They were painting painting him. They were painting him with whatever they'd been painting on the trees. him. They were painting him with whatever they'd been painting on the trees.

This was crazy. They were just girls. Martin easily had the strength to overpower them, but even the thought of that weighed him down more. He felt as though roots had emerged, had lashed him to the pulpy ground.

"Poor little lamb must be thirsty."

"Give him a drink, Melanie."

The three girls shrieked laughter-a mad, clicking, witch-like sound. Then Melanie began to urinate into his face.

The hot stream inundated him. He gagged, eyes squeezed shut as their laughter rose. Is she going to p.i.s.s forever? Is she going to p.i.s.s forever? he thought. he thought.

Martin wasn't used to this kind of humiliation, even in dreams. He thought how wonderful it would be to lurch up, shrug them off. Yet his hate collided with his paralysis and broke apart, as though any thought of rebellion weakened him further.

"Bet he's not thirsty now."

"Look at his c.o.c.k! Let's cut it off!"

Martin's heart raced.

The girls scurried away. Suddenly, a curvy shape blocked out the moonlight. Martin could only move his eyes. They roved up the figure, up sleek white legs, over a bushy pubis, over b.r.e.a.s.t.s and nipples. Then to the face: Maedeen's.

Yes, it was Maedeen, the shopkeeper. She was grinning, looking down at him with her hands on her hips.

She straddled him at once. "Fok, peow. You are wreccan now."

Martin shuddered. She traced his cheek with a nail that felt inches long and sharp as a pin.

"You belong to us."

She inserted him into her s.e.x, which seemed inordinately hot. As she rode him, she looked up to the moon, whispering words he'd never heard. Her bare hips pounded him, her b.r.e.a.s.t.s bobbed. Despite the sensation, Martin wanted to throw up. The three girls crawled forward to watch, still giggling. The third pressed her palm over his mouth-she pressed down hard. Then Melanie, her pink face floating above him, pinched his nostrils shut.

Martin lay frozen. They were killing him, but he couldn't budge. Each time he thought his lungs would burst, Melanie released the pinch on his nostrils, gave him a second to breathe, then pinched them closed again.

"You can play, Melanie. Just don't kill him," Maedeen said.

"Let's cut him up while she's f.u.c.king him!" enthused one girl.

"Let's cut off his b.a.l.l.s when he comes!" suggested the third.

Martin felt buried in terror. Melanie continued to pinch and release. The palm pressed harder against his lips. The youngest girl began slapping at his t.e.s.t.i.c.l.es between Maedeen's colliding strokes. Their laughter smothered him like a tarp.

But something was happening. Martin's eyes bulged in the pink light. He felt death sliding close. Melanie was giving him less air. The younger girl squeezed his t.e.s.t.i.c.l.es so hard he thought they'd split as Maedeen's s.e.x gulped his erection. He could see them only in mad glimpses, in blurs. Their nails seemed heinously long, like talons. And their faces... Their faces...

"Every night, peow. Every night we do whatever we want with you."

But the words seemed sunken now, a black rattle. Maedeen's voice barely sounded human.

And her face- My G.o.d- -her face didn't look human at all.

Chapter 17.

I can't, can't, the words seemed to loll in the dark. the words seemed to loll in the dark. You're special. You're special.

Melanie awakened, frowning. A slant of sunlight lay across her eyes from the gap in the curtains.

I want to, but I can't. You're too special.

She'd slept like a bag of rocks. It only took a moment to remember last night's embarra.s.sment. Zack must think I'm a s.l.u.t. Zack must think I'm a s.l.u.t. She couldn't believe how forward she'd been. She'd initiated everything-she'd practically dragged him to the bed. It had been great at first. Melanie had made out with a lot of guys in the past, but this had been different. It seemed they were on the bed for hours, just kissing and touching each other. She couldn't believe how forward she'd been. She'd initiated everything-she'd practically dragged him to the bed. It had been great at first. Melanie had made out with a lot of guys in the past, but this had been different. It seemed they were on the bed for hours, just kissing and touching each other. You're so beautiful, You're so beautiful, he kept whispering. Then everything had fallen apart as quickly as it had started. he kept whispering. Then everything had fallen apart as quickly as it had started.

She'd never gone all the way before. She'd had plenty of chances, she'd just never really wanted to. But with Zack... After a while, their petting had wrung her out. She could feel her own wetness seeping, and his own arousal was plain each time she ran her hand across his crotch. The sensations that swelled in her made her feel like a tightly wound wire. A few more twists and she would break. She skimmed off his T-shirt and ran her hands over his muscles, his strong back and chest, his abdomen. She wasn't afraid, she was ready. ready. She took off her own top. Her b.r.e.a.s.t.s felt hot. Then she unsnapped her jeans, began to slide them down, and- She took off her own top. Her b.r.e.a.s.t.s felt hot. Then she unsnapped her jeans, began to slide them down, and- Zack got up. He was putting his T-shirt back on.

"Zack, what's wrong?"

He stared at her. He looked hurt. "I can't," he said.

"Why?"

"You're special."

Melanie's embarra.s.sment flared. He couldn't have picked a worse moment. She was naked from the waist up and her jeans were halfway down, and now he didn't want to?

"I want to, but I can't. You're too special."

She pulled her clothes back on. "I'm sorry, Melanie," he was saying as she fled the little bas.e.m.e.nt. He came up the steps after her. "You don't understand!"

I understand, all right! She'd almost been crying as she'd scurried off into the woods. She'd almost been crying as she'd scurried off into the woods.

Special. You're too special.

Hadn't Wendlyn and Rena said that she was special?

Now she lay in bed, the sun in her eyes. What would she say the next time she saw Zack? And what would he say?

Special. The words kept nipping at her. The words kept nipping at her.

You're too special.

She fingered the tiny stone pendant around her neck. "What's so special about me?" she muttered to herself. A tear formed in her eye.

The hospital videotaped all preliminary admittance interviews. It was protocol. Dr. Harold pressed the Play b.u.t.ton and sat back. Erik Tharp looked quite different back then. He looked scary. Long hair. Beard. Slim but muscular, a physique honed by hard work.

Yes, of course. Digging graves was very hard work.

There was an aura about him on the video tape, a presence that five years of inactivity and starchy psych ward food had drained. Erik Tharp waited at the interview table. Every so often he looked up at the hidden video camera and smiled.

It was Dr. Greene who sat down across from him.

"Good morning, Erik. That's your name, right? Erik?"

"I'm called brygorwreccan," Erik Tharp slowly replied. His voice sounded corroded, unearthly.

"Okay. Is that what you'd like me to call you?"

"You can call me Erik. They call me brygorwreccan."

"Who's they?"

Erik stared, stonefaced, through long strands of hair.

"What happened to your voice, Erik?"

"Doctor said I only got one vocal cord left." He smiled vaguely. "They always had a hard time controlling me. Said it was because I used to do drugs."

"What kind of drugs, Erik?"

"Crank, dust. Dust, mostly. c.o.ke sometimes."

"And they couldn't control you because you used to use drugs?", "That s what they said. The other peows, they could control them easy. Sometimes I got out of hand, though. They thought I was gonna blow the whistle on them. So they'd punish me."

"How?"

"Sometimes they'd tie me up, burn me."

"They burned burned you? How?" you? How?"

"They'd lay a metal rod in the fire." Erik stood up and raised his black Tshirt. Several long scars could be seen along his abdomen. Selfinduced, Selfinduced, Dr. Harold concluded. He was sure Dr. Greene had made the same conclusion. Dr. Harold concluded. He was sure Dr. Greene had made the same conclusion.

Erik sat back down. "I could handle that, though. Sometimes they made me look in the mirror. And they always made me watch the hustig."

"The what?"

"The rituals. Watching those was worse worse than torture." than torture."

"Why didn't you just leave?"

"Couldn't. The closer you are to them, the more power they have over you."

"I see," Dr. Greene said. "But let's backtrack a minute, okay? We were talking about your voice. What exactly did they do?"

"Oh, yeah. They stuck an awl in my throat."

"As punishment for insubordination?"

"Yeah."

"Erik, the night you were arrested, you told the police that muggers muggers stuck an awl in your throat." stuck an awl in your throat."

"I lied."

"Why?"

"I was scared. I didn't know what was happening. But I know now, so I can tell the truth and it won't matter."

"Why doesn't it matter?"

Erik laughed. "Because I'm in a mental hospital now. They don't care what I say because they know no one will believe me. They're the ones who got me put here."

"Erik, the police caught you burying bodies in a field off Route 154. Do you deny that?"

"No," Erik Tharp said. "That was my job. After a husl, I had to bury the bodies. They decided I was too hard to control, so after the last hustig, they told the cops where I'd be. The whole thing was a setup."

"Okay, Erik. Tell me more about the bodies. Some of them were children, babies. Why did you kill them? For the husls?"

"No, no, I didn't kill any of them, I just buried them, and, yeah, I s.n.a.t.c.hed some people, sure, but I never killed anyone."

"You s.n.a.t.c.hed s.n.a.t.c.hed people?" people?"

"I abducted people for them, that was my job too. Hitchhikers, runaways, people like that, people who weren't local."

"What about the babies, Erik? Did you abduct the babies too?"

"No."

"Then who did?"

"No one. They weren't abductions."

"Then-"

"I don't want to talk about the babies anymore."

Dr. Greene nodded. "All right, Erik. Tell me about the-"

"I don't want to talk about anything anymore."

Erik Tharp put his head down on the table and began to cry.

Dr. Harold ejected the tape. Now he knew exactly what Dr. Greene meant. Erik Tharp displayed no signs of story-mixing, referencing, or even lying. Most clinical psychiatrists could spot lying in a matter of minutes by gauging facial inflections via question structure. Only a pathological mindset could repress such inflections, and Erik Tharp clearly was not pathological.

Next were transcripts of a courtauthorized narcoa.n.a.lysis, a process in which all conscious mental barriers were dropped with hypnotic drugs. "T" was for Tharp. "G" was for Greene. A light dose of a drug called scopolamine maintained unconsciousness without dropping most brainwave activity. It was even harder to lie under narcoa.n.a.lysis.