away, Mathias heard him groan slightly as the fingers and thumbs dug into him.
The psychic looked down at him and smiled thinly, his face appearing horribly distorted by the blinding power of the spotlight.
Even if Morrow had been aware of what was happening, there was nothing he could have done to prevent it. All he felt was the steadily growing pain as Mathias gripped his head with even more force, a vice-like strength which threatened to crack the bones of his skull. But, as it was, all he could do was remain helpless in the wheelchair, unable to sqirm away from those powerful hands which felt as if they were intent on crushing his head.
The pressure on his eyes became unbearable as Mathias’ thumbs drove forward.
Mathias felt some slight resistance at first but then he grunted triumphantly as he felt Morrow’s eyes begin to retreat backward beneath the force he was exerting. Blood burst from the corner of the left one and cascaded down the younger man’s cheek. Mathias felt the glistening orb move to one side, his thumb slipping into the crimson wetness which was the socket. His nail tore the lid of Morrow’s right eye, scraping across the cornea before puncturing the entire structure. The psychic felt his other thumb tearing muscle and ligaments as he began to shake his paralysed victim.
With both thumbs embedded in Morrow’s eyes, Mathias forced him backwards, aided by the motion of the wheelchair.
The watching crowd were stunned, not quite sure what was going on. They saw the blood, they saw Morrow’s mother running forward but still they looked on in dumb-struck horror.
It was Morrow’s keening wail of agony which seemed to galvanise them into action.
In the watching throng, a number of other people screamed. Shouts rose. Shouts of fear and revulsion.
One of the screams came from James Morrow’s mother who ran at the psyshic, anxious to drag him away from her son, who sat motionless in his wheelchair as the psychic continued to gouge his thumbs ever deeper into the riven cavities of his eye sockets. Blood was running freely down the boy’s face now, staining his shirt and the blanket around him.
Mathias finally released his hold, turning swiftly to strike the approaching woman with one bloodied hand. The blow shattered her nose and sent her sprawling.
The body of James Morrow, sitting upright in the chair, rolled towards one side of the stage where it tipped precariously for a second before toppling over. The lifeless form fell out and the psychic watched as Mrs Morrow, her face a crimson ruin, crawled helplessly towards it, burbling incoherently.
Mathias blinked hard, aware that people were moving away from the stage. Away from him. He glanced down at the struggling form of Mrs Morrow, draped over her dead son like some kind of bloodied shroud. He took a step towards the carnage then faltered, his head spinning, his eyes drawn to the twin gore-filled holes which had once been James Morrow’s eyes.
The psychic looked down at his own hands and saw that they were soaked with blood. A fragment of red muscle still clung to one thumb nail. The crimson fluid had run up his arms, staining the cuffs of his shirt.
He shook violently, struggling to breathe as he surveyed the grisly scene before him.
The spotlight pinned him in its unremitting glare but, despite the heat which it gave off, Mathias found that he was shivering.
London
Kelly slipped off her jeans and shivered momentarily before climbing into the large bed in Blake’s room. She heard the sound of footfalls approaching across the landing.
Blake entered the room and pulled the door closed behind him. He began unbuttoning his shirt.
Til drive to the Institute tomorrow,’ he said. ‘Confront Vernon. I’ll mention his wife. Anything I have to in order to get him to respond.’
He walked to the bedside cabinet and knelt down. The bottom drawer was locked
but a quick turn of the ornate gold key and the writer opened it. He reached inside and lifted something out, hefting it before him.
It was a .357 Magnum. A snub-nose model. Blake flipped out the cylinder and carefully thumbed one of the heavy grain bullets into each chamber then he snapped it back into position. He laid the revolver on top of the cabinet.
Kelly regarded the gun warily.
if Vernon does respond,’ said Blake slipping into bed beside her, ‘then, at least you’ll know you were right. If he doesn’t, then you can start looking for another suspect.’
‘That narrows the field down quite a bit,’ Kelly said, cryptically. She moved close to him, nuzzling against his body, kissing first his chest then his lips. ‘Please be careful,’ she whispered.
Blake nodded, glanced one last time at the Magnum then reached over and flicked off the lamp.
She was blind.
Kelly thrashed her head frantically back and forth, the terror growing within her.
She could see nothing.
She tried to scream but no sound would come forth.
It took her a second or two to realize that she had been gagged. A piece of cloth had been stuffed into her mouth, secured by a length of thick hemp which chafed against the soft flesh of her cheeks. Her eyes had been covered by more, tightly fastened, strands of knotted material, sealed shut as surely as if the lids had been sewn together.
She felt someone moving beside her, felt a hand gently stfoking her flat stomach before first moving upwards to her breasts and then down to her pubic mound.
Kelly attempted to move but, as she did, red hot pain lanced through her wrists and ankles as the rope which held her to the bed rasped against her skin. She made a whimpering sound deep in her throat, aware that her legs had been forced apart. She lay spreadeagled, her body exposed to whatever prying eyes chose to inspect it. Her legs had been pulled apart to such an extent that the muscles at the backs of her thighs felt as if they were about to tear. Pain gnawed at the small of her back, intensifying as she struggled in vain to free herself. The rope which was wound so tightly around her wrists and ankles bit hungrily into her flesh until she felt a warm dribble of blood from her left ankle.
Kelly was aware of movement, of a heavy form positioning itself between her legs.
She felt fingers trickling up the inside of her thighs, seeking her exposed vagina.
In the darkness she felt even more helpless, unable to see her assailant because of the blindfold.
Something nudged against her cleft and she stiffened.
Whatever it was, it was excruciatingly cold on that most sensitive area. She lay still as the freezing object probed deeper and, again, she tried to scream.
Kelly heard soft chuckling then a guttural grunt of pleasure.
It was followed by a rapid, rhythmic slopping sound which seemed to keep time with the low grunts.
She realized that her invisible assailant was masturbating.
The cold object between her legs pushed deeper, now adding pain to the other sensation she was feeling.
Another second and Kelly felt warm fluid spilling onto her belly in an erratic fountain. The grunts of her captor grew
louder as he coaxed the last droplets of thick liquid from his penis.
Light flashed into her eyes as the blindfold was torn free and, in that split second, she saw the face of her attacker.
His penis still gripped in one fist, the other hand holding the gun against her vagina, he grinned down at her.
She heard a noise which she knew to be the pulling back of the revolver’s hammer but her senses were already reeling as she stared with bulging eyes at the man who hovered above her.
David Blake smiled down at her, his face twisted into an unearthly grimace.