Chapter 13

In nothing short of lynx-eyed rage, Lydia Newell wasted no time in reaching the Crescent Valley Police Chief by telephone. Nor did she mince words with the barrel-chested official in conveying to him what she thought of his "little whore niece!"

"What the hell, Lydia, I-I can't believe it!" Link Morgan stammered in immediate jealous anger. He'd been sitting behind the scarred desk in his grubby Town-Hall office, staring idly at the half-empty bourbon-bottle he'd been nursing, while lecherously contemplating the tightly rounded, naked young ass of his dead sister's daughter whom he'd so patiently been schooling in the sinful skills of incestuous sex. The jangling phone had interrupted his lust-whetting thoughts, but the irritation in his voice quickly faded when Aaron Newell's fire-eating daughter bitterly unloaded on him! Goddamn, he couldn't believe it... Annie and Mark Blakely... ? The little two-timing hot-box.

"Y-You're sure, girl... I mean... ?"

"Don't show your stupidity, Morgan! I don't make mistakes! You ought to know that!" she gnashed into his ear, causing him to momentarily jerk the receiver away. "I saw when they went in, then left the old quarry... and I doubt like hell that they were hunting for fossils! But that's neither here nor there! You listening... ?"

"Y-Yeah, sure, Lydia! I'm hearing every word!" the red-faced police officer obediently replied, his mean eyes vindictively glaring with the thoughts of what he would do to the unthankful little cunt for this! And Blakely, the sonofabitch, he'd hang him in the bargain... !

"I know what you're thinking, but forget it!" the snapping voice of the auburn-haired girl intuitively ordered. "We're doing this my way, just as we planned! Understand?"

"Right, right... your way, Lydia," Morgan quickly agreed, though his own vengeful thoughts were far from forgotten. "Just name the time..."

"Tonight, if I can inveigle Jean Blakely out here to the ranch... and unless I've lost my grip, you can count on it," Lydia advised, her words reaching him in an almost serpentine hiss. "I'll call you back to verify everything within an hour or so. I want Mark Blakely's balls tacked right up over my bed, Link, you undrerstand?"

"Right... I know! You can count on me!" Morgan answered in a half-drunken, private viciousness of his own.

"I better be able to! Get the camera equipment ready, and don't forget... the acid, eh?" she schemingly reminded. "We'll catch the whole scene on film, then select after... but remember, keep my face out of it, Buster! Do what ever you want with the rest of me."

"Right," Link said, lustfully grinning at the prospective thought. "Don't worry, Honey, they'll be pictorial gems..."

"Okay, okay... I can just imagine what's going through that lecherous brain of yours. You just sit there and think about it until I call you and verify that it's on... and don't come out here staven drunk," the valley's richest and most powerful bachelorette warned. "Or I might just have two pair of balls hanging over my bed... !"

Steve was up for lunch, then away on his quest for story material, leaving Jean and Carol to rattle uneasily around the small house. Both girls sensed the unwanted strain between them, but neither could put a finger on the actual crux of the other's reasoning. While Mark, who had come home shortly before noon in a miserable, untalkative mood, slept in the guest-room, the once inseparable girls attempted to patiently overcome the secretive barrier which had pitted them against one another. Though they both unwittingly shared the identical, sensuous desire for Caesar's animal-affections, neither could openly admit to it for what each felt were obvious, debasing reasons. Instead, they drank coffee, warmly fumbling through memories and people from times passed, while their young female brains privily filled at every chance with thoughts and reveries of their incredible dog- lover.

Once, Jean in her flusterated jealousy, had been sorely tempted to come right out with it! She just had to know if her wild darling had come looking for her last night! But just as she was about to broach the question, the telephone intervened, and Carol, dreadingly suspecting a prying interrogation from her dearest friend, had welcomed the interruption with a sigh of relief. In fact, while Jean talked, the raven-haired girl had risen from the couch and poured herself a cognac from the cocktail table...