The catacombs echoed with A.G.’s cries, Ruth’s screams, and now the insane animal tittering rose up from the edges of the altar, and from elsewhere in the catacombs. He clamped a hand over his mouth in case it was he. Some of the laughter stopped. With her eyes, Debbi pinned him to the pentagram he was standing over, his feet on either side of a stone channel running with her blood. They were both there in the center of the Goat’s face, with the red streaming in little rivers along the carved outline of the five-pointed star. The pentagram filled with the fluid of Debbi’s warm smile. The Goat grinned at him.
When at last her hand fell away and the wet lines met, Debbi was dead (Debbi was dead), but her eyes pursued him. There was a rush of force, energy like a shotgun blast, a blazing hand that picked him up and swept him up high into a whirlwind of pain and malevolent joy as he shrieked. It reached from the altar and struck him hard in that same place in his soul, slamming him backward into the cave wall, where the stone crackled and he crumpled facedown in her gore. His shirt was on fire and his chest burned. The mark was seared upon him.
Debbi was dead. And now the door to the lighthouse opened in slow motion with an unseen, yet somehow definitive, feminine touch.
A shape filled the doorway.
Matthew managed to remain calm for all of two seconds before he broke and whirled. The abomination he could face. Anything.
But not her.
A once pretty dress was now torn and bathed in malignant light, smeared with a dead girl’s dying, and his past.
Oh Christ.
Debbi came rushing out the door, running over seashells and down the scrub grass toward him, eye sockets empty, tongue lolling, upper lip raised in a snarl that showed the dried blood on her braces.
“No!” What did that mean, who was he crying to, who did he pay for these offenses? Her, of course, always her.
A.G. had been using her bones, and still it wasn’t enough. Raised jagged fingernails were aimed at his heart. “Deb … !”
And he’d actually believed he could endure damnation.
Bracing himself as Debbi leaped the distance between them, Matthew whimpered, “Deb…” as she dove onto his chest, shrieking without any humanity left. Teeth hunted for his throat, those claws scratching down his chest. He caught her wrists, touching her again, too late, and she was too strong, and he just couldn’t hurt her again, no more, no more. He’d loved her, he had, and hadn’t been able to do anything but pull his foot away from her hand. She caught his hair and jerked his head back, exposing the jugular. He heard her incisors clack together loudly when they met through his flesh; she tore into him. Through him, and from him, finally ripping out.
The beam of light swung and engulfed them both in a tidal wave of white-hot ice.
When he awoke to life he was standing in front of the mirror, fingers tracing the contours of the scars on his chest on their own accord.
The twine of the Litany Web had been unraveled and retied in the shape of Debbi’s profile.
In a wet and sticky carpet of weak flutters, a thousand dying moths lay strewn about his feet.
Chapter Nine
“C’mon, Ibsen, rise and shine,” Jazz said.
The window shade rolled up with a loud thwack. Outside, dogs barked excitedly down the block.
Matthew bit hard on his tongue, where a killing hex had been poised ready to be spoken, the spells already in his hands. Sweat dripped down the side of his face. His eyes focused. He relaxed and loosened his fists, swallowing the blood in his mouth, then cautiously looked over. Christ, it had been close. The bedsheets were scorched at his fingertips. He’d nearly murdered Jazz.
“Hey, you don’t want to sleep through your first beautiful day back home, do you?” Jazz asked. “There are quests to be pursued, legends to be made, songs to be sung. So get the hell out of bed, let’s get moving. Up, slug! It is I, Jasper William Metzner, your comrade in literary arms. He—”
“No, stop,” Matthew said, knowing what was coming, and knowing it would be impossible to brake, now that Jazz was on a roll.
“… he who is …”
Bright sunlight crowded the room, the dogs finally quieting, and the hearty smell of breakfast floating up from the kitchen.
“… defender of the crown, and sinner, of course. Rogue, conqueror, quarterback extraordinaire as you well know, yes, me, slayer of more bluefish than most men who sail these waters. Tactless and brazen braggart. Obtainer of a 1260 on those damnable SATs God be praised …”
1090.
“… yes, I, lover, poet, master of fine and not so fine arts, watcher of grade b-c-d horror flicks. Possessor of the sensitive heart, son of Dancing Lord Metzner the hippity-hop king, gnasher of teeth, rogue … damn, said that already, didn’t I? … buckler of swashes, husband of Jenny May Femhold-Metzner and now divorcée … divorcer? … of Jenny May ‘thank you very much but I’ve now dropped the damn hyphen that I never truly wanted anyway’ Fernhold some seventeen weeks ago.”
“Oh my boy.”
“Yes, fair Ibsen, it is I, derring-doer Jazz, now turned English teacher to a gaggle of students far hipper than I am and, sadly, ever was.” Jazz bowed theatrically with a two-step shuffle. “Tada.”
“Not possible.”
“And how are you doin’, Mattie old son?”
It took a moment to realize that the unfamiliar, startling feeling in his throat was a deep laughter, the kind only Jazz could bring up. Downstairs in the living room a vacuum roared. Jazz always entered a room like a billow of nitrous oxide, ranting and canting. Matthew reached for his T-shirt on the bedpost and quickly put it on. “You mean you actually went and married Jenny May?”
“Keep in mind this was after her skin cleared up.”
Matthew smiled and snickered. It felt good but sounded low and demented, like his father’s. “Of course.” He stood and faced his friend.
“Mattie, you’re looking good.”
Jasper Metzner, besides being rogue and poet, had been a part of Matthew’s life almost as long as A.G., cutting at least a small swath through much of the anguish. Jazz remained outside the facts, beyond the truth of the veil. He’d been the quarterback on their varsity team when they’d forgone their coach’s order to punt and Matthew made his ninety-nine-yard run, the day he’d broken his ankle on Jello Joe’s helmet and met Helen. With his cast propped on the dashboard of Jazz’s Mustang, Matthew and Helen had made love for the first time.
But what did it matter then, if he’d had to squeeze himself backward into the driver’s seat because he’d already been enraptured from only a glance at her photograph shown to him by Jenny May; Helen had been cheering for the opposing team’s players, and Christ on the cross how that had enraged him, so insanely jealous after only one glimpse that he would have run the ball over the line even if it had cost him his arms and legs, the rest of his soul, he just had to do it, in love with her already, until he couldn’t contain all the ardor he had for her. Knowing they were already connected. At that moment of their first touching he didn’t even flinch as he’d done with so many girls before her. (Debbi was dead.)
That first kiss—he recalled the heat that had come over him…. After the game he’d hopped on crutches with the fracture, heading back from the clinic across the field, to the parking lot where Jazz’s car waited like a honeymoon suite. Afterward he’d escorted Helen home, and when finally he fell into bed he didn’t even hear his father’s snores or drunken cries, the vomiting and muttering. It was the first time in years he’d been able to sleep through the entire night.
“Ah … hey, just ’cause I said you look good doesn’t mean I want to kiss you.”
Jazz smirked, aware of exactly which memory was being reviewed in Matthew’s mind; Jazz had an intuition about such things, the guy could read your eyes like few else could. He was famous for his sarcasm, wit, and dramatics, as well as for holding tightly to a world record for coitus interruptus. He’d been found on floors and rooftops, in taco stands, ladies’ shoes an
d underwear departments, the DMV—he’d been found by UPS drivers, cops in the park, beach patrol, meter readers, meter maids, meter maids’ boyfriends while on rooftops with the meter maids, National Guardsmen out on maneuvers. It had the touch of the Goat to it, though Matthew could never be sure.
Jazz searched for a cigarette, gesturing hand to lip to see if Matthew had any. Jazz patted his pockets. His hair was pulled into a tight ponytail, his already wide eyes magnified by a pair of octagonal glasses. That perpetual trademark smirk soldered to his mouth, off kilter. He had a way of talking that made you forget the fact half of what he said just didn’t make sense. His voice remained sedate and composed, each word carefully enunciated—not at all how you expected him to talk when you realized how rapid-fire, manic, and nonsensical his shtick truly was.
Left hand emerging from his jacket and holding a pack of cigarettes, Jazz said, “You’ve got wrinkles and gray streaks that would impress my lonely grandmother, you know. She’s still pretty spry, and she’s got some bucks laid away in real estate.”
“How did you find out I was back?”
“How do you think? You’ve been gone so long you forget how it works? Summerfell isn’t exactly Staten Island, nobody sneaks in or out without being seen by some blue-haired biddy.” Despite the grin, Jazz couldn’t keep the accent off the word “sneak,” and Matthew’s stomach clenched. “Would Eugene be mad if I smoked in here?”
“Beats me.”
“Better not risk it. I hear he’s getting friendlier with his shotguns.” He shoved the butt back into the pack and breathed out slowly, staring into Matthew’s eyes. The moment kept lengthening. His smile uncurled. “Mattie, kid, I should give you a lecture on undying friendship and keeping in touch, and how you’re not supposed to bug out on your buddies for five years without so much as a goddamn phone call.” He was really putting the bite into it now, but then letting it roll. “And all the rest of the heart-wrenching stuff … but right now, I’m so glad to see you that I’ll forgo chewing you out until another time. Of course, then I might just have to kick your ass up and down the street.”
“I’d appreciate it.”
“Give me a hug, brother.”
The growls of the vacuum cleaner ground to a halt as Jazz embraced him, patting him gently on the back. Matthew swallowed a groan as his chest tightened. Except for when he was with Helen, he couldn’t stand to be touched like this. The scars always reacted violently, crawling over him and biting deeper. Being tackled on the field was different, the vehemence and brutality working for him.
He squirmed as Jazz hugged him more firmly, the damnable crying growing louder in his skull. Once, in the Outside Inn, Jello Joe’s sister Jelly Jane had drunkenly stumbled forward hoping to hug Matthew, and he’d instinctively sidestepped her open arms and sent her sprawling with an explosive huff across a booth full of beer, the legs of the table snapping sharply as all two hundred and eighty pounds of her rebounded and rolled to the floor, covered in buffalo wing dip.
The look on her face humiliated him more than she could have been by the incident. Flushing and glaring, cheeks burning so violently, she’d simply sat there watching him until he’d backed out the door and fled.
He shoved Jazz out to arm’s length. “Good to see you, too.”
“You’ve got to remember that these types of close, peaceful communities flip sideways when the town hero returns home,” Jazz said.
“Don’t call me that.”
“What? A hero?” Jazz kind of wavered, seeing the chance to slip in another knife, but not wanting to do so. “But it’s true in a way, you oversensitive pup. There’s even a framed oil painting of you hanging in the entrance of Town Hall.”
That took him aback. “There is?”
“You should check it out for yourself, sort of impressionistic, but still done in meticulous detail. Weird. You’ll have to excuse me if I wax poetic here for a minute, but when the light strikes that painting just right, I got to tell you—
“Shut the hell up, Jazz.”
“No, I’m serious, man, hear me out. Sometimes that painting reminds me of our yearbook pictures. It captures the feeling of that final year, Mattie, really, listen to me!” Anxiety in his voice, stressing the point. “You must know what I mean, because you write about it all the time, about how it was back then. The painting’s got you with your eyes gazing solemnly through your windblown mess of curls…. It’s goddamn spooky, you’ve got to listen … but do you remember how on that day we had our senior pictures taken and we had to rush to the photographer’s after practice? And Helen and Jenny May were waiting for us up behind the bleachers … and we went to the gym and met A.G., Ruth, Jello Joe, and Jelly Jane over in the wrestling room, and we hung out in the park for most of the night, playing sex charades and fuckin’ around until the sheriff broke it up?”
“Yes,” Matthew said. Of course he remembered.
“And I sneaked into Jenny’s house and fell asleep in her bed, and in the morning her mother caught us and the old bat starting beating the shit out of me with my own belt … cripes, a turquoise buckle, big like this, it was scary and terrific, and almost too real to be happening. Somehow, I’m not kidding, that’s what that painting reminds me of, even now.” Jazz shrugged tightly, like he’d been winding up instead of winding down. “Ah shit, all right, maybe I am being just a bit too nostalgic. It’s no sin, right?”
Yes, it was—everything was a sin in Summerfell, because everything could be turned into a transgression by Beli ya’al and Azmodeus and the Goat, and the others, all of them waiting for you to feel open and warm before taking the world apart one bitter bite at a time. “No, I’m glad, actually.”
“I just missed you, man.” Jazz sought more words but came up empty, gesturing with his open hands a moment longer. “I’ll bet the mayor asks you for a public speech, you better get ready for that. Copies of your plays are selling well, and the library has a whole shelf reserved for your work, I swear.”
“What time is it?”
“Nine-thirty. C’mon, I’ll buy you lunch and you can tell me about your life on off-Broadway.” He spun. “Heya, by the way, what the heck is that thing lying on the carpet downstairs?”
“That’s Gus.”
Jazz was simply nervous, even more frenetic than usual, searching out the jokes and the sentimentality, whether he genuinely felt it or not. “Oh yeah yeah, right.”
“Who did it?” Matthew asked. “The oil painting in Town Hall.” As if he didn’t already know; he’d seen a dozen such works hanging on the walls beside the trophy cases at school, a glut of plaques above them, Winner of the S.H.S. scholarship for Excellence and Outstanding Ability in the field of Creative Arts.
Clearly uncomfortable, Jazz crossed the room, leaned against the windowsill, and scrutinized his feet. “Ruth did.” No more shtick, his tone straight as a razor. “You heard about her, right?”
Matthew dressed, nodding. He reached into the satchel and chose a black cotton sweater, and felt something cold and soft press against the back of his neck.
“It’s that kind of shit that’s been making me so sentimental, Mattie.” His left hand returned to his pocket and he retrieved the cigarettes again, lit one, and blew smoke forcefully through his nostrils, keying himself up now. Matthew wondered how the Goat had touched Jazz, what had been twisted up inside him, or would be over the next few days. “Ah, look, I’m really sorry about A.G. and all that, I know he’s like a brother to you. I used to like the guy myself sort of, but don’t expect me to—”
“I don’t.”
“I mean, he was a nice guy and everything, but always a little off, you know, especially after you left. I think he did it. Just so long as you and I have that straight.”
“We do.”
Clearing his throat, Jazz smirked once again, putting on the second act of his performance, getting back into character. Matthew didn’t hold it against him and wished he could do the same, but had no time or talent for it. Not for that. “
Friends change, yes, true … as in my case, where I’ve become even more incredibly handsome. You remember Spinetti?”
“Our old English teacher.”
“Yeah, I work with him now. The senior class truly digs your work, and living in the same town where you grew up gives them another tie to the writing. A lot of kids would love the chance to put one of your plays together if you’re willing to let them, now that you’re back. A couple of them are outstanding talents, kids that can grab your guts and make you take notice. Maybe you could use them in New York, or at least get us some tickets. I don’t remember our drama club being that dedicated, but I suppose we had our moments, too.”
“You were great in Marat/Sade.”
“Yeah, I was, wasn’t I? Right up until Mothers against Porn came in and stopped the show. Those ladies were tough.” Smoke wavered between them until a breeze from the cracked window blew it back into Jazz’s face. He smoothed a hand over his ponytail. “Hey, have you noticed how Jodi Carmichael has filled out? Her tits, brother, whoo boy. Perfecto. I think you’re going to like living here for the time being.” Again, the tone straightened, seeking to slice. “I won’t bother to ask about how long you’ll be staying, because I know how recalcitrant you can be when you’re feeling cornered, which is usually always for a paranoid like you. Besides, I know you won’t be going anywhere until you see this thing through to the end. So how about you and me grab some lunch at the diner, where I can try and coerce you into lecturing to a few of my English classes and telling them what a great guy I really am.”
Finding a balance. Up on the stage, both of them in their own fashions. “Sorry, Jazz, I can’t today. I’ve got things to take care of.”
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