Part 12 (1/2)

His father's dipped the rag again and gone on to her neck, front and back, scrubbing hard. The woman's glaring at him now. He doesn't seem to notice.

”Come on, Belle, give me a hand here.”

His mother dips her rag in the water but that's all she does. It's as though she's afraid to move. But it's not that. He sees something in her posture that he's seen before - it's very familiar. Something his father also doesn't notice. His mother's angry. It's all bottled up inside her there but she's angry all right.

Dad's done with her neck. He's working on her shoulders. Getting closer and closer to...

...those amazing t.i.ts...

She has known for some time now. She has sensed it and there is no need to put it to the test. In the slightest movement of her hand inside the bolt she senses it.

”Don't you go getting all foolish on me, Belle,” his father says. ”It's just something's gotta be done.”

Her shoulders are clean. He dips the rag into the water again.

He tries to hide it from his woman and perhaps he can but he cannot hide it from her. His heart is racing. His pulse pounding. He is focused on her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. He reaches out for them with the dripping cloth.

And the second he touches her, the second she feels the heat, she tears the bolt free of the wall and her hand darts to his neck like a striking snake and she is soaring, roaring with elation. Her fingers dig deep into the muscles of his neck and the man struggles, tries to pry her hand free but his two hands are not nearly a match for her single hand and the long-bred strength which resides there and she is grinning directly into his horror-struck face as he writhes and chokes and sees his death hovering in her eyes.

This is the pleasure of the hunt.

This is the will and the power and the freedom.

This is the joy of her creation.

He is going down beneath her grip.

Then the door is flung open and thunder booms.

He has raced back to the house for the gun and it's all a blur, one huge red blur - it seems only an instant later he's run past Peg and Darlin' standing in the hall with Peg saying what?? what?? and down the stairs and then he's there inside the cellar, first dimly aware of his father on his knees in front of her by now, his arms limp at his sides, the woman's hand clutching his neck and his mother simply standing there with her hands over her mouth and then the next thing he knows the .45 leaps in his own hands and a bullet ricochets off the back wall and the side wall and the stairway directly behind him. and down the stairs and then he's there inside the cellar, first dimly aware of his father on his knees in front of her by now, his arms limp at his sides, the woman's hand clutching his neck and his mother simply standing there with her hands over her mouth and then the next thing he knows the .45 leaps in his own hands and a bullet ricochets off the back wall and the side wall and the stairway directly behind him.

And then he's in front of her pointing the gun right in her face and he hears himself say back off! back off!

The woman hesitates, looks him in the eyes as though to verify his intent. And then drops his father gasping for breath to the cellar floor. His father is coughing violently. He can hear it over the gunshot ringing in his ears. He's aware of movement behind him and then a firm hand pushes him roughly aside.

He corrects his balance just in time to see his mother, lips pressed tight together, tears pooling in her eyes, whack the woman in the side of the head with a length of two-by-four. The woman goes slack.

The woman is out.

He realizes he's barely breathing. He hauls in a deep one.

His mother. Who'd have thought it?

It's ridiculous and yet not so ridiculous given the occasion but an old song lyric pops into his mind that his dad likes.

Stand by your man.

His mom tosses away the two-by-four clattering to the floor and goes to him. Helps him up.

”Thanks,” he says. His voice is weak. His eyes all skittery. His hand is at his neck. He turns to Brian.

”Go get me a hammer and the drill, son,” he says. ”Need to drive a new one. Deeper. A lot deeper.”

He reaches for the gun and Brian hands it over.

”Dad. I'm sorry. I know I'm not supposed to...but...”

”It's okay, boy. You did good. Real good. Now get me those tools, okay?”

And it stays with him, what his dad said, as he hits the stairs. You did good. Real good. You did good. Real good.

He has never quite gotten those words out of his father before.

Not once. Never.

SIXTEEN.

He can do this practically with his eyes closed as he can do most other things which require physical skill and dexterity but he's having trouble concentrating and he thinks that even Belle can see that, Belle standing to one side with the .45 to the woman's head by way of discouragement while he drives the eye bolt into new hole which he means to get all the way down to the loop but he's missed the d.a.m.n thing twice which is not like him at all.

His trouble is that he isn't quite sure why he's doing this. Why he doesn't just let her go to live out her miserable savage life however she sees fit. And this is not like him either, to be unsure. He's sure in his business and he's sure with his family and friends and acquaintances which is a better word actually because he has no close friends really, has never wanted them, has never trusted them. He trusts Belle and his kids and that's it. That's all he needs.

He's looked over the subject of why he's doing this and around and through the subject and he doesn't have an answer except that he wants to. He knows it's probably dangerous, forget the fact that physically she's one f.u.c.king dangerous beast, but if he wanted to count them he knows he's probably breaking a dozen laws or more, he's putting them all in a kind of jeopardy here but all he can come up with in terms of a why why is that he wants to see this little experiment of his through to its fruition. Just as his cheerful sweet drunk of a mother used to call Chris her own little experiment meaning that she'd have one kid, sure, but no more, she'd never willingly birth another. is that he wants to see this little experiment of his through to its fruition. Just as his cheerful sweet drunk of a mother used to call Chris her own little experiment meaning that she'd have one kid, sure, but no more, she'd never willingly birth another.

But he sees this wildness in her and it attracts him powerfully in both his d.i.c.k and his brain, he knows that much and he does want to tame her, he does want to know if it's possible. He's tamed himself G.o.d knows. And if he could do that with the kid he was why not her? If he had the will and the strength to break himself like you'd break a crazy wild horse he ought to be able to do the same with her.

Maybe he has some kind of sister-in-spirit here, maybe that's it.

Maybe he sees something in her that he also sees in himself - only purer of purpose, sleeker in its aggressive design. He loves his own aggression. It's made him what he is today.

Maybe he's doing this because he loves himself. His pure self. The self without the makeover.

It's possible.

He hammers the bolt home.

SEVENTEEN.