It made tons of sense, considering how the world was, and their place in it. As a child, it hardly even mattered. She had love and caring to spare. She was cherished and protected. The family was all that mattered. The family was all there was.
But now Mom and Dad were gone, and the program was still in place, chugging away like the runaway lawn mower of a suburban heart attack victim, cutting random swaths through the rest of her life. It wasn't until Syd had fled that Jane fully realized just how much she cared about him. And just how tired she was of being alone.
She loved Gramma Mae, but it just wasn't the same: Gram had her own life, and liked it just the way it was. Gram was a loner by nature, and though Janey would always be welcome in her house, it would always be exactly that. Her house. Her life. Jane needed her own. Now, more than ever.
She was worried about Syd, and what he was going through; she wanted to talk to him so bad. But god, was it hard to let down her guard.
So when he showed up for work, looking ragged and haggard and genuinely haunted, she approached him immediately. Are you okay? she asked.
Fine, he said. I'm fine.
And she knew it wasn't true, that it was anything but. His tone was chilled to the point of numbness; he worked robotically, not smiling, not talking, deflecting her every overture of concern.
Jane finally determined that she would get inside his defenses, even if she had to let her own down to do it. She would do it tonight.
Just as soon as they got out of there.
Fortunately, it was deadly slow, business-wise. What with the storm battering the valley, there were maybe two dozen people in the whole damn club. Jane let Bonnie go home early, kept herself nominally busy, waiting for the opportunity to talk to him. At eleven forty-five it looked like her chance had come.
Then the front door opened.
And everything went straight to hell.
OH MY GOD.
Syd looked up from rinsing glasses, saw her reflection in the mirror. Oh my god. Watching her descend the steps like Marley's ghost in heels. The feeling struck like an ice pick to the back of his skull, made the blood drain from his face. Please don't do this, he silently pleaded. Oh please . . .
But there wasn't a force on earth that could stop what was already in motion.
Syd turned and saw Nora moving toward him, all her calculated sexual ferocity firing point-blank in his direction; and watching her, he couldn't help but be thrown back on those long-buried memories he'd worked so hard to inter. The way she'd first appeared, like Rita Hay worth descending from the screen. The revelation implicit in her presence. The astounding tug on his body and soul.
He remembered swearing his undying love to her, being ready to follow her wherever she might go.
And now she was back . . .
. . . but there was something wrong with the picture this time. Or maybe he'd just finally learned how to see. The wrongness extended far beyond mere physicality: the rain pasting her clothing to her body, slicking her hair back on her head. Those things could just as easily have worked to her advantage.
But they didn't and the reason became clearer with every step she took. He bristled, sensitized to her severe stimuli; and as he did he realized that she had a reek to her—a rotting spirit-smell—that had far less to do with physical senses than with soul-antennae. It was the stench of her dissipation, the stink of corruption beyond repair, and he couldn't help but respond.
The closer she came, the more his flesh began to crawl.
Nora crossed the room, the illusion peeling back in déjà vu detail. Her beauty was still there, still powerful. But her beauty was utterly subsumed by the infinite, minute striations of character etched indelibly into the tiny lines of her face, the strips of light and shadow that demarcated her flesh.
They said that God was in the details.
Perhaps this was what they were talking about.
Because as Syd beheld her entrance all the Marc Pankowskiesque metaphors came instantly, incandescently clear. No evasion. No mistake. No way to deny it. She was responsible for all those lines—every single one—and they told her story like karmic hieroglyphs, roadmaps of the journey of her soul.
And, dear God, there was so much ugliness there. . . .
He saw it in the lines that framed the mouth that parted now to speak. So much bitterness. So little mercy. He saw it in the lines that surrounded her eyes; lines both cruel and tragic, born from both sides of betrayal.
Most of all, it was in the eyes, which could no longer mask her insanity.
Nora stepped up to the bar. "Nora," he said.
"Syd," she said. "I'm so sorry."
And it was as if the entire last year and a half of hell had been nothing more than a trip to the bathroom, and now they were late for a previous engagement.
"What?" he replied.
"I'm sorry," she repeated. "I know this seems crazy, but I've missed you so much, and we really don't have much time," she continued. "I promise, I'll explain it all later."
"Nora, I can't—"
"Syd, please," she interrupted, impatience underlying the urgency in her tone. "I don't understand what the big deal is. If you'll just come with me I swear I'll explain everything. . . ."
"Syd." Jane's voice, behind him. "Syd, is everything okay?"
Oh god, he thought. Jane. He glanced at her nervously, then back to Nora.
As her features went icy and hard . . .
. . . AND SUDDENLY ALL of her plans were in jeopardy, igniting to sizzling flame in her brain.
The sight of Syd on the other side of the bar was weird enough, the idea that he would not want to leave with her had never even entered her mind. There was, after all, the reality of Vic to buttress her story: one twist of the radio dial would confirm that.
Beyond that, there was her vast repertoire of skills. Nora could cry; she could browbeat; she could lie; she could intimidate; she could plead, cajole, caress, extol, impress, distress, and suck cock like a pro. And because there was nothing she wouldn't do, there was virtually nothing she couldn't do. It was the essence of her strength.
Right up until the moment the little bitch came up behind him.
She hadn't planned for this, hadn't considered it at all. She had saved his goddamned life, and he had just gone on without her. She vaguely remembered this second-string cunt from way back, recalled the way she'd so wisely deferred. Now she wasn't being nearly so smart.
"Syd, you gotta believe me," she continued, negating the intrusion. "I tried to get back to you, I really did. Baby, I missed you so much. . . ."
"Syd." The cunt was speaking again. "Syd, what—"
"Shut up!" Nora snarled. Jane visibly recoiled, but did not move. Nora turned her attention back to Syd. "Quit fucking around, baby." She reached out to take his hand. "C'mon, we gotta go. . . ."
"No."
"Seriously, baby, we-—"
"NO!"
He yanked his hand away, out of her grasp. Nora's eyes flared, then narrowed to flinty slits. "What did you say?" she asked incredulously.
"He said, 'No.' "
Nora glared. Another cunting intrusion. Bad enough she should speak; Nora then watched in amazement as the little slut actually insinuated herself: placing a protective hand on Syd's shoulder, trying to pull him away. Nora's eyes locked on the offending hand before flitting back to Syd's face. For the first time, she realized how different he looked. How much he had changed.
But she didn't miss—couldn't miss—the way Syd moved, not back, but instinctively forward to shield the bitch. She saw the way his body language so eloquently revealed his betrayal. Syd took position in front of his barmaid bitch, his entire body tensed and ready.
Ready to defend her, Nora realized. Defend her against me . . .
And it was all so suddenly, terribly clear. Nora realized with a slick rush of horror that they were completely, unassailably in love, and they didn't even know it yet.
She started to laugh then: a caustic, aci
d-tinged explosion, devoid of mirth. "You gotta be kidding," she said. "What'd she do, Syd, wrap your dick around her little finger?"
"Nora, stop it."
"Do you have any idea what I've been through?" Nora hissed, tears beginning to well in her eyes. "I fought my way through hell to get back to you, you miserable sonofabitch; you'd be dead if it wasn't for me. . . ."
"Nora, please . . ."
"I put my ass on the line for you, and now you're telling me you're gonna throw me over for this . . . this—"
She gestured dismissively to his little squeeze. "I love you, goddammit! I need your help! Now, are you coming with me, or what??"
But Syd just stood his ground and stared at her: not speaking, not moving, not giving her an inch. He didn't have to. The light in his eyes said it all. There was fear there, yes, and confusion. But there was something else, too: and its mere presence made Nora crazy, made it very hard to keep from just slaughtering him on the spot, slaughtering them both.
She looked in his eyes, and saw pity.
"I'm sorry," he croaked.
"Motherfucker," she spat. "You had your chance. Just remember that. You had your chance. . . ."
. . . AND THEN SHE was whirling, stalking off toward the door while the feelings surged up inside him, yanking at the far end of his chain. There was no getting around how powerful it felt . . .
. . . just as there had been no getting around the look in her eyes, in the moment before she turned . . .
. . . and then she was gone, her memory burning a freeway of fire through his brain. He had seen the murder in those eyes—had seen, there, what she was capable of— and it flashed him back on Jules, and that night of blood and destruction.
The door hissed closed behind her. Syd felt Jane shudder beside him, slipped his arm around her.
"It's okay," Syd murmured; and that was when Jane pulled away. As she did he saw that it was anger, not fear, that made her tremble. "It'll be okay. . . ."
"Don't bet on it," Jane said. "That bitch is crazy." Syd nodded, thinking you don't know the half of it.
"If she comes around again," Jane added, "I'll fucking kill her."
Syd looked at her. Thinking you don't know . . .
The time for revelation had come.
It was twelve fifty-one.
35
REVELATION, HOWEVER, DIDN'T come all at once; nor did it come easily. The first order of business was to get Jane home, alive and in one piece. He could worry about the rest from there.
Closing up early, by comparison, was a given. Under the circumstances, it was the only thing to do. Syd announced last call practically the moment Nora left. Jane backed him up completely, scooping half-finished drinks off of customers' tables, hustling everyone out the door as quickly as they possibly could. By the time the last stragglers were ready to go, Syd and Jane were ready as well.
Throughout the whole ordeal, Jane didn't utter a single word that wasn't entirely job-related. Whatever she was feeling, she played it close to the vest. That was fine with Syd; he couldn't talk about it, either, though he suspected his reasons and hers were maybe just a little bit different.
Her concerns, he was forced to suspect, were probably just a touch more terrestrial than his. The odds were pretty good that, when she thought about this, she wasn't factoring in the supernatural. In fact, he found himself thinking about asking her jeez, honey, you ain't scared of no werewolves, now, are ya? But then again, it probably wasn't the best idea. Whatever was going to happen, he sure as shit didn't need her doubting his sanity.
Lord knows, she'd soon have reason enough to doubt her own.
At one-thirty they chased out the last stragglers. Jane didn't complain when he left on the parking lot lights; she seemed to instinctively grasp that it was best to leave with all the lights on and as many people around as possible. As the last customer filed out Syd darted behind the bar, reached behind the ice chest and grabbed the shotgun, wrapping it in his jacket like so much fresh fish from market. Jane flashed him a worrisome look as he rejoined her, but said nothing.
Even in the company of others, the parking lot felt both treacherous and terrifying. The relentless, pounding rain didn't help matters. Syd held the jacket-wrapped gun in one hand, clutched Jane's hand in the other as they exited. He wouldn't let her leave his side, not even for a second. The memories were far too vivid, his recollection of them far too clear.
And it was so easy, so easy to let his mind slip horribly back. The pool of blood. The growling beast. Jules's dead face sliding across the window. It would paralyze him if he let it, this fear: freeze him right in his tracks. Another thing he could not allow. He feared for these people, knowing they could just as easily become human shields, more bodies to pile between him and the horror awaiting if things went out of control.
It was an ugly, soul-curdling thought, and he felt unclean even having it. But that didn't change its essential truth.
And Syd felt a fierce sense of duty, a territorial protec-tiveness that spread like an umbrella to encompass all of them. This place was his: everyone who came to this place was his charge, so long as they were there.
Good night, he waved. Don't die is what he meant.
Then he was walking Jane to the driver's side, scanning the perimeter as she unlocked the door. The rain blinded and deafened him to all but the most obvious sensory triggers, literally dragged down and earth-bound the air molecules that carried scent, replacing them with a pungent rain-smell all its own. Syd had the sinking feeling that, if and when she came, he would have very little warning. A couple of seconds. Not enough.
Jane shut the door behind her, locked it. He went around the front as she cranked the engine and flipped on the headlights. He realized he couldn't see Jane's face through the windshield, and a black hole of panic opened up in his chest.
Then the windshield wipers started, and he saw her: leaning over to unlock his door as he reached it, climbed inside. He slammed the door behind him, locked it up at once. Jane jogged it into reverse and wheeled quickly around, heading for the road. As they were backing up he thought he caught a glimpse of something moving in the tree line. He looked again, saw nothing but rain.
There was a little caravan filing out of the lot; she honked her horn in farewell, faintly received their answering calls. It felt weirdly comforting to be part of a group: almost like a pack, or a tribe. He wondered if any of them knew how lucky they were, or how ugly things could have gotten.
Then they were heading off and away from the others, in the opposite direction down the Mt. Haversford Road. Once again separated from the rest of humanity.
Hurtling headlong into the night.
THEY RODE IN silence, wending from Mt. Haversford to the Old Pitcairn Road, then into Brundle Hollow on their way up the final rise. The silence was tense but not divisive: not aimed at each other, but simply withheld. Her hand stayed tight in his, leaving only to shift, then finding it again. Her hand was his anchor point, keeping his dread from setting him adrift. Jane squeezed it and drove, watching the road. Alert. Lost in thought.
Syd, for his part, was trying hard not to think. He was trusting his instincts. They told him to shut up. Pay attention. Stay alive.
Rain lashed at the window glass, beat a deafening drumroll on the canvas top, and ran in flooded runnels down the road to either side. The shotgun sat stiffly between his legs, strangely unassuring. Visibility continued to be ghastly—between the blinding downpour and the Jeep's pitiful blowers, they could barely see the white lines on the pavement ahead—and periodically they would hit a flooded patch and lurch into a split-second free-fall before gripping the road again.
Jane cursed and shifted again, her features underlit by the dashboard lights. It was harsh, subtly unflattering, yet he had a difficult time finding lines that didn't agree with him. There was strength in those lines, but they hadn't gone hard. Character without bitterness. Determination without malice. Try as he might, he could find not one feature that he d
idn't like a million times more than Nora's.
The Jeep rounded a swooping curve. Syd glanced up.
There was something large and wet and dead in the middle of the road.
"SHIT!" they yelled, almost in unison, Jane swerving to avoid the carcass as Syd grabbed the panic bar, held on. She clipped it, a dull thwump that rocked them as she desperately countersteered. The Jeep skidded at thirty-five miles per hour, sliding toward the narrow, rutted shoulder, almost flipped as she whipped it back. The whiplash snap as she regained control whacked his forehead sharply a-gainst the window to his right. The shotgun fell to the floor with a dull thump.
Syd let out a yelp and looked back at the dead thing: a red lump in her taillights' glow, rapidly receding in the fog-choked distance as she swung back onto the road. The sense of dread that it gave him was beyond déjà vu; more like a bad omen.
Or a calling card . . .
"What the hell was that?" he asked her.
"I don't know," she said, squinting into the rearview mirror. "But I think its head was gone."
Syd swallowed hard. He hadn't missed the tremor in her voice. Abandon hope, all ye who enter here . . . read the banners fluttering across his mind. He could feel the fear flicker like heat lightning inside him. It crawled up his heartbeat, adrenalized his soul even as the force of his vibe flooded the vehicle's cab.
The sight of the thing brought him horribly full circle, to the wolf in the woods where it all began. The power-lessness he'd felt—puny tire iron in hand—was nothing compared to the way he felt now. At least then he'd only had himself to worry about.
This was worse. A million times worse.
"Jane," he began. "There's something I gotta tell you—"
"I know," she interrupted. "And I hate to do it like this, but we're almost out of time. There's a couple of things I've gotta tell you, too. While we still have the chance."
He looked at her, startled, as Jane shrugged her way out of her sodden jean jacket, let it flop onto the seat behind her. Her T-shirt was plastered to her skin. Her skin was goosefleshed, her nipples stiffly erect. "What are you talking about—"
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