Fearful Symmetries

by Thomas F Monteleone

  “That would be fine.”

  “Very good. You’ll be getting a schedule for when you can come in at night and read into one of our recorders. We want to make sure everyone knows how to operate them properly.” Mr. Hawthorne smiled primly. “Plus, you’ll need to know a few basics about how to handle mistakes—so that when the tapes are edited, they will sound as smooth as possible.”

  “So it will not be necessary to take the machines home with us?” said Salazar.

  “No, they’re a bit too bulky to be very portable, I’m afraid. If we could get a larger budget, we would like to buy some new equipment, but…”

  “I see.” Salazar did not want his evenings tied up with such obligations. The thought touched him that perhaps this had been a bad idea after all.

  “Is there something wrong?” asked Hawthorne. “Didn’t I tell you the hours?”

  “No.”

  “Sorry about that. Does your work schedule conflict? Do you work in the evenings?”

  “No, not really,” said Salazar. “It is just that I am often very busy at night.”

  “Well, perhaps you’d like to try it for a while and see how it’s working out.” Hawthorne smiled a weak, thin-lipped smile. “If it sounds like I’m cajoling you, I am. You see, we don’t get that many men to volunteer for this kind of work.”

  “Really?” His waning interest in the project sparked and crackled.

  “That’s right,” said Hawthorne with a smile that tried to be sly. “Lots of young women, though.”

  Lots of young women.

  “It will be no problem. I will return at four.”

  ⟡

  Passing the audition proved easy for Lydia. She’d always enjoyed theater, and had also done a little singing. Everyone told her she had a pleasant voice, a good voice. She entered the orientation room and took a seat in front of one of the old tape recorders which had been carefully arranged on long tables. Other volunteers were already seated and others slowly drifted in. There was nothing to do but wait for things to get started.

  ⟡

  He passed some time by walking around the neighborhood, in and out of some of the art and photography galleries, which he loathed. To see the garbage which passed for true art these days ignited within him a burning anger of righteousness. He wallowed in the ferocity of his outrage, drawing strength and resolve from it. The decadence of art was only one of many signs pointing to the coming Apocalypse. Such signs, and he saw them everywhere, beautifully reinforced his own special preparations for survival. For March, the weather was surprisingly mild and many people herded along the sidewalks, pretending to be enjoying themselves. He looked closely at many of the couples, immediately despising the males and thinking his usual thoughts about the females.

  Despite the intoxicating surges of rage which powered him as he walked the streets, he did not actually prefer being out among the mortals for long periods of time. He felt far more comfortable, more secure in the relative solitude of the Post Office, where he operated his mail sorting machines with mind-numbing efficiency, where he need not speak to anyone other than himself, where he could concentrate on his special thoughts without distraction or interruption. And of course, nothing matched the solitude of his fortress-like row-house in one of the city’s forgotten neighborhoods. Like a great womb, the old house encapsulated and protected him. It was the place where he’d been born, had lived his entire life, even after his mother died. It was the place where he believed he would achieve his immortality.

  Growing tired of the sidewalks and the galleries and still having almost an hour to kill, he drifted into one of the trendy bars where they served sushi and many foreign ales and beers.

  The dark interior was more suitable to his mood, even though he found it somewhat crowded as he straddled a stool. He did not like crowded places.

  Sipping upon a seltzer and lime, he glanced around the bar to see several young women, and some who were not-so-young, studying him as well. This did not surprise or excite him, however. His Mediterranean face was softly featured, naturally handsome. His liquid, puppy-dog eyes and warm, resonant voice attracted women. His delicate manner of speaking, the way he carefully pronounced all his words without contractions, charmed most females.

  But Salazar ignored them because he knew better than to be seen associating with any of them in public. It was too easy to be seen, to be witnessed and thereby connected.

  No. He had his own methods. Methods proved successful over many years.

  He arrived at the volunteer center a few minutes late and the receptionist ushered him into a large room filled with long tables and many people sitting at them. Mr. Hawthorne was already droning on about how to operate the recorders as Salazar moved quickly to the closest open chair. Taking a seat in the second row, he looked with great disinterest at the old Webcor which squatted in front of him.

  A growing excitement smoldered in him like early bursts of heat from a pile of oily rags. He loved the overall somatic control he conjured up at such times. All his senses operated at the brink of overload; he never felt so incredibly alive as when he plunged into a new hunt. Salazar absorbed the scent of the woman to his right—a faint blend of Halston perfume and natural perspiration. It was a natural pheromone to him. His peripheral vision recorded a splash of blonde hair, small movements of her left arm. Stealing a quick glance to his right, he was rewarded with a stunning vision.

  Instantly he knew that it was not mere chance which had placed him next to a very special prey. Truly the Fates did conspire to help him, a belief he often pondered. The young woman to his right possessed not the glitz of a Cosmo cover-girl nor the sexual artifice of a Playmate…just a natural grace, an innocence which seemed to radiate from her soul like a beacon. In an instant, he had mentally photographed her.

  Sea-green eyes, long lashes. High cheekbones, and sculpted facial planes. Pert nose and streamlined lips with just the hint of fullness. Strawberry blonde hair, long and full. It was rare indeed that he found one so perfect.

  She wore a loose, baggy lavender sweater with macrame laces up the front. It was not something designed to be sexy or revealing. But the way she leaned forward over the table, enabling her to inspect some facet of the recorder’s controls, gave him a perfect view of her breasts.

  More perfection. Full and upthrusting, but not actually large or pendulous. Delightfully pink aureoles, fully defined, as though swollen, protruding from the rest of the breast. The nipples themselves, while semi-erect, were not thick or obtrusive.

  Hawthorne’s voice had deteriorated to something less than the idiot-hum between radio stations. Salazar flirted with the state of total rapture.

  “Hi!”

  The utter cheeriness of the soft voice was like a slap in his face. Stunned, Salazar looked up to the beautiful woman smiling at him. Her age could have been anywhere between eighteen and thirty.

  “Hello…” he said, trying to keep his voice from cracking. He was not accustomed to be caught staring. “I just wanted to see if we all had the same kinds of machines…”

  “I think so,” she whispered.

  Salazar noticed that Hawthorne had stopped talking and everyone was fiddling with their tape machines, obviously testing out some procedure.

  “I’m…Tony…Tony Vespa,” he said in a half-whisper. He used the phony name he’d given Hawthorne. “Nice to meet you.”

  “Lydia McCarthy,” she said, still smiling. “Likewise.”

  “What category did you sign up for?” He didn’t really care, but a desperate urge burned within to preserve their contact. Even though he had not availed himself of any of the other prey available, he knew she was the one.

  “Oh, I picked the Classics…” said Lydia, a seasoning of regret in her voice.

  He smiled at her. Most women found his smile disarming and ingenuous. She reciprocated, and his pulse jumped. Salazar was certain she had no idea how she affected men. No teasing. No flirting. Everything was very natural with her. She wou
ld be perfect.

  “What’re you going to be reading?”

  “What?”

  “The tapes.” she said. “What category did you pick?”

  “Oh…I’m doing some spy thrillers and some mysteries.” He could care less about the goddamned blind…

  “All right, now, I think you’ve all got the basics,” said Hawthorne, his voice intrusive and alien. “Don’t forget—it’s okay to make mistakes…”

  Lydia’s attention returned to the front of the room. Salazar stared at her, invading the front of her sweater with his hungry eyes. She would be so sweet…

  “I’m going to call you out by the category you selected,” said Hawthorne. “When you hear your group called, please come up and get your assignments and schedules. If you have any conflicts, you can work them out with our receptionist. Are we ready? All right…let’s take the Classics first.”

  “That’s me,” said Lydia, gathering up her purse and down jacket. “It was nice meeting you…”

  Salazar was stunned by her sudden movement. His gaze left the front of her sweater and searched out her green-flecked eyes. But before he could say anything, she had turned away, slipped into the stream of other readers moving quickly past Hawthorne’s table. A surge of panic choked through him. He should change his category! He should follow her.

  But he could do no such thing. He could not draw attention to himself, or worse, connect himself with her in any way. Occupied with precautionary thoughts, he was barely aware of her receiving her book-assignment and exiting the room.

  Hawthorne, meanwhile, had moved down his list, calling on Biography, General Non-Fiction, Contemporary Fiction, Romance & Gothics, and Science Fiction, before finally hitting Spy & Mystery. Salazar played out the charade, accepted his schedule with feigned interest, then exited as quickly as possible without appearing to be in a hurry.

  The hallway was empty and so was the lobby, other than the receptionist’s desk. Lydia McCarthy was gone and if her phone number was unlisted it was possible he’d lost her forever. But he didn’t give up that easily, retreating back down the hall to Mr. Hawthorne’s vacant office. Moving quickly, Salazar rifled through a folder full of applications on the pristine blotter.

  More quickly than he expected, he found Lydia’s form, instantly committing her phone number to memory. Right away, the familiar, explosive sensation of great warmth suffused him. Intimate. Comforting. He felt full of power and confidence as he strode triumphantly out into the hall, through the lobby, and out into the cold, late afternoon.

  It had been so easy after all. The digits of her phone number blazed in the center of his skull.

  The temptation to rush home to call was seductive, almost overpowering, but he told himself he would wait until Tuesday.

  ⟡

  Tony Vespa.

  At first the caller’s name meant nothing to her, but he ignored her initial confusion and re-introduced himself. The handsome, dark-eyed guy at the volunteer center—she suddenly connected the name and the face. He had seemed so very nice. So polite and charming. And as he spoke, he continued to reinforce that first impression.

  She was pleased that he’d called, and she was not really all that surprised that, after some small-talk, he asked her out—some drinks and maybe some dancing at Edgar’s. Saturday night, around eight?

  “Yeah, that would be great,” she heard herself say, perhaps a little too enthusiastically. “I’ve never been there, but people at work say it’s real nice.”

  He confirmed her address, then prepared to end the conversation.

  “Gee, do you have to go so quick?” asked Lydia, hoping she didn’t sound too forward.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I thought maybe we could talk for a while. Maybe get to know each other a little better…”

  He chuckled softly. A soft, seductive sound, even through the receiver. “Plenty of time for that, Lydia. Good night.”

  ⟡

  Saturday night, eight o’clock. She had opened her apartment door to him wearing a dark blue jacket-and-pants ensemble over an ivory satin blouse. The silky material conformed to her flesh in such a way it was obvious she was bra-less.

  And then she’d asked him if he wanted a beer while he waited for her to finish getting ready…

  …and Salazar now watched her working hard to twist off the cap with her left hand while she held the Michelob bottle awkwardly in the crook of her flipper-like right arm.

  How had he not noticed it?

  He could not keep his gaze from the deformity. Foreshortened, stick-thin, slightly twisted. Just beyond the permanently half-bent elbow protruded three stiff, semi-formed and useless fingers. A withered arm.

  The thought lit up his mind like a cheap neon sign. He looked away from the kitchen, trying to seem interested in the contemporary decor of her living room. A withered arm.

  So taken had Salazar been with the perfection of the rest of her, he had somehow failed to notice. He had not actually seen her…all of her. He wondered if this sudden knowledge would make any real difference, and his first inclination was probably not. His image of perfection was of course destroyed, but he could still feel his hot blood pounding in his head. No, it would still be all right.

  “Here we go,” said Lydia brightly as she exited the kitchen and extended the bottle to him with her left hand.

  Looking up, he tried to smile, tried to keep his gaze from drifting down to that hideous thing sticking out of her sleeve. “Thanks…” He accepted the bottle and took a careful sip. It was not a good thing to drink alcohol, but the charade must be played out. He knew that one bottle would not foul his plans.

  “I’m almost ready,” she said, turning down the hall towards her bedroom. “Just a few minutes, really.”

  “We have all the time in the world,” he said.

  ⟡

  A single, unsettling thought that something was not quite right touched her mind as soon as she climbed into his beat-up Chevrolet. The interior was rimed with a furry patina of grime and dust, the windows so fogged with dirt she could barely see the streetlights in the distance. An aroma of Lysol spray trying to mask a deeper, more hideous odor assailed her as he closed the door. There was something familiar about the smell—a slightly rancid, yet somehow metallic redolence, but she couldn’t place it. She had never been in such a filthy car.

  In addition, he never spoke to her after slipping into his seat and keying the ignition. Watching him, Lydia noticed how he gripped the wheel with both hands, knuckles white, arms rigid. He stared straight ahead, eyes not even blinking. There was something chilling about him, a sudden coldness that was reptilian. She could almost see it lurking beneath the surface of his handsomeness like the creature in the black lagoon. How could she have not noticed it before?

  The Chevrolet accelerated quickly under his unflinching control, changing lanes in the heavy city traffic like a checker zig-zagging across its board. Landmarks blinked past her window and she realized they weren’t headed for the hotel district where Edgar’s was located. With a shudder, Lydia knew she wanted out of the car—as soon as possible.

  She tried to make a few jokes, to get him talking, but he ignored her completely. His coldness radiated outward, touched her, and the inside of the car felt like the bottom of a well.

  “Where are we going?” she asked sternly.

  He turned a corner roughly, leaving a wide thoroughfare for a narrow, neighborhood street. Poorly lit, the street assumed a mantle of foreboding shadows.

  “I said where are we going? Why won’t you answer me?”

  This time, he turned and smiled at her.

  “We’re almost home,” he said in a reverent whisper. He sounded stagey, but also frightening.

  She knew she didn’t want to be anywhere near this creep’s home. As the car slowed for a red traffic light, she whirled awkwardly in her seat so her left arm could reach the door handle.

  Yanking it upward, she gasped when nothing happened. Almos
t without effort he lashed out with the back of his hand. The force of impact almost unhinged her jaw. Stinging flashes of pain lit up the inside of her skull; nausea and dizziness welled up like a black geyser behind her eyes. She collapsed into the corner of the seat and the door, fighting the urge to pass out, to give in to him. No. She would never do that. She kept repeating the thought as though it would give her strength.

  Her mind raced with half-panicky thoughts. How could she have let this happen? He’d seemed so normal, so nice…and she had so few dates, so few chances to get out and be like everybody else.

  But even her earliest memories confirmed she’d never been treated like everybody else. Just because her pregnant mother had been prescribed a drug called Thalidomide, Lydia had survived as an Outsider. She learned as a small child how to live with the special pain of rejection, of words like freak and monster. She knew intimately the simple cruelties, and countless, unseen injuries. Like a grey, mottled tumor, her pain clung to the depths of her soul. But rather than allowing it to become a malignant destroyer, she had used her pain as a source of power, of soul-energy. She had learned to accept the pain, break it down into its molecular parts, and re-build it into a driving engine of confidence and inner strength. Lydia had always faced the torment with a special dignity, always growing more formidable in the process.

  But now, she faced something far darker…

  ⟡

  Salazar was feeling very strong since slapping her across the face. The contact with her flesh had exhilarated him. Electricity danced upon the tips of his fingers, singing to him in a chorus of power. Whipping the steering wheel to the left, he jockeyed the car down another side street, then left again into the alley behind his house. As he braked to a halt, his passenger lunged for the door latch. He smacked her again—this time hard enough to break the skin across her cheekbone and to stun her into semi-consciousness. Moving quickly, he grabbed a roll of duct tape from the glove compartment, tearing off a strip to seal her mouth. Then before she regained her senses, he pulled her from the car and fireman-carried her towards the house. Draped limply over his shoulder, she felt almost weightless to him. His entire body hummed with infinite vitality; the sensation was intoxicating, sensuous, almost divine. He moved with stealth and silence even though high fences shielded him from the eyes of any curious neighbors. The light of a half-moon cut a pale blue path through his trash-littered backyard. Salazar followed it to the outside cellar steps and descended with his prey into the familiar darkness.