THE WATCHER IN THE DARK (Thursday, March 23, 1933)
In the darkness, death crept furtively along a steel girder. The unnatural glass and brick chasms of this unfamiliar wilderness surrounded him. Far below, in the strange jungle the natives called the streets of New York, late workers scurried homeward. Most carried umbrellas, few glanced up. Those who did noticed nothing, for the night was black as a crow. Unrelenting rain thrashed down from a wintry sky. Above streetlights and neon, the world was little more than an oppressive shroud wrapped around the tops of tall buildings.
The skyscraper was under construction. It had been completed to the eightieth floor and already some lower offices were in use. Above the eightieth floor, an ornamental observation tower would soon jut up a full hundred and fifty feet more. The metalwork was in place, girders formed a gigantic steel skeleton, but no masonry fleshed out the form. The naked beams were a sinister forest in which death prowled.
Death was a man who found his way through the dark with the adroitness of a cat. Upward, he crept. The unfamiliar girders were slick with rain, treacherous. This landscape was utterly unfamiliar, yet the man's progress was single-minded.
Occasionally, to reassure himself, he spat strange, clucking words. The most cunning of linguists would struggle to name the tongue the man spoke. The most knowledgeable master of languages might have identified his prayers as the words of a long-lost race, the language of a civilization long vanquished and vanished!
"She must die!" the man chanted hoarsely in his strange tongue. "It is decreed by the Son of the Feathered Serpent! To-night! To-night death shall strike!"
Each time he repeated this mantra, the man hugged an object he carried closer to his chest.
This object was a black leather covered box. It was about four inches deep and four feet long.
"This shall bring death to her!" the man clucked, caressing the black case.
The rain beat down on him, but he was used to rain. Steel-fanged space gaped below his bare feet. Though the terrain was alien to him, traversing dangerous depths was not. One slip could be his death, yet he climbed upward, obsessively, yard after yard.
Most of the New York office buildings had been emptied of their daily toilers. Only occasional pale, unblinking eyes of light gleaming from their sides. In one, on the eighty-fifth floor, a light flickered into life.
As he stood under the building's canopy, sheltering from the incessant rain Ethan Jones was not, for once, considering the night sky. It was seven in the evening, three days after the vernal equinox. The moon had yet to rise and, when it did, it would be so low and so close to new that it would be invisible. Normally, Ethan would pass the time by identifying the few stars he could see. Rain clouds made that impossible, but it was not the clouds that had disrupted his thoughts.
Still standing at the door he'd just opened, Ethan removed his burgundy, military-style, peaked cap and brushed the rain from it. Most folk had left the building. At this time of the evening visitors to the office block were rare, though not unheard of. The visitor he'd just allowed inside was unique. As doorman, Ethan should have been watching the street. Instead, he stared through the glass at the statuesque vision of loveliness who had just passed him.
The breath-taking Aphrodite in the lobby was, she had told him, the daughter of the late Professor Wylde. She had a letter to prove it, though he had not needed to see it. The sadness had been obvious in her eyes and in her husky voice. Despite her loss—her father, Ethan knew, had died three week earlier—there was an aura about her. He was, he estimated, no more than five years her senior, but she exuded a poise, purpose, and power he could never achieve. Power wasn't a word he'd normally use for a girl barely out of her teens, but she was different. Her self-assurance wasn't the entitlement of a rich heiress, it was a calm, cool confidence in her capabilities.
"Call me Clarisse, Ethan," she'd said to him, after asking his name and introducing herself. "Now that Daddy is dead, I expect you'll be seeing a lot more of me." Her smile had been almost wistful.
A building as prestigious as this did not employ small men at its door. Ethan was an inch over six feet in height but when he'd opened the door for her, Doctor Wylde—for she had claimed that title—had been eye to eye with him. They were remarkable eyes, too. Amber? Gold-flecked? He sought a better description; there was fire behind the amber, they were solar flares! She stood in the lobby, presenting her perfect profile to him.
Miss Clarisse Clark Wylde had an hourglass figure, even features, flawless skin bronzed—Ethan assumed—by some exotic sun, and those startling eyes. Eschewing the current fashion for complex waves and curls, held rigidly in place, her red-blonde hair was cut instead into a neat bob. She wore a bright green wool suit. The wide-shouldered thigh-length jacket was buttoned tightly at her waist, flaring out above and below to emphasize her figure. The pencil line skirt beneath clung closely to her thighs before flaring at the knees. Her high collared blouse was a crisp bright white, the felt cloche hat perched jauntily on her head was a much darker green. Her feet were encased in black and white strap shoes with three-inch Spanish heels. She turned toward the elevators. The lack of a seam running up the back of her legs showed that she wasn't wearing stockings.
Behind Ethan, a man noisily cleared his throat. Turning, the doorman found himself face to face with one of the late Prof. Wylde's friends, Mr. Harold J. Williams. Also an inch or so over six feet, the gaunt Mr. Williams looked like an underfed, studious scientist. For some reason, Ethan had no idea why, the glasses the man wore had a peculiarly thick lens over the left eye.
"Pardon, Mr. Williams. Miss Wylde is waiting in the lobby." Ethan opened the door promptly.
"Thought so." Williams peered through the now glass door. Looking back at the doorman, he smiled. "Little Clarrie. All grown up! She was distractingly beautiful at sixteen. Now, I haven't the words! You have a good night now, Jones."
"Thank you Mr. Williams."
Entering the building, Williams strode up to the young woman. Ethan watched as woman in her early twenties and man in his mid-thirties embraced. The girl then brushed Williams lips with her own, startling him. Williams escorted her to the building's long bank of elevators and pressed a button. A door opened, they entered the elevator cage and disappeared from Ethan's sight.
"Almost four years, Clarrie," Williams observed as the elevator doors closed. "You've grown, the girl I remember is now a woman. You were having quite an effect on young Ethan."
"On many men." Clarrie acknowledged his observation with the same forthright honesty she had always displayed. "An unintended consequence of my father's training," tall young woman continued. "I believe that's the reason he made me promise to stay away from men, until I completed my third doctorate. Perhaps it's also why he gave me the means to protect myself from unwanted attention. I kept my promise to my father, Willie."
"Your father..." Williams began.
"We can discuss my father later, Willie. We have an hour before the others arrive. I want to examine the rooms, of course, but that should still give us at least half an hour. You say I'm a woman, but I'm not, not yet. I want you to deflower me."
"What?"
"You heard," she was straightforward about it. "I promised my father I would stay away from men until I had three doctorates. One month ago, I received confirmation that my doctoral thesis for Stanford had been accepted. I now have three doctorates. When I got that letter, Father insisted I spend at one or two months in quiet contemplation, that I perfect my regime of physical and mental exercise."
Turning, Clarisse stared into the face of renowned geologist and archaeologist Harold Jackson Williams. "He meant well, he wanted to prevent anything distracting me from my training, but he could not curb my libido. Everyone has urges, Willie. My father could not deprive me of my mind, and the joys of fantasy, nor of my fingers, of the pleasures of masturbation. I could have chosen a stranger, someone like Ethan." Williams shook his head. "But you know me, Willie, and you knew my father..."
"I know he would not approve."
"He made certain I was trained in mind and body. I loved him dearly, but we both—we all—know he wanted a son. A son would have been accepted at Harvard medical school, a son would have had fewer ... complications when being educated, whether in biology, engineering, karate, or..." she shrugged. "Respect for my father obliged me to accept his wishes. Wishes that would not have been imposed on any son. As I was growing up, he ... no, not just he ... you all told me that I was the equal of any man. Father never attempted to impose chastity upon any of you, or himself. Promiscuous young men are studs, but promiscuous young women slatterns. I'm aware of this dichotomy and, false though it is, I know the world in which I currently live. Discretion in any liaison is essential on my part."
"Well reasoned, Clarisse," Williams assessed her carefully. "I'd like to have heard your father's argument to the contrary! But what will you do if I refuse? And why choose me?" He indicated the left eye hidden behind a thick lens.
"I considered every one of you," Clarisse admitted. "Ape and Dapper constantly compete. By choosing one, the other becomes a loser. They are rivals in most things, and boastful men. I cannot allow either of them to 'win' me. Major Ramswick is more than twice my age. He's only eight years younger than Daddy and, while I am confident he has a great deal of sexual knowledge to impart, I am equally certain that the frank and forthright discussion we are now having would scandalize him. Captain Robertson is also twice my age. I considered him. I am still considering him. But... Well, I'll say no more about that."
"Best not," Williams agreed. "I can't say I disagree with your summary, Clarrie. Though I didn't expect such an honest answer to my question."
The lift doors opened. Williams indicated that Clarrie should leave first. Doing so, she turned and gave him a heart-stopping smile. "You value honesty, Willie, and logic. I intend to be honest with every one of you. I have researched you all."
"Researched?" Williams asked.
"You are my father's friends. I have known you all my life. But what I knew was simply what you, and Daddy, allowed me to see. Research told me that you have had seven lovers since the age of seventeen. Seven over almost twenty years, my lifetime. Every one of those women still regard you with affection, Willie, an affection you reciprocate. That alone is worth more than any minor scars you bear. Also, your areas of expertise make you aware of powerful women in history, of the sexual customs and practices of cultures other than the one in which we live. And, importantly, you are clever enough to know that I'm not granting you exclusive rights to my body."
Clarrie strode around the corner and opened the only door to her father's suite.
"Check the library, see if anything is out of place. I'll look around Daddy's office. Twenty minutes, then we make love."
"You're very matter-of-fact about it, Clarrie, but your father didn't live here, there's no bed."
"Which is why it must happen on top of that table." Clarrie laughed at his expression. "I told you I'd been fantasizing, Willie. We have less than one hour before the others arrive. First we search, then cunnilingus—it's something I've read about and wish to experience—and fornication."
"Your father is dead less than a month, Clarrie, and you want to make love in his office?"
"I want to make love. It is something I lack experience in. The location, well… this is where I am, where we are. I thought of asking you to meet me at my hotel, but there are conventions. People would notice a man in my room. Here, they will not. When Vatsyayana Mallanaga wrote 'Principles of Lust'..."
"You've read Kama Sutra?'" Willie asked. His surprise lasted a mere instant. "Of course you have! In the original Sanskrit, I guess."
"And you wonder why I chose you?" Clarisse Clark Wylde gave a delighted smile.
Out in the rain-soaked darkness, the labyrinth of girders baffled the skulker a moment. He used the magic light stick he'd been given. A flashlight beam shot forth. The glow lasted an instant, but it disclosed a remarkable thing about the man's hands. The finger tips were a brilliant red! They might have been dipped an inch of their length in a scarlet dye.
The red-fingered man scuttled onto a workmen's platform. The planks were thick. The platform was near the outside of the wilderness of steel.
The man placed the large black box on the planks and took the long-seeing device—compact, powerful binoculars—from an inner pocket.
On the lowermost floor of a skyscraper many blocks distant, the crimson-fingered man focused his glasses. He started counting stories upward.
The building was one of the tallest in New York. A gleaming spike of steel and brick, H-shaped in plan, it rammed upward nearly a hundred stories.
At the eighty-fifth floor, the sinister man ceased his count. He could see the north and east sides of the building. The office he was looking for was in the north-west corner. His glasses moved right and left until they found a lighted window at the inside corner of the H. This was his target, and the room was illuminated. The Feathered Serpent was smiling upon him. He'd been prepared to wait until daybreak.
Only slightly blurred by the rain, the powerful binoculars disclosed what was in the room. The broad, polished top of a massive and exquisitely inlaid table stood directly before the window. On it a bronzed female figure lay supine. Her hair was red-blonde, a little darker than the almost luminous bronze of her features. Cut into a bob, it was straight and almost seemed like a cap.
This statuesque bronze nude lay diagonally across the desk, head nearest the window, one leg pointing at the ceiling. She was a startling sight. The lines of the features, the strong jaw, the voluptuous, slightly parted, lips, the lean cheeks, all combined to denote a powerful and commanding character.
Her eyes glittered like pools of flake gold as light from a desk lamp reflected on them. Through the powerful binocular lenses those eyes seemed to exert a hypnotic influence, a quality that would cause any individual to hesitate.
With one hand, the man with red fingers kept the binoculars pressed to his eyes, focusing on the amazing bronze figure. As he watched, this flawless masterpiece opened her mouth and arched her back—no statue, but a living woman.
The woman's expression of orgasmic pleasure showed strong-looking, white teeth. She drew breath and her lips moved in speech. As she raised herself up on one elbow gravity altered the contours of her perfect breasts. A man's head appeared from between her legs. Like her, he was naked. Unlike her, he was not without flaw.
Perhaps a little over six feet in height, the man with her was spare of frame, but not skinny. Though not powerfully built, he appeared lithe and fit, though at least a dozen years her senior. His face was angular and his jaw square. The red-fingered man had no knowledge of local standards of male beauty but even had this man once been considered good-looking the milky whiteness of his left eye would, surely have altered that perception.
As the white-eyed man stood, his lust-swollen prick appeared above the goddess' flat belly. Her stomach muscles tightened as she effortlessly lifted herself to meet it. Eagerly grabbing his rampant member, she guided it deep inside her and their lovemaking began in earnest.
Her breasts bounced in time with his thrusts. She spoke He moved a large hand and caressed her right breast. She curled one of her long legs around him and pushed her heel into his firm backside.
The binoculars shook. No longer able to see the thrusts they moved to enjoy her smooth, round rump before lifting to focus on an engorged nipple. The lovemaking continued, slow, sensual, and gentle. The binoculars remained focused on the wantonly cavorting couple for many minutes, until orgasm, and ejaculation.
The couple separated. The goddess brushed his lips with hers and stood. She was less than three inches shorter than him. She spoke again, and the couple began to dress rapidly. There seemed no doubt she was in control.
Still erect nipples were quickly covered by a crisp white blouse. French knickers, calf-length green wool skirt, and matching tailored jacket rapidly followed, enshrouding that perfect form. Finally, high heeled shoes raised her up to equal her lover's height.
Out in the rain, the man with the scarlet-tipped fingers shuddered and forced himself to return to his task.
"Death!" he croaked the reminder to himself. Seeking to overcome the unnerving quality of the erotic exuberance he'd witnessed, he turned to religious devotion. "The Son of the Feathered Serpent has commanded. It shall be death!"
He opened the black box. Faint metallic clickings sounded as he fitted together parts of the thing it held. After that, he ran his fingers lovingly over the object.
"The tool of the Son of the Feathered Serpent!" he told himself firmly. "It shall deliver death!"
"Don't come out until you're dressed," Clarisse ordered.
Apparently no sound had entered the room, but the lithe bronze-skinned woman left her lover getting back into his clothes and sashayed to the door. As her long-fingered, dexterous hand opened it, Clarisse analyzed her experience. She had used various muscles in new and interesting ways. Both cunnilingus and coitus were, she concluded, much more enjoyable than masturbation, she felt energized.
Clarisse would have wished for more post-coitus time to savor the experience, but it was not to be. Her keenness of hearing was incredible. Passing through the reception room, she opened the office door and reached the corner of the corridor as four men were getting out of the elevator. Unlike Williams, she had been alerted by the almost silent whir of the wires.
The quartet came toward her, delight on their faces. It was their first meeting in almost four years, though they did not shout the boisterous greetings she had expected when she had imagined this meeting. They could not. The four were, she knew, sympathetic to her grief, but their determined masculinity did not allow them to share their feelings of loss with her.
Leading them to the sumptuously furnished reception room, Clarisse Clark Wylde embraced each of the men as they entered.
The first of the four was a burly giant in his forties who towered four inches over six feet. His face was severe, his mouth a thin, grim line. His long-nose and angular features gave him an almost puritanical look. This was Colonel James Ramswick, or "Ram." A man known throughout the world for his engineering accomplishments. Ram returned her embrace by enveloping her in enormous arms. His hug was gentle, though she could feel the power behind it.
Next was Major Thomas J. Robertson, dubbed "TJ" he was the physical weakling of the crowd, thin, not very tall, and with the pallid, none-too-healthy-looking skin of a man who rarely went outdoors. He was a wizard with electricity. He threw his arms around her back, squeezing her tightly.
"Dapper" followed TJ into the room. "Edward Merlin Brinks," was the name he had been given at birth, the name he used on formal occasions. Slender, immaculately dressed, and graceful, Dapper looked like what he was—a quick thinker and possibly the most astute lawyer Harvard ever turned out. He carried a plain black cane—never went anywhere without it. This was, among other things, a sword cane. As Clarisse approached, arms wide and ready for an embrace he took her right hand, raised it to his lips, and kissed it, declaiming, "Greetings, fair maid." Clarisse giggled.
Last came the most remarkable man of all. Only a few inches over five feet, he seemed to have the build of a gorilla. His arms appeared longer than his legs, his chest enormous. His eyes were surrounded by gristle, resembling pleasant little stars twinkling in pits. He gave her a wide-mouthed grin. "Ape," no other name could fit him was Lieutenant Anderson Plunkett Ealing. He heard the full name so seldom he had forgotten what it sounded like. Clarisse hesitated in her approach, realizing that if she embraced him, she would pull his head onto her breasts. He solved the problem for her by ducking, encircling her waist with his gorilla arms, and lifting her off her feet. Finding his head was under her armpit, she patted it.
After that first greeting, the men were silent, uncomfortable. They were uncertain what they should say.
As she assessed four of the men who'd helped raise and train her until her seventeenth birthday, the fifth arrived behind her.
"We wondered why you weren't in the lobby," Dapper observed dryly.
"I needed Willie," Clarisse explained. Ape grinned. Willie remained stony-faced.
"It's good to see you all, despite the circumstances. It's been too long. As you know, my father promised me I would re-enter the world on my twenty-first birthday, that's still four weeks away. I assure you, I am ready to face the world. Even if I were not, I have no choice," Doc. told them sadly.
"For years I've studied with the best teachers my father could find," she continued. "Ten weeks ago, I finished my formal studies and Daddy took me to ... to a place of contemplation. My instructions were to remain there in meditation until I was ready. Three weeks ago, I knew it was time to leave."
"Clarisse, we promised your father we'd look after you, if anything happened." Ram began.
Grief lay heavily upon the five men. The elder Wylde had been their friend, mentor, and inspiration.
"I know, but I'm no longer a little girl, Ram," Clarisse told the burly giant firmly. "I reach my majority in four weeks, and I'm my father's only heir. You were his friends, but I'm his blood."
"Your father died three weeks ago," Ram said at last. "We tried to get hold of you in every way we could think. But you were gone—as if you had been off the face of the earth."
Clarisse nodded slowly. Turning, she looked at the rain speckled window, trying to hide the grief in her gold-flecked eyes. "I believe I sensed his death. It took some time for me to walk back from my place of contemplation. I arrived in the city earlier today."