She was singing now. His favorite Queen Bee tune. The one that he connected with best. He had listened to it just this morning. Before the deer.
Before the wolf . . .
"Every night, about this time
I go to sleep, to keep from cryin' . . ."
. . . and Syd found himself thrown back to those moments, that sensation of hollow dread that began in his marrow and emanated outward, felt it well up and nearly subsume him in the moment before Nora stopped and turned and drew him close . . .
"Every night, about this time
I go to sleep, to keep from cryin' . . ."
. . . and then he thought about Karen, and all the years he'd already pissed away on her behalf: operating under the sway of her illusions, suckered in by his own need. Desperately trying to resuscitate an already-butchered thing. Trying to rebuild a relationship that was rotten to its foundations . . .
" 'Cause my baby, yes my baby
Always runnin' 'round . . ."
. . . and the thought of it—the thought of her—was so utterly toxic to his soul that he flinched from it, constricted against it, tried to drive it shrieking from his heart and mind. Its poison sank deep into everything it touched: the beautiful music in his ears, the incredible woman in his arms.
And then Nora kissed him again: twirling gracefully with him, in time with the music. And it was so altogether absolutely fine that it resisted and transcended the poison, overran the tiny voice in the back of his mind that said what if she's cheating on some husband somewhere? What if she's lying, too?
But the reality of this woman, this stranger, this mysterious Nora who had blown so overwhelmingly into his life was like an island of salvation in a vast and brutal sea. There was substance in her presence. There was power in her touch. It made him feel strong, to be kissing this woman. It made him feel almost immortal.
As her body pressed against him, the alcohol caressed his brain. And all of it conspired to free him from his pain. Her kiss contained more than a whiff of liberation. Her saliva felt alive in his mouth. Every single cell of his being bore testimony to that truth.
Syd kissed back hard, felt something long sleeping begin to stir within him.
He stopped and looked at her. Her eyes flashed in anticipation.
"Let's get out of here," she said at last.
7
THE BONNEVILLE MOVED through the night like a shark through dark waters, following the scent of blood. It was a late-model beast: its hide spattered and gravel-scarred from too many back roads and unpaved parking lots, the paint-job stippled with road salt and rust until it faded to a bruised brownish-red, the color of scabs. The license plate was mud-caked to the point of illegibility.
Like the car, it was stolen. It was not a problem; the owner would not be looking for it anytime soon.
The driver pressed on the gas, nudging the big car up to a stately seventy-per. The engine roared to life, hurtling into blackness as the road opened up before him. The sky above was crystal clear, alight with stars. The headlights and dashboard illumination were off, the better to blend with the night.
The driver didn't need them; he could see just fine.
Up ahead a sign proclaimed YOU'VE GOT A FRIEND IN PENNSYLVANIA. The driver chuckled as it disappeared behind him. He was a hulking shadow behind the wheel, one hand steering languidly while the other draped over the empty passenger seat. He was completely underdressed for the cold, clad only in battered leather duster, black T-shirt, and jeans. A tiny chain of skulls dangled from his right ear, jiggling from the wind and road. A scar bisected his left cheek, a thin seam that arced from the corner of his mouth to the outside edge of his eye socket. It was the sole imperfection in his otherwise killer good looks, and even at that gave him a dangerous smirk, as if he was possessed of some secret, lethal knowledge.
A tiny silver bracelet dangled from his grasp. An uncapped bottle of Wild Turkey was nestled between his thighs. He reached for it, took a long sweet pull, felt it burn through his bloodstream. It put a nice edge on things, sharpened him up for the hunt.
The road was a secondary highway, utterly deserted but for the big rigs that periodically rumbled past. Utility poles and power lines whipped by like ghosts, punctuated by the occasional darkened house. Cold breeze blasted through the open window, rustling the papers scattered across the floor. Road maps and local music mags from a half-dozen backwater burgs littered the interior like a telltale trail of bread crumbs, offering leads.
The driver sniffed the air, testing it. He could smell the locals, tucked in for the night in their little crackerbox cages, all snug and safe in their beds. No cages for him; not now, not ever. He sneered at their smug assignations, reveled in the uneasy glances he inspired. It amused him, filled him with contempt just as surely as he filled them with dread, the shapeless fear of the herd. He could feel their brows tensing in slumber as he passed, a fleeting shiver like a bad dream flitting across unconscious mindscapes, then gone.
He was a predator, cruising through a land fat with prey. There was danger in his gaze, death in his kiss. But not for them. Not tonight.
Tonight he had other plans.
The radio burbled under the roar of the wind: a smoky, sinister groove snaking out of the speakers. The driver smiled, thumbed it up a notch. Bass and drums conspired with lonely guitar to pump out an insidious backbeat; the singer's voice was husky, ripe with threat.
"Last call for whiskey, baby
It's time to drive you home
Let's pray it's not too far from here . . ."
The driver fingered the bracelet. His hands were big, prominently veined, strong yet strangely delicate. The bracelet was a pretty little thing, a dainty chain with charms hanging from it. Long fingers pinched each one in turn, like a string of rosary beads, reading them by shape. Heart . . . bell . . . flower . . .
His fingertips were smooth, the skin tough as glove leather and pebbled like a dog's paw, utterly devoid of fingerprints. His touch, like all of his senses, was keenly attenuated, highly tuned.
The bracelet was a souvenir from a sweet young thing he'd scarfed in a dive two nights ago, just outside of Morgantown. The memory of her still lingered on his tongue: soft and pink and tight, sweet young meat in fishnets and boots and a black leather bustier.
peace symbol . . . guitar . . . a tiny silver skull . . .
He hadn't even been interested at first, so caught up was he in the hunt. But then their eyes had met, and she smiled, and the spark had lit inside him. And it dawned on him that it had been a while, really, far too long in fact.
Her breasts were small but very firm, like the rest of her. A spinner. Her hair was a dark cascade of curls against milk-white skin. He liked the way her hips cocked when she danced, a grinding circular motion.
dagger . . . crucifix . . . devil . . .
He took her down the road a piece, then he took her right there in the backseat, her legs hiked up over the headrests and spread wide to receive him. He liked the noise she made when he slid inside her, full of hunger.
He gave her what she wanted. Then he took what he wanted. She fought him, at first. He liked that even better.
On the radio, the music played.
" 'Cause the road is rotten, honey
You know the road is long
A lot of things can happen
in the time that you'll be gone, gone . . ."
The driver grinned. How true. Her name escaped him—Karen? Sharon? No matter. They all tended to blend together after a while, just faces and bodies and legs and asses, all meat for his table. And aside from the thrill of the chase, not one of them ever meant a damned thing to him.
She had to understand that, he told himself. It was all about the joy of the hunt. Sure, you might focus on 'em in the heat of the moment—what good hunter wouldn't? Let 'em know your eye was on them, and they would never, ever get away. That was half the fun. But still, in the end it was just meat.
Like Karen-Sharon. Whatever. He
was hell with names, but he never forgot a face.
And even if he did, hers was still in the trunk.
Up ahead, the trees gave way to a clearing; he could make out the winking red glow of a Stroh's sign. He tossed the bracelet out the window and eased off the gas, scanned the tree line as the needle dipped to sixty, fifty, forty, thirty . . .
He slid past, scoping the terrain. It was a low-slung building, set back into a carved-out niche in the woods. Classic roadhouse configuration. The place was packed; a good three dozen cars and half again as many vans and four-by-fours were scattered across the parking lot. A porta-sign at the driveway read live music . . . wed wet T-shirt nite . . . drinks 1/2 price . . .
The muted thud of a band filled the niche, underscored by the distant pulsing of a hundred beating hearts. Off to one side of the building, he spotted a huddle of people sneaking a quick joint in the cold. Another car pulled up and parked, its occupants piling out and pushing into the front door of the bar. Easy to lose yourself in such a place, he thought. Easier still to lose someone else.
But not for long, he added. Not for long . . .
The driver sniffed, sifting the many heady scents. The stale reek of tobacco and whiskey and beer. The tang of sweating flesh. The sweet hot funk of lust and hunger and naked human desire.
And, underpinning and permeating everything, her smell. Undeniable. Unmistakable. She'd been here recently, immersing herself in the crowd, trying to throw him off. But she was in heat, and she was cruising. Might as well spray it on the door, babe, he thought. You're so fucking easy. . . .
The scent was strong. The thought occurred to him that she might be here still, off in the bushes somewhere, or in somebody's bed. Getting off. Getting fed. The thought maddened him: a spike of jealousy jammed through the center of his skull, crowding out every other impulse. Dredging up things that snapped at his soul like a dog on a chain.
He touched the accelerator; the Bonneville rumbled and slithered by. He waited until the woods resumed before pulling onto the shoulder, some two hundred yards down.
He shut the engine off and sat very still, contemplating the darkness. The moon was there, in many ways his best and truest love: the only woman who'd always stood by him, and never let him down. Which was more than he could say for some people he knew.
But he didn't want to think about that right now.
There was a rumbling in the driver's belly: the hunger for meat, and the hunger for payback. The deeper hunger, beneath it all. Eating was the least of his worries: hell, he could scrounge a snack from just the leftovers in the trunk. As for payback . . . well, maybe tonight he'd get lucky. He sure as hell hoped so. For his sake, and hers.
But the other hunger, the one only she could fill . . . well, that was a problem. That gnawed at him mercilessly, sent spasms up his spine and made his brain itch in a place he just couldn't scratch. The more he thought about it, the crazier he felt. She was off somewhere, giving it up to some unsuspecting shmuck. And if he didn't get there in time . . .
And suddenly the chain snapped, and the beast was loose in his brain. The balance in him shifted, his man-mind taking a backseat to his other nature, skittering off like a lantern tossed down a well. Suddenly the car felt too confining, boxy metal bearing down on him when the stars alone were all he wanted over his head. He reached up, raking his fingers across the ceiling liner, prying out huge divots, pressing his bulk against the seat until the seat supports groaned and buckled from the stress.
He had to get out. Wrenching the handle, he pushed open the door, stepped into the night, kicked it shut. The wind was wild, and fiercely cold; with that, he could relate. His clothes were too constricting to suffer for another second; his skin itched madly, hotter than a hundred sunburns. He peeled off the duster, tossed it into the open window. His black cowboy boots followed, then his T-shirt and jeans.
Finally he stood, naked to the night. His body was wiry-muscular, his arms cabled and covered with tattoos, each a different likeness of the woman he sought. The ink-ings shifted with each subtle play of ligament and sinew, until she appeared alive, rippling beneath the surface.
The night bathed him, felt alive on his skin. The road-house lights twinkled through the trees. His nipples hardened in the chill air; a tiny silver ring dangled from one, glimmering in the moonlight. The wind shifted and a backbeat came to him, faint as a pulse. The ghost of the snaky melody still echoed in his head, a lunar love song if ever there was one. He began to hum along.
"Last call for whiskey, baby . . ." he sang, "it's time to drive you home . . ."
His voice doubled and deepened in mid-croon, like a man teaching a dog to sing. The thought tickled him royally.
He glanced back at the interior of the car, the pile of clothes laying there. His belt buckle dangled gleaming on the seat: a stainless-steel rectangle, big blocky letters spelling V. . . I. . . C . . .
That's my name, he thought, wildly amused at the thought of his totality being so neatly contained in a word. Vic smiled as he went around to the back of the car, chuckled as he reached into the trunk, laughed out loud as he stepped away.
By the time he reached the tree line his jaws had elongated, the better to accommodate the depth of his mirth, and his grin had blossomed with many, many sharp and shiny teeth.
Vic ran his tongue across them, conspicuously pleased, as the moon conferred her blessing, racing through the midnight sky.
It was all he could do to resist the urge to bay.
8
THE WEIRDNESS DIDN'T hit him until they were almost out the door. But when it came, it came down hard.
One second, Syd was escorting this devastating woman to his car. The next thing he knew, there was an icy tapeworm of dread unfurling in his gut.
It started when Nora informed him that they needed a bottle for the road. Not at all an unreasonable request, but there was one tiny problem. In the commonwealth of Pennsylvania, the only place you could legally buy takeout wine or booze by the bottle was a State Store. These altogether joyless institutions were, of course, a public service of the Liquor Control Board: the same bunch of spoilsports who shut down bars for serving drinks to minors. This helped explain why shopping there felt so much like filing with the I.R.S.
Among their many customer-pleasing qualities, State Stores promptly shut down by nine, even on Friday and Saturday nights. Which, he emphasized, made it kinda tricky for them to pick up a fifth of Southern Comfort on the way back from the bar.
This, however, was not the answer Nora wanted to hear. And his assurance that he had half a case of Keystones in the fridge did nothing to assuage her concern. They needed hard liquor, she insisted. They needed Comfort. Simple as that.
Syd considered the problem logistically for a minute. Breaking into a State Store wasn't such a hot idea, though they both agreed it would probably be fun. Fortunately, they were at a bar; and though bars were only allowed to sell carry-out beer in the state of Pennsylvania, there was always a chance that the rules might be bent, this being kind of a special occasion and all. Chameleon's usually had plenty of backstock, and Nora seemed to have plenty of cash on hand. Syd had neither, but said he would be happy to play liaison, see what he could do. It was good, at such times, to have friends in high places.
So Syd asked Jules, and Jules said sure, which meant that everything was fine and dandy. Right up until the point that they arranged to meet around back for the actual handoff.
Nora didn't like that idea at all. She said she didn't see the point; and Syd was surprised to see that the notion actually seemed to make her nervous.
Jules explained that this wasn't the kind of transaction you did in full view of the general public. Not only would everyone start sidling up and begging him to slip them bottles of Cuervo on the sly, but you never knew where those fun-loving guys from the L.C.B. might be lurking: they looked so much like real humans sometimes, it was almost frightening.
So rather than risk jeopardizing the club's license, no
t to mention his own livelihood, Jules would just go down to the basement, grab a bottle off the rack, pop it in a paper bag, and meet them in five minutes by the rear kitchen entrance. They could just drive by the back of the building on their way out of Dodge. No muss, no fuss.
That seemed simple enough—to Syd, anyway—but that was when Nora started getting a little twitchy. She just wouldn't let it go. She asked Jules why he couldn't just hand them the paper bag here. He said that, well, technically, he could; it would just be a lot cooler the other way. She said that she didn't understand what the big deal was, if it was in a closed-up grocery bag. He could be handing over a bunch of clothes, or a handful of sandwiches. He could be handing over anything.
By this point, thirsty customers were starting to stack up around them. Jules took a deep breath and looked at Syd. Syd picked up his cue at that point, saying yeah, man, we understand your position, thanks a lot, it's not a problem. Then he turned to Nora and told her not to worry. He would get it.
That was when Nora stared him dead in the eye and said, "I can't believe you guys are such a couple of chickenshits."
And the thing was, it wasn't just the words. It was entirely the way that she said them. These were not words that were intended to tease, or josh, or otherwise cheerfully cajole; they drew blood, and had been whipped out for precisely that reason. The quiet ferocity of it stunned him. It wasn't just uncalled-for; it was goddam spooky.
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