicked the lock on the door and secured the chain. 
It had seemed so real.  The enormous shape hunching over the bed. 

If she thought about it she would just upset herself again,
so she got back into the bed.  She tried the television for a couple of minutes,
flipping channels, and wondered if she had been under too much stress lately.  Finally
she turned off the light and closed her eyes.  She had an eight o'clock meeting
and needed to sleep.

Instantly, two things happened simultaneously.  The thing
was upon her and she tried to scream, but only a whimper escaped her mouth.  At
the same time the phone started ringing. 

It was like being out of control inside a whirlwind, her
body was being manipulated so easily, as though her thrashing was totally ineffective
against the strength of a giant with supernatural power.  This time she really was
blinded because she had just turned off the light, so she could see nothing, just
feel the enormous presence that was maneuvering her body as though she were a tiny
doll.  At the same time she was aware of the ringing phone in a surreal way, as
though the large presence had caused it.

Michelle was dragged onto the floor by her legs.  She tried
to hold on and only managed to take a pillow and some bedclothes with her.  Her
bottom hit the floor hard.  It happened so fast  she cracked her head against the
end table as she was pulled down.  She could feel one hand on her neck, absolutely
taking her breath away because the hand encircled her neck.  It was impossible that
a hand could reach all the way around her neck, but she could feel it.  It was squeezing
and she couldn't breath.  She knew she would pass out in seconds; lights were sparkling
in front of her eyes.  It let go. 

Michelle hit and kicked, but the hand was now pressing
her down on the carpet, on her chest.  One of his knees painfully pressed down
on her thigh.  Although her fists connected with something large and solid it
didn't seem to have an effect.  It held her down and seemed to be waiting as
she flailed with arms and legs.  She must have struggled for several minutes,
although it seemed like hours, and it just held her with one hand pressing down
on her chest until she was so exhausted she could hardly raise an arm or leg
again in self defense.  Finally she lay still, gasping.  It hadn't done
anything but drag her to the floor.  Then she thought that maybe it was waiting
until she was so helplessly fatigued she couldn't fight back.

Michelle could see it was a man now, not a monster, but
she couldn't see his features.  It was too dark, and in her position, lying on her
back, he was merely a large black shape above her.  She could make out the shape
of the head and shoulders.

Panic overwhelmed her again, adrenaline pumping physical
strength back into her body, and she started the nightmare struggle again.  The
man just pressed down on her chest with one hand and seemed to pretty well keep
out of the way of her kicking legs.  He let the punches she made with her arms hit
him directly and didn't show any resistance, as though her blows were too puny to
bother to duck away from.  She knew she hit him in the face and tried for his eyes,
but he turned his head away.  That was the extent his resistance.  She was hitting
him hard on the arms,  chest and sometimes his face, but he didn't seem to feel
it.  Her ineffectual attempts to twist and struggle out of his grasp just caused
him to pin her against the floor with more strength, until she thought her ribs
would break or her lungs would collapse. 

The hoarse breathing didn't change during the silent struggle. 
He didn't sound like he was exerting himself in the slightest.  Finally she stopped
fighting.  Just breathing was becoming impossible.

She noticed that the phone had stopped ringing sometime
during the struggle only because it began to ring again.  It gave her a little hope.

Michelle had heard that you must humanize yourself if you
are assaulted; make the attacker acknowledge you as a real person, not an object. 
She heard her voice shaking.  The croaking sounds were not familiar.  It was hard
to talk because she was hoarse from the painful constriction when he had squeezed
her neck.

"My name is Michelle.  You don't really want to hurt
me.  I'm Michelle Montgomery.  You've scared me, and you are very strong.  So I
won't fight.  If you leave.  Just go away.  I won't tell anyone.  Promise." 

He let go.  Michelle was so stunned she didn't move.

Then she saw the knife.  She suddenly knew why he had been
holding her down with one hand.  His other hand had been holding the knife, waiting
for her to stop fighting so he could present it.  It was large and he moved it up
slowly so that she could get a good look at it.

Michelle screamed and tried to roll away, but his knife
hand was suddenly fisted against her throat, pressing painfully into her windpipe. 
His other hand was ripping at her night gown, pushing it up.  She was fighting again
but it was useless.  He used the knife to rip her nightgown from the throat down,
the knife cutting her between her breasts and then slashing her stomach.  She could
hear the ripping and could not move.  The knife was again at her throat.

So she was going to be raped.  The thought was frightening,
but she was no virgin.  If only he didn't kill her.  She wanted to yell and tried,
while she heard him adjusting some of his clothing, but her vocal cords were smashed
or injured too badly.  Now she couldn't even scream.

She remembered the phone, but it had stopped ringing.

Michelle's hand grasped the pillow beside her as she felt
her legs being pushed roughly apart.  She was sure he was going to use the knife
and the will to fight left her.  He had already cut her badly.  Her chest and stomach
burned where the knife had sliced. 

Michelle put the pillow over her face.  She didn't want
to feel his breath in her face when he raped her.  It hurt her throat to cry and
she tried to stop.  Killers wanted you to be afraid, rapists loved the helplessness
of their victims, but she sobbed into the pillow as she felt herself being harshly
violated.  It went on and on and she knew this was no natural intercourse.  She
knew she was being hurt inside and she whimpered, holding the pillow over her face,
wondering if he was using the knife instead of a physical part of his own.