Okay. B.S. time, he thought. He put on his best poor boy look, which probably was not very convincing while seated in a car that cost $75,000. "Officer Prentiss, I'm ashamed of myself. There's no excuse for the thoughtless immaturity that I've demonstrated in your presence, and I humbly apologize. But the truth is, Officer, these tickets might cause my car insurance to be dropped, and that would make for some major trouble between me and my father. So I'm at your mercy. I'm going to ask that, in your generosity, you overlook these infractions, and in return you have my word and my personal guarantee that I will never violate the law on this campus ever again. My word."

"I've heard better bulls.h.i.t from Sterno drinkers," she replied. She bruskly pa.s.sed him the ticket book. "Sign, Mr. St. John."

Wade was getting ticked. It wouldn't kill this broad to give him a break. "What if I refuse to sign?" he dared ask.

"Then I will arrest you for ignoring a state summons."

Wade laughed. "You wouldn't dare. Maybe you don't fully realize who I am. I'm Wade St. John. My father-"

"Sign the tickets or get out of the car," Officer Prentiss said, then withdrew a shiny set of Peerless handcuffs.

Wade, boiling, signed the tickets. The cop tore off his copies and rather roughly stuffed them in his shirt pocket. "And if I ever see you throwing anything out of that car again," she said, and smiled, "I'll toss your rich boy behind in my jail in less time than it takes to say collegiate expulsion. Oh, and have a nice day."

Officer Prentiss then drove off in her cruiser, leaving Wade slack mouthed. Have a nice day? he thought. Baby, they don't get any nicer than this.

CHAPTER 5.

The women stirred, moaning out from endless dreams. Their lair was a labyrinth; they lay deep in it. The labyrinth was silent and black, like death.

They lay together naked, their big eyes suddenly, inexplicably open. Something had waked them. Something-a word.

-Who are we? they wondered in unison.

But then they remembered. The labyrinth's buried blackness began to move. They remembered who they were. They remembered the word, the holy, loving word.

Supremate.

-WAKE!

-h.e.l.lo! one said.

-h.e.l.lo! cried several more.

-We love you! We remember now!

They giggled together in their box. In joy, they kissed.

Then, like love, the voice caressed them.

-MY DAUGHTERS, MY LOVE.

The labyrinth was coming alive. Their lair grew warm. The dark and holy light felt beautiful on their white skin.

Memory crept closer. All things to serve their G.o.d! But first came an impulse. Sustenance. Hunger. Filling themselves up. The women remembered. They were hungry.

-Eat!

Yes, to eat. To make their bellies swell. Warm meat. Blood.

-We want to eat, please!

The Supremate's voice was like a promise in the wind. -SOON, DAUGHTERS. SOON YOU'LL EAT. YOU'LL FEAST ON THE NEW PIGS.

Their loins tingled. Their red mouths drooled.

-Blood!

-Meat!

-New pigs!

They fidgeted in their box, reveling in the promises, like kisses. New blood to bathe in, and meat. They giggled and grinned.

-PRECIOUS DAUGHTERS...ARISE.

The Old Exham Inn was an antediluvian brick and mortar catacomb full of dully clashing decor. Upstairs was the pub, downstairs the stage. The inn served pretentious "light fare" only and imported beer. The town, after all, knew who it was catering to-spoiled, rich college kids-which was how they got away with astronomical prices. Only "diverse" bands were billed, to keep out the local riffraff.

They filed down the stone steps to one of the small dining coves far off from the stage.

"Feeling any better?" Tom asked.

Jervis nodded like a wooden puppet. They hadn't let him shave-his current hand and mentality could not yet be trusted to hold a razor to his throat. But they'd gotten him cleaned up and walking.

"I'll have a beer," he eventually said.

"You'll have coffee, you dumb schmuck," Wade corrected.

"And food," Tom said.

Jervis groaned.

Wade ordered from a waitress whose frilled brauhaus dress exposed enough cleavage to dry dock a runabout. Tom and Wade glanced warily at each other, contemplating a strategy to open Jervis up. Tom recognized the fragility of the situation. Wade, however, preferred a slightly more direct approach.

"So she dumped you, huh?"

Jervis wailed. Tom shook his head.

"Look, Jerv," Wade said, "you can't hide from this thing forever. You're gonna have to face it, grab it by the b.a.l.l.s."

"Life's got its ups and downs," Tom said. "This is one of the downs."

Jerv's forehead was on the table. "But I still love her!"

Some can of worms, Wade thought. "Take my word for it, buddy. You'll get over it. You got your whole life to look forward to."

"Not without her," Jervis told the top of the table. "We were gonna get married. I even bought a ring. It was going to be perfect."

"Jervis, no girl is worth getting this bent out of shape over," Tom offered. "When things don't work out, you find someone else."

"But I don't want someone else. I want Sarah. I want my Sarah back!"

Wade tried to reason. "She's not your Sarah anymore. That may sound cold but it's the truth. Women can be treacherous, cunning monsters. One minute they're telling you they love you forever; the next minute they're in the sack with someone else, balling like there's no tomorrow."

Jervis jerked upright, pop eyed. He began to make croaking noises. Then he jumped up from the table and staggered away.

"Good going, Wade," Tom smirked. "You really have a way with words. Why not just buy him a bus ticket to Lover's Leap?"

Perhaps the direct approach had been a bit harsh in this instance. Wade had blown it.

The waitress with the St. Pauli Girl cleavage brought their orders, a Spaten Oktoberfest for Tom, a Samuel Adams for Wade, and coffee and gumbo for Jervis. "I knew he was serious about her," Wade said. "But I had no idea it was this bad."

"Bad isn't the word. Jerv's a sensitive guy. He keeps a lot of things to himself."

"Too many things," Wade concluded. "I warned him not to go falling silly in love with that girl. I never liked her anyway."

"You just never liked her 'cause she's the only girl on campus who never made a play for you."

Wade rolled his eyes. "Just because I'm the sharpest looking dude in the state doesn't mean I'm conceited."

Tom laughed out loud.

After some time, Jervis returned, holding two bottles of Kirin Dry, one of which was already close to empty.

"Jervis, I didn't mean to shake you up," Wade apologized.

"Don't worry about it." Jervis sat down. "You guys are right. I've got to put this whole thing behind me."

"Now you're talking," Tom said.

Wade pointed to the bowl. "Eat your gumbo. It's good for you."

Jervis dumped the gumbo into a potted plant. Then he began: "She dumped me by letter, during the break. She told me about the German guy, about how they'd been friends for a while, about how caring and 'sweet' he was, and all of a sudden she didn't love me anymore. She'd stopped loving me months ago, she said, but hadn't realized it till then. That was it, that simple. She said she didn't want to see me anymore. And the last line"-Jervis gulped-"the last line of the letter was 'Have a nice life.'"

"Serious b.u.mmer," Tom commented.

"Oh, man," Wade said. "That really sucks."

Jervis continued, as if speaking from the grave. "I made mistakes, sure. I'm not perfect. But true love is supposed to make up for man's imperfections. Love, real love, is supposed to be enough."

Ordinarily Wade wouldn't have been too concerned; this was just more of Jervis' rhetoric. But although the words were the same, the spirit in which they'd been spoken was entirely different. The spirit was finality-total loss. This was not just another girl dumps boy story. This was dissolution of self.

But Jervis slapped his hands down as if to prove he'd roused himself. "Anyway, enough of my moaning and groaning," he a.s.serted. "There's nothing worse than a sad sack feeling sorry for himself. Things just got out of hand for a few weeks. But I'm okay now, really."

"You sure about that?" Wade questioned.

"Positive. Time to get back to my life."

"That's the spirit!" Tom said.

But Wade felt sad; he could see through this. Jervis' smile was as false as one carved in clay. Despite the smile, there was nothing left for him but his loss. Wade could see it in an instant: Jervis was never going to get over this, no matter how happy he tried to act.

A student named Nina McCulloch lay awake. Above the bed hung a crucifix. Nina believed fervently in G.o.d, and she believed that Jesus had died for her sins. In the next room, through the wall, she could hear her roommate, Elizabeth, who clearly didn't believe in G.o.d. Elizabeth had invited friends over to do drugs. They did drugs most every night, and this bothered Nina. Drugs were a manifestation of Satan, and people who did them became incarnates of the devil. Nina found that she could not easily sleep when all that separated her from the Lord of Darkness was one mere dorm wall. All night long Elizabeth and her friends inhaled the satanic white powder while Nina tossed and turned and prayed in s.n.a.t.c.hes for G.o.d to protect her from evil.

A man named Czanek waited in the vacant parking lot. Eventually his client pulled up in a silver Rolls Royce. The headlights flashed. Hokey, Czanek thought. He got into the Rolls. "Good evening," the client said. "Has the matter returned to normal?" "No," Czanek said. "Same guy, same moves, and I keep picking up weird stuff on the bugs. They keep mentioning trances." "Trances?" "Trances. I can't figure it." "Keep on it," the client said. Czanek handed him the manila folder, which contained pictures. The client thumbed through them and remarked: "Amusing." Why would a guy want to keep seeing pictures of his wife f.u.c.king another man? But, hey, it was his money. The client pa.s.sed him an envelope full of ten hundred dollar bills. "Next week," the client said. "Yes, sir," Czanek replied, "and don't worry, nothing will happen to you. If they try to make a move on you, I'll know. I'll protect you." "Do you really think that's what's happening? The insurance, the inheritance?" "Could be," Czanek said. Suddenly the client was hugging him, sobbing. "Protect me! I'm afraid!" This was embarra.s.sing. Czanek tried to console the old man: "Don't worry, if that fat sc.u.mbag tries to move on you, I'll blow his s.h.i.t away from a thousand yards." "Would you really do that? For me?" Of course he would. What, kiss all this money goodbye? "I'll protect you," Czanek repeated, and patted the client's shoulder. He went back to his own car. The Rolls drove off. The client's name was Saltenstall.

A cop named Porker sat at the booking desk, eating a box of cream filled doughnuts. Another cop named Peerce sat at the super's desk, flipping the cylinder of his Ruger Blackhawk and musing over a glossy mag called c.u.m Shot Revue. Another cop named White sat in the back office. The door was locked. He was counting this month's grease. Still another cop named Lydia Prentiss sat alone in her bed, wondering where her life had gone.

A student named Lois Hartley sat on her boyfriend's couch. The boy was named Zyro, and he was typing his latest ma.n.u.script, "Billy Bud 1991," which he claimed was about "man's inhumanity to man, a psychical allegory depicting the suppression of spiritual freedom through capitalistic coercion." It was also about "the resulting self parasitism of corporate tyranny." To the publishers, though, it was about bulls.h.i.t. Lois watched Night of the Living Dead on cable. "It's about zombies," she said. "It's not about zombies!" Zyro yelled back. "It's about the hunted within the sanctuary of the hunter! It's about the cyclic futility of the black race trapped in a white supremist world! It's not about zombies!" Lois Hartley sighed. It's about zombies, you a.s.shole.

Two more students named Stella and Liddy were playing Strip Twister with a third student named David Willet. They played lots of games together. Others were Grease the Cuc.u.mber, Eat it Off, and Human Sandwich. David Willet's nickname was "Do Horse," which he'd earned the first time he took his clothes off in the locker room.

A handsome young man named Wilhelm exclaimed, "Gott! Was ist dies scheiss?" The TV picture had winked out. "w.i.l.l.y, what's wrong?" his new American girlfriend, Sarah, asked. "Your Americana television ist piece of scheiss." "It's j.a.panese," Sarah scolded. "Das right, you Americana do not even support your own economy." Sarah's cat, Frid, purred from atop the refrigerator. "Forget about the TV," Sarah cooed. She dropped her robe and was nude beneath.

A man named Sladder drove hurriedly toward the campus power station. "Dag power failures," he muttered. "Blam it!" But suddenly a headache developed. It was so intense he had to pull over and stop.

Nina McCulloch's roommate and friends were still in the next room doing drugs and ministering to Satan, the Great Deceiver. Please forgive them, G.o.d, Nina prayed. "They're coming to get you, Barbara," she heard from the TV. They're coming to get you Nina, she thought sleepily. She dreamed of something huge falling-Satan. But the closer it got, the smaller it became.

A sleek shadow moved quietly down the main hall of the admin building. A flashlight played over muskets and powder horns, an exhibit of colonial relics. Keys jingled; the shadow unlocked the last display case. A large object was removed. The shadow moved away as the object cast its own shadow in the moonlight-that of an impossibly large ax.

Penelope dried off and examined herself nude in the full length. She combed her hair out to dark red lines. Light freckles covered her like fine mist. Her b.r.e.a.s.t.s were large, pale nippled. Last Christmas her grandmother had called her a "breeder," eyeing her b.r.e.a.s.t.s and wide hips. "You have a breeder bosom, dear. You're going to make some wonderful babies someday." Make. Babies. What a thing to say at Christmas! The image caused her to clench.

Her pubis was a slant of shiny russet fur; pink peeked out from its cleft. She bared the tender opening with her fingers and shivered. How could babies come from something so small?

There was nothing to do in the dorm, and no one around to talk to. Sarah and the Erbling sisters were the only other girls on the floor for the summer sessions, but they were all too busy with boys to bother with Penelope. Her horse posters stared at her. The lights reflected too brightly off the walls; she felt trapped by its blaze, spied on by imaginary peepholes. She dressed quickly, got into her ZX, and left.

She felt lonely even in crowds. Most of her friends were only cursory; they were friendly but they really didn't consider her a friend. They kept their distance because they thought she was weird. Her only real friend, she guessed, was Mr. Sladder, and he was an old man. At least he was nice to her. At least he cared.

She drove off the campus proper, opened up the ZX. The engine purred softly, her red hair danced in the breeze. The horses! she decided. That's what she'd do, she'd go see the horses.

The agriculture/agronomy department had six cows, some pigs, sheep, and chickens. They also had four horses-two jet black hackneys and two palominos, one brown, one white. They were special to her. Daddy had arranged with the dean for her to be the stable groom again. It was a good way to keep her from "moping another summer away," she'd overheard him telling her mother. But that was fine with her; she wouldn't have to see the psychiatrists, and she loved to care for the horses. She loved brushing them and riding them. They were beautiful, and her only peace.

The campus had the agro site because many of Exham's students came from rich farm families. The site occupied several dozen acres along the stretches of farmland on Route 13. Thoughts of the horses made her smile. She couldn't wait to see them. Mr. Sladder, the night watchman, always let her in, even this late. The other security guards were young and leering, but Mr. Sladder was always very nice to her, and never crude. He was skinny and old, and tended to ramble about his past, but Penelope didn't mind. He was just a nice, friendly old man, and one of the few people who didn't make her feel uncomfortable. Her psychiatrists, of course, told her it was all subconscious "phallic fear removal reinforcement" precipitated by her "pseudo mandala": she accepted the impotent old man because he did not contribute to her fear of being penetrated.

Was her period coming? A cramp spasmed. Suddenly she felt so sick she had to pull over. The cramp darted up like a spike, or, perhaps, a p.e.n.i.s. A headache flared. Yes, it must be her period. "The Red Tide," some of the girls called it. Why should women have to bleed from their wombs once a month? It wasn't fair. Men should have to bleed from their p.e.n.i.ses too, then. But next her nose began to bleed, and that had never happened before.