IN THE DARK, page 18
Doesn’t matter, she told herself. This is the place.
She would find the envelope here.
Inside the dirty coffin in the middle of the floor.
She stepped through the doorway. Twisting her torso, she swept the light from side to side. She saw no human or animal. The room seemed to be empty except for the coffin.
No hidden recesses. No other doors.
Two windows on the far wall exposed the night. Some of the night came in through them, tossing crooked grimy rectangles onto the floor.
Jane bent slightly at the waist to drop the angle of her light. She turned around slowly, inspecting the floor. It looked much the same as the floors downstairs: scattered with glass and plaster, broken boards bristling with nails, leaves and shreds of paper and plastic wrappers, rags, remnants of clothing.
The coffin had been dragged across the room from the doorway, scraping a path through the debris.
Jane stepped closer to it.
The coffin was constructed of wood. Pine, maybe. It looked like a good piece of furniture that had been left out in the weather for a few years.
Underground is more like it.
The top and sides were filthy with dried mud.
Terrific, Jane thought. He dug it up out of the neighbor’s yard.
Or wants me to think so.
She started to ache from holding her breath, so she hurried toward one of the windows. As she neared it, she felt a warm breeze on her face. Shards of glass snapped and crunched under her shoes.
At the window, she leaned forward carefully, ready to stop if her head should meet trouble.
Bumping nothing, being stabbed by nothing, she eased her head outside and breathed deeply. The air smelled of summer and of deep night, but was not without a vague but revolting scent of rotten flesh. She could feel the breeze sliding inside the open front of her shirt. It felt very good in there on her hot, sweaty skin.
The window gave Jane a panoramic view of Paradise Gardens Memorial Park. From this height, she could see most of it.
She found herself searching the graveyard for the stranger who’d been there last night, who’d carried the dog overhead like a barbell and hurled it at her.
She spotted a few human shapes, but none that moved. They were probably statues.
Or one might be him, standing still. Maybe gazing up at her.
A whole new swarm of goosebumps raced up her skin. They were quick and cold. They stiffened the flesh at the back of her neck and squeezed her scalp and made her nipples rise hard and achy.
He’s watching…
Jane started to duck away, but forced herself to stop.
Big deal if someone’s down there staring at me. As long as he’s down there and I’m up here.
Fighting her urge to get away from the window, she took time to scan the parking area, the main gates, and the section of fence near the gates.
The Toyota pickup was gone. So was the dog that she’d last seen skewered on top of the fence rods.
Bet I know where the dog is now, she thought.
Easing herself clear of the window, she turned around.
The flashlight beneath her arm swung its beam to the coffin.
Right in there, she thought.
I’m supposed to think Mog dug the coffin up, complete with corpse.
A real test of my willpower. Do I have the guts to open it and see how a person looks after being in the ground too long? Will I go that far for my three thousand, two hundred bucks?
“You betcha,” she whispered.
But she wouldn’t be finding a dead person in there. She’d be finding the Rottweiler, a day old, torn open and stinky. That’s where Mog put the thing. And that’s where he put the envelope.
She stepped to the side of the casket, lifted her left foot and pounded her heel against the edge of the lid.
The lid wobbled.
Not fastened down.
Jane considered putting away the knife and pistol, placing the flashlight between her legs, bending over, and removing the lid with her hands. But she wanted to keep her weapons ready. And she certainly didn’t want to have her face down there when the lid came off.
No way.
Unless, she amended, it turns out that none of the other ways will work.
Like kicking.
Bending her left leg slightly for balance, she lashed out with her right. The sole of her shoe caught the coffin lid, raised it, knocked it crooked, shoved it and dropped it. The lid skidded off the far edge of the coffin, then crashed to the floor.
Jane flinched at the noise it made.
She stared into the coffin, hardly able to believe her eyes.
No stinky, mutilated dog. No human cadaver.
She felt as if she’d been tricked, but she was relieved, almost delighted.
The coffin contained nothing dead or disgusting.
With its shiny blue satin lining and pillow, it looked almost inviting.
Her envelope had been placed on the pillow. She glanced at it, then turned her eyes to the flat box near the middle of the coffin. The box, about the size of a hardbound novel, was brightly wrapped in gold foil paper tied with a scarlet ribbon and bow that gleamed in the shine of her flashlight.
“Now he’s leaving presents,” Jane whispered.
At the sound of her voice, she realized that she had been forgetting to hold her breath—probably ever since coming away from the window. Without thinking about it, she’d been taking shallow breaths through her mouth.
Now, she tried a small sniff. The stench hadn’t gone away, but it seemed less horrible than earlier. She was growing accustomed to it. But the source of the foul odor was obviously somewhere other than inside the coffin.
Maybe a dead rat over in a corner, something like that.
The inside of the coffin looked as if it should smell like perfume.
As nice as a freshly made bed.
Mog’s bed? she wondered. In the note, he’d called this the “Master bedroom.” And he’s the Master of Games.
Is he nuts enough to sleep in a coffin?
The satin lining and pillow case were smooth, without a wrinkle. Jane doubted that anyone had ever slept on them.
She began to feel very nervous.
Mog got his hands on an old, weathered coffin, she thought. Maybe by digging it out of the graveyard. He fixed it up with brand new upholstery.
What’d he do with the body?
Why’d he fix it up?
She swiveled around fast to make certain she was still alone in the room. Then she thumbed her safety on and slipped the pistol into her pocket. After changing the knife to her right hand, she bent over, reached into the coffin with her left, and picked up the envelope. She slit it open with her knife.
Pulled out the money wrapped in a note.
She counted the hundred-dollar bills. Thirty-two of them.
“Man,” she muttered. “Man, oh man.”
Her heart was thudding. Her throat felt tight. Her stomach squirmed.
She felt very odd: elated, scared.
This plus the sixteen hundred—almost five thousand just tonight.
How much does this make altogether? she wondered. She tried to calm herself so that she could remember and count.
No luck.
It’s a lot. It’s a real, real lot.
But she was afraid to read the note. Afraid of the gift-wrapped box. Afraid of who or what might be in the house, maybe watching her right now, maybe sneaking closer.
The note fluttered in her twitching hand as she held it in front of the flashlight.
My Dear,
I do believe I’m falling in love. Not only are you a vision of delight, but oh! such spunk to have come this far.
The gift is for you. Open it now. You’ll be glad you did.
Kisses,
MOG
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Jane crouched over the coffin, set her knife on the satin-covered pad, and picked up the brightly wrapped box. Flashlight pinned between her right arm and ribs, she tore off the bow and ribbon and wrapping paper and let them fall to the floor.
Holding the bottom of the box steady on the edge of the coffin, she peeled off its top.
Inside, she found a kitchen timer, a negligee and a note.
The note was taped to the timer.
Darling,
You’ve labored long and hard, this night. You deserve a rest.
Slip into this dainty number, set the timer for half an hour, and ease yourself down onto satin comfort.
At the sound of the ding, you may rise, collect your prize, and be off.
Your Master,
MOG
Jane read the note three times.
More times than that, she thought, he’s gotta be kidding.
She was shaking very badly. She had an odd, numb sensation behind her forehead. And a strange, buzzy feeling down inside as if a low-level electrical current might be humming through her bowels.
She placed the timer beside her knife at the bottom of the coffin.
Then she let the box fall to the floor as she stood up with a shoulder strap of the negligee pinched between her thumb and forefinger. The strap looked like a slim ribbon of silk. The garment swaying below it might just barely be long enough to reach from Jane’s chest to her thighs.
The beam of her light passed through the gauzy red fabric.
A dainty number?
He actually wants me to strip and put this on, she thought. And then lie down in the coffin for half an hour.
“Oh, man,” she muttered. “He’s got the wrong gal.” In a loud voice, she said, “You’re out of your mind.”
No answer came.
Not that she expected one.
Mog never answered.
But he must be here, she told herself. He promised another “prize” if I follow orders. He has to deliver it, doesn’t he? And if he isn’t watching, how will he even know whether I do what I’m supposed to do?
If he isn’t watching, why does he want me to do it?
He’s watching, all right. Maybe through a hole in the wall, something tricky like that.
Wants to pay me six thousand, four hundred bucks so he can play peeping Tom.
Peeping Tom in a dark room.
If I turn off the flashlight, she thought, he won’t be able to see anything.
Besides, what is there that he hasn’t already seen? He must’ve spied on me in the shower that night. And who knows how many other times he’s seen me with nothing on? He comes and goes as he pleases like some sort of invisible man.
Maybe he is invisible, she thought. That would sure explain a lot.
Maybe he’s a ghost.
“A rich spook,” she muttered, “with a penchant for voyeurism.”
He’s making me rich, she reminded herself. This could be the end of it, if I don’t follow orders. Am I going to let a little modesty get in the way of six thousand, four hundred dollars? Plus all the money that might come my way later on if I don’t back down?
Especially since he’s already seen me naked?
And since he can sneak into my house—probably sneak just about anywhere just as if he is invisible even if he’s not, and see or do just about anything that pops into his head?
I can do it, she told herself. No big deal.
Okay, but what about the coffin part?
I can do it. I can do anything. It’s all in the state of mind.
Moving her flashlight slowly, she inspected the interior of the coffin. No sign at all of dirt or bugs. It appeared to be perfectly clean.
She wondered how the satin would feel against her skin. Probably slippery and cool.
She’d been tempted, at times, to buy satin sheets for her bed at home…
This isn’t a bed.
No? I don’t see any other furniture in here, and this is supposed to be the “Master bedroom.”
Does Mog sleep right here inside the coffin? she wondered. Like a vampire?
Maybe that’s what he is.
“Bull,” she whispered.
If he does sleep in the thing, she thought, that’s his problem. It’s clean now. It looks plenty clean enough for me.
She stepped on the back of a shoe, pulled her foot out, raised her leg over the side of the coffin and lowered her foot onto the padded bottom. Holding the negligee’s strap between her teeth, she reached down with her empty hand and removed her other shoe.
She left both shoes on the floor.
Standing inside the coffin, she switched off her flashlight. She crouched and placed it near her feet. Then she stood up, took the strap from her mouth, and looked down at herself. All she saw was black and shades of dark gray.
In this sort of darkness, she could prance butt-naked through a crowded room and nobody would be the wiser.
Balancing on one foot, she raised the other and peeled off its sock.
She felt the satin under her bare foot.
Oh, my God, I’m doing it.
She felt shivery all over.
This can’t be happening. I can’t really be doing this.
But she didn’t stop.
When her socks were off, she crouched, reached over the side of the coffin and tucked them into her shoes.
She slipped her pistol underneath the pillow.
Needing both hands, she returned the negligee’s strap to her mouth. It was moist from being there before. It felt and tasted like a wet shoelace, and she found herself wondering when she had ever had a shoe lace, wet or otherwise, in her mouth.
Must’ve been when I was a kid, she thought.
Right now, it was hard to imagine she’d once been a kid. It even seemed strange to think there had been a time before coming into this house tonight.
I had a life before all this. I’ll have a life after. This is just… a weird interlude.
Wary of the filth on her clothes, Jane rolled her shirt and corduroy pants into bundles, crouched and set them carefully on top of her shoes. Then she stood up. She raised her arms to slip the negligee down over her head, but changed her mind and lowered them.
Just give me a couple of seconds, she thought.
Her clothes had been heavy and hot and sticky with sweat. She was glad to have them off, and not yet ready to put on something else, not even such a scant and wispy bit as the gift from Mog. The night air felt like a soft breath stirring against her bare skin. She wished there was more of a breeze. She thought about taking off her panties.
They were snug and damp, and made her feel a little itchy.
She’d intended to leave them on. Mog’s note, after all, had only told her to wear the nightie—not to strip naked. Keeping her panties on wouldn’t be going against any specific orders.
I’m supposed to take them off, even if he didn’t come right out and say so.
She pulled them down, stepped out of them, squatted and added them to the pile on the floor beside the coffin. For a while, she remained squatting, savoring the feel of the air where she was so very hot and moist.
She was shivering so much that even her lungs seemed to tremble as she breathed in and out.
A feverish shiver.
It had nothing to do with cold. It had little to do, anymore, with fear. It had mostly to do with being naked and feeling the soft breeze, with knowing why she’d stripped, with knowing where she was.
Shaking badly, she forced herself to stand.
She looked down at her body.
She’d been wrong to think that the darkness would hide her.
Mog has to be watching, she thought.
I don’t care.
She raised her arms high, arched her back, stretched and twisted, relishing the feel of her flexing muscles and how the air touched her.
Jane suddenly realized that she wanted Mog to be watching her.
Watching the show.
His watching made it more delicious, somehow.
What’s he doing to me?
Hugging her breasts, Jane dropped to her knees.
She had a quick urge to get dressed and run from the house. And be done with it. Done with it forever.
But part of her mind wondered why.
Because he’s making me do these things!
He isn’t making me do anything. I’m doing all this because I want the money.
No no no no no.
I want the money. Of course I want the money. But it isn’t just that. It’s a lot more than that.
It’s because I want to do these things.
Some of them, anyhow.
This, for instance.
Turned on like crazy. But not so frenzied now. Calmed at least slightly by the shame of catching herself at it.
Let’s just try to get down to business, she told herself—do what needs to be done, and go home.
Still on her knees, she slipped the negligee over her head. It drifted down her body, hardly touching her at all, gliding against her here and there with a tickle so soft and subtle that she had to squirm. As expected, it didn’t reach down very far. Its edge brushed her high up on the thighs.
The breeze stirred the weightless nightie, caressed her with it. Trying to ignore the sensations, she searched the dark bottom of the coffin with her hands and she found the flashlight. She thumbed its switch, then squinted as the sudden brightness hurt her eyes. When she could see again, she took a quick look around.
He can see me, but I can’t see him.
She looked down at herself.
The scanty garment didn’t cover much of her. Except for the slim straps, she was bare to mid-chest. There, the negligee draped little more than her nipples, stiff and jutting and plainly visible underneath. The wispy fabric concealed nothing, but gave a red hue to her skin, her scratches and bruises from the dog last night, and the small, pale triangle of hair between her legs.
Jane could hardly believe she was wearing such a thing.
What won’t I do? she wondered.
It’s no big deal, she told herself. People wear nighties like this all the time.
Yeah. Only maybe not for pay, while they’re kneeling in a coffin in a cruddy old ruin of a house at the edge of a graveyard—with a stranger watching.
Anyway, she thought, this is a lot better than last night.
So far.
And so what if the whole deal’s got me a little hot? That’s no crime.
