By the time he reached the house, it was a raging inferno.
And it would not stop until it had consumed all in its path.
A ceiling fan spun lazily in the living room, blades slowly slicing the air. He had hung it there himself, the week they moved in. Syd yowled, vaulted skyward, did a manic slam-dunk. The fan came down, trailing hot sparks and live wire.
"KAAHHRENH"
His voice was harder than nails: an unhinged and inchoate asylum of sound. He moved into the dining room, upending the heavy deco table they'd found at a flea market on her twenty-fifth birthday. The table flew through the air, exploded into splinters and shrapnel against the hutch that still housed the wedding presents: china and tsatskes, nuptial relics. The hutch came next, tipping free from the wall, disgorging its contents to shatter on the floor. The walls grew great gaping holes, as his misshapen fists lashed out again and again. Forensic foreplay, warm-up to the main event.
All the while, calling her name.
Upstairs, a flurry of footfalls: panicked-sounding, crazed. Syd growled and spun, loping down the hall, ripping rungs from the banister as he vaulted over it. Taking the stairs three at a time.
A pajama-clad figure stood paralyzed at the second-floor landing, a nine-iron quivering in one upraised hand. One glimpse of Syd and the pajama-man fled for the bedroom, golf club clattering to the floor.
Syd hit the landing, hot on his tail. Seeing Vaughn Restal, Doug-the-dweeb, Phil-from-New-York all rolled into one: one screeching, scuttling everyman who had ever snuck behind his back and slithered between her legs. The fear in the air was napalm perfume, pointedly fanning the flames.
Pajama-man reached the master bedroom, slamming the door. A split second later, Syd landed full force upon it. The door folded and fell inward, careening off its hinges. Pajama-man fell back, screaming.
More screams, erupting from the darkness: pitiful animal shrieking sounds. A low growl spilled from Syd's lips as he bounded over the threshold. He found Karen there, huddled in the middle of the bed.
The same bed they'd once shared.
The one she shared now with this sniveling little shit. . . .
The comforter was gathered cocoonlike around her. He remembered it well, down to how much it cost. But not like he remembered her. It had been two and a half years since last they'd spoken. Even in shock, she looked very much the same. Perhaps her hair was a little bit longer; her pupils larger, huge and brimming with fear.
As he approached the bed, her boyfriend rallied, launching a desperate counterstrike. Syd snarled and backhanded him, felt the satisfying crunch of shattered meat and bone. Pajama-man crashed to the floor in a heap, his jaw dislocated, retching up blood and teeth.
Karen screeched, vaulting off the bed to shield her wounded lover. Syd snatched her leg, pulled her kicking and, screaming toward him. She scrabbled and thrashed, clawing at the floor. Her nightgown rode up, exposing the bare flesh of her buttocks.
Syd flipped her over, lips skinning back, ready to bite out her tiny, scabrous heart. . . .
Then he saw the small but unmistakable bulge in her belly: the hard, round swell of life now growing in that once-desolate place.
It was like ramming an iceberg: cold truth punching a hole in his rage, leaving him suddenly adrift and sinking. Syd stopped, staring at her nakedness. He let go of her ankle, let her leg drop. Karen hit the floor, scuttled back to her fallen lover. The new king of the castle.
The father of her child.
Two and a half years. Time enough for ghosts to fade, for lives to start over. Two and a half years. Syd cast a wild eye around the room, as the difference in his surroundings suddenly assailed him. He saw stuffed animals lining a shelf on the wall, bright plastic eyes bearing blind witness to the slaughter.
A crib waited beneath them, empty and expectant.
There was an antique mirror on the bureau by the bed, another flea market flashback to their former life. Syd turned, caught a glimpse of himself, hovering in the blue-black shadows of the room . . .
. . . and he saw himself bearing down mercilessly on her, his features predatory, contorted with bitterness and rage . . .
. . . and the face that stared back at him was monstrous, deformed into bestial caricature: his mouth grown huge and leering, his skin crawling and crisscrossed with the scars of a thousand inner battles . . .
. . . and he saw Karen, her own features frozen in that perfect, blank mask: withering under the force of his boundless anger, his endless torrent of bile . . .
. . . and he saw Karen, her eyes like bright mirrors, reflecting back the face that he had shown her, time and time again.
The face of the monster he kept inside . . .
Karen's lover moaned and brought a hand up to his broken face. A glint of gold shone on his ring finger. A wedding band. Karen mewled, protectively cradled his head. There was a wedding ring on her finger, as well. Syd turned away from his reflection, watched them quiver on the floor: huddled together like bunnies, like frightened deer, Bambi and Thumper caught in the onrushing headlights' glare. It felt suddenly shameful to torment these harmless creatures. They were not of his kind. Never would be. Never were.
And as her eyes flickered up to his, tearful and doomed, he saw clearly now that she didn't have a clue: no understanding as to who he was, why any of this was happening, why any of it had ever happened at all.
But for all her lack of understanding, one other thing was clear: her life had gone on, while he had remained chained to his past, unable to let go of the pain. For better or worse, she had a new life; and so his presence here was reduced to senseless madness. Laying waste to her world. For no reason at all.
It was that simple, and that horrifying. It left Syd standing frozen there, trembling and torn. He could kill her, yes—kill both of them—and murder the promise sleeping inside her. He could destroy her life, make her suffer, make her die. But he could never make her understand.
In the end, it would mean less than nothing.
And he would never be healed.
I'm sorry. . . . he tried to say. The words, when they came, made no sense at all; guttural gibberish from the mouth of a monster. I'm sorry. . . . Karen flinched and heard only threats. She lashed out weakly, clutched at her husband, began to cry.
He watched her for a moment, a shadow passing over his face. Then he was moving: away from them, down the hall and down the stairs, then out of the shattered portal of his long-dead dream.
Outside, lights had flickered on along Raymire Street. Anonymous shadows watched from furtive windows; psychic scavengers, feeding on boudoir secrets. In the sky, lightning flickered ominously. The wind had picked up, bringing with it the first faint drops of the coming storm. It would be upon them soon.
But for Syd, it was already here.
34
THURSDAY PLAYED OUT for Nora behind a ceaseless curtain of rain: a blinding, torrential downpour that started forty miles out of Virginia Beach and dogged her all the rest of the way. The windshield wipers bravely flailed against the flood, could not keep up. The Mercedes was frequently forced to a slogging 25-m.p.h. crawl that seemed to last forever.
She had chosen the most direct route: straight up 1-64 out of Norfolk, past Richmond and Charlottesville, then across the Blue Ridge Mountains to Staunton, VA. It should have taken five hours, wound up taking nine. By the time she pulled off the road and checked into a Comfort Inn sometime around ten-thirty the next morning they were just packing up the free continental breakfast; and despite all the speeders she'd gobbled, she managed to scarf three half-stale Danishes before collapsing on top of her still-made bed.
She awoke around four, to the sound of rolling thunder. The storm had settled in, lashing the windows monotonously, turning the parking lot into an asphalt lake. She sat up and reached for the remote control, immediately turned on the news. The car's radio reception had been lousy, between the mountains and the rain; but cable TV was a whole 'nother story. As she flipped through t
he channels, she caught a bit on CNN about a fairly spectacular bloodbath that had taken place late Wednesday in none other than beautiful scenic Virginia Beach. Official reports now put the death toll at thirty, including four police officers and several members of the hotel staff. The rest had been guests who stumbled onto the scene, as well as three unidentified sailors whose presence there still had not been explained. Reporters on the scene described it as a "grisly slaughterhouse tableau." There were no survivors.
The man whose suite had been the locus of the mayhem was identified from hotel records as one R Clinton Melhorn, although subsequent investigation cast some doubt on that. CNN had an artist's composite of the man being sought for questioning, along with a rendition of the "female companion" who had checked in with him. Vic's sketch looked more like a scar-faced cartoon pirate than the real thing, but that was hardly the point. Hers was close enough for folk music.
And she was driving the Mercedes.
Nora was wide awake now; she leapt off the bed, began pacing the room as she flipped channels, searching for more clues. She caught the local news in time to hear about a seemingly unrelated incident some one hundred and eighty-seven miles to the west. A routine speeding violation spotted by State Police had led to a thirty-seven-mile-long chase, culminating in a five-car pileup in the Allegheny foothills just outside of Swift Run, Virginia. The chase had continued on foot into Shenandoah State Park before the police lost the suspect; authorities reported the deaths of two of the officers in pursuit. A third trooper reported having fired upon "a large, wild animal" that then disappeared into the woods and the blinding rain. He was treated for severe lacerations and shock, and was reported in serious but stable condition.
The news switched gears then, offering a startling new update on breast implants, but Nora was no longer listening. She was busy thinking about Vic.
He was sending her a message. And Nora was reading it loud and clear. No question about it, he was hot on her trail, and the gloves were off for good. All this mayhem was just his little way of saying prepare to die real bad.
Judging from the time of Vic's last sighting, the weather conditions, and the distance between them, she gave herself ten, maybe twelve hours before it might be lime to start seriously worrying again.
Nora considered her options. It was definitely time to ditch the car. Worse yet, she was running short of cash. A fresh credit card wouldn't hurt, either, plus some makeup and toiletries. Then she could be on her way.
These courtesies were provided by Mr. and Mrs. Ralph Landry of Cincinnati, Ohio. Nora found them in Room 117, where the motel staff would eventually find them, as well. Mrs. Landry was a plump little thing, and her taste in clothing was strictly Jaclyn Smith K mart collection, but her makeup at least was decent, Elizabeth Arden and Lancome. They also were kind enough to provide her with an American Express card, a Gold MasterCard, Amoco and Sunoco gas cards, plus a neat six hundred in cash, the keys to their slate-blue '91 Acura Legend, and their souls.
Granted, the two of them strapped together didn't stack up to much, lifeforce-wise; the Navy-boys were much stronger. But she did get a tepid buzz; enough to sharpen her up a bit, get her where she was going.
From Staunton, she hooked north onto Route 250, a snaky little secondary highway that traversed both the Appalachian and Allegheny mountains. The Acura handled nicely—almost as good as the Mercedes—and it should have been a scenic route, but she was in a hurry and the rain wouldn't give her an ounce of slack. Again, she found herself crutching half-blind through eight hours of solid driving that should have taken less than half that time.
In Fairmont, West Virginia, the final leg of the journey began: heading straight up 1-79 to Pittsburgh and the surrounding environs. By then, she'd been plowing through sodden darkness for hours. She wondered if Vic had laid low till sunset, given the heat on his tail. Or perhaps he'd just transformed and traveled through the woods on foot. He could cover a lot of ground that way. She took small comfort in the fact that the storm was doubtless slowing his course as much as hers.
Ten miles out of Monville, radio reception finally cleared enough to give her an update. And what an update it was. Seven more butchered tonight along the Chickahominy River, right outside of Roxbury, Virginia. Vic hadn't even made it to West Virginia yet. This was very good news indeed. State Police were already casting a net, setting up roadblocks on all routes leading out of the state. Nora smiled. If he kept it up with these hotdogging grandiose displays, she might get lucky and someone would shoot his ass. Then maybe she wouldn't need Syd, after all.
Which just left the other burning issue: did she even want Syd now? It was a damned good question. In truth, it had been so long since she'd dared to even think about it that she really didn't know. She remembered his kisses, the heat of his touch, the exquisite feel of him coming inside her. They were great memories, to be sure; but she couldn't help but wonder if they hadn't been enhanced somewhat by the last year and a half's travails. Was he really that good, or had she just wanted to remember it that way?
And then there was the issue of his straight-arrow domestic impulse. Did she really want to play house anymore? She wasn't quite sure, but her wild side had a definite feeling on the matter, and that feeling was AIEEEEH! After eighteen months imprisoned in the dungeon of love, she was fairly chomping at the bit for some action. A little craziness. Was that too much to ask?
There were thoughts in her head that were threatening admission, feelings burbling volcanic beneath the surface of all this; and they were dangerous things, so supercharged and volatile that if she allowed herself to let go and really experience them, she might literally tear herself apart. Key among them was the issue of love; an emotion she'd been forced to suppress so deeply that she'd almost forgotten what it was.
She knew, from cruel experience, that nothing could wound and savage like love. Nothing else left you quite so open, so vulnerable to the damage. Nora's defenses, by and large, were pretty formidable: she'd chewed her way through those sailors like so many Sta-Puf marshmallow boys, and she could easily have done a dozen more if the matter had come up. But slap a little love into the equation, and watch her just fall to pieces. It was truly pathetic.
And what's more, it never failed.
Because once you let them in, there were no more defenses. No teeth or claws on the inside. Just tender vittles and soft bellyflesh. They could do anything they wanted then; without even trying, they could eat you alive.
And she, in turn, had spread for them at every conceivable opportunity: welcoming them inside, literally inviting them to feed. And why had she done this incredibly stupid thing? Because she was in love. Because she was perpetually starving for that essence. Because she needed what they had. No matter how shitty they treated her. No matter how destructive it became.
The most important thing, she reckoned, was to get Syd back in the fold. Between the two of them, they could handle Vic; and this time, she would not hold back. If they survived, they could take it from there. Or not. Depending on how she felt.
It was just past midnight when Nora pulled onto the Mt. Haversford Road. She still couldn't see squat, but memory alone was enough to propel her through the familiar twists and turns. She had just driven through over five hundred miles of rain-smothered, interminable hell. It had taken her nearly twenty-four hours. She had done this with a single-minded clarity of purpose, a nearly preternatural calm. From the outside, she was sure, she looked stable, completely in control.
But she was just keeping the lid on tight; and all the way across the Eastern seaboard, there had not been a single second during which she hadn't been aware of the forces raging within her. Like the storm that had dogged her every step, she was unable to escape their power. Just as she was unable to escape her need for the prison-keepers of the opposite camp.
Do I still love Syd? she asked herself. And instead of an answer, a question came back:
Did I ever?
And then, all at once, she w
as there: the twinkling sign directly ahead. She swallowed hard and pulled in to the lot. It was nearly empty; in weather like this, people rightly stayed home. Nora pulled in maybe ten spaces from the door, parked under the neon flicker of the Budweiser and Stroh's signs.
She turned on the dome light in the car, did some last-minute adjustments. Her hair was a lost cause, under the circumstances. Likewise her wardrobe. Ah, well. She unfortunately didn't have time to wait around for the optimum conditions. It was already twelve forty-five.
"You're beautiful," she told herself, desperately hoped it was true.
Then she opened the door, and stepped out into the night.
JUST WHEN JANE thought things couldn't possibly get any worse.
All day she'd felt like shit: wandering around in a state of complete agitation, torn between kicking herself for not stopping Syd and the knowledge that whatever he was going through was his battle, not hers. That he would have to come to grips with it on his own, and on his own terms. Only then could she hope to help him. Only then would it do any good.
Of course, you could have told him, said the nagging voice of conscience. She winced at the thought. How could she have? It was part of her upbringing, the involuntary common sense by-product of living life as the perpetual outsider, of constantly moving from place to place to place. It had seemed the most natural thing in the world as a child, but more and more lately she had come to realize how weirdly socialized it had left her. She never even went to school, for god's sake; educated instead by her mother, taking her lessons in the back of a jostling Winnebago as they rolled down one faceless stretch of highway after another.
Privacy was second only to toilet training in her lexicon of familial programming. Stay out of other people's business was the Mason family edict, and keep them out of yours. Always be friendly. Never get close. They'll hurt you if you do, even if they don't mean to.
They just can't help themselves.
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