Chapter 3

Suzanne had no real recollection of getting home... only a vague impression of lying heaped on the truck floor while the red-haired man drove... an admonition not to talk about the evening - if she knew what was good for her... something about arranging for her wallet to be found in an embarrassing place... physical threats. Then a rough shove and she was lying on the damp grass beside the sidewalk, a block from her apartment. Somehow, numbly, Suzanne made her way to her building. Her legs seemed to belong to someone else, not able to accept the directions her brain sent them. She had nearly reached her door when a figure loomed out of the shadows. She screamed and staggered backward a step, jamming herself into the bushes that lined the walk.

The figure stepped into the light cast by the apartment next to Suzanne's. "Hey," came a soft voice, male. "I didn't mean to scare you, Miss." It was the blond man from upstairs, the one with the Southern accent.

Suzanne tried to speak, but terror still gripped her and she couldn't make a sound.

"I was just coming downstairs. I didn't realize that I was being so quiet. I -" The man peered intently at Suzanne. "What th -" He took two quick steps and was at her side. Suzanne cringed farther back into the shrubbery, trying to hide her face. Tears began to flow down her cheeks.

"What on earth has happened to you?" the man asked. He took Suzanne by the shoulders and pulled her gently into the light. She resisted, but he was firm. He looked her up and down, his face grim. "Okay, let's get you inside."

"N-no. Please, I'm all right." Suzanne was too filled with shame and fear to be coherent. She wanted only to crawl into her bed and pull the blankets over her.

But the man put his arm around her and led her to her door, ignoring the convulsive shudder that passed through her body at his touch. "Where are your keys?"

She shook her head, unable to speak.

The man looked around a moment, then gave a peculiar, double-noted whistle. He waited a time and repeated it, louder. There was a splash of light at the end of the building and Walter Craft stepped out of his door.

"Get your master key, Walt, and get down here. Fast!"

Craft took one look, nodded and ducked back into his apartment. He was out in an instant, sprinting down the walk. Behind him were two other people, the beautiful black girl Suzanne had seen earlier and a short, blonde girl.

"What is it, Roger?" Craft asked as he ran up, speaking to the man who held Suzanne but looking at her. "Jesus Christ!"

"Get the door open, Walt. Let's get her inside."

Craft opened Suzanne's door and the two men half guided, half carried her inside. The two girls followed, curiosity and sympathy on their faces. Craft started to steer Suzanne to the sofa but Roger nodded at the bedroom and they carried her to her own bed. She was crying uncontrollably, great sobs wracking her body.

Roger turned to the girls. "Flo, get upstairs and get my bag-the medical bag."

The black girl nodded and ran from the room.

"What's it look like?" Craft asked, watching with his strange, dead eyes as the man called Roger expertly felt Suzanne's body and face, touching her with light hands.

"Rape, most likely. She's in shock. Get her some coffee."

Craft turned to the blonde girl. "Phyllis?"

She nodded and turned to go.

"Put a little bourbon in it," Roger called after her.

Suzanne was still crying. She had her eyes shut tight and an arm thrown across them. If she was aware of Roger's probing, she didn't show it.

Craft licked his lips nervously. "Maybe we should get her to the hospital or something?"

Roger shook his head. "Not yet. I'll examine her here. I don't think she's actually been hurt."

"Then... we might just, ah, keep her here, huh?" The feral gleam was in Craft's eyes again, this time openly.

The man called Roger turned a cold face to Craft. "Yes, we might do that. But that's all we'll do, Walt. For now, anyway."

For an instant, a look of hatred and defiance crossed the dead-eyed man's features. Then it was gone. "Sure, Rog. You're the doctor."

Phyllis and Flo returned at the same time, each bearing her burden.

Roger took the black bag and rummaged through it. "Give her the coffee, Phyllis. Help her with it."

Phyllis sat on the bed and coaxed Suzanne into lifting her head enough to swallow some of the steaming liquid. Suzanne resisted feebly but finally took some. She continued to cry and still refused to open her eyes.

Roger took her pulse, holding firmly when she tried to pull her wrist away. "Easy, Miss. I'm a doctor. You're all right. You're among friends."

Craft sniggered, but was silenced by withering looks from the three others.

Suzanne was in a nightmare fog. Pieces of reality kept slipping away from her to be replaced by earlier horrors. Dimly, she knew she was safe, that a doctor was with her and that she was in her own bed, in her own room. But that knowledge was a flitting thing, distorted by hairy hands on her neck, a huge animal presence in her mouth, and the muffled whap! whap! of something solid striking flesh, somewhere over her head.

A voice was trying to reach her. A soft, Southern-tinted voice, calm and firm. "Suzanne. Can you hear me? Do you understand where you are?"

"Y-yes," she heard her detached voice answer.

"Fine. You're all right. You've not been hurt. You aren't damaged, Miss."

"Her name's Suzanne, Roger," she heard the manager say.

"All right, Walt," she heard Roger answer. Roger Watlington. The man upstairs. With the muffled blows.

The sounds of pain!

"Look out!" the black girl cried. "She's flippin' out again!"

"Easy, Suzanne. It's all right. I'm a doctor, Suzanne. You're home. It's all over." Roger Watlington held her wrists as she jerked in spasms of remembered terror. Held them firmly but gently, gently.

Gradually, Suzanne subsided. She was still crying but the sobs were dry now. She had cried herself out.

Roger Watlington took a vial from his bag and filled a slim hypodermic from it. "I'm going to give you a shot, Suzanne," he said, swabbing her arm. "Something to let you sleep till in the morning."

Suzanne whimpered at the sting of the needle, then relaxed. Slowly her sobs subsided and her breathing deepened. In less than a minute she fell into the deep slumber of total exhaustion.

Phyllis absently drank the coffee she had brought for Suzanne. "She's asleep?"

Roger Watlington nodded, packing his bag. "She'll sleep about ten hours, maybe more." He stood and motioned to Flo. "Let's get her under the covers."

Craft had gone to the dresser and perched himself on its corner. He watched silently as Roger Watlington and the girl called Flo wrestled Suzanne's limp body under the covers. A quick, furtive look lightened his lifeless eyes as the unconscious girl's dress fell away momentarily, exposing her bare thighs. "Maybe I should, uh, stay with her tonight. Just in case she wakes up or something."

"No," said Flo firmly. "I'll stay with her."

Roger Watlington shook his head. "You stay with me tonight, Flo. Phyllis will stay here." He looked at the blonde girl and she nodded acquiescence. "And I think you had better give her your key, Walt."

Craft jumped off the dresser, his face flushed. "Now just a damned minute. That's-"

"Shut up, Walt. Give Phyllis your key."

"You've got no right to treat me this way, Roger. I'm not a goddamn child."

"Give her the key," Flo said quietly. "Or one of these times I just might believe you when you yell 'Don't stop.'"

Craft made an unconscious movement, as if guarding his back, and dropped his eyes. Then he dug in his pocket and produced the key. He flung it petulantly in the direction of the blonde girl, stared defiantly at the three people watching him, and stomped out of the apartment.

Flo turned to Watlington. "We're going to have to do something about him, Roger. He's going to cause trouble, you watch."

Roger gave an absent shake of his head, his long hair flowing. "Time enough for that, Flo. I'll have another talk with him." He turned to Phyllis. "Sleep on the couch. Call me if she wakes up."

Phyllis nodded. "I wonder exactly what happened to her?"

"Time enough to find that out, too. But for now, get some sleep."

Phyllis grinned abruptly. "Yeah. And you two get some sleep, too."

Flo grinned in return. "We'll probably get a little sleep. Later."

Roger smiled at the two women. "We'll get some sleep sooner. I've got to tour the ward tomorrow."

Flo pouted prettily. "You always think about that bag."

Roger hefted the symbol of his profession. "And you always think about the other one." And on that cryptic note, he led her out of Suzanne's apartment.

Phyllis finished the cup of bourbon-laced coffee and idly picked up the volume of de Sade lying on Suzanne's bedside table. Her eyebrows went up when she read the title. She looked doubtfully at Suzanne's still form, shook her head, and went into the living room. She curled up under a quilt, read awhile, then turned out the lights and went to sleep.

There were no sounds of any sort from the building the rest of the night.