Skull Session

by Daniel Hecht

  "Okay." A weariness began to come over him. "She killed Mo. She tried to kill me. She would have killed you both, all of us. I entered a special kind of accelerated metabolic state. It's hereditary, Vivien had it too." He took a step toward her, entreating her understanding.

  "Get back, Paul!"

  He did as she ordered. "It comes on in response to anger or fear or protective concern. She tried to provoke it in me, but I couldn't get into it until I had to protect you two. You're right not to trust me after . . . that. But it was self-defense. And it's over now."

  Lia's gun hand didn't waver.

  Paul found a rag of curtain and began wiping his arms and hands. Who would ever understand? How could he ever explain, even to Lia? No one would believe. The police would think he was insane. And the endorphins were starting to fade. Behind the euphoria he glimpsed the abyss, the vast dark emptiness that Vivien had lived in: how nothing would seem real enough again. How no experience could match that clarity and power, how he'd hunger for it. How he'd long for another human to share the knowledge of it, the fusion.

  Looking at Mark sobbing against Lia, he wondered if he'd ever regain the trust and closeness ofhis son. His breath caught in his throat as the abyss threatened to swallow him. The horror overtook him, images replaying in his mind's eye—Vivien's face crumpling as he reached into her skull. How could you live, knowing that was inside you?

  Then he pulled away from the brink. Lia's fine jaw was set, but there was something in her face, vaguely familiar. It brought a rush of feeling to him.

  "God, you're gorgeous," he told her. "I know it's an inappropriate moment for endearments, but I swear you're the most beautiful sight I've ever seen."

  "Just stay back until the police come, Paul," she said. There was no give in her voice, but some nuance was slightly different.

  Of course, Paul thought. She thinks I'm dangerous. Maybe it was just the residual opiates in his bloodstream, but the thought pleased him greatly. / really am dangerous. Any concern on that score could be safely discounted. He almost laughed at the understatement of the thought. Very, very definitely, no more wet-blanket, reliable, safe Paul.

  He looked at her, feeling an enormous affection for her. Lia is truly hopeless. That's what was in her face, that indomitable curiosity of hers, that crazy attraction to danger and its attendant revelations. The moth to the flame. She'd come around. The more he thought about it, the more it seemed inevitable.

  "You knew this was going to happen," she said. "You knew and didn't tell me."

  "Not until this morning. Not for sure." Paul almost smiled. Already, the argument had become an intimate one, about his violation of their candor with each other. Not about his status as a monster.

  He was the luckiest man alive. Provided the police would ever let him go. In the distance, as if in response to the thought, the first faint sirens came into hearing. The first of what would no doubt be many, many sirens today. They were coming to a slaughterhouse the likes of which nobody had ever seen.

  Yes, Lia would eventually come around. But what about Mark? He'd be traumatized, in shock. How could he forget what he'd seen? How could he understand anything Paul told him about it? How could he ever again trust his father as a source of comfort, of protection, when he'd seen what Paul did to Vivien in the driveway, when he'd glimpsed the hidden thing that lived in Paul?

  It might take a while—years, probably. But Mark would understand when he came of age, when he began to know the origin of the predilection he'd inherited. When he began to realize that the same thing lived in him too, and that Paul was the one person in the world who could ever really understand.

  Even as the first cars braked and scattered gravel in the driveway, he still felt waves of irrational optimism. There'd be a lot of explaining to do, but eventually things would work out. And Lia was giving him a look, as if she were beginning to see it for what it was.

  He was one lucky son of a bitch.

  Her gun had lowered, barrel pointing obliquely away from him. They'd made progress already.

  69

  PAUL SATINTHE CHAIR next to his bed, impatient for the visitors to come. A tic came with the anticipation—his hands flicked up and touched his eyebrows and mustache—which he observed with a certain affection. Old Faithful. The windowless room was plain, tile-walled, without even the pretense of aesthetic concern that ordinary hospitals showed—not even the usual noncommittal pastel prints on the wall. Oh well, he thought. What could you expect from a state-run psychiatric detention facility? At least the handcuffs and leg irons were gone.

  It was the third day after, or maybe the fourth. He couldn't be sure: For a long time he hadn't been able to think past the incredible pain that had racked his body, the combination of exhaustion and muscle strain and bruises and going cold-turkey off the best chemical fix the world had ever known. And all the time he'd had somebody in his face, questioning, threatening, cajoling, bargaining, trying to snare him in his own contradictions, all the transparent ploys of interrogation. He told them what he knew. Fortunately, there was nothing to hide, no contradictions for anyone to exploit. Only ambiguities—and good luck with those, boys.

  His heart skipped as keys turned in the lock and a policeman swung open the door. Surprisingly, it wasn't Lia who entered.

  "Royce," Paul croaked.

  Royce took off his coat and tossed it on a chair. "I'm happy to see you too, Paulie." He was dressed perfectly, as always, but seemed different, a look of worry or weariness on his broad face. Wounded, Paul decided. "They said relatives only, and I told them I was your dear cousin, very close. Sorry to disappoint you."

  "You've been to Highwood?"

  "In a manner of speaking. The driveway's cordoned off. But I got the general drift." Royce's face twitched almost imperceptibly. "I know how Vivien died."

  "Look, your mother was going to kill me. She was going to—"

  "You don't have to persuade me she had it coming, cousin. I know something of her . . . habits. At first, I'll admit, I was rather affronted that someone, that you, had the presumption to kill my mother. Rather surprised at the feelings that welled up, frankly. But they're offset somewhat when I consider the benefit to me of her . . . absence. I also know that what you did was probably the best thing anyone could have done for her."

  In his mind's eye Paul saw her striking herself, the wild fists on her own invulnerable chest: This is a prison, she'd screamed. He recoiled from the horror and into anger.

  "How's your prick friend, Rizal? He happy now?"

  Royce made a calming gesture. "My mistake for talking to him about you. I should have known he'd try something heavy-handed. Trooper Rizal is cunning but is ultimately not up for anything too complicated. I'd figured that my mother would self-destruct eventually. So I asked Peter to keep an eye on the place, let me know if Vivien left, and so on—"

  "And told him to rough me up and threaten me, to make sure the repairs never got completed."

  "No, actually, that was his own overzealous idea. Give me some respect, cousin, at least for having more intelligence than to try anything so obvious. I simply tried to lure you away with a more lucrative offer. For that matter, I tried to warn you about my mother."

  "Good of you."

  "But you were too high-minded to respond to either effort. Speaking of Trooper Pdzal, you'll be amused by an ironic turn of events. Peter was among the State Police called to the scene of the . . . drama . . . at Highwood. In his enthusiasm for getting there in a timely way, he managed to drive his cruiser into a telephone pole in Golden's Bridge. Broke his arm, crushed a couple of ribs. Probably a needed dose of humility for Peter, hmm?"

  "Is there anyone you do care about, Royce?"

  Royce flashed a look of anger at him. But it subsided quickly, giving way to the worn look, the vulnerability, the resignation. He said nothing.

  "It's okay to mourn her," Paul said quietly. "She was a remarkable woman. 'A singularity,' she called herself. I hate her. But it isn'
t easy to be a singularity."

  Royce swept the hair back from his head, looked away, then came back with the reflexive counterattack. "It's okay for you to mourn Ben, too, cousin. You've waited long enough."

  It was Paul's turn to look away. Yes, there was that. Ben, blameless after all, a man who had done his best and not done so badly. Yes, Ben was definitely on the agenda. But not just yet, not with Royce here. Damn Royce and damn his mother. And damn the Skoglunds too, damn all family for being too dear and too difficult and too hard to be shut of, ever, no matter what they did or what they were, their unending claim upon you.

  In silence, they looked at each other warily for a moment.

  "Why'd you come here, Royce?"

  "There's something you can do for me."

  "What's that?"

  As if against his will, Royce fell into a half whisper. "You can tell me what you finally found, cousin. When you went to the bottom, the starting place." He leaned closer to Paul. "What was it? What was in there?" The single fold in his forehead deepened, and suddenly Paul knew the nature of Royce's solitary obsession. Poor Royce: to be afflicted with the big questions. And to hope that anyone could offer a shortcut to the answers.

  For a moment Paul remembered the killing rage, the ecstatic explosion inside him. He felt again the sensation of her naked heart convulsing in his hand as he tore it from her chest. He shuddered, looked away, unable to meet Royce's eyes.

  "I think," he managed at last, "that it's something you'll have to figure out for yourself."

  Royce continued staring at him, unmoving, as if waiting for him to say more. When he didn't, Royce nodded, straightened up. "I'll do that, Paulie. Okay. Hardly worth my drive up here, but probably the best I'm going to get from you. So with that I'll take my leave—and get to work on all the messy details you left me with at Highwood." He gathered his coat from the chair.

  "Wait, Royce," Paul said. "I've got a question for you too. It was you who told Aster, wasn't it? About your mother and Ben?"

  When Royce turned, his thin, uneven smile had returned. "Considering your unwillingness to answer my question, Paulie, I think I will just leave you as you've left me. Wondering. Uncertain. A little tit for tat, cousin." He savored this little advantage for a moment, then gave a sour backward glance and rapped sharply on the door to be let out.

  Lia stood against the wall near the door, beautiful, reserved, distant. "So they've been treating you all right?"

  Paul sat on the edge of the bed, restraining his desire to go to her and fold her into his arms. Best to let her make the first gesture. "After the first day, everybody's been very courteous and respectful. Ever since the Army Intelligence and CIA people talked to me, the police have been treating me with kid gloves. These three intelligence-community types, dark suits and impassive faces, interrogated me all day yesterday. They're the ones who told the cops I should be allowed to have visitors. Also that the handcuffs and leg restraints were excessive and unnecessary."

  "Did they also add 'useless'?"

  Paul smiled. "They made it plain to the police it would be, uh, unwise to get me riled. That reasonable accommodations were in order."

  Despite her caution, the sight of her was a balm that poured over him. The days of pain, after the initial euphoria had died, were over. With her here, with that mixture of tenderness and wariness in her face, his optimism returned.

  "They've been grilling me too," she said. "I told them what I saw. I think they believe me—that your killing Vivien was self-defense. That you weren't the one who killed the others. I doubt you'll get charged with anything."

  "Probably not. Especially with my new friends pulling a few strings." Paul frowned. "But in exchange for all their solicitude, the Army Intelligence people would like me to take some tests. 'Voluntarily,' they said. I'm not sure I believe that. I haven't made up my mind. I don't know if I want them to know too much about it."

  In a rush, he started to explain the whole thing to her, but she held up her hand, hushing him. "I got it, Paul. I put it together, okay? Anyway, I've been staying at the Corrigans'—I read the letter from Dr. Stropes."

  She stepped to the end of the bed but still didn't come to his arms as he needed her to.

  "You know Mo's dead," Lia said. The corner of her mouth twitched, Paul noticed, a pang of sadness she governed quickly.

  Paul nodded. There was a painful gap, the place where their friendship had just begun to grow. He thought of the wistful expression on Mo's face as he lay dead, and suddenly the whole scene came rushing back to him: Vivien in the big room, the horror of their fight, the strength rising in him. More than anything, the terror of the empty chasm he'd glimpsed. Without thinking he took Lia's hand, held it desperately. He needed to gaze at her face but could hardly bring himself to, afraid to see a phantom there, one of the insubstantial people that with so few exceptions had been the only inhabitants of Vivien's lonely world. Afraid that maybe Vivien had destroyed him after all.

  But when he did raise his eyes, her face was as always beautiful, alert, present. The strength of her hand, returning his grip, wasn't arguable. And there were her no-nonsense eyes. The relief was almost overwhelming. Whatever else he'd inherited, he hadn't gotten that through the blood. Gratitude filled him.

  "What?" she asked.

  "You're . . . real," he said.

  A small, ironic smile: "As much as anyone in these existentially challenged times, anyhow—"

  "Listen, Lia. Two things. I want to see Mark. Soon. I need him to see me, now that I'm, I've leveled out."

  "He's out in the waiting room. I gave him the choice to come here or not, and he more than agreed, he insisted on coming. But then he got a little, well, nervous about coming in right away. He's letting me scout you out. I'll go get him."

  "Yes, please." As always, knowing that Mark was near filled him with relief, gratitude, gladness. "But in a minute. Second thing: you and me.

  This is hard for me to say. I want you to know that I'm going to be better able to . . . better able to accept that you love me. I mean I won't fuck us up with my own insecurities. Ah, this sounds like—"

  "Why is that?" She held his eyes with hers, somber now.

  He rolled his shoulders, dropped his eyes, suddenly embarrassed.

  She caught the expression on his face, deduced its origin. "You are so full of shit, Paul. Yes, you scare me, okay?"

  "I can believe that, yeah."

  "Goddamn it, I mean you've always scared me! Can't you see that? Can't you see that I could give away everything to you, that I want to, that everything's at risk here?" She was crying now. "The big jump, into another person. Around you I'm always at the edge of that. Scared out of my mind." At last she came into his arms. Holding her against him—that felt real too. Yes, Paul thought, when you surrendered to love, when you let someone become as important to you as life itself, then you were really at risk. Oh yes.

  "I've got a favor to ask," she said after a time.

  "Anything."

  "You've always come with me to my . . . difficult places." She steeled herself, took a breath to rally. "I know it hasn't been easy for you, knowing there's a thing that . . . threatens to run away with me. That you've seen it and still loved me has . . . made all the difference."

  Paul was stunned. This was the closest she'd ever come to admitting that she recognized its dark dimensions, that it wasn't entirely under her control. He stroked her hair, desperate for a way to assure her.

  "So, the favor I'm asking you is to do the same with me. You held out on me, about the things you didn't trust in yourself. Never hold out on me again, Paul. Bring me there with you."

  He was able to find his voice. "I promise," he said.

  They gave it some time. Eventually she pulled back to look at him. "So we're going to be okay?" she asked.

  He just looked at her.

  She managed a quick smile. "Well," she said, wiping her eyes, "I'll get Mark."

  Mark came into the room alone: Lia st
ood in the doorway, catching Paul's eye as if to say, J don't know how this is going to go. Surprisingly, although Paul had expected him to be as distant as Lia had been at first, the boy came right over and hugged him so that he gasped. Talk about paradoxes, Paul thought: Lia the danger lover being so wary, Mark the fragile eight-year-old facing straight and hard into it.

  They couldn't talk for a while.

  Finally, Paul held him at arms' length. "I wanted to tell you two things," he said. "First, I'm sorry. Second, thank you."

  "Sorry for what?"

  "That's what I wondered too. When I thought about it, at first I thought it was about letting you come to that house, where something bad might have happened to you, where you had to see . . . all that. But then I realized it went much further. I'm sorry you always have to come so far, cross so much territory, to be with your father. You're doing it right now, and you've had to do it every damned time you come to the farm, going from one world to another. You know what I mean. And that's what I wanted to thank you for. For always doing it—crossing over to be with me. For being brave enough to do that. For loving me enough to do that. It means more to me than I could ever tell you."

  Mark didn't say anything. He took an exploratory turn through the room, touching lightly the blood-pressure monitor, the lamp bolted to the wall, the bulletproof window in the door, and ended up as if by accident near the bed again.

  "Did Lia explain all this to you?" Paul asked him.

  "I've got it too, don't I?" Mark asked in a hoarse whisper. His eyes flicked up to Paul's face, then away.

  Paul blew air out through pursed lips. "I guess so. It seems to run in our family. Your symptoms are the same ones I had when I was your age. But—"

  "Does that mean I'll get Tourette's too? Say swear words and stuff?"

  "What? God, no! At least, the odds against it are enormous. There's no connection at all between Tourette's and . . . this other thing. I somehow managed to inherit two rare, unrelated neurological conditions."