Thank you, he mused, looking around the room. A crocheted comforter was piled in the armchair across from him. Evidently, he'd had company while he slept. The shotgun was within instant arm's reach. He recalled his paralysis at the moment of truth, felt a black rush of shame overtake him.
Syd tried to sit up, was immediately greeted by a monstrous backache. His neck and shoulders creaked, one solid slab of tension; the base of his skull ached horribly. The temptation to settle back and lie there forever was overwhelming.
Then he heard Mae's voice, coming from the kitchen. She was talking on the phone. "Oh, shit," he hissed and pulled himself upright, legs wobbling as he stood. He took a few halting paces toward the kitchen, feeling his innards shift and shudder inside him. Gramma Mae was sitting at the table, speaking in clipped, anxious tones. He hovered in the doorway, listening. From her end of the conversation, he could piece together the gist.
First and foremost: Jane was still alive. Thank God, Syd thought, felt a knot loosen and unwind in his chest. If anything else had happened, he didn't know what he would have done. In the same breath, he caught that her condition had been upgraded overnight from critical to guarded; and that she had regained consciousness sometime this morning, but refused to answer any questions.
And that was where it grew tense. Apparently, some prick named Simmons was getting nosy: asking very personal questions about the family, wanting to know about Jane's medical history, her extraordinary metabolism, anything and everything he could get his hands on. Syd grimaced; bastard was probably sniffing for his Nobel Prize, though Syd suspected the story was more apt to wind up in the Enquirer. He could see the ghastly headlines now. SEXY WEREWOLF'S HEALING SECRETS! LASCIVIOUS LYCANTHROPE'S DEATHBED DECLARATION: "RAVAGE ME IF YOU CAN!"
Mae deflected him adroitly: playing the distraught-but-feisty old mountain girl to the hilt. But for all her diplomacy, her ingrained piss and vinegar, Syd could tell that she was deeply rattled inside.
He retreated from the door, still keeping an ear cocked to the conversation. And as he padded around eavesdropping, he noticed for the first time the fresh scratches all over the hardwood floors, the clawmarks scarring the windows and doors. It wasn't hard to put the picture together.
She must have flipped out as Nora started prowling around outside: running from window to window to window like an old yapping house dog with a rabid stray in the yard.
He felt so bad for her; how terrified she must have been. Thank God, too, that nothing had happened to her. Unless, of course, you count helplessly watching your only granddaughter get ambushed and almost killed, he added. Some folks might regard that as slightly traumatic.
There was certainly nothing she could have done; of that much, he was certain. He tried to tell himself it wasn't any of their faults, that there was nothing any of them could have done. But the anguish underpinning her voice gnawed at his soul, told him that even if this were true, it would be no comfort to her now.
And that was when he understood the simple, ugly truth.
Like exactly whose fault it was.
Syd stood in the middle of the living room, was once again struck by its beauty. This was their home. They had lived here for years, without anyone ever having a clue about their true natures.
Until he came along.
And that was when it hit him, the responsibility implicit in his role. Syd understood what he would have to do: for their sake, even more than his own.
He didn't know how he would do it; quite frankly, he didn't have a clue. It almost didn't matter.
His duty was clear.
39
BY NOON, A plan of sorts had taken shape.
Syd had slipped out of the back door quietly, pausing only to rinse himself with the hose outside. He wanted to put as much distance as possible between himself and the mountain; and the sooner he did it, the better. Gramma Mae watched him from the kitchen window; she didn't raise an eyebrow as he hopped into Jane's Jeep and drove off.
A quick stop by his room allowed him to grab a change of clothes and the gun he'd almost used on Vaughn Restal, one night a million years ago. Just down the street at Hoeffner's Sporting Goods he scored fifty rounds of hollow points, plus a small can of lighter fluid and a box of shotgun shells.
The ammo jiggled on the seat beside him. It was only marginally comforting, for a variety of reasons. It might not even work, for one thing; he somehow doubted Nora could have been stopped by anything short of a bazooka blast last night. To further complicate matters, Treat Her Right was supposed to be playing tonight, and the potential innocent-bystander bodycount a Friday night firefight could generate was genuinely appalling. And the idea of stopping Vic only to end up indicted for manslaughter struck him as a real losing strategy, even if he could make a case for self-defense.
No; in the end, Syd decided that gunplay was a desperate last resort, one he dearly hoped he would not have to employ.
Besides, he knew, if he did this right, he wouldn't need to.
The parking lot floods were still on when Syd pulled up. Another good sign. It meant that Randy hadn't been in, and if he wasn't in by noon he probably wouldn't be until four. All of which suited Syd just fine. He needed the time, and the privacy. He screeched to a halt directly in front of the entrance, grabbed the ammo, and climbed out.
The ground was almost dry beneath his feet as he crossed the lot; a few stray puddles shimmered in the distance, all quickly diminishing under the force of the sun. The rain had hopefully washed away Nora's trail, and the sunshine was eliminating the leftover rain. All of which meant the parking lot was clean, as well as the road leading up to it.
Which left Chameleon's: his first and only line of defense. Common sense and the out-of-state plates on Nora's stolen car told him there were doubtless thousands of other haunts across the country she could just as easily have hightailed it to. All Syd had to do was steer Vic off the trail, send him packing for parts unknown, secure in the knowledge that wherever Nora was, she'd never been here.
In other words, he had to lie like a bastard. And he had to do it so thoroughly that Vic couldn't help but believe him.
Syd unlocked the front door, stepped inside. Daylight sliced the dim interior, dust motes wafting in the stale air. He shuddered, an involuntary tremor. It was a little like walking into a tomb.
A lot like entering his own.
He stashed his stuff behind the bar, then went into the kitchen and broke out a bucket and mop. There was a big five-gallon jug of industrial-grade pine-scented disinfectant under the dishwasher's station. He poured some into the bucket, then shoved it under the taps, filled it with steaming water. On the way out he scooped up a sponge and a pair of rubber gloves from the drainboard.
Syd returned to the main room, surveyed the job before him. It was a massive undertaking. He worked like a maniac, racing the clock as he swabbed and sloshed and scrubbed and mopped every square inch of the room.
By three the rest of the crew started filtering in. Bruno, the night cook, was the first to arrive. He was a big, burly man with a bristly crop of short white hair and a face like a basset hound. He took one look around and started to gag, asked Syd if he'd lost his fucking mind. Syd told him to mind his fucking business. Bruno walked to the kitchen, shaking his head.
Bonnie was next through the door. She'd already heard about Jane. She asked Syd if he was okay; when he nodded wordlessly and kept right on working, she backed off. The look in her eyes told him everything he needed to know.
That's right, he thought. Chalk it up to distress. The less you know, the better.
It was four by the time he finished. Syd stashed the mop and bucket, then grabbed his clothes and the paper bag, went into the office to change. He shut the door and quickly stripped, slipping into clean jeans and sneakers, plus an oversized chambray work shirt. His arms and legs, already wracked from digging Nora's grave, were in blistering agony; his head wanged from the fumes. He broke open the box of hollow points, loaded the cli
p, and stuffed the gun inside the waistband of his jeans. The shirt he left untucked; its tail covered the bulge, rendering it all but invisible. Then he bundled the clothes into the bag, stepped out of the office, and ducked out the back door at the end of the hall.
The sun was beginning its descent. The dumpster was just outside the door to his left. As Syd walked toward it he took the can of lighter fluid and doused the wadded-up bundle, flipped open the dumpster's lid, lit the bag, and tossed it in. As the flames sputtered to life, Syd pulled out a cigarette and lit that, too. He smoked as it burned, thinking this will work. It has to.
Randy was standing in the hall when he came back in. He asked if Syd was okay. Syd nodded. Randy asked him if he'd rather take the night off. Syd shook his head, said thanks, but he'd rather work. He needed to keep his mind off of it.
It was four-thirty. Chameleon's had never looked so good or smelled so bad. A sweet chemical stink permeated the air, like the world's largest dashboard deodorizer. Syd returned to the bar, began setting up his station. Word spread quickly, in hushed whispers and raised eyebrows, as the rest of the crew came on for the night. A few of them had heard the news by the time they got there; most hadn't. But everyone knew within minutes of their arrival, as their furtive glances revealed.
Syd pointedly ignored them, throwing a wall up. He could neither accept nor afford their concern. The same policy applied as the first of the evening's customers started to trickle in. Syd manned his station and kept his mouth shut, taking orders and making drinks without a trace of his customary openness. Keeping an eye on the door, even when his back was turned. Glancing at the sinister silhouette of the shotgun, tucked discreetly under the lip of the bar.
It made him think of Jules, starting a pang of long-buried anguish burning in his heart. Dredging up old ghosts helped supplant the fresher ones. Syd allowed himself to think back to that night. The memory was raw, the pain it carried very real. That was the last time he saw Nora, at least the Nora he loved. As long as he could keep himself focused and did not panic, he could say that much with complete authority, and know in his heart that it was true.
Syd kept it up as the front door opened and closed, as more and more bodies piled in. Kept it up as happy hour waxed and waned and the band arrived, began to set up. Kept it up long after the light outside had faded from white to gold to deepest twilight blue.
And the long night descended upon them all.
40
THE STICKER ON the pickup's bumper read HUNTERS DO IT WITH A BANG! Vic didn't know if he agreed, but judging from the look on its ex-owner's face, he'd certainly gone out with one.
It had been a wearying journey. Covering the remaining hundred or so miles on foot was frankly exhausting, even if he did do it on all fours. The gunshot wound on his left hindquarter didn't help matters. Fucking cop. Even though it was just a graze, really, the pain had slowed his progress. It had forced him to stop and lick the wound every few hours or so, and to seriously debate whether it was worth the risk to Change back, continue the trek in human form.
But the complications of that were many, from the continuing problem of evading the authorities to the knowledge that his face was all over the tube to the simple fact that the fleeting glimpse of a fleeing animal was less likely to draw fire than the sight of a naked, bleeding fugitive from justice humping through the rain-soaked Allegheny outback. Maybe they'd think they were dreaming.
Hell, maybe they'd think he was Bigfoot. And, besides, he healed slower as a biped.
That had pretty much settled it, at least until he reached a tiny burg with the unfortunate name of Droop, West Virginia. It was a little after six in the evening, and it was damp and gloomy out, the storm having let up only an hour or so before. Vic emerged limping and panting from the trees lining Route 219, found himself staring at the rear entrance of a Buster's Army/Navy Surplus Store just as no less than Buster himself emerged from the back door, intent on packing it in for the night. The expression he bore as Vic tore into him indicated that Buster had always figured his great-white-hunter status would keep him safe from the pay-end of the food chain.
Once inside, Vic ate his fill, then pulled down a sleeping bag off the wall and curled up to rest. He slept and dreamt of sweet revenge, awoke in human form, sometime near three the following morning.
The hole in his thigh was not entirely gone, but it had scarred over nicely, forming into a pinkish-red welt just beneath his butt. His left leg was stiff, but not too bad. Vic looked around the store, realized he really couldn't have asked for a better opportunity. Buster's postmortem generosity had proven bountiful indeed, providing Vic with everything he needed: new duds, some much-needed cash, plus the use of Buster's '79 Chevy short-bed pickup, complete with CB radio, police scanner and a Cobra radar detector on the visor. When he came upon a length of heavy-duty steel chain coiled on the truck bed, complete with a tow hook on the end, Vic just smiled.
Oh, yeah.
By three-fifteen Vic was on his way, clad in the height of badass shitkicker fashion in stonewashed Levi's, a black T-shirt with a Harley logo on it, and a pair of honest-to-god black steel-toed Dingo cowboy boots. He missed his duster, but he managed to find a new leather biker jacket that fit.
Life was almost good again.
By three-thirty Vic was on the move, keeping to the back roads as he made his way north, heading for the state line. The going was slow and cautious, but the CB proved invaluable for monitoring the movements of ol' John Law, and the Cobra kept him from running afoul of any more speed traps. And though Buster's musical tastes leaned a little too heavy toward Randy Travis and Patsy Cline for his liking—he still had an eight-track tucked under the dash, for chrissakes—a little rummaging under the seat turned up not only a copy of Little Feat's "Let It Roll," but a fresh fifth of Wild Turkey as well. Vic grinned as he broke the seal, wished Buster happy trails. He popped the tape in and cranked it up, bopping along to the strains of "Changin' Luck."
Vic wondered how his was holding up. So far, so-so. The cops were still searching west for the most part, which was good. The miserable weather had finally broken, but not before erasing every last trace of Nora's trail, which was not so good. For the first time in as long as he could remember, he was flying blind. He kept going anyway, relying on instinct to drive him forward.
The miles rolled by. The day wore on. The bottle didn't last long; sometime around two he stopped, got another to keep him company. All the while, Vic thought about Nora, and what she had done, and what he should do once he found her. The past forty-eight hours had given him plenty of time to reflect, and for that Vic was very glad. If he'd caught up to her quickly, he very likely would have killed her on the spot.
But forty-eight hours in animal mode had simplified things, clarified his thoughts. And coming out of it, he had to admit there was something unsettling about the whole turn his life had taken. He still couldn't accept the idea that she was actually gone. As long as he was running, he was fine: hurtling through underbrush and over mountain-tops, racing with the wind in his fur and death in his heart. But when he closed his eyes . . .
Every time he closed his eyes he saw Tristana: dancing and strutting, inciting the crowd to madness. He saw Tristana, naked and fearless, a snarl on her lips as she bucked beneath him. He saw Tristana, fighting for her life, betrayal burning in her gaze in the seconds before the killing crunch. . . .
Vic winced, gripped the wheel tight enough to break it off. His emotions roiled, barely contained beneath the surface of his skin. God damn Nora to hell. How could she do such a thing? How could she . . .
And then it hit him, so clear he couldn't believe he hadn't seen it before. For the first time, he understood how bad he must have made her feel all this time. He hadn't been giving her what she needed. He saw that now. Of course she'd run away, just like he had. Of course she'd go looking for it somewhere else. Of course she'd flip out when he did the same. In the end, he had to admit he'd been wrong. He fucked up. He was big
enough to cop to that. She should be, too.
Besides, he realized, only Nora could've spiked him like that. Only Nora could have stuck it in so deep and twisted it so hard. It had been a cold, vicious, brutally calculated thing to do.
Vic couldn't help but admire her for it.
That was the old Nora at work. Vic sighed as the spark rekindled deep in his heart. That was the Nora he loved, the Nora he'd mated with for life. Sure she was a bitch. And sure, he wanted to bite her fucking head off sometimes. But wasn't that what relationships were all about?
Such was his state of mind as he crossed the state line. It was world-class denial, but it blotted out his pain, honed his anger to a fine, razored edge. He would find her. He might even give her a scar, to remind her.
And then life would go on.
It was just past twilight when the little glowing sign appeared on the horizon. Vic drove quietly, psyching himself for their reunion. The fact that her scent was still absent bothered him a little, made him wonder what if I'm wrong? What if she's gone for good this time, and I never fucking see her again?
Vic shook his head. She was there. She had to be. He'd go in, talk to her, tell her how he felt. They'd settle the score.
And then they'd be on their way.
41
BY EIGHT O'CLOCK things had gotten busy; early as it was, the bar was lined three-deep, and more were coming in all the time. If the current crowd-flow was any indication, tonight was gonna be packed.
Red was at his post by the door. On the jukebox, Jimi Hendrix bemoaned that manic depression that was crushing his soul. Bonnie and Katy were hustling butt, working the tables and bringing orders to the bar. Trent was handling table duty, cutting Syd a little slack.
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