Murder on Christopher Street

FIFTH ADVENTURE IN THE BENEDICT/DAVID SERIES

MURDER ON CHRISTOPHER STREET

by Kirk Brothers

Box 76382

St. Petersburg, FL 33734

Characters Copyright 1990 in "Night of the Coven"

All Rights Reserved

CHAPTER ONE

On the First Day of Christmas My True Love Gave to Me

When Benedict awoke before seven on Christmas morning, 1999, his wrists were still fastened behind his back with a chain snap through the D-rings in the strong leather bondage cuffs he always wore. David, his young lover, was still asleep--one arm and leg thrown possessively over Benedict.

That was one of David's rules: whenever they lay side by side and their bodies touched, David's arm or leg must always be on top. Benedict turned his face so he could smell David's warm body--he savored these quiet moments in their complex relatioship. They lay in the double bed formed by opening the sofa in the sitting room behind the witchcraft shop on Christopher Street. During business hours Benedict sold books and paraphernalia for occult studies and "magic" rituals.

Benedict was a well-known Greenwich Village "character". He called himself a Shaman--had once been a priest in the Wiccan Church--and practiced occultism in many forms. He had written a thesis on Shamanic practices of Native American tribes. He was forty-nine years old, with scholarly features and long, thin brown hair worn in a pony tail.

Years ago he had been happily married to a Priestess in the church, but they had never conceived the son Benedict wanted, and after her death Benedict led a solitary existence until a chance meeting with David Martinez last May. Accepting his bisexual nature, Benedict had initiated a gay relationship with David--a young sadist who hustled the S/M bars for masochists. David was twenty-five, but their unlikely partnership was based upon a deep mutual bonding, and Benedict was happier than he had been in many years.

Ordinarily they shared the master bedroom suite in the base- ment, but this week would be special because of the Christmas holi- days. The shop window and entrance door were now curtained off by a seldom-used traverse drape, and the matching drape usually drawn over the archway between the sitting room and the shop was now open, giving the sitting room a long extension and a view of the blue spruce tree trimmed with twinkling lights and tinsel for holiday cheer.

Beneath the tree lay one large box wrapped in shiny white paper with a red ribbon. The label read, "To my Beloved Master David, with all my love for Always. Your devoted slave and dad, Benedict." It might seem mawkish to others, but Benedict didn't care. He meant it.

Benedict wondered idly what kind of mood his Master would be in today--it was their first Christmas together. David had sent a holiday package to his mother, who had moved back to Puerto Rico, and called her yesterday evening--early in the evening, because of their regular Friday evening "ritual" in the dungeon room down- stairs after the shop closed. Now Benedict's buttocks throbbed with constant pain as usual, but with an erotic overtone that dis- pelled the worst of the discomfort.

Sometimes David was in a boyish playful mood--sometimes he wanted more heavy S/M. He could be a tender and loving son one moment, and a cocky punk the next. Often when they were alone he treated Benedict like a fraternity pledge, with humiliations that were often comical in retrospect, but always had a strong sexual element. Benedict never knew what to expect from David when they were alone--but in front of others his behavior was that of a son to his father. Benedict knew only one thing for sure--that he loved David very much, and that the love was mutual.

He tried to move a little, and winced in pain. He was always in pain the morning after what David had done to him the night before, down in the basement. Especially the session last night-- which had been one of the more severe variety, and had produced uniquely different responses in Benedict's body and mind. Shack- ling his hands behind his back between "rituals" wasn't routine--it was reserved for special occasions, either symbolic or teasing-- such as to remind Benedict not to touch David without permission.

Now he became aware of new sensations, and he at once knew the source. He smiled as he looked down at his body. Above the wide leather bondage belt buckled tightly around his waist was a large patch of adhesive tape plastered over and between the nipples, and more tape swathed his genitals. He felt a gentle itch there, and in the sensitive area of the crotch--something was pulling at him with every slight movement he made.

He felt pressure in the bladder, and slipped out from beneath David's arm and leg to walk, limping slightly, to the bathroom. David never shackled his ankles by their leather cuffs--he could always move. Sitting on the toilet, since he could not use his hand to urinate, he found David had left a hole in the adhesive wrap around the penis so he could urinate without making a mess.

When he returned, David was awake, and without a word he gave Benedict a familiar hand signal. Benedict was not allowed to speak before David spoke--and the signal was another order. Benedict obediently slid down between David's legs and engulfed David's penis with his mouth.

David did what he always had to do when he first woke up, and Benedict did what he always had to do as a result. That first routine humiliation of each day of each day was what David had dubbed "reveille", and Benedict always felt a surge of energy, almost like an electrical current, flowing from David's loins with the stream of urine.

It was for Benedict both an act of sexual submission and a transcendental, mystical union--he would feel "high" on it for an hour afterward. David would repeat it five or six times a day--his "pit stops", he called them. Each time Benedict would thank David by saying, "Thank you, Master. May I please have some more, sir?"

Usually David would say, "Later, Pig." But at least once a day he would order Benedict to lie under the special toilet seat with his face under David's crotch, for the humiliation intended "to keep his pig well fed and happy."

David had flogged Benedict into submitting to that ultimate degradation for the first time on June 15--their second sexual encounter--and had repeated it regularly ever since. Benedict had vivid memories of those events in June, and he regarded that second torture session on the 15th as his wedding--his vow to obey David for life--and a test for them both.

They had agreed to lead double lives. In the store or in public they would pass as father and son, and David would call Benedict "Dad" in front of others. But once behind the drape in this room David was the Master and Benedict his slave.

Their convoluted relationship had been evolving since they first met in May. David had talked about his sadistic needs then, when he said, "It's my right as Master to do what I want to him. Anything, any time--as long as it's sexual--and safe." And that was when Benedict knew that David might hurt him, but would never really harm him. And before their first heavy scene in June, David knew that Benedict--as part of his pagan sex-cult religion--was a flagellant who hoped to attain a psychic state called Astral Pro- jection, and wanted to draw on their combined sexual "vibrations" to increase his psychic energy.

To a Shaman, sex in any form is a religious celebration, and even S/M has "magic" value as a ritual of sacrifice. So Benedict had vowed to submit to David for any kind of sexual perversion as a source of psychic energy. David had grinned wickedly, and said he'd done every perversion in the books, and liked them all.

At last David spoke. "Blessed be, slave," he said, using the traditional Wiccan pronunciation of "blessed" as two syllables, not "blest."

"Blessed be, Master," answered Benedict. "Thank you for reveille. And Merry Christmas."

David yawned, stretched, and rose. Benedict admired his young lover's body as much as he loved his dark hispanic looks and the piercing gaze of his eyes--Scorpio eyes, as Benedict called them. Benedict suspected there was a touch of gypsy in David's blood--but Benedict likewise had a hypnotic quality when he directed his gaze intensely at another person.

They shared the same birthday, and their rapport had been instantaneous and overwhelming. Benedict, an astrologer among his many talents, explained it by their horoscopes--and David, in their Dad/son relationship, was Benedict's student and apprentice as well as his Master and lover behind the drape.

"Do we need to wash our hands?" asked David with his boyish grin. He was teasing Benedict about the cuffs--not maliciously. "I wanted to make sure you didn't open my Christmas present to you before I was awake to watch."

That reminded Benedict. "I have a present for you, Master," he said, walking to the tree. He squatted with his back to the tree to pick up the big white box with his shackled hands. "Ouch!" he exclaimed, jumping. "Pricked my ass on the needles." It was a live tree.

David grinned as he watched Benedict struggling to squat, bend, and reach with his handcuffed wrists to the box he couldn't quite see. It was part of the "fun and games" aspect of their life together. Finally Benedict got a grip on the package, and carried it over to David who waited patiently, but with amusement. "Merry Christmas, Master," he said, turning his back to David to hand the box to him.

David took the box, which was unusually light, and his gaze dwelt upon Benedict's buttocks--lacerated and black-and-blue, as they always were. They had been a mass of livid bruises and welts for more than six months, and sometimes--as now--the outer layer of skin was completely burned off. David always relished gloating over the damage he had inflicted, and reached out to pinch the raw, tender flesh. "How's your ass this morning, slave?" he asked teasingly.

"I feel so well I can hardly wait to tell you, Master," said Benedict with enthusiasm, "but not until you open your present."

"Okay," said David, and tore off the red ribbon and white paper. It was a grocery carton. Inside that was a smaller box in a gold paper with green ribbon. It was a shoebox. Inside that was a smaller box wrapped in blue paper with a silver ribbon. It was a cigar box. Inside that was a thick soft packet marked "Fragile", wrapped in silver paper with a purple ribbon.

The present was a large envelope bearing the return address of Benedict's lawyer. "Open it, David," said Benedict--in his excite- ment forgetting the rule against using David's first name, unless they were in public, or unless David called him Dad or Benedict first. Benedict immediately realized what he had said, but David didn't seem to have noticed the slip. If David caught him at it, Benedict knew he'd be whipped for it--severely, as always.

There were two short legal documents, one from Family Court of the City of New York, duly ordered by the judge two days earlier, that David Martinez was henceforth the adopted son of John Sandman IV--Benedict's legal name--and that said David Martinez was now named David Martinez Sandman. The second document was from the City Register of Deeds, certifying that the building identified by its street address, metes and bounds, and formerly the property of John Sandman IV, was now entered as the joint property of John Sandman IV and David Martinez Sandman, with automatic right of inheritance by the survivor thereof. A single sheet from Citibank certified that all moneys in the name of John Sandman IV were in trust for David Martinez Sandman of the same address, being related as adopted son.

David started to cry.

"Oh, Benedict," he said, his voice shaking, "you've given me too much!" He pulled Benedict to him in a tight, loving embrace. "I knew the adoption papers would be here soon," he sniffled, "but putting my name on your house and money, too! It's too much!" He hugged Benedict and wept. Benedict's hands were still fastened behind him, so he could not return the embrace, but he snuggled as close as he could to David and cried a little, too.

Finally David released him, still sniffling. "After that pre- sent, what I bought for you is nothing. It's junk. I'm ashamed of it now."

"Don't be ashamed, David. You are now my son. Legally. The son I've always wanted. The son my wife could never have. It's only right that my property will go to my only son when I die. Do you think I'd want to leave my money to some charity or the State of New York? Besides, you've given me something worth far more than you know."

"It's nothing," insisted David, "but it's all I have for you, so you might as well as see it now." He gave a final sniff, then snapped his fingers and spoke more sharply, as Master now. "Turn around," he commanded. Benedict turned his back to David, and David unsnapped the clips restraining Benedict's wrists. Then David grasped Benedict by the waist and turned him so they were face to face again. "I wrapped my gift to you in adhesive tape. I wanted to see you unwrap it." He was grinning a little now, and Benedict was again charmed by his boyish face.

Benedict thought for just a second, and then said, "Please, Master, you take the wrappings off."

David smiled at the suggestion. He reached out with both hands, grasped a corner of the two patches of adhesive tape over Benedict's breasts, and gave a quick hard pull. The tape pulled away and a layer of gauze pad came with it. Benedict winced a little, and then looked down. In each nipple was a tiny gold ring with a chain connecting them, and a lead weight on the chain. That was part of the pulling he'd been feeling.

"Do you like?" asked David. He reached down to the pubic area, where he used both hands to grab the adhesive tape, and again pulled hard. It took several tugs to remove it and the gauze pads beneath. David had set a hand mirror on the end table next to the bed, and now he picked it up. "Look in the mirror, slave," he said. Benedict obeyed.

There were over a dozen gold rings piercing the scrotum and penis--including two large ones in the glans itself. And when Benedict bent over on a signal from David and looked between his legs, he saw a group of five in the tender area of the perineum and anal crease. A second chain linked them all together, and the chain was drawn snug.

As though he were reading Benedict's mind, David said, "When you move, the chain is going to be pulling on all of them in all directions. They won't hurt, but they'll be stimulating--and, of course, if you happen to get sexually excited by anything, they'll pull all the more." He grinned wickedly. "I have a couple more chains and some more weights I'm putting on now," he said, fitting his actions to his words. "They'll tie your tits to your cock, so every move you make will be a sex tease you can't stop. You'll be wearing these from now on--except when I let you use the toilet or take a shower. On your knees, slave."

Benedict knelt obediently while David attached the final chains and four more small weights. Last he hung an eight-ounce weight on the rings in Benedict's crotch. The result was power- fully erotic, and David knew it. "But, of course, we can't have you abusing yourself--can we, slave? That would be wrong. So your hands will be fastened behind your back when you're naked so you can't play with yourself."

He caressed Benedict gently as he taunted him in a suggestive voice. "You'll have a case of lover's nuts that won't stop. If you're good I'll let you relieve yourself once a week--or month-- unless you want to convert the energy from your blue balls into psychic form and get your kicks that way!"

Benedict was once again fascinated by how easily David could instantly excite him with words. "I'll hang some real heavy lead weights on the rings when the wounds heal. Last night I put some Calendula on them to help."

"I know," said Benedict.

"How do you know?" asked David skeptically. He leaned back in the comfortable but shabby recliner chair, and signaled Benedict to kneel before him. "You passed out cold again last night--like you've been fainting every Friday since June. But last summer you said that you couldn't take tit and cock piercing because it wasn't sexy for you, so I didn't do it to you--even though I wanted to mark you as mine. So last night, after you fainted, I did the job when you wouldn't feel it. Worship my feet."

Benedict lay prostrate and began to kiss and lick David's feet. "May I tell you the other present you gave me, Master?" asked Benedict. "First, you blindfolded me as you always do for a heavy torture flogging--I knew you were going to knock me out if you could. You put the big leather pear gag in my mouth to stifle my screams. You burned the skin off my rump with lighter fluid to tenderize me for the whipping.

"Then you started with one of the pair of three-foot scourges with ten thin bamboo switches. You gave me fifty strokes at a time, full force, four seconds apart, and rubbed on a dose of red pepper and wintergreen liniment after every fifty before scrubbing it in with a stiff scrub brush, while you rested your arm. You moved the jug of liniment from the shelf to the floor--near the head end of the whipping horse. After each fifty you worked me over from the other side, to even up the skin damage.

"While you were resting your arm after five hundred, you started heating up a pair of five-inch carpet needles on the gas ring until they were red. You looked at them after every hundred strokes to see if they were hot enough. After nine hundred you took a paper bag you must have hidden there before we went down, and got out your rings and chains. After a thousand you checked my pulse, breathing, and lifted my blindfold. You could see my eyes were half open, with just the whites were showing--so you knew I was unconscious. By that time the needles were sterilized, and you pierced the left nipple first.

"You put Calendula ointment on the ring before you inserted it in the nipple. You did the right nipple next, fastened the chain and weight there, and then went down to the penis. You pierced the glans first, right side and then left, and put in the rings. Then you turned me over and did the underside of the shaft, and the scrotum. You finished with the anal crease and perineum. You fastened those chains and weights, put gauze pads over everything, then covered it with tape. Then you carried me upstairs, put me on the bed, and waited for me to come to. You began to get worried because I was out so long, and got out the first-aid kit to get Aconite to revive me."

Benedict's voice had been calm at the beginning of his long recital, but grew more and more excited as he reached the end of his account. "Of course I know all of this because I saw most of it. After the first hundred licks I was halfway out of my body, and I kept saying to myself, 'let go. Let go', and by time you had given me three hundred I felt nothing at all, and everything was black. Then I seemed to open my eyes--and I was floating in the air above you in the dungeon, watching you torture my body!"

He was elated at recalling the events of the night before. "I had my first out-of-body experience last night, Master! I was able to separate my mind from my body, because I was in such pain that my conscious mind could think of nothing but the pain, and my psychic mind was able to take over! I could feel the wire whips like a gentle touch, and the liniment hurt no more than water!

"I tried to maneuver my astral body, but it was like learning to walk with nothing under the feet--they say it takes time to learn how to travel where you want to go when you're on the astral plane. So I let my body twitch and moan a little, so you'd enjoy yourself. At the very end I just floated above you and watched you piercing my body and putting in the rings.

"And at that moment I loved you more than I ever had before, because you helped me do it, David!" He now lay prostrate before David and licked his Master's feet. "We finally did it! After six months of failures! That's what you gave me for Christmas, even though you didn't know it at the time. And nothing I can give you would repay you enough for that transcendental experience!"

David kept a perfectly calm face, and let Benedict lick his feet while he turned them to present new areas to Benedict's warm tongue. "Well, in one way that's very good news, slave," he said quietly. "But, unfortunately, it creates a few little problems. For one thing, what can I do for fun on weekends, now that you can get out of your body and not feel anything I do to you? Did you think of that?"

"Of course, Master," went on Benedict excitedly. "But just because it happened once doesn't mean it will work whenever I want it to! Edgar Cayce was said to have the ability by self-hypnosis. That won't work for me. Sylvan Muldoon was able to do it simply by meditating when he lay down to sleep. That doesn't work for me, either. I don't know if it will work again next weekend--it might not work again for another six months. But now I know it can be done, and until last night I had only hoped for it! I need to keep repeating the sacrifice, over and over, until separation becomes automatic and predictable."

Benedict now considered the potentials of his psychic experi- ence. "We must certainly continue with the Friday rituals. If it doesn't work reliably when I'm flogged on a weekly basis, we might do it twice a week--or double the number of strokes. Once I am out of my body, I must learn how to move outside the dungeon--outside this house--even travel to any remote location on earth. Perhaps one can travel in time."

He stopped licking David's feet long enough to look his directly in the eyes. "I'll promise you one thing, David--I won't try to fool you again by staying part way in my body so I can moan when I'm really not feeling anything. If I'm able to get out of my body again, I'll go all the way at once, so you'll know I'm really out of it, and won't waste your strength whipping my body when I can't feel it and suffer for your pleasure! I know you get your pleasure from hurting me, because you're a beautiful sadist!"

He continued to lick and kiss David's feet happily. David suddenly pulled away one foot and placed it on the nape of his slave's neck as he lay prostrate--pushing his face down against the other foot.

"So you lied to me, slave," he said in an ominous tone. "Last night when you came to, I asked you if it had worked, and you said 'no', as you've said for six months. That was a lie. And down- stairs you let me whip you when you couldn't feel it, so I wasted time and energy on you. So you deceived me again. And this morn- ing you broke our rule and said, 'Open it, David' before I had called you Benedict. I might have overlooked that insubordination because it's Christmas. But put them all together, and it's too much to let go by without appropriate punishment."

David was smiling down at Benedict's prostrate form. Benedict had grasped David's ankles in a pathetic gesture of begging for mercy--that was part of the relationship David enjoyed the most. "You think we should double the number of weekly sessions? Or double the number of strokes? Why not double both? I'm not sure what would be appropriate. I'll have to think about it."

His voice was quiet and cold, as though suppressing anger. "I'll think about it a lot--and I'm sure you will, too. The only thing I know now is that you've earned some supreme punishment for next Friday, and I'll have to think of something really supreme." He stuck out his feet again. "Keep licking my feet. I'll have to get some ideas, between now and Friday. Something that will take a few hours longer than usual, to carry you over from the old century to the new century. We'll have to mark that occasion in a way you'll remember, say at midnight.

"Maybe you'll have some ideas I can borrow--in fact, that's an order, slave. When I wake up tomorrow, immediately after reveille, you will hand me a written list of at least five extra punishments you think would fit the crime. I'll consider all of your requests with great interest, and grant as many of them as I can. I repeat --that's an order. Do you understand me, slave?"

"Yes, Master," said Benedict, and began to lick David's feet again. He was secretly pleased by David's reactions--David was a pledgemaster again, and his dominant nature would assert itself fully, after his mask slipped when he opened his Christmas present from Benedict and wept.

Benedict knew David's veiled threats were half real and half tease--it was only when he made up his mind and put on a friendly, casual tone that he would be deadly serious. Until then, he was trying to keep Benedict in suspense--and he loved to see Benedict crawl and beg.

Something to mark the occasion on New Year's Eve at the turn of the century, he said. No doubt it was going to be a hot time for Benedict! And his order had been specific and clear--Benedict would have to submit five suggestions every morning for his own torture. Typical of pledgemaster David!

There was a sharp rapping on the glass of the shop window. It was insistent. "Who the hell is that at eight o'clock on Christmas morning?" asked David.

"I'll pull on some things and see who it is," said Benedict.

"Put on your diaper so your ass doesn't ooze blood on your pants," reminded David. Benedict grunted, wrapped himself in the plastic undergarment with Velcro strips to fasten it quickly--then slipped into a pair of loose-fitting slacks, acutely aware that every movement was causing a ripple of "chain reactions" in his crotch and nipples. He slid his feet into a pair of soft slippers and pulled on a turtleneck shirt to cover his upper body. He went to the front door as the rapping on the glass window continued.

Pulling the drape open, he saw through the glass a stocky man in a soft hat and rumpled coat waiting patiently. He turned the deadbolt on the door and opened it a crack to speak.

"Blessed be," he said in greeting. "Who is it? The shop is closed."

"Mr. Benedict?" asked the man. "Police business."

Benedict worked the combination that rolled up the burglar gates and opened the door all the way. The man held out a small leather case displaying a badge. "I'm Detective Leonard Murphy," he announced. "New York City Police, Village Precinct, Homicide Division. Mr. Benedict, I need to talk to you, please. There's a dead woman in the areaway in front of your side gate."

CHAPTER TWO

Who Was That Lady I Saw You With Last Night?

Three minutes later Benedict was out on the sidewalk. He had pulled on socks, shoes and his down coat with hood--it was a cold morning with a promise of snow, and his breath produced white vapor in the air. David was in the shower--it didn't really concern him, Benedict thought, and police might not need to talk to him.

The brownstone owned by Benedict and David was typical of its kind, though better constructed than most. It was one in a row of similar buildings on the north side of this section of the block. Most of the others also had shops with Colonial-style windows at street level. On the corner lot next door to the west was a plant- and-flower shop called "Get Potted!", run by a woman named Felicia Finch--who had been immediately dubbed "Fifi La Fleur" by other residents on the street. Benedict's neighbors to the east included the Lee family who ran the Kan Du Shirt Laundry, Carl Johnson who ran the Village Printing Shop, Mrs. Olson, who operated the West Village Pad and Office Cleaners, and the Kwik Bite Koffee Shoppe. Beyond the Kwik Bite the buildings were less residential in design.

The curb in front of Benedict's and Get Potted! was painted yellow because the west-bound bus stopped there at the corner. Benedict's building was twenty feet wide, and extended more than fifty feet back into the lot. The shop front was flush with the sidewalk, and its glass door was on the right side as one faced the building. The mullioned window was in the center of the street wall, and a wood door on the left opened on a stair well providing access to the four floors of studio apartments which generated Benedict's principal income.

Each building had an alley on its right side--a means of reaching the tiny back yards where some residents had small trees and gardens. The alley to Benedict's back court was closed off eight feet back from the storefront by a wrought-iron fence and gate, with a Medeco deadbolt lock for security. The fence and gate were lined on the inside with black mesh window screening, neatly wired to the original 1898 wrought-iron work.

The areaway in front of the gate provided a convenient place to store five large plastic trash barrels which were set out on the sidewalk by the curb the night before pickup by sanitation crews. During the rest of the week they stood in the areaway to create the least eyesore possible.

But the trash barrels had been moved. Someone had pulled them into a row in front of the gate, creating an empty space behind them. The body was lying behind the barrels, and might not have been seen from the street except for one leg and shoe sprawled awkwardly in death.

Benedict could see a black stocking with a bold and, to him, tasteless flower pattern--appliqued, perhaps. It was a tawdry bit of hosiery. The shoe which he could see on the motionless foot was a gaudy purple with a four inch heel.

Detective Murphy was saying, "So we got the call only twenty minutes ago. Someone on her way to early Christmas mass called to report what she thought was a sick woman, or maybe a drunk. Didn't give a name, and probably doesn't want to get involved--just doing her civic duty and all that.

"We sent a foot patrolman to check on it, and he called in on his radio that we had a D-O-A. 'Course, that's not official until the doctors say so, but take it from me she's dead. We can't move or touch anything until all the pictures are taken, but she's on your property, so I'd like you to take a quick look and tell me if you know who she is. She wasn't very attractive, I'm afraid, even before she was strangled, but I hope you'll oblige me. Would you mind stepping very carefully to this end of the barrels? She's facing this way."

Benedict did as Murphy had requested, and took a long look at the body. The figure was dressed in a collection of garish clothes --from a pillbox hat on an obvious cheap wig--down to the purple shoes. The dress was apparently supposed to be exotic, but looked faintly ludicrous, suggesting enormous breasts that were clearly padding. A light blue cloth coat would have provided but little warmth--it might have been chosen for its color. The lips were painted to match the fingernails, and the open blue eyes were lined with heavy mascara and shadow makeup.

The face had a bluish cast, as did the protruding tongue--a mute indication of death by strangulation. A knotted loop of thin cord pulled tight around the throat was sunk into the neck. A blue purse lay on the ground--apparently empty.

"We can't check the purse for identification until we have photos of everything just as it is," said Murphy. "Now, she looks like a hooker to me, from the getup. She's not attractive enough to be an actress or the like. Pathetic-looking, I'd say. But I think I've seen her before, somewhere. The Village is a relatively new beat for me, but since you've lived here all your life, I thought you might have seen her before, too. Can you identify her in any way?"

"Just a first name, Mr. Murphy. She was Theresa."

"Theresa?" repeated Murphy, writing it down. "You have any idea of what her last name might be, or where she lived?"

Benedict shook his head. "I can't help you there," he said. "In fact, Theresa was an alias, you might call it. She wasn't a real woman. She was a drag queen."

Murphy looked closer at the body. "You're right. I hadn't noticed the Adam's apple before."

"As you said," went on Benedict, "she was a Village character. I think she first appeared about a year ago. I saw her a few times on West Street, or in the bar at Stacy's. She wanted to be called a woman."

"Was she popular there?"

"If by popular you mean did she have any escorts, no. Some men, of course, are attracted to transvestites, but I never saw her with anyone in public." He appeared to be struck by an idea. "I just thought of something. May I look at her one more time?"

"Sure. Tell me if you notice anything that made you want a second look."

Benedict took two long seconds. It was long enough. "Yes, I thought so. It registered the first time, but not clearly."

"What is it?"

"Look at her ears."

Murphy did so. "They're pierced," he said. "The holes are old ones, and pretty large."

"Yes. The important fact is they're empty."

"She usually wore earrings?"

"She was never without them. And a funny thing about Theresa --apparently she had only the one pair, but they were good ones. The rest of her outfits were pathetic, like those of so many cross- dressers. Not at all convincing to anyone. But she had one pair of earrings in very good taste, and while I can't swear to it-- since I'm not a jeweler and never looked at them with a glass--I'd say they were real emeralds. Quite valuable. Theresa used to say they were a precious family heirloom, and that she wouldn't be caught dead without them."

"Thanks for that observation, Mr. Benedict. Oh--here come the ambulance and medical examiner now. I'd like to thank you for your help, but ask you to step back now, please."

"I'll be inside if you need me later."

"Oh, by the way, Mr. Benedict, is this gate to your back yard ever open?"

"Only if we eat outdoors in the summer, or want to bring trash out from the kitchen without trailing through the shop with it. I don't recall using this gate for months."

Murphy looked at it quickly. "Doesn't appear to be." He saw the window screening. "The screen's a good idea," he said. "Keeps trash out, eh?"

Benedict was preoccupied. "Oh, no," he said, "that was to keep Satan in." He took three steps toward the shop door, then turned back. "Satan was the name of a cat we had," he explained.

Murphy smiled. "Well, thank you, and I'll need a written statement from you before long. You understand."

"Anything I can do to help," Benedict answered. He went back inside as the police car and ambulance pulled in to the curb, and a small crowd began to gather. Murphy and a uniformed officer were quick to move the crowd along, and Benedict saw no more as he shut the door.

David was having coffee at the round maple table in the kitchen. He was dressed in loose casual clothes, and his hair was still wet from the shower. "What's happening outside?"

"Someone going to early Mass saw a woman's leg sticking out behind a trash barrel in our areaway and reported a sick woman or a drunk. I looked at the body. It's Theresa."

"The drag queen?"

"That's the one."

"They think it was murder?"

"It would be difficult to strangle yourself--hanging could be suicide, of course. Apparently someone wanted Theresa's earrings."

"The green ones?"

"That's the pair. Did you ever talk to her?"

"I talked to most of the hustlers one time or another."

"She was hustling?"

"Trying to. But in that getup--" he left the sentence unfi- nished.

"I know. It was bizarre."

"Some johns like bizarre things," said David, with a twinkle in his eye. "I know one guy who wants me to do bizarre things to him. He loves it." He suddenly grabbed Benedict and embraced him. "Oh, Benedict, I love you so much!"

"Gee, that's too bad," said Benedict with a straight face. "You're really too old for me."

After a long period of holding each other wordlessly, David released him. "Benedict," he said, "I want to talk to you man to man for a few minutes. Sit down and I'll get you a cup of coffee. You haven't had anything to drink yet--that counts," he added with a wink.

There were two Captain's chairs facing each other across the old maple table, and the centerpiece was a lazy susan turning around a flower vase. Benedict eased himself gingerly onto the hard wood chair as David brought his coffee.

"Are we a little stiff and sore this morning?" he asked with mock concern, "or are we maybe sitting on a hard lump, or some- thing that pulls on us in our private parts?"

"You don't miss a thing, do you?" answered Benedict with a smile. They were in their Dad and son roles now, he could tell.

"Benedict," said David, "I've been doing some thinking about us and your work schedule and the store and all that. Now, we agreed that you're the boss as far as business is concerned. So your decision is final--I accept that. But I have a few sugges- tions." He leaned forward for direct eye contact.

"You've been spreading yourself too thin. You spend too much time selling candles and books instead of doing things a lot more important that only you can do so well. And you don't have any time to unwind and enjoy life. You've been working the store six days a week--all alone until I came in last June. Business is so slow in the middle of the week you've been closed on Wednesdays for readings and private students. And you've been having lectures Monday evenings after the shop closes at eight, which is too late for some people who don't like to travel during high crime hours.

"I've been free Monday nights, and taking Wednesdays off because the shop is closed, but that's one of your busiest days, with private readings and teaching students one-on-one. Here at this scratched-up table, all day, because it's the only place you can sit face to face with a client--and offer a cup of coffee or tea. You get out only a few evenings for a few hours. The only reason we're closed today is nobody shops for witchcraft stuff on Christmas--and you know next weekend will be just as slow because of New Year's. But you've got me here to help--and here's what I think would be a good idea.

"You know business most of the time is too slow for two people to sell books and candles and oils. Before noon it's dead. Even during the week, afternoons and some evenings are slow. A lot of your browsers are just getting out of the rain.

"So, what do you think of this? We close two days a week, on the slowest days--Tuesdays and Wednesdays. I take over the shop-- and you do just lectures, teaching and private readings--five days a week. You're a great teacher and your readings are incredible. So put a notice in the Voice that you'll be available--say from ten to six--from Thursday through Monday. Have your Monday lectures at seven, so you can draw a bigger crowd and be home earlier.

"I'll run the shop, noon to eight, the same five days. You back here, me in the front. And Tuesdays and Wednesdays we can be off and go places together, to see things that appeal to us--maybe a Broadway show now and then. I want to be out with you more, Benedict. As my Dad--so we can enjoy some other things besides the stuff we do downstairs."

His eyes met Benedict's, and he smiled. "Of course, I'm not giving any of that up, you bet your ass! If we can't find anything to do on our two days off together, you'll be in bondage for two days of heavy S/M, non-stop! I'd love that, too!" He stood up and moved around the table to put an arm around Benedict, who turned to face his young Master.

"What do you think of it, Benedict?" David's beautiful dark eyes bored into his slave's, and his voice softened. "Do you want me to get down on my knees and beg you, Dad? I will, if you say so."

Benedict cleared a lump that had formed in his throat. "Never kneel to me, David! Love me, yes, but never kneel! Don't even think of it! I want you just as you are--totally dominant and enjoying every minute of it.

"I like the idea. And I agree that we could do just as well financially in the store with fewer days and shorter hours. So, if that's what you want, we'll do it."

David impulsively hugged Benedict to him. "In fact," went on Benedict, "I had an idea something like that myself." He stood up and grimaced as the chains and rings made their presence felt once more. "Wait here," he said, and went out to the shop. He reached under the counter where business stationery was stored, opened three cardboard cartons to remove a sample from each box, and returned with them to the kitchen.

"When my great-grandfather built this place in 1898," he said, "the sign on the front door read 'John Sandman and Son'--the son being my grandfather, John II. When my grandfather inherited the property and real estate business, he kept the sign because of my father, John III. And my father kept it because of me. It was old-fashioned script lettering, so I changed it to simple block lettering when I opened as 'Benedict'." He was fingering the new stationery as he spoke. "I threw out the 'Sandman' stationery years ago, of course, and had just 'Benedict' on the door and my business cards and letterheads. About two weeks ago I decided to have Roman Uncials instead of block letters, so I cleaned the old sign off the door, and ordered this stationery the same day. What do you think of it?"

"It" was a sheet of typing paper with a plain business letter- head, an envelope with a matching return address, and a business card. David looked at them. The new stationery, in Roman Uncials, was embossed, and bore the name "Benedict and Son," with the address and phone number.

"You see that your card says just 'David' and mine still says just 'Benedict', without any last names. I had Village Printing Shop do the job in advance because I didn't know exactly when the legal papers would come through. Do you like the style?"

David started to cry again. He grabbed Benedict in his arms, and Benedict's eyes were moist, too. "Oh, Dad! I've never felt so loved before!" said David. "You're the best thing that ever hap- pened to me. You're my Dad. I love you so."

"And you're my son. You make me very happy."

David could not resist the opening. "Even Friday nights in the basement?" he asked teasingly.

"When it's over," said Benedict with a grim sigh. For a long moment he didn't speak--then the words came quickly. "Ye gods, but you hurt me terribly, David! The first month we were lovers I won- dered if I could live up to my half of our agreement. It was far worse than I had ever imagined it could be--the way you gave it to me! But I made up my mind.

"I had made a deal with you, David. I said I'd be your sex slave for life. That was my own idea, for the sex magic to work. To do what I wanted to do, my sacrifice had to be completely real-- not make believe. I wasn't gay, and I wasn't a masochist, but I said you could torture my bare buttocks as much as you wanted-- period. Make me take any sexual perversion--period. Whatever you wanted--whenever you wanted--as long as you wanted--period. When I made that promise I knew you were a real sadist, and I knew you'd never go easy on me. I knew I was giving you a blank check, and I knew you'd make the price steep. But I also knew you loved me as a Dad, and that I'd always be safe with you.

"Well, these past six months have shown me that I'm more of a masochist than I had imagined. I love giving you pleasure, David. I wanted meaning and purpose in life, and pleasing you has become my meaning and purpose. I love you when you whip me, and I love you more when you tease me about it afterwards. I love all your pledgemaster games. I like to disobey you in little ways so you have a reason to whip me even more. I say that's masochism--but it's real, not make-believe--and the magic worked last night."

David held him close.

"I've always known," he said. "I told you the first night in Stacy's--I knew I turned you on. I knew you weren't gay and not a slave. But I meant it when I said I wanted to have you for a Dad, too. I wasn't sure I could make you my slave and not feel guilty for hurting you, because I never thought of you as a john I could work over and not care about.

"Then you said we could live double lives--Master and slave all the time, and Dad and son in public, or whenever I wanted that. And I knew right then that I wanted you. I love to hurt you, Dad, but I'll never harm you--and I know the difference. I like all the humiliations--we have the best of everything." His voice became more teasing. "And I'm working up something really special for next Friday night--seriously. Does that scare you?"

"I'll never be afraid of you, David. I like being at your mercy, because I know I can always trust you with my life."

"I know."

Benedict gave David a final hug. "I think it's time for brunch--we can't get through the day on coffee. What kind of omelet would you like this Christmas morning?"

"Anything you like. Another beautiful thing about you, Dad, is you're a great cook."

"You're not bad yourself. I've tasted your gazpacho, and your paella is as good as any I had in Mexico."

While Benedict worked at the stove, David typed a brief notice on a file card to tape to the front door, advising customers of the new business days and hours. He frowned, tore it up, and typed another. He was still mulling over the wording when Benedict called him to brunch.

When brunch was finally over, David finally taped a card to the inside of the glass door, reading:

BENEDICT AND SON

will be open from Noon to 8:00 PM

Thursday through Monday. Private

readings and classes, by appointment,

same days. Closed Tuesday/Wednesday.

HAPPY NEW YEAR!

from Benedict and David

A few minutes later they put on their coats and went out for a walk. There were a few stragglers lingering about the areaway, but the ambulance was gone and the trash barrels had been pushed back to their normal place. A stout woman with hennaed hair was staring at the gate. "She was right there," she was saying to a thinner woman in a gray coat. "Terrible--right here on our street! Oh, that's poor Mr. Benedict and his son! To have it happen right in their areaway!" They seemed to be headed east, so Benedict and David nodded at them in a gesture of greeting, and turned west. The wind off the Hudson was chilly, and the skies gloomy. There would be snow, or freezing rain, before the day was over.

That night they watched the Channel Six News at ten, as Sally Burke, filling in for the usual anchorman, read a brief report on the murder on Christopher Street. Benedict had a pad of lined yellow notepaper and a ballpoint pen in hand. He was jotting down notes as Sally related the facts.

She read the story over tape showing briefly the front of the shop with its curtain drawn over the window--so it had to have been taken that morning--and the areaway. The news team had arrived before the body had been removed--there was even a quick shot of the leg and foot protruding from behind the trash barrels. The time of Theresa's death was estimated at ten o'clock Christmas Eve.

At the end of the story was a still shot of the dead face, heavily retouched, and a request that any viewer knowing the name and/or home address of the victim should please call a special number to assist police in their investigation.

"What do you think of the murder, Benedict?" asked David.

Benedict was looking critically at what he was writing, and apparently giving it serious thought. He jotted down ideas as he spoke. "Well, it seems obvious that someone wanted Theresa's emerald earrings, and I presume that whoever has them is her murderer. And I'd guess offhand that it was a crime of opportu- nity. That is, that Theresa happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. Ten o'clock on a Friday night is usually pretty busy on Christopher Street, but the holiday could have kept most people indoors for family activities. And while there are plenty of street lights, our areaway is eight feet deep and more than twenty feet from the light at the bus stop--so it's quite dark at night. It would be entirely possible for someone to lurk there, in wait for a victim.

"At first glance it would seem that someone spotted Theresa and her emeralds, and followed her. Let's say it happened to be dark enough, and lonely enough, and maybe Theresa stopped in front of our place for a few seconds to light a cigarette or something. Of course, I'm just taking a guess. And whoever it was saw his chance and took it. On the spur of the moment. No plotting, no premeditation--just grab and run."

He frowned in thought and wrote again. "The only thing wrong with that idea is that she was strangled with a loop of rope and not just hit and mugged. So the killer had the weapon ready--so it was planned. How often do you walk around the streets of Manhattan with a knotted loop of rope in your pocket, just the right length to do the job?"

He tore off the sheet of notepaper and folded it in quarters. "So, we don't have enough information about the crime to speculate. And I wouldn't be terribly interested if something like that had happened, say, in Washington Square. But right outside our door brings it too close to home not to have an interest in it." He absently placed the folded paper on the lazy susan where he always put his shopping lists. "We'll just have to wait until someone who knew Theresa calls that phone number to give police more facts. When that happens, I'd expect they'll want to talk to me again."

David was pulling the sofa-bed open for another night's sleep in the soft glow of the Christmas tree lights. "That will be interesting," he said.

The mechanism seemed to be jamming, as it had done before.

"This sofa bed has got to go," he said in a tone of mock disgust. "The springs are getting too old to take the action we're giving it nowadays." Abruptly, he switched roles. He snapped his fingers, and Benedict became the slave.

"Strip."

Benedict stripped.

"Undress me."

Benedict undressed him.

"How do your new chains feel, slave?"

"Terribly distracting, Master."

"Do you mean stimulating, slave?"

"Yes, Master."

"How stimulating, slave?"

"Estremely stimulating, Master."

"Erotically stimulating, slave?"

"Yes, Master."

"Put your hands behind your back, slave."

Benedict put his hands behind his back. David snapped them together as he had the night before. Then David wrapped his arms around Benedict.

"Thank you, slave, for the best Christmas of my life." His warm tongue probed Benedict's mouth passionately. Benedict was in ecstasy.

David lay down and gave the signal. As Benedict slid down to accept the final ritual of mortification, David switched off the light. The room was now bathed in the soft multicolored glow from the tree through the archway.

At last Benedict said, "Thank you, Master. May I please have some more, sir?"

"Reveille tomorrow morning, pig. You're getting too greedy."

There was a minute of silence.

"Slave," said David.

"Yes, Master?"

"This mattress is lumpy."

"Yes, Master."

"You said last June you'd like to do the place over for you and me. Can we afford to buy some new furniture?"

"Yes, Master."

"I'd like to get a few things we really need. I'll look for bargains and after-Christmas sales. Not much--a few good things."

"Yes, Master."

There was silence a minute or so and David spoke again.

"Slave--a friend of mine says fresh pineapple is a really great diuretic. Better than canned cranberry juice. Is he right?"

"Yes, Master. It's extremely powerful."

"I want you to buy two fresh pineapples tomorrow if you can find them this time of year. Try Balducci's."

"Yes, Master."

"Always have a spare one on hand. When we cut into the last one, get another. You're the thirstiest pig I've ever had."

"Yes, Master."

CHAPTER THREE

Two Turtle Doves

On the second day of Christmas, David was in the mood to be a loving son--at least in the morning. After "reveille", which was obligatory, he unsnapped Benedict's wrists and they spent a warm, leisurely hour on the bed--lumpy mattress, broken spring, and all. There was no carnal sex, but tender play and lovers' intimacies that Benedict found both hypnotic and emotionally fulfilling. At last David gave Benedict a friendly slap on the rump. "You shower first, Dad, and I'll start breakfast for a change."

When Benedict stepped out of the shower he could smell sausage broiling, and by the time he was dressed waffles were baking on the griddle. David set out the food, and sat nude in his chair, offer- ing Benedict butter and syrup without being asked to please pass anything.

On some days David sat dressed while Benedict was his naked servant. On other days David ate barefoot while Benedict lay on the floor, sucking his toes. Life with David was never routine, but full of surprises.

"Benedict," said David in a friendly tone as they were sipping coffee, "where's that list of punishments I ordered you to prepare for me?"

"List of punishments, David?"

"Yes, Benedict. If you failed to remember that I gave you a very specific order yesterday morning, I'll have to take drastic action to improve your memory."

This was a new game, Benedict thought. The friendly tone--the first name instead of "slave"--and the Master role combined. He wasn't quite sure what response he should make to the new gambit.

"Oh!" said Benedict--as though just understanding--"you mean the list of punishments I want you to give me for having an O-B-E Friday night?"

"Cut the bullshit, Benedict," he said, still friendly in tone. "Where's your list?"

"Right in front of you, David. It's been there for you all along." He pointed to the folded sheet of yellow notepaper he had placed under the lazy susan while they were watching the news last night.

David looked at him suspiciously and pulled the paper toward him. He unfolded it and read it silently. Then his eyes went back to the top of the sheet and he read it all again, without a muscle moving in his face, although apparently it was taking some effort to do so.

He handed the paper across the table to Benedict. His voice also suggested that he was under some inner strain.

"Read it aloud to me, slave," he commanded, in a cold and menacing voice. The loving son had now become the tyrant again.

"Yes, Master," said Benedict. "It goes this way.

"'Dear Master. This worthless person submits this undeser- ving petition in compliance with and humble obedience to your gracious order of Christmas morning--because of my unforgivable deception and intolerable insubordination--that I submit to you my own groveling recommendations for appropriate torture for your unworthy slave. I hereby pitifully and humbly beg, beseech, and implore you to generously administer, bestow, lavish, and otherwise inflict upon my naked body the following:

"'One. Please invite ten or twelve sadists to come home with you, and take turns mortifying and raping me two at a time--head and tail simultaneously--until I collapse from nervous exhaustion.

"'Two. Please sentence me to a punishment of not less than five thousand strokes per man per day for the rest of my life.

"'Three. Please keep me in solitary confinement chained to a wall, and feed me nothing but pig slops and shit for life.

"'Four. Please disregard the above.

"'Five. Please forgive me. Your loving and devoted slave.'" At that point Benedict could no longer keep his composure, but threw back his head and roared with laughter at his own humor.

"You find it amusing, slave?" asked David ominously.

"I'm truly sorry, Master. I was preoccupied with the little matter of a murder in our areaway yesterday. That was the best I could do before bedtime."

David reached out for the paper. "I'll take that," he said calmly. "Maybe you forgot what I promised you then, but I remember every word. I promised I would grant your requests as much as possible. If I forgave you, I'd be breaking that promise--and you don't want me to do that. So I will consider the first three requests. I'll have to think about them. And because I don't want you to forget anything important I say to you, you will have your demerit pad and pen handy at all times. Whenever you commit any offense and I think of some appropriately severe punishment, you'll write them down as I dictate."

"Yes, Master." Benedict sighed for David's benefit, but in- wardly he was delighted.

An hour later David was friendly again. He was at the table, working on a horoscope. He had become quite proficient in the math, and using the reference books to calculate the map. In fact, Benedict had to admit that David had the natural Scorpio flair for the occult sciences, and his charts were as accurate as any that Benedict himself did.

But David had a long way to go in learning to interpret the chart quickly--seeing broad, general patterns and meaningful rela- tionships between the charts of two or more people. He had started practicing his skills by doing free horoscopes for his friends and acquaintances.

"Benedict," he said, "I have a question. As your son and student."

"Ask it, of course."

"I've done a chart on a pal of mine. This is it. He was born on June 26, 1977, here in Manhattan, and his birth certificate says exactly nine in the evening. I'm pretty sure my map is accurate. But there are so many details, and they seem to contradict each other at times.

"I know quite a bit about him. What I'd like to ask if you could give me a real quick reading on what you think he's like--and I'll try to see what it is in the chart that gives you that inform- ation. I know him well enough to know if you're on target, or off on a tangent."

Benedict cast his eyes on the map and they flickered from one symbol to another as he spoke. "Well," he began, "always remember that a chart is like a road map and weather forecast in one. It tells you where the best roads are to take you where you want to go, and how stormy it will be on any one of them at any time. But it can't tell you which road you'll choose. And it doesn't say you can't get through--only that some roads will be easier traveling than others.

"Also remember that it's a life-map, so some influences are active at different times than others. Now, your pal was born in 1977, so he's still just a kid--only twenty-two. Some of the events indicated in his chart may not take place until he's forty. And everything in the subject's life must be shown by only thirty- six symbols in all. Those are the twelve signs, twelve houses, ten planets, and two sensitive points that move like planets.

"So that means every symbol must have many different possible meanings, which will change from one context to another. Finally, they must act through the physical environment, which channels the astrological energies into material acts.

"In general, he's a well-adjusted young man, not psychic but has a lot of good hunches, and he tends to be moody and dependent on others for emotional support. He could put on a tough act as a cover up for his natural shyness. He's secretive, but not sneaky-- he just knows when to talk and what to keep to himself. He's very sentimental and attached to the idea of a home and family, under a mask of being very practical, systematic and cautious."

David, who had listened while looking at the chart, nodded.

"Okay. Pretty good. That's his Cancer Sun in good aspect to his Scorpio Moon, and the Capricorn rising?"

"Yes. He takes good care of his health, watches his diet--and is probably athletic."

"That's right. He's into natural foods and things, and works out in a gym. How did you know?"

"Sun and Mercury in the sixth house for concern for diet and health matters, and Mars in good aspect to the Ascendant for the physical exercise."

"How would he get along with me?"

"You're very compatible in many ways. You said he's a pal, so you like each other, and that would be expected from comparing your chart to his. His Moon and Uranus make a very strong conjuction with your Sun, so you're drawn to each other, and he tends to follow your lead--but I don't believe you could lead him to bed."

"Why not?"

"I have the impression that you and he would be competitive rather than compatible. Neither one of you would be willing to be a bottom man to the other, though you'd both gladly be top man."

David grinned. "You're right on target there. I tried to put the make on him while he was trying to put the make on me. So we decided we'll have to be just buddies."

"Hmm," said Benedict, looking at the chart again. "As to sex, he's every bit as kinky and horny as you are--even though he's not a Scorpio."

"Where do you see that?" asked David.

"He has a group of planets in a formation I like to call the two-four-six. That means that two planets are six signs apart, or opposed, and a third planet is located between them--two signs from one and four signs from the other. That's the two-four-six part. Two signs are a sextile and four signs a trine. Now, an opposition tends to attract negative events, while trines and sextiles tend to attract positive ones. In the two-four-six, the problem indicated by the opposition can be minimized because the middle planet can make good use of their negative energy toward each other."

"Like converting sexual energy into psychic energy?"

"Something like that. In your pal's chart, Mars and Venus-- the love planets of passion and romance--are united in a close conjunction. It could show either a love/hate relationship, or a strong sex drive. But Mars is in bad aspect to Uranus, making Mars aggressive and Uranus kinky. The outlet for this negative aspect is his Ascendant--his appearance and outer personality. So he's likely to attract off-beat friends--and he'll do just about any- thing to anyone who'll give in to him. Maybe even if they won't."

"Would he rape somebody?"

"It's possible. He has a sadistic streak--perhaps from a bad relationship with his father, who may have abused him. It looks like the family moved quite often, and his father could have been a fighter or military man or policeman or construction worker--"

"Bullseyes, but where do you see it?"

"Mars in the fourth house of the father. Mars is physical energy, and it's in a bad aspect to Saturn, so the martial energy tends toward violence, and Saturn tends toward cruelty."

David nodded. "Well, Mark was born here because his Dad was in the army--an MP on special security assignment downtown. When Mark was still a baby his Dad was transferred to Texas. When his Dad found out Mark was gay, he beat him up and threw him out." David looked at the chart again. "Could he monogamous?"

"Ye gods, no!" laughed Benedict. "He needs a lot of love, and he's secretly afraid of being rejected by a lover. But he has a lot of unconventional friends, and once he gets started sexually he keeps on going as long as there's anyone around who's still awake."

David laughed out loud. "I guess he's not monogamous. And you're right about his hunches. We've talked about astrology a lot." He paused. "What did you mean when you said he's not psychic but has hunches. Aren't they the same thing?"

"No. Hunches come up from your subconscious mind--dim memory traces of things you've seen and heard before but have forgotten-- until something you see or hear now triggers an association you didn't know was there. And it's called a hunch.

"Psychic impressions come down from the superconscious mind. They tell you things you've never seen or heard before, and have no way of knowing from any past experience." Benedict looked at the chart again. "What does your pal do for a job?" he asked.

"He used to be an actor and part-time hustler. His last name is Davenport, like our broken sofa-bed. When I gave up hustling, I introduced him to my john up on Columbus Avenue who likes heavy S/M. Mark's been working him over pretty regularly ever since. But daytimes he's a clerk at the porno shop now."

"Which one?"

"The one where we bought all the dildos I shove up your ass."

"I know which porno shop. I meant which clerk?"

"The guy who keeps an eye out for shoplifters--or the guys who read too long without buying anything. He works days there, so I've seen him most Wednesdays when I've been off. He puts on a drawl and tells people he's from daown Saouth. He saw us together one day when we were in to buy the enema equipment, and while you were looking at the toys, he said to me, 'Are y'all two Scorpios? Ah'm a Cancer.' I said, 'what's your Ascendant?', and he said, 'y'all leave mah ass-end outta it, d'y'heah?'"

Benedict smiled skeptically. "And just how much of that did you make up just now?"

David raised his eyebrows, and looked reproachfully at Bene- dict. "I'm putting on the drawl too thick," he admitted--then he shrugged good-naturedly. "Well, actually, that's his kind of joke, but I made up the rest. He cracked me up with it the first time I told him all about you and me months ago." As an afterthought he remarked casually, "I told all the guys I used to live with, as a matter of fact. Mark puts on a dumb expression and says dumb-ass things with a straight face to be funny." He paused. "Can you tell what a person looks like from a horoscope?"

"Not really," answered Benedict. "You can usually spot a few telltale traits of a rising sign or a planet in the first house, but there are too many unknowns in the physical plane--such as his biological parents."

"Well, looking at Mark's chart, what would you expect to see as telltale characteristics?"

Benedict closed his eyes in concentration. "I'll have to ask you questions, rather than tell you for sure. Is he a little taller than you, a little beefier, a face most people would say is cute or baby-face, with green eyes, and hair with a reddish tint to it to some degree?"

David whooped. "He's six feet tall, one-eighty, so he's a little bigger than me in every way, cute looking, and has dark red hair, not bright red. You got that by psychic impression?"

"No, by a hunch--subconscious. While you were talking I was listening, and remembering your talking to me on other occasions. Last June 14 you told me you had a roommate on West Fourth Street who was into psychology, and he was a hustler, too. You said his name was Mark, and that he was a redhead I'd seen on Beltane when he found you at Stacy's when your mother was in Jacobi. When I shut my eyes to concentrate I could almost see him as he was in Stacy's that evening. So it was memory and subconscious associa- tion--not superconscious revelation of something I had no prior knowledge of. So you were trying to hide the fact that you two had lived together, just to see if you could fool me, right?"

David grinned, and looked at his watch. "Almost time to open the store. Look, Dad, it's the day after Christmas, and Sunday, and things will probably be slow, even with the scene of the crime outside our door to bring the rubberneckers. We agreed I'd run the shop from now on, so why don't I begin today? You need to take a break from your old routines, so why don't you take a nice long walk?" He looked at Benedict meaningfully. "You have to pick up some pineapples at Balducci's, remember?"

"Yes, I remember. If they have fresh ones."

"If not, get cans of slices or chunks. Enough so we always have plenty of piss-maker on hand. Oh--one more question about money."

"Yes?"

"Could we afford to have our own draft beer dispenser? One that holds a half-keg? We've got room for one in the kitchen near the sink."

"Yes, I know we have room for one. And, yes, we could afford one. Are you planning on switching to beer?"

"I've made a New Year's resolution. No more expensive cognac for David. No more expensive hard liquor. Just lots of good beer --and pineapple. I think that combination would be good for me, don't you?"

Benedict smiled ruefully. "It would certainly be a very effective regimen for your purpose."

"How do you know what my purpose is, slave?"

"I'm psychic that way, Master."

David laughed. "I believe you, Dad. So it's okay with you if I arrange for delivery of draft beer and the tap and chiler? I can call tomorrow."

"If you like, David. So it's okay with you if I go for a walk in the Village this afternoon?"

"It's an order. And have a good time."

David took Benedict in his arms and kissed him briefly. "I've got to open up. See you later, Dad."

He had raised the burglar gates, opened the drape and turned on the lights by the time Benedict had donned his down coat with the hood zipped up--and taken his umbrella as a precaution against a cold rain. As Benedict walked through the store the phone rang, and David answered.

"Benedict and Son." There was a pause. "David speaking." He signaled to Benedict that the call was for himself, and Benedict opened the shop door and stepped out on Christopher Street.

A stout woman with hennaed hair was talking to a thinned woman in a gray coat. "'I'm just disgusted with you!' I said to him, 'even though you are my brother! Look at that pony tail--and at your age! I don't want my friends to know you're a member of my family', I said to him. 'We've never been hippies, and all I can say is you always see a pony tail on a horse's ass!'"

Her loud voice trailed behind her as they walked toward the river. Benedict, his pony tail concealed in his hood, turned east. When he returned with a shopping bag an hour later, he found David reading a horoscope to a taller, husky young man with dark red hair. A familiar-looking woman was browsing at the book display.

Then he placed her: it was Diane Stone--apparently waiting for him. He was mildly surprised, having seen her twice, six months ago when, as an undercover police agent, she had attended one of his weekly lectures on Wicca. She had asked him about the so- called cult murder in Central Park, and he had given her an essen- tial psychic clue for its solution.

"Well," said Benedict in a friendly tone, "it's Ms. Diane Stone, isn't it?"

"That's right," she answered with a smile. "You have a good memory for names." She was an attractive brunette about thirty, he guessed--businesslike, poised, and quietly efficient. "I'm not on duty right now, though I'm told I'll be on your murder case tomor- row. I read Detective Murphy's first report mentioning you, and when I saw the news on TV last night I decided to drop by on my own time to see the scene of the crime--and talk to you, if you have a minute for me."

"Of course, Ms. Stone," he said warmly. "Let me take my gro- ceries back and hang up my coat, and I'll be right back."

He left the shopping bag on the kitchen table, hung up his coat and umbrella, removed his overshoes, stored his storm wear in the closet behind the drape, and returned to the shop in front. Ms. Stone was looking at titles on the book shelves with apparent interest. "I didn't realize there was such extensive literature on your subject," she said, "and some quite collectible, I'd imagine."

She returned a leather-bound volume to its place on the shelf, and then changed the subject. "I imagine the transvestite case interests you for the simple reason that it occurred on your door- step, so to speak."

"Quite correct. As I told my son yesterday, I wouldn't feel involved if Theresa had been murdered in Washington Square. Have you any better name for her than 'Theresa'?"

"We're still working on her identity. Until we know who she-- I mean he--was, we can't do much more. The fact that it happened on Christmas Eve, and Christmas falling on Saturday this year, slows things down a little, too."

"Did your request for information bring you any valid calls?" asked Benedict. "I imagine you get a lot of 'harmless cranks' giving you worthless information." He smiled at his accidental quotation of their conversation of last June.

Ms. Stone apparently didn't notice the irony. "A few calls, mostly to report having seen Theresa on Greenwich Street, up near West Tenth. The callers all thought she lived somewhere near them, but didn't know the exact house."

"I'm not surprised," said Benedict. "I presume the head was shaved and the eyebrows plucked?"

"Yes," she answered. "Many transvestites shave the head to make their wigs fit better and look more natural. Of course Theresa wore one that looked like a mark-down to nine ninety-five."

"You might have quite a job tracking her down," said Benedict absently.

"Why do you say that?" she asked.

"Well, most cross-dressers--and other non-conformists I know-- lead double lives. They have to eat, which means they have to work. So Theresa had to have men's clothing, too, to hold down a regular job. And if he rented a room as a man and kept his drag in his closet, a lot of people would see him out of drag, and never connect him with Theresa. That was the private side of his person- ality that only his family would see, perhaps."

"Do you think he had a family?" she asked curiously.

"Not as a husband," he answered. "Some transvestites, of course, are completely heterosexual and very happily married to understanding wives. The husband often likes to wear his wife's clothing--he feels her dainty underthings next to his own skin, and that excites him. It may be a kinky kind of foreplay to marital intercourse. The wife often helps him in his fantasies, because he's thinking of her--as a heterosexual man thinks of a woman. He's not pretending to be a woman. That kind of cross-dressing is always private.

"And others are very lonely and pathetic men. They might wish they were women in order to escape from the pressure to compete as a man. They can't compete, so they go out in public in drag, where they are almost instantly spotted as transvestites, and ridiculed-- overtly or covertly.

"I doubt that Theresa was a married man. His wife would have certainly come forward after the news of his murder, if she hadn't reported him missing. Living as a man with a shaved head--leading a humdrum existence until he can dress up and get out into bohemian bars at night to pretend he's glamorous. I presume your investiga- tors will have photos of both Theresa and her male counterpart."

"Yes. We have a morgue photo of him after the makeup was taken off. We'll be canvassing residents of Greenwich Street and West Tenth starting tomorrow, trying to find out where he lived and who he was. And your observation of the missing earrings, of course, has been a starting point for a check on known fences, pawn shops, and so on."

"I don't believe they'll be sold or pawned," said Benedict. "I can't say why--it's just a feeling I have. Would you mind if I ask you a question? What was Theresa like as a man--from the autopsy report?"

"It's not terribly confidential. The medical examiner puts his age in the late forties. He wasn't in bad shape, but didn't keep himself in good shape, either. Five feet nine, a hundred fifty pounds, quite near-sighted, no surgical scars or birthmarks. Lung damage suggests he was a chain smoker."

"I remember she always had a cigarette going and a pack handy. Tell me, could she have been strong enough to fight, if she saw the rope coming?"

She frowned. "Perhaps I shouldn't tell you this," she said, "but Theresa was hit on the head from behind before the killer finished the job with the rope."

"Any clue as to what she was struck with?"

"The mark on the skull under the wig suggests something like a piece of lumber--say a two-by-four. It wouldn't have had to be very long--a foot or so would do the job, since it was a surprise attack, apparently."

Benedict was smiling to himself. "Interesting."

"Why is that so interesting to you?"

"Well, why was Theresa out for a walk on a cold night with just a light coat? Why was she in the areaway? If her killer had a loop of rope to strangle her, and a piece of lumber to stun her first, then it wasn't a crime of opportunity. We can rule out a street punk mugging her for the emeralds. We can rule out a psychopathic 'fag basher' and an accidental selection of a drag queen as victim. The crime was planned by someone who wanted to kill Theresa and nobody else. In short, she had a date to meet her killer. Was she drunk when she was killed?"

Ms. Stone looked at him with great respect. "You should have been a detective, Mr. Benedict," she said. "Yes, stomach contents showed she had been drinking fairly heavily before her death. And we have been asking ourselves the same questions you have raised."

"Why my areaway?" asked Benedict rhetorically. "Was the killer waiting there when Theresa arrived? Or was she waiting for him? Was the killer supposed to be bringing something to Theresa? Or did she have something in her purse for her killer? Was her purse empty? And, by the way, could a woman have committed the crime?"

"To answer your last question first, it's possible. It doesn't take much strength to knock out an unsuspecting man with a two-by-four. It doesn't take much strength to tighten a loop of rope when the victim is unconscious. And it appears the killer had the rope tied in a big loop before putting it over her head--and then used something like a stick to twist the rope tight and hold it until Theresa was dead."

"But not the two-by-four?"

"No, the rope wasn't loose enough for a two-by-four to slip inside the loop. It had to be less than inch in diameter. It might have been something like a nightstick carried by policemen or security officers."

"Yes, or by any punk who buys one in a few hundred shops around the city." He paused a little. "What about the purse?"

"It had either been cleaned out, or it was empty when Theresa left home."

"If it was empty at first, someone else bought her drinks. And where was that, I wonder?" He mused a moment. "Was there anything unusual about the noose itself?"

"Not really. It's a common type made of strands of plastic cord that's used for tieing up packages in stores, or mail and express services. Nowadays most people use strapping tape, but every store that deals in bundles or boxes of merchandise still has lots of it. It's cheap and strong, and you can pick up eighteen inches of it just about anywhere. We have no way to trace it, because it's common, and of course it doesn't take fingerprints."

"So the murderer simply tied a couple of feet or less into a loop, knocked her out with a timber, put the loop over her head, stuck some kind of small stick inside the loop and started turning it fast. The twisting made it tighten up quick and it did the job in a hurry. Important, since a passerby might peer down into my areaway for some reason. How long would it have taken to cause death?"

"Pressure on the carotid artery could have knocked him out in two or three long seconds. Death could have occurred in a minute-- two minutes at the outside. There wouldn't have been any noise or struggle. In a dark areaway on a Christmas Eve, partly hidden by five big trash barrels, there would have been surprisingly little chance of discovery. All it took was a little lucky timing--and the determination, of course."

Benedict frowned a little. "Well, we can't draw any conclu- sions yet, but it's very thought-provoking." He paused. "I've asked you a lot of questions, and thank you for the information. Now what would you like to ask me, if anything?"

"Nothing right now," she smiled. "Actually, I just wanted to touch base with you, because of your brilliant observations last June. I can't say I believe in witchcraft and the like--but I have an open mind, you understand, and I recognize a keen mind when I see one in action." She smiled again. "Your remarks so far show you're at work on it, so if you have any further comments you think might be helpful, my mind is open."

She started to leave, and Benedict escorted her to the door. "It's always a pleasure, Miss Stone, and perhaps we can talk again sometime. Blessed be." He opened the door for her, and pulled it shut against the cold air.

With David working the store, Benedict spent his time in the kitchen preparing a holiday dinner. As David had said, Benedict was a good cook, and this evening he decided to prepare a feast for the two of them.

David came back from the shop several times, when there were no customers, so he could bolt the door briefly and hang a "back in five minutes" sign to allow him the comfort of a "pit stop". While Benedict was on his knees providing his Master with this essential service, David sniffed the aromas with pleasure.

When Benedict said, "Thank you, Master. May I please have some more, sir?" David, as usual, said, "Later, pig." Then he added, "While you were out, Dennis Pierce called to cancel his Wednesday lesson--he has an audition. He'll be in Monday after New Year's at his usual time. He was the only one who hadn't cancelled for the holidays before now, so you have nobody on your appointment list for this week. I'll think of some things for you to be doing for a few days to keep you out of my way--and trouble."

Then he saw the shopping bag on the table, and his tone became one of mock innocence. "You've been shopping, Dad?" he asked in- genuously. "Can I see what you've bought?"

"Certainly, David," replied Benedict, as he removed the con- tents of the bag.

There were two large fresh pineapples. Two restaurant-size cans of pineapple slices. Two restaurant-size cans of pineapple chunks. Two restaurant-size cans of crushed pineapple. And two restaurant-size cans of pineapple juice. "I wasn't sure which you might prefer, David," he said with a slight smile.

David kept a straight face. "Get out your demerit book and take this down." Benedict had it handy, and immediately complied. David now dictated in a calm, friendly voice--a sign that he was deadly serious.

"December 24, wasting Master's time and energy, one thousand. Same date, lying to Master, two thousand. December 25, improper use of first name, five hundred--a generous reduction, because it was Christmas. December 26, submitting smart-ass list of punish- ments, one thousand. Same date, smart-ass attitude on shopping errand, one thousand."

"Yes, Master," said Benedict, and then laughed uncontrollably.

David looked at him coldly. "Add to the above. December 26, laughing when ordered to keep record of demerits. In the demerit column write 'double all of the above'."

Benedict gasped. "Double them all?" He quickly added them up. "That comes to eleven thousand!"

David gazed at him without sympathy. "Add to the above, same date. Protesting Master's decision--redouble the above, and add all together, making thirty-three thousand. I warn you, slave, one more word of protest, one more snort of laughter, one more smart- ass facial expression, any look or tone that shows any attitude except complete humility and obedience will double them all again! You shouldn't need to be reminded that I administer punishments worse than you want, and with no mercy!" He turned to go back to the shop, and then added, over his shoulder, "Take out your dentures, and have the meat grinder ready at supper time!"

"Yes, Master," said Benedict. He wrote as commanded, put the demerit book back on the kitchen table, removed his dentures and went back to preparations for supper.

At supper time, David sat alone at the table, barefoot, while Benedict, stripped and with his hands cuffed, served David as well as he could. David said not a word except to order his glass be refilled, which Benedict struggled to do with his hands behind his back.

When David had eaten his fill, he took a plate and served up a portion for Benedict. This he put through the meat grinder, collecting it in a large flat pan. He placed the pan on the floor. "Your list of requested punishments included that you be fed pig slops as well as shit. This is the best I can do for now, but by Friday night we'll have the sausage-stuffer nozzle to make it a lot tastier for a pig like you." He placed the pan of ground up scraps on the floor before his chair, sat down, and planted his bare feet in the pan, moving them around to squish the mess between and all over them. Then he raised one foot to look at the mess dripping off it, and nodded approval. "Get down on your knees and lick up your pig slops, slave!"

Benedict swallowed hard, then knelt, first on one leg and then the other, rolled over on his side and then onto his belly, inching his way forward until his face was over the pan and David's feet.

"Suck it up, pig," ordered David, raising his foot with the wet, unappetizing mess dripping between his toes and into the pan. Benedict sucked it up. When the pan and David's feet were as clean as possible, David unsnapped the bondage cuffs so Benedict could move his arms again. "You're a slob, pig," he said savagely. "Go take a shower."

That night they slept in each other's arms. Benedict had difficulty in falling asleep at first, because David had inserted a twelve-inch dildo greased with Bengay, and secured it in place with a chain that had been part of his Christmas present.

The only bright spot on the week's horizon was that David had annulled his standing order for a request for five punishments each day--but his explanation was not reassuring.

"We've got enough to start with. Just a few more little doublings, and we'll have the numbers up where I want them."

Benedict simply nodded obediently and said, "Yes, Master."

CHAPTER FOUR

On the Trail of Theresa

"Benedict and Son," said David into the telephone the next morning. He was still lying on the bed and Benedict was rubbing his back with baby oil. "May I give my father a message, please?" he asked. "He can't take the phone at the moment."

David listened a few moments, and answered, "I'll give him the message right away, Mr. Burke. Blessed be." He hung up and turned to Benedict. "Detective Leonard Murphy would like you to stop by the Village Precinct at your first convenience, so as to give your statement to a stenographer for the record." Then he added, "Just the powder now, Dad, and let's get going. We both have a lot to do before the shop opens today."

They took time for pineapple juice and coffee. Then David switched on the answering machine as they left on their separate errands. Benedict again carried his umbrella over his arm, and headed crosstown to the Village Voice office. There he made out forms for new ads, advising readers of the new services and shop schedules, wrote a check for the January ads, and headed back for the Village Precinct. Detective Murphy was in, and called for a stenographer to take down Benedict's statement about Theresa's murder.

"Mr. Benedict," said Murphy, beginning the interview, "this will take just a few minutes, but I'd like to get as much as possible in writing, so as to expedite our investigation. You saw the body of the deceased in your areaway last Saturday morning in my presence, and identified the victim simply as Theresa. The deceased was a male transvestite, and you said you had seen him on or around West Street earlier this year. Can you estimate when Theresa, as he called himself, was first seen by you?"

Benedict closed his eyes. "Let me think, Mr. Murphy," he said. "I recall that it was last winter--January, not later. I was on my usual Wednesday night visit to Stacy's old bar, and she was already there when I entered. I was struck by the fact that she was so lightly dressed, and didn't seem to mind the cold weather. I presumed she was showing off her--uh, costume. Of course I could tell she wasn't a real woman, but there had been other drag queens in Stacy's before her. She sat at the short end of the bar, near the wall, about six feet away from me diagonally, and the first thing I noticed, after I took in the rest of her drag, was her earrings.

"She was smiling at me, as though she were inviting me to pick her up. She said to me, 'Do you like my earrings, honey?', and I answered something like, 'Oh, yes--they're very nice.' Words to that effect. She said 'They're a precious family heirloom--I wouldn't be caught dead without them. My dear mother left them to me in her will." She was drinking, and quite talkative.

"Well! My brother thought that was terribly unfair because he was older, and should have them to give to his wife. But I was mother's favorite--and, after all, he got the money in her bank account. And we both got equal shares in the old house. But my brother was so ungrateful--I mean, really! My dear, I tell you he just took his money and moved to Florida as soon as the funeral was over. He even tried to sell his share of the house, but of course he couldn't do that. And I wasn't about to sell out my share and be out on the streets like a common floozy! I mean, really!"

Detective Murphy interrupted. "Excuse me, Benedict," he said, "but how do you remember all this conversation? It was casual talk in a bar nearly a year ago. How can you recall so many of her words--apparently verbatim?"

Benedict shrugged. "My apologies, Mr. Murphy. Permit me to explain. For some years I have studied and practiced hypnosis. One of our prime assumptions is that we never truly forget any of our experiences--even apparently trivial ones. Memory traces of even early childhood conversations are buried somewhere in the subconscious mind, and with hypnosis it is possible to dig up most of them.

"Now, when my son told me this morning that you wanted to get a statement from me about Theresa, I spent a few minutes in a state of meditation--or autosuggestion, which is a form of self-hypnosis --to recall all my memories of her. I gave myself a post-hypnotic suggestion that when I was asked to recall anything I knew of Theresa, all my long-forgotten contacts with her would come to my conscious mind, quite spontaneously. I myself do not pretend to understand the full process by which it works, but I am satisfied that it does.

"At any rate, Theresa indicated that the emeralds were real, and valuable. She asked me to buy her a drink, and I told Stacy to give her one and put it on my check. I recall she was smoking heavily--some king-size filter-tips."

"You don't recall the brand?" asked Murphy ironically.

"Only that the pack was bright red," said Benedict with a rue- ful chuckle. "I am not a smoker, so never pay attention to brands. But then, too, the brand name isn't important to either you or me. If, for example, she had choked to death on a carton of king-size filter-tip cigarettes, I might very well be able to recall what kind it was." He stopped suddenly, and stared into space for a moment. "Then it could be important."

"Something the matter?"

"Just an idea."

"Would you care to tell me what it is?"

"I'm not sure yet what it is--it's nebulous. I think it has to do with a carton of cigarettes, but I can't say. It will come to me at the right time. My subconscious does its work on its own schedule--not mine. Where were we, Mr. Murphy?"

"You first saw Theresa in Stacy's bar in January. Is it possible it was before January? Say, near Christmas?"

"No. Late in January sometime--we'd had a few warm days, and then it turned cold again. As a matter of fact--" he stopped, as in thought.

"What?"

"I remember once asking Theresa, 'Aren't you cold in just that light coat?' and she answered, 'Honey, this ain't cold where I come from!' I tried to make a joke by saying, 'Oh, Minnesota? I hear they have only two seasons there--winter and the Fourth of July.' And she answered, 'Minnesota's cold, honey, but Wisconsin has it almost beat some times!' So I got the impression she was from somewhere in Wisconsin, but we never talked about it again."

"Well, that's a possible lead to explore. But first, a few routine questions. You viewed the remains and identified the deceased as Theresa--a pseudonym for a man whose real name is still unknown to us. Now, here's a photo of him without his female make- up. I'd like you to take a look at it and see if you recognize him now."

Benedict looked at the morgue photograph carefully. As Ms. Stone had said, the man had shaved his head and plucked his eye- brows. He was apparently in his forties, a man with no definite character to his face--no striking features.

"To the best of my knowledge, I never saw him without his Theresa get-up. He looks like he could be anyone's uncle or brother or school teacher or store clerk. Perhaps that's why he had to pretend to be glamorous as Theresa."

Murphy's telephone rang and he picked it up. "Murphy speaking," he said, and listened to the caller. Benedict looked around the office and at the stenographer who was yawning. In a moment Murphy hung up.

"Sorry, I've got to leave, Benedict. One of my staff has located Theresa's address."

"A rented room in someone's apartment, I presume."

Murphy stared. "Why do you presume that?"

"Only because TV and newspaper accounts have failed to gene- rate a call from a hotel clerk or rental agent that the dead man was a tenant there. So it seemed obvious that Theresa had no home base on a lease--with his full name and prior address on it. If that assumption was true, he might have had a landlady or house- mate who was out of town for Christmas and didn't see the news or read the papers. So he or she didn't know until his or her return to the Village this morning that Theresa had been killed. And now he or she is talking with one of your men."

Murphy scowled. "Diane Stone says you should have been a cop," he said with a tight grin. "Jack, type up what we've got so far, and have the witness sign a copy for us. Mr. Benedict, I expect I'll be needing to see you again in a day or two. Thanks for the memory, like the old song goes. If you remember any more, keep it on tap for me next time I see you. Thanks again." He pulled on his coat and departed, whistling off key.

Benedict looked at his watch and decided not to go home just yet. Once David was on duty in the shop he'd be a lot nicer to talk to--until the shop closed for the night. So Benedict put up his umbrella to protect him from a drizzle, and browsed along the streets of the Village. Back on home turf of Christopher Street he remembered a couple of errands he'd been meaning to do.

First he stopped at Get Potted!, next door to Benedict and Son. The gray-haired woman named Felicia Finch but dubbed Fifi La Fleur was alone in the shop, wearing a neat gray business suit with a pink orchid as her corsage for the day. "Happy New Year, Mr. Benedict," she said. "Anything new on the murder at your place?"

"Just what the papers tell us," he said, "but no doubt there'll be developments this week." Then he turned to business. "Fifi" liked Benedict and knew he worked with what she called herbs and things--and she had sometimes supplied him with potted plants for his special medicinal needs. "Could you get me an aconite plant some time?"

"Aconite? No problem, except it won't be in bloom this time of year."

"That's okay. I can force the flowers in my little hothouse in the back yard."

They agreed on the price, and Benedict looked at the floral displays as he left. "Beautiful roses," he said. "Blessed be."

His next stop was to see Mrs. Olson, who ran the West Village Pad and Office Cleaners. When she saw who the customer was, she pushed her bifocals up on her nose, then tipped her head forward to peer through them. "Good morning, and a Happy New Year to you, Mr. Benedict," she said. "Anything new on the murder at your place?"

"Just what the papers tell us," he said again, "but no doubt there'll be some developments this week. I'd like to change Gertie's schedule, if that's convenient." Gertie did the heavy cleaning at Benedict and Son once a week, including the entry and stairs to the rental apartments.

"No problem. She has a list of customers she takes care of, and we can switch around the times pretty easily as a rule. When would you like to have her clean your apartment and shop?"

Benedict suggested Friday afternoon for his apartment, and that evening for the store, so the shop would be its neatest for the busy weekend days. He left Mrs. Olson, turned east and, on an impulse, decided to have a snack at the Kwik Bite Koffee Shoppe. As he entered, a stout woman with hennaed hair and a thinner woman in a gray coat were just leaving.

"I just don't know why we pay taxes!" the stout lady was saying. "People getting murdered on our street--and on Christmas Eve! And what are the police doing to catch the man, that's what I'd like to know!" Benedict eased past them and furled his damp umbrella in the entry.

The Kwik Bite served good coffee and bagels, so it was popular among shopkeepers on Christopher Street for coffee breaks and lunch. The booths were all full, but a stool at the counter was vacant, and Benedict took it. He hung the crook of his umbrella on the edge of the counter, next to the one already there, and looked at the menu posted on the wall.

"Morning, Mr. Benedict," said the man sitting next to him. The voice and face were familiar. "Anything new on the murder at your place?" He was apparently doing a crossword puzzle in the paper.

Then Benedict recognized him. "Oh, good morning, Carl. I didn't spot you at first without the cap and apron." Carl was balding with a gray fringe, and ran the Village Printing Shop a couple of doors away. "Just what the papers tell us," answered Benedict once again, "but no doubt there'll be developments this week." His tone was polite, but he was now getting bored by the same question. "How's business?"

"Not so good, but not so bad," answered Carl with a shrug. "Better than last year. Next year the business should be in the black."

"Yes, it takes a while to get started," remarked Benedict absently. "You do good work, though--my son really likes the stationery."

"I liked it, too. That was my first order for Roman Uncials with embossing." His conversation became somewhat technical, and Benedict pretended to listen while he emjoyed his coffee and a garlic bagel topped with cream cheese and smoked salmon.

At last Carl rose. "Have you seen the story in this morning's paper?" he asked, holding it out in his hand.

"Not yet."

"It's on page sixteen," said Carl. "Here, I'm through with it." He took his umbrella from the counter. "See you again."

"Thanks, Carl," said Benedict, and absently opened the paper to page sixteen. As he expected, the article was a rewrite of previous information. Benedict knew more than the article said.

He looked at his watch--he had time to test his psychic powers briefly. He sat with his eyes closed--then, in a few moments, he opened them again, and waited patiently. He had to allow time, so he idly leafed through the paper. Carl had started to fill in the crossword puzzle, and Benedict took out his ballpoint to finish it.

One across, six letters, was "Lake or City". Carl had printed, not too neatly, "Geneva". Three down, five letters, was "at no time". Carl had printed "nohow". Benedict scowled and changed it to "never". Five down, six letters, was "Pride". Carl had tried "vainty"--Benedict corrected it to "vanity". He was halfway through the puzzle when he heard a familiar voice at his side say, "Hello, Dad."

David was standing there with a companion--the tall, younger redhead whose horoscope David had been reading yesterday in the shop. "Can we join you, Dad? We just have time for a quick coffee before we go back to work." There was an empty stool on each side next to Benedict, and the two slid into them. "Two black coffees, please," said David to the waitress, "--on my Dad's check here," he added with a grin as he pointed to Benedict.

Benedict smiled at the waitress. "Yes, he's my son," he said.

"Dad," said David, "this is my buddy, Mark Davenport."

Benedict turned politely to Mark, who put out his hand for a warm shake. "Hey! I've heard a lot about you," Mark said, with a trace of a Southern drawl, "and I'm real pleased to meet you. Dave says you've adopted him, and you're his Dad Benedict. Can I call you Dad Benedict, too?"

Benedict smiled. "If you like. What do you like to be called?"

"Anything except late for supper," Mark said, grinning, while David groaned aloud at the old joke. "Anything new on the murder at your place?"

"Just what's in the papers," said Benedict in a bored tone, "but no doubt there'll be developments this week. Do either of you want anything to eat with your coffee?"

"No, thanks, Dad Benedict," said Mark, quite comfortable with the familiar form of address, while David shook his head. "You know," said Mark in apparently genuine respect, "David is a real good astrologer! He told me I work in a porno shop because I have two-for-sex, and my sex drive is affected by your anus." His tone was one of naive admiration for David's lore.

David spluttered into his cup of coffee and spilled some on his chin. Benedict looked quickly at David, who grinned and gave Benedict a wink--Mark was indulging in a little deadpan humor for Benedict's amusement.

Benedict chuckled in appreciation as Mark continued. "And he told me how my chart showed my Dad beat me up and threw me out. Real interesting." He swigged coffee as he pronounced his final judgment. "He's a real good astrologer," he concluded.

"He certainly will be," demurred Benedict. "Well, I'll let you finish your coffee and astrological consultation." He rose, left a tip on the counter, and picked up his umbrella and news- paper. "I'll see you later, son", he said with a twinkle in his eye. He paid the check for all three at the register near the door, saw the waste-basket and deposited the paper in it neatly, and pulled up his hood before opening the inner door.

Out on the street, the umbrella up once again, Benedict ambled over to Seventh Avenue South. Store windows bore paper banners proclaiming gigantic after-Christmas sales, year-end bargains, and white-white specials. When his watch read noon, Benedict turned back down Christopher Street and headed for home. David would be open for business, and Benedict could be there with little danger of another Master-slave conversation.

He smiled a little on the way. David, he guessed, had been making a few phone calls, or looking for ads for furniture. Per- haps he shouldn't have thrown away the paper. Oh, well, David was organized well enough to find what he wanted. When he arrived at the shop, he saw that David had added a new notice on a second file card just below the first. This one read:

BENEDICT AND SON

will close Friday, December 31, 1999,

at 6:00 PM, and will reopen on Sunday,

January 2, 2000, at 12:00 noon.

Before he entered, he took time to reread both notices care- fully. Yes, they would do until the new issue of the Village Voice appeared, when all of his clients would know about the changes. He pulled the door open, and heard the phone ring as he went in.

"Benedict and Son," said David. "This is David. May I help you?" Benedict nodded approval--David had a good head for business and a genuinely warm way of talking to people on the phone. He'd be able to manage things very nicely on his own--and had taken over the chore of booking Benedict's students and clients for readings.

Benedict went through the arch and hung up his outerware--then sat down in the shabby but comfortable recliner chair and began to meditate.

Benedict believed in white magic, psychic phenomena, and mystical experiences that transcend mundane emotions. He knew David wouldn't develop to that level before he was at least thirty- seven. He remembered David telling him last June, "I'm strictly on the sexual level. You want religious rituals--I want sadistic kicks! If you know right now that I don't care if you have a psy- chic experience or not, and I'm just having fun working you over, maybe we can do something for each other." That had been their bargain, and Benedict had never regretted it.

But David was a fine occultist--in those areas that could be approached scientifically--and he had potential to develop psychic talent as well, when the time was right. So each day Benedict took time to meditate and send out thoughts of love to David. Pure love, absolute and unconditional. Perhaps some day David would feel the vibrations as Benedict did--like a flow of electric energy surging from his body to the universe.

So Benedict spent five minutes sending thoughts of love to David. Then he spent five minutes sending love to Paul, his Wiccan Brother in Ithaca. And another five minutes sending love to another person dear to him.

And then he turned his thoughts to the problem of Theresa.

CHAPTER FIVE

Alterations

Tuesday morning Benedict and David were awakened by the alarm clock-radio--a rare departure from the usual routine of a leisurely waking. There was the inevitable wordless ritual humiliation of reveille, and then David jumped from the bed for a quick shower.

"Just a quick breakfast for both of us this morning. You're going over to Brooklyn this morning, and you won't be back until late this afternoon."

"I won't?" asked Benedict. "Why not?"

"Because if you show your face here before I say you can, you have sixty-six thousand demerits instead of only thirty-three thou- sand. That's why, slave."

"Yes, Master," said Benedict. Then he added, "But if I may ask you humbly and respectfully and meaning no offense at all, how in the world do you plan on administering such a horrendous punish- ment?" One demerit meant one lash, full force.

"On the installment plan, slave," said David. "Of course, that means added interest. At loanshark rates. So no more ques- tions--just do what your Master orders you to, or else."

Benedict poured the juice and scrambled eggs while coffee was brewing. David appeared in a few minutes and they sat down for a Dad and son meal. When he finished, David said, "Thanks, Dad. Now you get your shower, and I'll load the dishwasher and take care of cleanup. I want your ass out of here! I have a project to do in the basement, and I don't want you in my way."

Benedict did as he was told. He knew that David was cooking up something special for Friday, as he had promised, and was keep- ing him in suspense on purpose, just for the buildup. He had a quick shower, smiling in anticipation, dressed quickly, and found David waiting impatiently for him to be gone.

"See you late this afternoon, slave," he said. "And I mean really late." They kissed briefly.

"Blessed be, Master," said Benedict, as he let himself out. The shop, as the signs noted, was now on its new schedule, which meant it would be closed all day today and tomorrow. And David was using those two days off together to prepare something Benedict would see only after it was done. Benedict didn't worry--it was part of their fun and games.

On the subway to Brooklyn, Benedict pondered on what David might have in mind. He remembered everything his father had told him about the building. Their ancestor, John Sandman I, had spared no expense or personal labor in constructing his personal home. While similar-looking brownstones might have been built for perhaps two thousand dollars in 1898, with its cheap labor and plentiful materials of highest quality, Sandman had spent at least three times that amount.

The street level had been his business office and showroom, and the basement had originally been a woodworking shop. The four floors above the office were laid out in apartments--for Sandman's family, or for rental income. The old-fashioned, solid post and beam construction originally featured one large apartment to each floor--roomy enough for a family--and Benedict had been born on the first floor.

The basement excavation had gone down fourteen feet to hit solid bedrock. For two generations the cellar had been a deep dark chamber--one large room the size of the entire building--twenty by fifty feet. There was a sump in the floor near the center, with an automatic pump and drain pipe to keep the cellar from flooding. The furnace was at the front, where coal had once been delivered from a small window on the street end. Now the furnace ran on natural gas, and there was a gas ring once used for home canning, and now used by Benedict in his chemical compounding.

Benedict's father had done the most extensive remodeling. When Benedict went away to college instead of continuing the family business tradition, Benedict's father put in the master bedroom and bath in the rear of the basement, created the small shop and living quarters on the street level, and divided the four large apartments above into eight spacious studios.

When Benedict inherited the building and sold the family busi- ness, he and his wife ran the shop until her death of cancer. And when Benedict determined on his vows of rituals of penance, he converted the middle of the basement into a soundproofed room with its S/M paraphernalia.

Benedict remembered David's reactions to the cellar in June, when he started to work for Benedict a day or two after their first two scenes--when David gave Benedict the first of many long, bloody floggings. "Wow!" he'd said, "you've got a really great dungeon here, Benedict!"

Benedict had replied, "I really don't care to think of it as a dungeon, David." To which David had countered with, "Well, then, how about a torture chamber?"

"How about a ritual room?" asked Benedict, reasonably enough.

In the end they simply decided to refer to it as "the base- ment" or "downstairs".

Today Benedict had decided to visit the Brooklyn Botanical Gardens on his first stop. He hadn't been there in years, and he always enjoyed the colorful displays of plants which were rarely seen outside such gardens. He was, of course, especially inter- ested in the medicinal plants--the ones most people thought of only as poisonous.

He saw the rhododendrons and crotons, the arbor vitae and yew trees, the Chinese sumach and cinnamon--and so a few leisurely hours passed. Before noon he called a friend in the Park Slope area, and they met for lunch--their first such social visit in more than a year. He wandered through the Hassidic area and watched the soberly-dressed children playing winter games. The boys wore long black coats and wide-brimmed black hats, with the hair long around the ears. The girls, all in long dresses and with legs covered in warm stockings, played their own games at a respectable distance from the boys.

He stopped at a kosher dairy restaurant where he had a hot bagel with butter and coffee, keeping his head covered, as Jewish men do. When he finally began to think of returning, it was four o'clock. He called home from a pay telephone.

The machine answered. "This is Benedict and Son," said David's voice. "The shop is closed today, so if one of us doesn't pick up the phone by the end of this message, please leave your name, number, and a brief message after you hear the beep."

Then the beep. "This is Dad," said Benedict. "It's four o'clock, and I'm starting home now. I should be there by five. I hope that's not too early." Then he added, "I love you," and hung up.

When he let himself into the shop, David came through the arch from the sitting room. "You're right on time, slave," he said in a pleasant tone. "First a pit stop--then you can start supper."

It was a longer pit stop than usual, and David was obviously pleasantly relieved at finally emptying his bladder. When Benedict said, "Thank you, Master. May I please have some more, sir?" David sighed in satisfaction. "Later, pig. Did you have a nice time in the wilds of Brooklyn?"

"Very nice, Master, thank you. And did you have a nice"--he paused for emphasis--"constructive time in the basement today?"

"Very much so. And I took care of a few other things, too."

"When may I see the results of your work, Master?"

"Friday--for the first time. After that you'll be seeing a great deal of it, for a very long time, so you needn't be in too big a hurry." He was deliberately cryptic, with a bit of teasing mixed in.

Benedict refused to be ruffled. "What would you say to a game of Monopoly this evening?" Monopoly had always been one of David's favorite board games.

"I have errands to do tonight--stores are open late evening with special sales I want to take a look at."

"Oh?"

"But don't worry. You won't miss my company."

"I'm sure I will--but you do what you must do."

David did exactly that. When he left after supper, he had ordered Benedict into the bathtub, and snapped his wrists behind his back. An enema hose was inserted a full twelve inches up Benedict's rectum, held in place by the chains and rings in Benedict's anal crease, and a trickle of warm water was running from the faucet.

"You will remain exactly where you are in the tub," David ordered. "I'll be back in two or three hours. If there is any indication that you moved from where you are now, I will double your demerits--I promise you!" He gave Benedict a sharp slap on the rump as a reminder, and left. Benedict lay in quiet agony as the water flowed and flowed, inexorably, with inevitable results.

When David returned, after what seemed an eternity, Benedict was miserable but David was in good spirits. "Good news, Dad!" he said, leaning through the open shower doors. "I found just what I was looking for, at a big discount price! And it'll all be deli- vered by truck Friday for sure!"

He appeared to notice Benedict's anguish for the first time. "Gee, Dad," he said innocently, "How did that ever happen? You ought to see a doctor about your problem." Then he snorted with laughter. "You're a mess!" he said.

"What would you expect if you had an enema hose running up your colon for three or four hours?" asked Benedict. David looked at his watch.

"Don't exaggerate. It's only been two and a half."

Benedict sighed. "May I ask, David, how much longer I must lie here and suffer like this?"

"Are you suffering, Dad?" asked David with a glint in his eye. "In that case I might leave you here overnight sometime--but not now, because I want to take a shower myself." He reached down and unsnapped the clip to release Benedict's wrists. "Now get yourself --and the tub--cleaned up for your Master."

While Benedict was showering, after first cleaning the tub thoroughly, David slid the door to one side and stepped in next to him. David put a finger to his lips, to signal there would be no talking. Without a word he soaped Benedict's back and washed it, caressing him gently. Then he handed the soap to Benedict and turned his back with another signal. Now Benedict washed David's body as lovingly as David had washed his.

David now turned around, with a powerful erection. He took the soap, motioned to Benedict to turn around again, and this time used the soap as a lubricant on Benedict's anus and his own penis. Without a word he wrapped his strong arms around Benedict and, this time with a lover's gentle penetration, sodomized Benedict in a long and passionate embrace. When at last he ejaculated, he let it discharge up Benedict's colon.

"We haven't fucked anybody else for six months, and we're both healthy. For six months you've been swallowing my semen when I cum in your mouth, and you've drunk my piss and eaten my shit. And you're still healthy. So from now on, we fuck without condoms."

"Thank you, Master," said Benedict. "I would like that very much." They rinsed each other off, and dried each other's bodies with large clean towels.

As they lay in bed in each other's arms, David said, "Tomorrow you'll be going up to the Bronx Zoo. All day."

"Yes, Master."

Wednesday for Benedict was like the last day of summer vaca- tion for a schoolboy. He'd almost forgotten how many wonderful things the city had to offer--it had been years since he'd had the time to explor and enjoy them, and his trip to the Bronx Zoo was a pleasant change a constant delight. He rode in the train over the natural habitats where animals roamed without fences, and toured buildings where timed artificial lights coaxed nocturnal creatures out of their lairs, to be observed by visitors. Many were children --even though the frequent school tours were in hiatus because of the holiday break.

He'd left Christopher Street before nine o'clock, and six hours later was on the return trip, stopping off at Times Square to enjoy the sight of the theater district, now that the sleazy book stores and sex shops had been finally banished from the midtown area. Now the marquees and lights were in preparation for the turn of the century celebration Friday night, and more spectacular than usual. With time on his hands he strolled over to Fifth Avenue, and then downtown, taking time to browse the windows at Barnes and Noble.

At last he was back in Village territory, and stopped for a cup of cappucino and a canolli on MacDougal Street. He wondered again just what David had up his sleeve, but dismissed it as unimportant. He had finally decided that it didn't matter to him. He knew that whatever David did to him would be safe--meaning safe enough--and sexual, and with that he was quite content. There would be no questions again--ever.

It was a little after five when he turned his key in the lock on Christopher Street and entered the shop. David as usual was waiting for him. He snapped his fingers before Benedict had time to remove his coat, and Benedict at once knelt and drank David's pent-up stream of urine.

"Thank you, Master. May I please have some more, sir?" he asked.

"Later, pig. And welcome home, Dad. Did you have a good day?"

"Yes, thank you. And you?"

"Mine was 'constructive' again," he replied. "I think," he added, "that tonight would be a good time for Monopoly, with a little variation in the game to make it more exciting."

"Oh?" asked Benedict, hanging up his coat and removing his overshoes. "What kind of variation, David?"

"Well," said David, "you now have a little penalty of thirty- three thousand demerits to be worked off. The usual rate of ex- change--so I thought you might like to gamble on a fair bet. You know, you're a rotten Monopoly player, Dad."

"I'm usually a very unlucky player," protested Benedict. "If you don't get a winning roll on the dice, you can't win."

"Luck, schmuck," said David. "You roll the same dice I do. So here's the bet. Tonight we play for stakes. Thirty-three thou- sand demerits. If you win the game, you cancel your punishments so far." He rubbed his hands together. "However, if you fail to win the game, we add the loss to your total. In other words, you'll be playing for double or nothing. I like the idea. So that's what we'll be doing after supper."

Benedict nodded. "If that's what you want, David, of course we play--for double or nothing." He prepared supper.

At seven Benedict started the dishwasher while David set up the board and bank. At nine o'clock Benedict was bankrupt.

"Well," said David with relish, "that's the way the balls bounce." Then he roared with laughter.

Benedict recorded the loss in his demerit book.

At eight thirty the next morning, the phone rang during "reveille," and David picked it up. "Benedict and Son," he answered, looking down to watch Benedict thirstily swallow his morning accumulation of urine. After a pause he said, "My father can't come to the phone right now, but I'll give him a message right away." Another pause. "Yes, I'll tell him, Ms. Stone."

He hung up and looked down at Benedict again. "Diane Stone of would very much like to see you at the Village Police Precinct this morning. You have no appointments until next Monday, and I won't book any before then. So get out of here as soon as you can for a few hours more. Go see the cops about Theresa again, and then kill time until six this evening." He paused again. "I don't want you here today, and you won't be getting out much from now on--except when I'm with you--so enjoy your freedom, slave."

So at ten o'clock that Thursday morning, Benedict once again entered the Village Precinct, and was told that he could see Miss Stone with Detective Murphy in his office. Benedict was escorted there, and both Ms. Stone and Murphy greeted him cordially, but with some reserve. The same stenographer sat in the corner chair with his stenotype machine, and Benedict was to discover that both Murphy and Ms. Stone had questions for him.

Murphy began. "Mr. Benedict," he said, "I'll admit I have some reservations about discussing this matter frankly with you. Ms. Stone and I have discussed those reservations. I'll admit that my position is biased partly by my past experience with police routine in other cases. Ms. Stone, however, had me read a dossier which her office on Centre Street prepared on you, which includes the facts that you offered a psychic impression that helped solve a murder case last June, and just last week you helped Treasury Agents break up a counterfeit ring. So I yield to her desire to give you information about this case--with reservations.

"Last Saturday morning I began investigating the murder of a transvestite we have now identified as one Alan Johnson of parts unknown--Wisconsin being the most likely state. The body of the victim was on your property, hidden behind trash barrels in your areaway leading to your back yard--and presumably to a side or rear entrance.

"You have admitted having at least two conversations with the man, calling himself Theresa, in Stacy's bar early this year. At this time we cannot confirm or challenge your account as to what Theresa actually said to you. We have only your statement, which might be self-serving or deliberately deceptive. I am being frank, as you can see.

"The physical evidence at the scene of the murder is clear that Theresa was in your areaway last Friday night at about ten o'clock, apparently trying to enter through your gate. In that position, the victim's back would be to the street. The most like- ly explanation is that the murderer stood behind the victim and struck him on the head with a piece of two-by-four to stun him, and then looped a prepared rope around the victim's neck. A small stick of some kind was slipped between the victim's neck and rope, and then turned so as to twist the rope tight and produce death by strangulation.

"But we have always been asking why the victim came to your areaway. Of course the murder might have taken place in any one of hundreds of such areaways in the Village--but it was in yours. Up until now we had viewed the murder site as a matter of chance, and not as a fact suggesting that you might be involved."

He picked up a sheet of paper from his desk. "But we now have a piece of material evidence which appears to indicate that the victim intended to see you at your home last Friday evening." He extended the paper to Benedict to read. "This is a Xerox copy of a note written by the victim. We are satisfied that it is genuine, and would stand up as evidence in a court. I had reservations about showing this to you, but Ms. Stone insisted that you would have a satisfactory explanation, and that you should be given a chance to demonstrate your innocence."

Benedict read the note. The handwriting was a scrawl, but perfectly legible. It consisted of five lines.

Friday at 10:00

Benedict and Son

Side entrance

Through iron gate

As Theresa

He handed the paper back to Murphy, who looked at him expec- tantly. Miss Stone leaned forward a little.

Benedict closed his eyes. "Very interesting," he said.

"We also found it so," said Murphy drily. "Certainly you'll admit that we must question carefully everything you have told us so far. For example, you knew that Theresa had a furnished room-- perhaps a deduction, or perhaps a pretense at deduction. So, I suppose my first question to you would be 'where were you, and what you were doing at ten o'clock last Friday evening?'"

CHAPTER SIX

Questions and Answers

"I was at home with my son, David, all of last Friday even- ing," said Benedict calmly. "We were not out of the house from the time the shop closed on Friday until you knocked on the window Saturday morning. Friday night we held a religious ritual, as we do every Friday."

Murphy raised his eyebrows. "Oh?" he asked. "I didn't realize you were Jewish." He consulted a sheet of paper before him. "That's right, your legal name is John Sandman, isn't it?"

"Yes, but I am not Jewish, Mr. Murphy. I am a pagan--and a Shaman--and our religion is Constitutionally protected. David and I held what is to us a religious ritual last Friday evening, as we have done each Friday for six months."

"Where?"

"In a special room in the basement of our home. Last Friday, because of the holiday, we closed at six PM and spent two extra hours in the ceremony. I should say that, for spiritual purposes, our ritual is conducted in silence--as much as possible. For that reason, the room is soundproofed, so that we are not distracted by any noises from outside. More than once we have discovered that, while we were in the ritual room, a fire engine or police car with siren at full volume drove by outside, and we had heard absolutely nothing. So if anyone were to knock at the door, or try to break in through the side gate, we would not be aware of it at the time."

Miss Stone interposed a question. "Is your son David the young man I saw working in your shop last Sunday?"

"That is correct, Ms. Stone," answered Benedict. "He would also tell him, if you were to ask, that he and I were together at home all of last Friday evening."

"He looks hispanic," remarked Miss Stone casually, with an unspoken question in the voice.

"David is my adopted son, Ms. Stone," answered Benedict. "His last name was Martinez, but a week ago today the adoption was duly ordered by Family Court, and his full name is now David Martinez Sandman. We have the papers at home, if you would care to see them."

"Not necessary, Mr. Benedict," she answered. "And it's clearly irrelevant to our investigation. If both you and David are prepared to swear that you were together, conducting a religious ritual of some kind, it's obvious that you have an alibi--barring the possibility of a conspiracy by both of you, which I would consider a frivolous suggestion. So the note written by the victim must be interpreted differently than in appears on the surface."

She faced him directly. "Last summer you pointed out a vital clue in our investigation of the Central Park murder. I told you Sunday that I recognize a keen mind, and that mine is also open to communication. May I ask if you have any ideas as to this note? How would you interpret it?"

Benedict closed his eyes briefly. "It's extremely interesting to me," he said, "and most stimulating. It seems obvious that Theresa wrote it down to remind her of an appointment. Perhaps she was talking on the telephone to someone, and made the date in that conversation. Now, if you were planning on meeting someone for lunch somewhere, you might say, 'I'll meet you under the clock at the jewelry store', or something like that. You'd pick a landmark that was familiar to both you and your friend, so you could meet without any misunderstanding as to where.

"It also seems obvious that my little shop on Christopher Street is some kind of landmark to many Villagers. The skeleton dangling near the window makes it memorable and easy to spot the first time. I tend to believe that my shop was chosen as a rendez- vous because it was known to both Theresa and her caller, and easy for her to remember--especially if she'd been drinking. The autop- sy report said that she had been doing so.

"I believe that my shop was part of their mental maps of the Village. Theresa for some reason made a date to meet someone--not knowing that the gate is always locked, and I have only a kitchen door to the alleyway. But her date had a club, noose and stick with him, ready to use when she turned her back, perhaps to try to open the gate. It was dark there, remember--and she had already been drinking.

"But these are all generalities. Perhaps I could give you more concrete and specific observations if I knew a little about how you came by this note--and any information given you by Theresa's landlady or housemate. Such as his means of support, and any phone calls he might have received from his brother--the one apparently living in Florida."

"How did you know he had a brother in Florida?" asked Ms. Stone.

"I don't know for a fact that he did," said Benedict, "but as I told Mr. Murphy on Monday, when I first talked with Theresa in Stacy's, she said that her brother had taken his inherited money and moved to Florida after their mother's funeral. Theresa might have been lying, of course."

"In that case Theresa lied to her landlady, too," she com- mented. "Theresa used to get phone calls from him--at least, so it appears."

"Could you share with me what the landlady has told you that might be helpful?" Benedict prompted.

"I'm not sure what might be helpful and what might not be," she smiled. She turned to Murphy. "I'd like to suggest that, since Mr. Benedict has an alibi for Friday evening, he be permit- ted to read the statement we took from Mrs. Phillips. I know it's irregular, but Mr. Benedict was most helpful in the Sanchez case."

Murphy paused a moment. "I won't object if you feel it might be helpful, Diane," he answered. He turned to the stenographer. "We won't be needing you any more, Jack." The stenographer nodded and left the room.

Murphy found a thin document in the pile on his desk and handed it across to Ms. Stone. "Here's her evidence."

Ms. Stone looked at it for a moment, and then handed it to Benedict. "You understand that this is quite irregular and strictly in confidence."

He nodded. "Of course," he said, "and thank you for the cour- tesy. I feel very strongly it will be most helpful to me." He lifted the cover sheet and began to read.

The transcript, after the identifying title, date, and names of persons involved, was in the form of questions and answers. The stenographer had identified questions by the names of the officers asking them, and answers by Phoebe Phillips simply as "Witness." Benedict scanned it, and then focused on one section as being most relevant.

Murphy: Mrs. Phillips, would you tell us when you first met the

deceased? Witness: Dearie, I've already told you twice, and I told your man

when he first came to my house on Monday. Murphy: I know, Mrs. Phillips, but this time we're taking it down

as evidence. Witness: You mean I'll be a witness in a murder trial? Murphy: We certainly hope so. Witness: Well, why didn't you say so? Well, I met her about the

middle of last January. Murphy: How did you meet her--I mean him? Witness: I told you. I ran an ad in the Village Voice for a fag

to share my house. Murphy: You worded the ad in that fashion? Witness: I think I worded it this way: Widow will share her home

with gay man. Own room--low rent. And my phone number. Stone: Had you previously shared your home with gay men? Witness: I'd thought about it. I've always been what some people

call a fag hag. I was a dancer in showbiz myself, and I

always got along great with fags. As nice to you as a

gigolo, and not looking for money or sex. I like straight

men, too. Murphy: Go on, please. Witness: I was an artiste under the name of Phoebe Meriwell--I

always liked that name. But you know how hard it is to

get jobs in show business? Murphy: I've heard about it. Witness: It's worse than you heard. So I went to bed with a very

nice producer, Paul Phillips. Did you ever hear of him? Murphy: No. Witness: He married me. And I retired, and we had a good life

together. We had a beautiful son, John Paul. He's

married, and I have two lovely grandchildren in Forest

Hills. I was with them for Christmas. Murphy: If I can ask you to-- Witness: --get back to the question? All right. I ran the ad and

Theresa answered it. She gave her real name, Alan. Said

she was a female impersonator looking for work, and wanted

to live on a low budget. I know what that's like. She

came over to see me in regular street clothes, and I knew

she'd do fine for me. I wanted to have a man seen going

in and out of my place, answering the phone as a man in

case someone was looking for old ladies living alone to

rob. I figured Alan would be a little insurance against

a burglar. And she was nice and polite. Of course, I

knew she'd have a rough time getting any jobs. Drag bars

look for cute young boys in their twenties, you know? She

said she'd done some work back in Milwaukee, but had to

sell her old home, and decided to try the Big Apple. She

shoulda stayed in Wisconsin. She got a few jobs at pri-

vate clubs and parties that wanted a drag act--now and

then. And she tried to make it big in Stacy's old bar one

weekend, but she laid an egg. Stone: Did she say where she was from in Wisconsin? Witness: No, dearie, just that she worked in Milwaukee. Anyhow,

she had a little money in a bankbook, and a little cash

coming in every month, so she could pay her rent, and do

the bars a little at night. Stone: Do you know if she--I mean he--had a straight job, too? Witness: Not that I know of. Murphy: Did he ever mention any family? Witness: Only that there was an older brother--straight as a

stick, she said--who lived in Florida. Stone: Did she say what her brother's name was, or where he

lived? Witness: No, but she did say she might be getting phone calls from

him. They'd agreed on a signal. The brother would call

and let the phone ring twice, then hang up and call again.

So she asked me to wait three rings before I answered the

phone. If her brother was calling he'd have to pay for

the call if I picked up. But if it rang three times it

wasn't her brother. Murphy: Did she--I mean he--ever call her brother back? Witness: If she did she reversed the charges. That way I wouldn't

have it on my phone bill.

Benedict pursed his lips as he returned the document to Ms. Stone. "Thank you," he said absently. "The bankbook. I presume you found it--and it was in his legal name?"

"Yes," said Murphy. "In his bedroom in a bureau drawer. A savings account with about seven thousand dollars in it. Every month he'd put four hundred in, and drew small amounts during the month adding up to about the same. It was going down, slowly. Never deposited or cashed a check. No information on the source of the money."

"Hmm. You call it 'NVMS', I believe?"

"That's right. No visible means of support."

"You asked about how we found the note," put in Diane Stone. "We had asked Mrs. Phillips if she and Theresa ever left notes for each other, such as taking phone messages. She told us there was a pad of paper next to the phone and a pencil. We looked at the pad, which was cheap thin paper--and the pencil had hard lead. The top sheet of the pad was clean, but there were slight indentations in it, caused by pressure from the pencil when bearing down to write on the sheet above it--which had been torn off unevenly. We looked for that sheet in Theresa's room, but didn't find it there or in the trash outside."

"But," put in Benedict, "your lab was able to develop the impressions in the sheet underneath it by chemical means, and photograph the note you've just shown me."

"Exactly. We showed it to Mrs. Phillips, who said it was Theresa's handwriting. Apparently he got a call sometime Thursday morning and took those notes for himself."

Benedict smiled. "I see you've got your pronouns back in order after your interview with Mrs. Phillips."

Diane Stone laughed. "Yes, it's catching when someone keeps referring to Theresa as 'her'. Mrs. Phillips had told us that Alan sometimes wore his drag in the house."

"And she accepted him as a woman?"

"Exactly."

Benedict put his fingers together in thought. "So, our Theresa is at home on Thursday morning. She gets a phone call, perhaps when Mrs. Phillips is out. She writes the note to herself, tears it off the pad, and sticks it in her purse. Mrs. Phillips leaves for Forest Hills Friday, and Theresa has her date planned for that evening.

"As I see it, a call for someone to work for a Christmas Eve party in a private home. Someone who wants a drag show. He's to come, the note says, 'as Theresa'. It was essential to the killer, who wanted those emerald earrings. If Theresa had showed up for her date in men's clothing she might be alive now. But tell a drag queen she's got a private party to do in drag, and she'll be ready to go on stage with her routine. And Theresa would have her note in her purse to remind her of the date--so naturally the killer would empty the purse and destroy the original."

He paused. "Miss Stone," he said in a moment, "will you be here at the precinct tomorrow morning?"

"Probably. Why do you ask?"

"You've asked me for my thoughts and impressions. It so happens that when I have a problem to solve, the first thing I do is meditate on it a little and then go to sleep. While I'm asleep my subconscious mind goes to work on the problem--just as it helps me recall whatever I wish to dig up from my memory cells somewhere. I need to sleep on the facts for one night. I believe we now have enough--but I might be wrong. When I wake up in the morning, it will all make sense to me. If it doesn't come to me tonight, I won't bother to call you. But if the solution does happen to present itself to me, I'll tell you I'm looking for an open mind." He smiled. "May I leave now?"

"Certainly. But tell me one thing if you don't mind--how sure are you that your subconscious mind has the answer?"

"About ninety-nine percent." He donned his coat, and turned to Detective Murphy. "I hope, Mr. Murphy, to be able to completely exonerate myself in your eyes tomorrow. In fact, I now feel very strongly that I shall." He opened the door. "Blessed be," he said.

Murphy stared with a half-scowl on his face, but Ms. Stone smiled. "Blessed be," she answered. She had been to one of his lectures, and knew the ritual hail and farewell.

After supper that evening, David asked, "How about another game of Monopoly, Dad? Say for double or nothing again?"

"If you don't mind, David, I'd really like to just turn in early. I think I got a chill from being outdoors so much in this weather--I'm feeling a bit feverish and off-key right now."

David was at once concerned--and most emphatic. "Then take a dose of aconite and get to bed. And you sleep alone here tonight. I don't want you seeing the basement before tomorrow night--and you bet your ass I don't want you sick then, either!"

He rubbed his hands in anticipation. "Tomorrow's going to be a big day--and a long fun night!" He kissed Benedict briefly. "I'll see you in the morning, Dad."

When David had gone downstairs with a cup of coffee and a slice of cake, Benedict opened the sofa-bed, turned down the covers, and crawled in quickly. In less than five minutes he was asleep.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Benedict's Dream

Benedict was Theresa. It was Christmas Eve and cold, and Theresa was walking up Christopher Street with an umbrella in one hand. She had a bottle of whiskey in a brown paper bag and was drinking from it. She walked to Benedict and Son and looked at the skeleton in the window. The Christmas tree was behind it. Then Theresa was inside.

The lights on the Christmas tree were twinkling, and a black cat named Satan was climbing it to chase two dolls that were hanging on its branches. One doll was a stout woman with hennaed hair and the other was a thinner woman in a gray coat. The stout woman-doll was saying, "You always see a pony tail on a horse's ass!"

The tree grew to gigantic proportions, and one of the lights on the tree turned into a house by a lake with a sign over the door reading "Wisconsin". Theresa-Benedict entered the house. A bald man wearing green earrings and a dress was talking on the tele- phone.

"Friday at ten," the man was saying. "The side door at Bene- dict and Son. Through the gate." Now the bald man was a doll himself. He was dressed as a shepherd. Another doll dressed like an old farmer appeared. The old farmer said, "I want your ear- rings." Then Theresa was back on Christopher Street, and the Chrismas tree was in the areaway. There was a gift under the tree. It looked like a carton of king-size cigarettes, wrapped in white paper with a red ribbon. The label read, "To my beloved Theresa with all my love always." Tied to the ribbon was a red-and-white peppermint candy cane wrapped in cellophane.

Theresa-Benedict smiled in pleasure and picked up the present. It weighed nearly a ton. Then the candy cane slipped free of the ribbon and turned into a loop of fine strong cord. The rope flew at Theresa-Benedict's neck and wrapped itself around his neck like a python.

Benedict awoke to find David gently shaking him. "Are you all right, Dad?" he asked.

Benedict nearly wept in relief. "Thank you for calling me Dad. Yes, I'm all right. It was a nightmare--but it told me what I needed to know. I must call the police precinct this morning."

Benedict had never told David that he had used ESP to help police solve the Central Park murder in June--or that he had been briefly under investigation in Theresa's murder, and was now work- ing to clear both of them of suspicion. He preferred not to have David learn that he had hypnotized both David and his mother back in May to help solve the Bronx arson murders. Let David think the police interest was simply routine, and let his psychic contribu- tion be kept out of it entirely.

"How's the fever this morning?" David asked with concern.

"Completely gone, thank you. The aconite and sleep did the job just fine."

David threw his leg over Benedict's chest and straddled him. "Okay, slave. Here's some more medicine for you. Reveille time."

Benedict ate breakfast standing naked at the counter, while David sat clothed at the table, being served by his naked slave. Benedict had called the precinct and had a message taken for Ms. Stone that Benedict would like to talk to her because she had an open mind. Twelve minutes later she called him back and asked him to stop by the precinct at eleven.

When David was on his second cup of coffee he asked, "What time does your watch say, slave?" Last October 30, on their common birthday, they had exchanged small token gifts. Benedict bought two matching digital watches, and David bought two matching jade rings. They each wore the ring on the left ring finger, and the watch on the left wrist.

"Nine forty-five and fifteen seconds--now," said Benedict.

"We're about six seconds off, but that's close enough," said David. "Now, let's get a few things straight. You already know there'll be a lot of changes made around here, starting tonight. I know I'm going to really like them, so that means you're going to really like them, too." His voice was now casual, meaning he was absolutely in command, and both of them knew it. "I spent some time this week studying your list of requested punishments--you remember that list, don't you, slave--from last Sunday morning?"

"Yes, Master. I remember them," answered Benedict.

"And it's now obvious to me that you've had far too much free- dom these past six months. You requested greater restrictions and severity--very humbly if you recall your list--a very sincere re- quest from a true masochist and slave." His voice was mocking and ironic. "So, starting this evening and from now on you will be extremely restricted and far more severely disciplined. I'll give you the new house rules at six o'clock this evening, which is the time I want you back home. I'm giving you exactly one minute leeway. You may arrive as early as five fifty-nine, or as late as six-oh-one without penalty. Within that two-minute slot you'll be on time. If you're early or late--for any reason at all--what I'll do to you will make the Marquis de Sade look like Santa Claus. Do you understand what I'm saying to you, slave?"

Benedict suppressed a smile. "Yes, Master. I'll be on time."

"Good. Six o'clock on the button. Until then, have your talk with the police, and enjoy the rest of the day--free for the last time. Now get dressed and be out of here in fifteen minutes."

At eleven o'clock Benedict was shown into the office where Diane Stone and Detective Murphy had interviewed him--but she was alone this morning. "Mr. Benedict," she said with a smile, "I presume you slept well."

"Actually, I slept very badly. But that was what I had to do to see what had not been absolutely clear before. I had a dream," --at which Miss Stone's face underwent a subtle change--"and my subconscious mind gave me the symbols which tell me what I believe you may now be able to prove--legally--is the truth."

He recounted his dream from its beginning until he was gently shaken awake by David. She made no comment, but merely nodded to show she understood the content. "And what does your dream tell you?" she asked.

"I'll have to back into this a bit," he began. "It has to do with Theresa's mysterious brother--and their relationship. Last June I asked you to consider a possible solution to the so-called cult murder in Central Park, and you were able to confirm that my psychic impressions paralleled the truth. This case will be much easier, from your viewpoint of testing my theory.

"Imagine two brothers from a town in Wisconsin--I believe I can give you the name of the town. One is as straight as a stick and the other is Theresa. The straight brother is older, married, and he believes that a family heirloom--their mother's emerald earrings--should be his, to give to his wife. But their mother has left the earrings to her favorite, the younger son.

"Theresa's brother perhaps shares an attitude I overheard expressed by a stout woman with hennaed hair to her companion. The woman had said, in reference to her own brother, 'I don't want people to know you're related to me'--or words to that effect. The older brother, whose younger brother performed as a drag queen, left Wisconsin to start fresh, away from old painful memories. But Theresa lied when she told me, and Mrs. Phillips, that her brother had moved to Florida. Her brother had come to New York.

"The dream symbols again. The bald man wearing green earrings turned into a shepherd. An older man dressed as a farmer said, 'I want your earrings.' An old farmer and a younger shepherd. And a peppermint candy cane that turns into a noose of rope. A cane. The symbol was a pun--a play on words, that dreams sometimes use to convey meaning. If you spell 'cane' differently, it's the Biblical Cain who murdered his brother Abel. Cain was a farmer and Abel was a shepherd. You see what I mean?" Ms. Stone nodded.

"Theresa lied again when she told me she wouldn't sell her share of the old house. She had told me that she wouldn't be out on the streets like a common floozy. But she told Mrs. Phillips that she had sold the house--so that meant she had to share the money with her brother. That's why her bankbook showed so little in savings. It also explains why Theresa came to New York. Her brother was here. He had money from his share of the house.

"Theresa said she wanted to break into show business, doing the act she had done in Milwaukee. She made contact with her brother and told him she needed help. Now, Mrs. Phillips said Theresa had no job--but someone was giving her four hundred dollars a month--in untraceable cash--to help support her. Who else but a blood brother would pay such money to Theresa? In short, it was a kind of emotional blackmail. So the motives for the murder now become more and more apparent.

"Her brother didn't want to be seen with her, so they arranged a code ring signal when he called her, so Mrs. Phillips would never hear the brother's voice on the telephone. He'd never have to identify himself as Theresa's brother. No one would know. Theresa told everyone that her brother was living in Florida--perhaps her part of the deal with him.

"And now the identity of the brother. The clue is in the note that Theresa wrote on the scratch pad and had in her purse--which her brother destroyed after he had killed her and finally taken possession of the family heirloom. He had put an end to Theresa's blackmail--he had destroyed the brother he was ashamed of--and he had a valuable Christmas gift for his wife--not this year, but some year lonh after Theresa's unsolved murder had been forgotten. A gift worth far more than anything he could have afforded to buy.

"The first two lines of the note, as I recall them, are 'Friday at ten--Benedict and Son'. Do you have it?"

"Yes. Why is that especially important?"

"First remember that Theresa's real name was Alan Johnson. Now, here are some facts you didn't know. My shop has always been called just 'Benedict' until this month. I planned on changing the name as a surprise for David--so of course David mustn't know about it ahead of time. I'd decided on 'Benedict and Son', but nobody knew that name--except one man. Carl Johnson, who runs the Village Printing Shop two doors up Christopher Street from me. Carl, or Cain, who killed Alan, or Abel.

"You see, Carl printed new stationery for me, with the letter- head 'Benedict and Son'. I didn't tell him it was a new name when I ordered the stationery. He started the job on December ninth, because he needed extra time to emboss the Roman Uncials on every- thing and print cards for both David and me.

"I cleaned off the old Benedict lettering on my door the same day--the new lettering will be done next week, I hope. But Carl got the idea from my printing job that 'Benedict and Son' was the shop name. That's why he told Theresa 'Benedict and Son' on the phone, and why she wrote it down that way. She couldn't have read it anywhere--and no one else could have told her.

"There are a few small points of interest. You've said that Theresa was hit on the head with a piece of two-by-four, about a foot long or so--and the rope was twisted with the help of some kind of stick about an inch in diameter. Now, how could a man walk down Christopher Street with a piece of two by four and a stick without somebody noticing him? Carl had to be extremely cautious. I believe that--at least to Theresa, who had had a few drinks--that a piece of two-by-four about a foot long, if wrapped as a Christmas present, might look like a carton of her favorite cigarettes.

"Imagine that she's meeting a brother who has told her he's found a job for her--a private holiday party that would enjoy a drag act. She puts on her outfit and comes to my areaway. Her brother has a Christmas present for her--apparently a carton of cigarettes. He steers her to the side gate, and tells her to push the gate open, so they can reach the non-existent side entrance.

"When her back is turned, the club wrapped in fancy paper stuns her. The cord goes around her neck. And then Carl uses the crook of his umbrella inside the noose to twist the cord tight, into her neck, and holds it tight until she is dead. A candy cane also has a crook in it--like an umbrella, remember?

"He empties her purse into his pockets, and leaves it, empty. The note he destroys. Whatever money is there he keeps. And the earrings will at some future time be gift-wrapped, and presented, with a card reading, 'To my Dear Wife'.

"I happened to see a crossword puzzle that Carl had tried to do. He used 'nohow' as the answer to a definition for which the grammatical 'never' was obviously correct. He misspelled 'vanity' as 'vainty'. Yet the one-across word which was defined as 'lake or city' didn't stump him--he automatically wrote 'Geneva'. It so happens that Lake Geneva is the name of a town in Wisconsin--it's a suburb of Milwaukee. So it seems likely that Carl and Alan were from Lake Geneva, or not far distant. I saw the puzzle after Carl had told me that business wasn't too good, but he hoped to break even, or show a profit, next year.

"And so now you know my thoughts. I believe that if you check with police in Lake Geneva, Wisconsin, you'll find that Carl and Alan Johnson were the sons of a woman who died a couple of years ago--that Alan was a transvestite, and Carl left Lake Geneva first. That Alan and Carl sold the family home some time between then and January of this year, when Theresa arrived in New York. The town of Lake Geneva will have tax records of the sale, of course.

"The mother's will is on file, and you might find confirmation of the legacy of the earrings. And finally, of course, you might find that Theresa's emerald earrings are hidden somewhere in Carl's shop or home. With such material evidence you should have no dif- ficulty in proving your case."

Diane Stone gazed at Benedict almost in awe.

"Mr. Benedict," he said, "if our investigation confirms your impressions, I'll be ready to believe there might be something to your magic." She rose from her chair behind the desk. "You've given me a lot of work to do this morning," she said ruefully, "but first I'm having a talk with Mister Murphy." She put out her hand. "Thank you so much," she said sincerely. "If I ever use the words, 'harmless cranks' about Wiccans again, shame on me."

Benedict smiled. "Blessed be, Miss Stone."

"Blessed be, Mr. Benedict. And a very happy New Year to you and your son."

Benedict's watch read twenty seconds before six o'clock when he reached Benedict and Son. David had already closed the drape inside the window and was waiting at the door, still dressed in the casual clothes he wore in the shop.

When Benedict entered, David put his finger to his lips--the signal for silence. The night lights were burning, but Benedict could see that the shop looked exactly as it always had. David reached under the counter beside him and picked up the black leather boindfold they used in the basement. "Give me your den- tures and put on the hood," said David quietly.

Benedict obeyed. David dropped the dentures into a glass of water he had ready, and buckled the hood tightly behind Benedict's head. "If you speak one word until I give you specific permission to talk, I will gag you for seventy-two hours with the big leather pear gag you dislike so much," he said.

He felt David take his hand and lead him through the draped archway into the sitting room. "Strip," said David. "Every stitch of clothes off in thirty seconds, at the usual penalty per second for taking too long. Hand them to me as you take them off."

Benedict peeled off his clothing, handing it to David as he stripped, and in just under thirty seconds was stark naked, except for his ever-present bondage cuffs, collar, and wide waist belt. He felt David pull his wrists behind his back and snap them toge- ther with the metal clip to render him helpless. "Stand right there, and don't move," said David.

Benedict heard his footsteps in his casual shoes as he walked away--opened a door--closed the door after a minute of silence, and then walked into the hallway and downstairs. In five minutes the footsteps, now the heavier tread of his engineer boots, returned. He felt David beside him, speaking quietly but with unmistakable authority.

"From now on you will be asked only yes-or-no questions. You will nod for 'yes, Master,' and shake your head for 'no, Master'. Do you understand?" Benedict nodded. "Good. I'm going to let you see this room now. Get used to the new arrangement, because it's going to be this way from now on." He removed the hood, and Bene- dict first saw that David was now wearing his tight jeans, boots, and leather jacket. His dark hispanic looks had never seemed more exciting to Benedict--his intense eyes were sparkling with barely- concealed excitement. Benedict looked around in curiosity.

The lumpy sofa bed and shabby recliner chair were gone. Three walls of the room were now lined with comfortable-looking benches, and in the corners stood small stacks of folding chairs ready for use. A few feet out from the far end wall between the two closets stood a lectern, with a low table beside it, which held an overhead projector. The two closets were unchanged, but the television and stereo equipment that had stood between them were gone. In their place was a built-in cabinet with folding doors over the upper portion. David opened the doors, revealing a large blackboard and a movie screen.

"This is where you'll be holding Monday evening lectures and the new classes you'll be offering in astrology and palmistry on a group basis. You always needed a blackboard to write or draw on, but didn't have one in the Sunday School room. Now you have one-- and a projector to show illustrations of any kind you want to talk about. You lost money paying rent on that room--and this one will do double duty.

"On Monday evenings, when people come in for lectures, the shop will be open, and some of them might buy something on the way out. Let me handle that part--it'll be a soft sell, but if people hear you speak on something that interests them, I'll have books or any supplies they might need. It should increase the shop income." He opened the closet near the rear hall door. Benedict's clothing was now neatly hung inside. "This is where all your clothes will be kept from now on," said David. "This is the only room where you're allowed to wear anything, and you'll dress and undress here, when ordered. Do you understand?" Benedict nodded.

"Good. Now let's look at the kitchen and bath on this floor." The stairwell and hallway leading to the kitchen and bath were unchanged. David opened the bathroom door. "No changes here, but it will be your job to clean this bath every morning before nine, so it can be used by any of your students or clients. Now the kitchen."

The roomy eat-in kitchen was now a family room. The stereo system and television were neatly arranged on one end wall, and the old maple table and two chairs were gone. In their place stood a long marble-topped table flanked by six wrought-iron chairs. "You said you liked a marble table for food preparation," he said, "and I got a good price on this one. It's swanky as a dining table or playing Monopoly, too." The meat grinder was sitting on the new table, and beside it stood a new nozzle attachment for stuffing sausages--and an enema bulb. "To serve your pig slops," said David with an evil grin.

"You humbly requested you be kept in permanent bondage and be fed nothing but pig slops and shit. So even your pig slops will taste like shit to keep you happy. From now on, every morsel of food you eat will be put through the grinder to make it pig-sloppy, and the sausage-stuffer will load it up my ass so I can warm it up for a few hours and flavor it the way you like best. And since you like coffee at least six times a day, you'll drink every drop of it out of my asshole--after I take an enema with it and hold it long enough to rinse me out good."

Again he grinned as Benedict listened mutely. "I knew you'd like that. The beer cooler is downstairs, where it'll be handy. Now you can see the basement."

The light was on in the paneled master bedroom at the foot of the stairs, and David motioned to Benedict to take a look. The oversize bathroom was unchanged, but the former bed-sitting room, which had always been larger than most, was refurnished to make it appear even more spacious. "This is where we'll always sleep," he announced. The old bed had been replaced by a king-size foam pad on the carpeted floor. Three pillows were tossed casually along one end. A built-in storage unit filling an entire wall replaced the old dressers and wardrobes. A full-length mirror on the far end created an illusion of another room beyond. On the fourth wall stood three double-decker bunk beds with built-in drawers.

David saw Benedict's eyes widen, and he grinned. "And now we see what you've been waiting all week to see."

He opened the door to the ritual room. The whipping horse, the toilet bench, the rows of scourges and shelves of torture paraphernalia were all there--but the toilet bench and whipping horse now stood over a trough leading to the sump, and a suspension bar now hung in a central position, also over the drain. A rubber hose with a giant enema nozzle attached hung from the ceiling, and the pungent smell of hot metal filled the air. The gas ring was lit, and two branding irons were heating in the flame.

David chuckled. "You see the branding irons getting red hot, don't you, slave? I told you we were going to mark this night as something special! There's a three-inch circle with a capital D on one iron and another three-inch circle with a capital M on the other--block letters. And we're going to burn them on each cheek at the turn of the century tonight--and keep refreshing the burns when they start to fade!"

In one corner stood the beer cooler, with five big mugs turned down on top--and someone else stood waiting for them, dressed in tight jeans, boots, and leather jacket. He had a half-empty beer mug in hand and a big grin on his face. Benedict saw the dark red hair and green eyes, and the boyish face lit up at the sight of Benedict naked, with his hands fastened behind his back and the hood in David's hand.

"Hey, slave!" said Mark Davenport. "Surprise! How about a nice welcome for your new Master?"

Benedict turned to David with an unspoken question in his eyes. "That's right, slave," said David with a grin. "My pal Mark and I have decided to be real fuck-buddies from now on. He's moved in already and will be living with us.

"I've decided to share you--since on Hallowe'en you said you'd be willing to be gang-raped by as many of my buddies as I wanted to invite to join our little family. In fact, you said on your list of requested punishments that I should bring in a dozen sadists to take turns on you.

"So, in a month or so we'll have four more studs living here full time--and we have spare beds for two overnight guests. The four others are guys we used to share a pad with on West Fourth, and their lease is up February first. They'll be Junior Masters under Mark and me, and just visit until they make the permanent move.

"I guarantee they're all in top health all the way. They've all been S/M hustlers and very careful, like I was. They all know what your limits are, and they all want a piece of the action--and that means every day. Mark and I'll be sure they live up to their half of the deal. They'll go in and out the kitchen door when the shop is closed, and they all work honest jobs.

"You asked for it, and you're getting it. You'll serve all of them the way you serve me. Exactly--no exceptions--including your pig slops and coffee breaks. Do you have any ojections, slave?" Benedict looked from one to the other, then back to David. He shook his head vigorously.

"I knew you'd like it," said David. "We're having a big beer party and a special flogging ritual--starting at seven--and they'll all be here--" he looked at his watch, "--in thirty minutes, with full bladders. You're the toilet for all of us, of course. Right now, Mark and I both have a load for you, so down on your knees." Benedict knelt.

"Tip your head way back, slave," ordered Mark with a grin. Benedict tipped his head way back. The two young Masters took their places in a carefully-rehearsed series of movements. Mark straddled Benedict while facing him, and David slipped behind his head. "You're getting two loads of piss at once," laughed Mark, "and if you spill just one drop, slave, we're gonna give you a thousand licks apiece, just to warm your ass up until the others get here!"

Mark leaned close to Benedict's face and thrust his penis into the open mouth, while David leaned forward and slid the head of his penis in from the opposite direction. The two Masters nodded to each other, and at once released their urine full force, as though turning on two hoses simultaneously.

Benedict felt a double surge of current and was instantly aroused. "Hey, Dave!" said Mark, "Dad Benedict's a real good toilet! I couldn't believe it when you told me all the things you said you did to him, but I'm sure gonna get my share of the fun!"

David's voice now took on a tone of smug satisfaction, as he said triumphantly, "You see, slave, you forgot one thing. When I showed you Mark's chart, you said his Uranus and Moon were conjunct my Sun which made him very compatible with me. But you didn't stop to think that your Sun and my Sun are conjunct, too--almost exact!" David gloated over his groveling dad. "So that makes him just as compatible with you as it does with me! We'll make a great three- some! I picked up some basic astrology from you, and it'll be a real pleasure shoving it up you where you feel it the most!"

David grinned in quiet amusement. "Happy New Year, slave! I know Mark and the gang are going to be real happy taking turns on you, seven days a week!"

Benedict could not speak, but he smiled to himself. He remem- bered quite well when David had left Mark's chart on the table, and he'd taken time to study it carefully. He'd had time to send out thoughts of love to both David and Mark, radiating positive feel- ings for both of them. He'd given David that list of punishments even before he knew about Mark, to plant a seed in David's mind--as he had also done on Hallowe'en during dinner at the Punjab--and if that seed wanted to take root and grow, blessed be!

David had felt Benedict's ESP messages before--last May the eighth. And Mark was also psychic--so they'd had an impulse to have coffee at the Kwik Stop last Monday when Benedict was waiting for them.

Mark, he knew from the horoscope, was a nice young guy who'd had a bad break, and he needed a loving Dad as much as David did. Benedict had more than enough love for both of them, equally. The psychic energy in that triad would charge Benedict's system almost to the overload level, and six more studs, too--heaven on earth! He looked forward to it--so, let them think the scene was all their own idea! They'd have twenty beautiful years together!

When Benedict's torture was finally over and all seven went to bed at three o'clock on the first morning of the new century, Bene- dict lay across the foot of the mattress, at the feet of David and Mark, who slept like brothers in each other's arms. The other four were sprawled in their single bunk beds--the plan being that they would take turns sleeping on the big mattress with the slave to service them all night. Benedict was finally truly content.

As a free-will choice, he had taken the agony while fully conscious--not merely the double flogging from two Masters simul- taneously, but the supreme pain of a double branding. Two large block letter initials simultaneously, one on each buttock--searing seven square inches of skin on each cheek. He still throbbed from the liniment which had been savagely scrubbed into his wounds.

Benedict had decided that he would not allow himself to faint during their rituals--he now wanted to suffer the utmost pain for the pleasure of his Masters. His sacrifice would be real. He'd get his psychic reward after it was all over--like now.

David's feet were in his face--Mark's in his crotch. Benedict felt a warm, wild surge of energy flowing from their feet into his body--the psychic energy he had waited for so long. Benedict felt as though perhaps he were having a dream--or not quite a dream. It seemed to him as though he were floating above the bed, looking down on himself and his young lovers. Bless them all, he thought-- they've given me the power!

This time he let himself travel...

THE END