Chapter 6

Abby Farrington pulled her bright red Austin-Healy up in front of the palatial residence of her friends, Peter and Marge Lessing, eased out of the tiny front seat, and walked briskly up to the front door. Her mind had already formulated the scheme she planned to use to completely intimidate her next door neighbor, Laura Wilson, and she felt sure that the Lessings would cooperate with her wholeheartedly. She rang the rather ornate antique bell that hung beside the mansion's double oak doors, and waited only a few moments before the door was opened for her.

"Hello, Jackson," she said to the huge man who greeted her, "Are Peter and Marge home?"

"Uhh, yes they are, Mrs. Farrington. Come on in."

Abby didn't know whether Jackson was the man's first name or last, but it didn't really matter. She smiled almost conspiratorially as she followed the valet-butler in towards the main living room of the stately house, marveling at the physical endowments which the giant possessed, and aware at the same time of his minuscule mental capacities. She wondered idly whether she herself would be able to survive the kind of punishment she felt sure he would wreak upon any woman he got his hands on, the kind of punishment she planned to submit the young Laura Wilson to - and decided that she would just as soon not find out. Jackson's incredibly powerful body, combined with his almost total lack of intelligence, might very well cause irreparable damage to any woman unlucky enough to fall victim to his amorous advances.

Smiling to herself at the thought, Abby followed the ape-like man-servant into the living room, and giggled as he announced her in pseudo-formal terms.

"Mrs. Farrington to see you... boss," he muttered, and then turned quickly and left the room.

"Abby, baby, what a surprise! Did you leave something last night?"

Peter Lessing was a heavy set man in his late forties, with an almost tangible aura of smoothness which oozed from him like the old fashioned pomade he used to smother his shiny black hair. What many people mistook for sophistication was really only greasiness, an oily kind of ease that had been born of many years of semi-confidence games: business deals in which Peter, who had been born poor, managed to slither up the ladder of success and reach his now prominent position. Not that he wasn't charming in his own way - not at all. In fact, most people he met were immediately taken in by his carefully cultivated charm, and it was only the rare person who managed to see beneath the golden glitter, to the base metal that lay below.

"No, I didn't leave anything," Abby smiled, coming across the room to him to accept his proffered kiss. "I see you're getting your Neanderthal better and better trained everyday."

"Who? Oh, you mean Jackson. Yes, he's doing better, the brute; in fact, if you don't expect anything from him, he seems to be doing wonders!"

"Is Marge home?" Abby queried, coming around him to sit on the long, heavily overstuffed sofa that curled away to one side of the great fireplace.

"Yes, I'm right here," came the sultry voice from behind her, and Abby turned to greet the voluptuous Mrs. Lessing.

"Marge, how are you?"

"Oh, all right I guess. Nothing that an Alka-Seltzer won't cure. Why the unexpected visit?"

Marge Lessing was the perfect complement to her husband: tall, liquid, pulsing with a kind of feline grace and excitement that made men feel themselves pulled to her like magnets. Her heavily lidded eyes seemed half-closed all the time, which gave her liberally made-up face the perpetual look of some kind of Italian seductress, continually inviting, enticing, alluring, with just the slightest promise of the sensual delights a man could find in her bed.

"Well," Abby began in answer to her question, "I have a kind of request to make of you two."

"Request?" Peter repeated. "What kind of request, Abby? As you know, my dear, your wish is my command."

"I kind of doubt that," Abby laughed, "But I think you'll go for this little plan, though."

"What is it, Abby?" Marge asked.

"Well, George has got himself mixed up with our next-door neighbor..."

"Goddamn that George, he just won't stop, will he?" Peter laughed out loud. "I'll swear he's going to drop dead in some little lady's bed some night, if he doesn't watch out."

"And are you upset about that, Abby?" Marge asked, returning to the subject.

"No, of course not," Abby replied. "But still, as you must know Marge, there's always a little bit of the cat in a woman when she sees her husband with another woman."

"Marge!" Peter said in mock amazement, "Is that true?"

"Sometimes, Peter baby, sometimes..." his seductive wife answered playfully, and then she turned back to Abby, "And you've got it in for George's new flame, is that it?"

"Oh, not really," Abby answered. "I mean, she's harmless enough, but she's such a little snot, you know what I mean? I just think she can stand being taken down a peg."

"And you want us to help you, eh?" Peter broke in. "Sounds like fun. What do we have to do?"

"Well, if it's all right with you, I thought I might invite the Wilsons over here for your next party. We're going to invite them up to our cottage next week-end, to kind of warm them up, you might say, and then at your party we might just... how should I put it... really lay it to them?"

"Sounds great!" Peter exclaimed enthusiastically. "I mean, if she's passed George's inspection, she must be worth the trouble."

"What's her husband like?" Marge asked a little too carelessly.

"I'll tell you after this weekend," Abby laughed. "But from all outward appearances, he should be enough to keep both of us busy."

"Then I too accept," Marge smiled wickedly. "We'll be happy to help you any way we can."

"Good! I knew I could count on you," Abby smiled. "There's just one other thing..." She paused slightly.

"And what might that be?" Peter grinned.

"I think that what little Laura Wilson needs is a real shock - oh, not that you and my husband couldn't handle that," Abby added quickly to Peter. "But I was thinking, it might be interesting to see Jackson in action as well. I mean, we've never really seen what he can do, have we?"

Peter straightened up where he was standing by the fireplace, and frowned slightly, a hint of apprehension showing plainly in his face.

"You want to let Jackson go to work on this Laura Wilson?" he asked dubiously.

"Well, I thought it might be fun," Abby answered.

Again, the frown creased Peter Lessing's ponderous face, and he looked skeptical.

"I don't know, Abby," he said slowly. "I don't know if I can trust Jackson... I mean, he might really hurt her."

"Oh, I doubt that," Abby said quickly. "I mean, he is human, after all, though just barely. And if you made it clear to him that he wasn't to harm the girl... you know he'll do anything you say."

"I don't know..."

"Oh, come on, Peter, be a sport," Marge chimed in. "I'm sure it would be all right. We can all watch and make sure he doesn't do anything to her. And besides, Abby's right. It would be a hell of a sight to see. I've wondered myself just what our Jackson would do in that kind of situation."

"But Marge..."

"No 'buts'. It's the least we can do for a friend," Peter's wife smiled seductively. "Come on, darling, do it for me."

Peter looked at the two women, staring at him with an almost visible hunger in their eyes, an almost childish pleading etched across their excited faces.

"Oh, all right," he finally said with a laugh. "I know I won't get any peace around here until I agree. I can see you two have been dying to see Jackson in the flesh for a long time, so I might as well say yes."

"Oh, Peter, you're a doll," Abby cried, leaping up to throw her arms around him and kiss him soundly on the lips. "Why don't you call him in and tell him."

"No, I'll do that later, when I can make sure he's calm, and listening. I don't want him to make any mistakes, you know."

"But you will do that won't you. I mean you won't change your mind the minute I leave?"

"Don't worry about that, Abby," Marge said, crossing the room to stand by her husband. "I'll be here to make sure everything is taken care of. For some reason, I'm getting just as excited about this little adventure as you are."

"Yeah, and I know what that reason is, you sexy little voyeur," Marge's husband laughed out loud. "Don't worry, Abby, everything will be taken care of."

"Well, you're both dolls," Abby smiled, taking each of their hands. "I don't know what I'd do without you."

"Well, that's what friends are for," Marge said warmly, and, strangely enough, she meant it.

Laura Wilson hesitantly opened the front door to her house, and her heart jumped to her throat. George Farrington was standing outside, his hand raised to knock again, and she stared at the upraised fist in sudden terror.

"Hey, don't be frightened," he said jokingly. "You scared me as much as I did you."

The young wife drew in a deep breath, and stepped aside. She knew that it would do no good to try to keep him out; that until she and Bill figured out some way to thwart him, she would have to remain his unwilling servant. Today was the first time she had heard from him in days, and she had hoped that he might have decided not to do anything more to her. Perhaps he has changed his mind, was all she had been able to think of since that terrible night, though she knew it was not true. That would just not be like her neighbor at all and was just too much to pray for.

"Shall we start with coffee again," George said with a cocky grin as he stepped inside, his words a directive more than a question.

"I don't have the time, George. I have to pick Bill up at the office," Laura lied, trying to stall him off as best she could.

"Now, Laura. I'm picking Bill up in two hours. Should we go in the same car, or did you want to split him?" George laughed. He had told her husband that he would drive him home, in order to make sure that he would be safe and alone with Laura.

"All right," Bill's wife said in defeat, walking dejectedly to the kitchen to heat the coffee. George followed her down the hallway silently, and she wished he would speak. What could he want? she wondered. The only good that had come from her night with George Farrington was that now she and her husband were fighting for something together; but they had no weapons, no defense, and did not really know what they were fighting against. George had not made anything clear and it was up to him to set the battle line: they would be on the defensive until then, no matter what.

And Laura knew, though she would not admit it to herself, that she still had horribly mixed emotions about that fateful night with George Farrington. As she pulled a cup and saucer from the cupboard, she could not rid her mind of the image of George's obscene demands on her body... demands she had complied with.

"I'm not drinking alone," he said, interrupting her thoughts abruptly.

Without protesting, Laura drew another mug from the shelf and turned to face him. He sat at the breakfast table smoking an extra long cigarette, watching her through the fragile smoke ring he had just blown. He took his time to speak.

"Haven't you anything to say?" he asked finally. "You didn't think that I would evaporate, did you? That's one trick I haven't learned yet, but I'm working on it." George was pleased with what he said, considering himself something of a wit, but Laura was unamused.

"Of course not," she said, trying to cover her turbulent emotions. "But, I thought perhaps you had changed your mind. Really, George, if you would think about it..."

"Oh, I've been thinking about it," her neighbor grinned lewdly. "But I've only been making plans, not destroying them. The coffee is ready."

Laura turned to the counter and unplugged the pot, pouring them both a cup. Don't let him put anything in it, she prayed to herself silently. Images of his licentiously naked body still lurked in her mind, urging her to do those things he had forced her to do before. She could not deny that he had made her feel like a complete woman for the first time in her life, but she could not remove the horrible guilt that inked her conscience.

"What kind of plans do you mean," she said hesitantly, hoping to discover what he really wanted. If she only had something definite to tell Bill, then maybe they would have something to fight with. If it was only sex he was thinking of, then she would be in for something more than their first encounter, and Laura wondered silently to herself if she had the strength of will to go through all that soul-destroying shame and humiliation again.

"Plans for all of us," George answered her, taking a sip of the hot black drink. He didn't need to put anything into the cups, knowing by her nervous fidgeting that he wouldn't need the potion this time.

"When I bring Bill home, I'll tell him my plan also. By the way, you haven't told him about the other night, have you?"

"No," Laura lied. "How could I?"

"Good. He doesn't need to know yet." His reply puzzled her. "You won't have to tell him that I was here this afternoon either."

"George, I can't..."

"Of course, you can. We have the time. Take your coat off while I tell you what is going to happen."

Laura had forgotten that she still wore her light coat. She had been planning to go for a drive when he had arrived. She took it off and laid it on the kitchen chair.