Mirror Image (40 page)

Kelley held her against the mirror as her blood poured onto the surface of the glass, quickly disappearing into the greasy interior of the mirror.

He could barely contain his elation. He knew the secret of the glass. Maybe he could try to remove the back of the mirror to allow him access to the hide of the Gorgon. Though, on second thought, perhaps that might not be such a good idea. Kelley looked at the glass again, a frown creasing his brow. According to his studies, once the blood had drained from the woman's body, the corpse should become animated by the image.

He took his hand away from the corpse and stepped back. The body crashed to the ground, though its reflection remained in the glass. Where was the golden woman?

But this was no reflection, this was the image, naked and complete, its hair waving around its head in a parody of the legend of the Gorgon. He looked at the corpse on the ground and frowned in puzzlement. What had happened? What had gone wrong? Why had the image not stepped through from the Otherworld into the corpse of the just slain woman?

The creature in the glass, the image of the woman he had just slain was mouthing words, repeating them over and over again, until he finally understood their meaning. “The body was impure, diseased. The body must be virginal in every way. We have taken its soul, its reflection, but we cannot use its physical form.”

It reached for him, arms outstretched, palms flat against the glass. Kelley pressed himself against the mirror, almost feeling the woman's warm flesh against his. He pressed his lips to hers, feeling her breath, warm and moist against his cheek, her tongue against his lips, probing, opening them.

And then she whispered, “You have failed us!”

The tongue that broke through the surface of the glass and shot into his mouth was rasping, hooked, and forked. It filled his mouth, insinuated itself down his throat. He attempted to scream, but his mouth was full. He attempted to pull away, but couldn't. The foul tongue moved down his throat, deeper, deeper, into his stomach. He could feel it squirming, coiling, moving.

And he couldn't breathe, couldn't even vomit.

Couldn't breathe.

And now the image's hair was changing, twisting, turning, coiling, melding together, tiny heads forming, black polished eyes, tiny darting tongues amongst the strands. The rest of the image was changing also, twisting, altering, her features running, melding together, elongating, a beast-like snout forming, long tusks digging into its own flesh.

It opened its mouth, wider, wider, wider, its tongue still lodged deep in Kelley's throat, its fangs growing, great slab-like teeth coming up from the lower jaw, snapping at his face, scraping against the glass, threatening to break through.

With a final convulsive agonizing effort, Edward Kelley wrenched himself away from the mirror, stumbling backwards across the woman's body. Blood streamed from his mouth and the sounds he uttered were bestial.

In the mirror, the beast devoured his tongue with great relish. “Now, give us the babe,” it demanded.

Kelley gathered up the baby in the copper bowl … and then turned and ran from the room.

 

91

S
O, THE
body had to be pure and virginal in every respect. He'd known that, his instincts had been right all along.

Jonathan Frazer crouched before the mirror in the guesthouse, watching the images slowly fading from the glass. He'd been feeding the image with his own blood for most of the evening, and he was dizzy and faint, but now he knew the secret of the mirror.

But even though he had fed her, he could still hear the plaintive cry of hunger, like a distant keening in the back of his mind. His mistress hungered. And he was going to feed her, and at least now he knew just what she wanted, what she needed. She needed a virgin's blood and she needed a virginal body as a host.

He tried to think, but his thoughts had been so confused over the past few days. Which of his friends had teenage daughters and which of them were still virginal? Weren't teenagers supposed to be much more promiscuous these days in any case? How was he going to find a young virgin?

Well now let's see, who says it had to be young? Maybe the image would prefer an older, stronger body when it came back to this world: he just had to ensure that it was still a virgin.

He curled his legs up under him until he was sitting cross-legged. He dropped his head onto his clenched fist, his elbow resting on his knee, and closed his eyes, considering. Maybe someone unmarried, a spinster …

Moments later, his head snapped up, his deep brown eyes bright, glittering. He began to chuckle and then laugh, the sound coming from deep within his body. But when it reached his throat it was high-pitched and maniacal. Maybe he might get to kill two birds with one stone. This time the laughter left him convulsed, rolling around on the floor, clutching his sides.

 

92

I
N THE
silence of the hospital room, the regular blipping of the monitors and the gentle susurration of the ventilator sounded very loud indeed.

Officer Carole Morrow looked up as the door opened and then straightened as Margaret Haaren stepped into the room. The detective raised her eyebrows questioningly and the young officer shook her head. Standing at the end of the bed, the woman sighed, looking down at the bandaged form of Emmanuelle Frazer.

The girl was alive: but barely.

She was lucky to be alive, too. Two broken legs, broken hip, shattered kneecaps—even if she survived, and that was somewhat in doubt at the moment—she'd never walk properly again. She also had a cracked skull, concussion, broken ribs, and because she'd been naked when the police car had hit her, she was badly skinned, a mass of cuts and bruises.

What Margaret Haaren wanted to know was why she'd run screaming from the house. Why was she naked?

A search of the house had revealed the shattered kitchen door, but nothing else. The guesthouse had been securely bolted and padlocked and a room to room search from attic to basement had disclosed no one, nor were there any indications that anyone had been in the house. The officers watching the house had seen no one enter or leave.

And there was still no sign of Jonathan Frazer.

Although she had nothing more than instinct to go on, Margaret Haaren knew Frazer had been in the house, knew that he had chased his daughter from the house, where she'd run blindly into the road and been hit by the police car.

Where does a man who is basically a loner go? He'd no real friends to run to; he didn't drink so he couldn't take solace in a bottle, and to the best of their knowledge he was still in the country. He hadn't used his passport, credit cards, or cell phone. She was guessing he was very close by. He had nowhere else to go.

Margaret Haaren picked up Manny's chart and quickly scanned it. Too many years of doing what she was doing now—standing at the end of a bed looking at a victim or a witness or a villain—had made her an expert at reading charts. “Did she say anything?” she asked, without looking up.

Carole Morrow shook her head. “She was mumbling and moaning earlier, but nonsense words, something about a baby, that's all I got.”

The detective nodded. “Stay with her; if you've got to leave the room for any reason, make sure the officer outside steps in.”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“Do not leave her on her own for a single moment.”

“Yes, ma'am.”

The detective replaced the chart and folded her arms across her broad chest, looking at the young woman.

“Do you think
he
was responsible,” Morrow asked, looking at Manny Frazer again. They both knew she was talking about Jonathan Frazer.

“Didn't they teach you never to speculate without facts?” the detective asked, smiling to take the sting from her words.

“They told me to use my imagination,” the young officer said simply. “I think she was running from her father.”

Margaret Haaren nodded. “So do I,” she murmured. “But where is he now?”

The two officers in the police car said they were responding to the sound of terrified screams. They were parked on the road just a few yards away from the driveway, so that they had a clear view of the house. They had driven up fast, lights on, but with sirens off. The screams became louder, more desperate as they neared the Frazer house. And then the naked young woman had run straight out in front of the car, and there was absolutely nothing they could do about it. She hadn't even been looking where she was going, she seemed to be looking over her shoulder.

She was being chased.

“I'm going to the Frazer house,” she said to Morrow. “I'll be there if anyone needs me.”

“Yes, ma'am.” She coughed discreetly. “Can I ask why?”

“Because we've missed something. And I've no idea what it is. But I'll know it when I see it.”

 

93

T
OMMY HINGE
didn't like the term “peeping Tom.” It certainly didn't apply to him. He simply walked through the condominium complex where he lived and if he happened to see someone undressing in a window, well, he could hardly be blamed for looking, now could he? After all, he was only human.

He'd lived in these apartments for three years now, a retired mailman—or at least that's what he told people. His discharge from the post office had been anything but honorable. Misappropriation of mail and parcels was the charge and his attorney had suggested that he take the five year jail time knowing he wouldn't serve the full term and he'd probably be out in eighteen months or so. It was a better alternative than the one hundred and fifty thousand dollar fine.

Over the years—because he'd often used their services himself—he'd become expert at recognizing the plain cardboard boxes that came from the companies supplying adult toys and playthings. He knew all the innocuous sounding names by heart. He'd taken the first package out of sheer curiosity, and discovered it held a treasure trove of Swedish porn. And after that … well, he was hooked. He never thought anyone would complain: after all, who were they going to complain to—consumer affairs? Excuse me, but I didn't get my blow-up doll … my vibrator's gone missing in the mail … my Spanish fly seems to have flown. But that's exactly what had happened. Someone had complained—someone who obviously felt no shame or embarrassment. Then someone else complained and since all the thefts had occurred within his postal district, it wasn't difficult to find the culprit. The department's fraud section had sent a few trial packages through the mail and of course he'd fallen for it and lifted them.

And that was that. He'd nearly forty years of service and he lost everything, including his pension for about a hundred dollars worth of not-very-good porn and an impractically large dildo. Even his union wouldn't support him—it was hard to defend a mailman stealing porn and adult sex toys. The meager social security check he got from the state ensured that he couldn't treat himself to any of the glossy new publications or adult toys. Since the internet, porno mags rarely appeared on the second-hand shelves, so he'd had to find new ways to amuse himself.

He'd discovered the pleasures of peeping by accident. He'd been taking out his trash, walking through the complex to the communal bins when he'd chanced to see a young woman in one of the corner apartments undressing. She'd forgotten to close her blinds fully, and he'd spent ten of the most pleasant and exciting minutes in his life simply watching her.

After that it became a ritual, and then an obsession, taking him away from the complex he lived in, finding his arousal in other apartment complexes within the area. He'd even compiled a list and a carefully drawn out plan of the surrounding buildings; half a block down on the right, front apartment, busty blonde, last name: James. Second apartment block to the left, second floor rear apartment, slender Asian woman named Kim.

And now his ambition was to see every single woman in the near vicinity naked or as near naked as possible. High on his list was the woman in the next-door complex, a front unit apartment on the first floor, Haaren was the name listed on the main entry door to the complex. A big woman, mature, masculine—just the type he preferred. And he'd just discovered that she'd got a young one staying with her at the moment. Dark-haired, skinny, but pretty: maybe he could add her to his collection. He wondered if they were lesbians—the thought sent a shiver down his spine.

Tommy was hiding in the small walkway beside the apartment building for nearly an hour before he saw the light go on. From this position, he was able to see directly into the apartment, yet remain concealed by dark shadow from the towering building next door and the bushes. There was nothing visible yet, but there was some compensation in the fact that she hadn't closed the blinds yet. He knew from experience that if the blinds weren't closed the moment a person walked into the room, then the odds were greatly improved that they wouldn't close them at all. It was surprising how many people didn't. Why, just tonight, he'd watched the woman two buildings down from the Haaren woman, dressing to go out. He'd seen nothing he hadn't seen before, but it was the thrill of watching that aroused him now.

Footsteps sounded on the path and Tommy shrank back into the deeper shadows. He knew he was virtually invisible—he'd bought himself some black sweats and then peeled off all the decorations and reflective strips. If he was caught, he was just out for an evening jog.

He watched as a figure moved swiftly by and was suddenly glad he couldn't be seen. There was something about the man—the way he moved, the expression on his face, the smell—yes, certainly the smell, like old decayed meat, like blood. It frightened him.

The figure stopped outside the main entry and consulted something in his hand, finally standing back and looking to either side at the two front units. And then he stepped backwards, standing, staring. The man abruptly grunted in satisfaction and walked briskly away.