Vic knew, from experience, that the moment was all there ever was.
The human side of his mind flashed suddenly on an old Gary Larson cartoon: two leopards up in a tree, about to pounce on an unsuspecting explorer as one of them whispers to the other, "Watch this! These things make the greatest expressions! "
Vic's man-mind laughed and laughed; the sound that came out was a bestial grunt. His eyes sparkled gleefully, feeling the bloodlust start to flow as his body moved through the underbrush. His limbs were well-muscled, powerful: they worked in perfect harmony, covering distance in virtual silence. The car's brake lights came on, as the big metal box slowed and rolled around the side of the bar.
Around the back! Vic smiled; his flat tongue lapped over razored teeth in anticipation.
This was more than perfect.
This was gonna be fun. . . .
THE ALLEY WAS dark and foreboding, maybe fifteen feet from the cinder-block backside of the building to the ditch that marked the property line beyond. A big metal dumpster hunkered by the side wall just before the turn, further obstructing his view and pinching his access until there was barely enough space on either side to squeeze through.
The woods behind the bar were thick and oppressive: overhanging branches from some of the smaller trees towered above him like big bony hands, waiting to snatch the unwary patron who occasionally ambled back to smoke a joint, take a leak, or hurl. It was a great place for an ambush, but until tonight it had never occurred to Syd exactly how creepy it was.
Syd's side windows were still fogged; he rolled them down, the better to see as he angled his car into the alley and slowed to a crawl, trying not to scrape the paint job or go into the ditch. Just past the ravine the ground rose, putting it almost level with the passenger side window; as he turned his hi-beams raked it like searchlights, casting harsh shadows in their passing.
Something moved: scuttling through the bushes, just outside the periphery of his vision. Syd tensed, thought he caught a flat glowing flash of nocturnal eyes. He looked again, but his headlights were pointed the wrong way now, restoring the woods to shadow. He peered through the passenger window, searching . . .
. . . and that was when the door boomed: swinging out toward his car, blasting him with light and the dull rhythmic roar of the band.
Syd gasped, jolting in his seat.
Jules stood in the crack of light from the kitchen, a paper bag in his hand.
"Took you long enough," Jules said. "I was beginning to think da boogeyman got ya." He saw Syd's obvious palpitations, and one eyebrow went up. "You okay?"
"Yeah." Syd lit a cigarette, took a calming drag. Jules watched him, then leaned in surreptitiously.
"Here," he said, slipping him the bottle. "You never got this here. Don't drink it all in one place."
"Thanks," Syd replied, taking the bag and stashing it. "And, um, sorry about the scene in there." He gestured toward the bar, and Nora.
"S'okay," Jules patted his arm. He paused for a moment, looked off. "Janey says she got a bad vibe off her." Then back to Syd. "You sure you're okay to drive? You were slammin' 'em down pretty hard in there."
"Yeah, I'm cool. Thanks, man."
Jules looked at him a moment, then nodded. There was a pregnant pause, as he weighed his next words carefully. "So," he said, "you sure you know what you're doing?"
Syd met the gaze, laughed nervously. "No," he said, shaking his head.
"But I'm doing it anyway."
"Yeah, well." Jules nodded, leaned in the window. "Just remember, man: dogs that show their teeth are usually the ones that bite."
Syd took that bit of wisdom with an uneasy grin. "I'll be okay," he said. "Really."
Jules shrugged. "Well, I'm freezin' my nuts off," he said. "Take care of yourself."
Syd nodded. "Later."
Jules leaned back into the kitchen, let the big metal door hiss home. As it clicked shut, it took the light with it; the darkness that remained seemed even deeper for its absence. Syd felt an anxious tremor rumble through him, as he eased off the brake. . . .
. . . AND VIC HOVERED: body crouched and twitching at the edge of the trees. He had held off, bargaining with the beast inside: not taking the man as he made the first corner, waiting to see his purpose.
He was glad he had the moment the back door opened and the cook stepped out to make their little clandestine transaction. He watched them talk, saw the bag change hands. Numbers didn't frighten Vic, but witnesses could be troublesome where time was a concern. So many victims, so little time . . .
But now the shithead was alone again, and that was very good. The car was nearing its prime kill point, where the driver had to negotiate the second turn. As he angled out the driver's attention would be on the forward motion; as the car pulled away it would leave Vic in a picture-perfect blind spot.
The moment was at hand. Vic stood, giving himself over to it entirely. His man-mind rolled back like a shark's eye in the seconds before it bites, giving the beast inside him full sway . . .
. . . and the creature began to trot, then run, body building momentum as its blood raced and its wild heart sang the song of the kill. . . .
. . . AND IN the moment before he pulled away, Syd thought he saw something in the rearview mirror. Something dark. Something moving. That was all that it took. It put the lead in his boot as he tromped on the gas; and by the time he looked back through the dust, it was gone.
But he couldn't shake the feeling that something was coming. Its pull was strong, deep, inexorable as a river moving under the earth. It felt like destiny: waiting to blindside him as he rounded the next bend.
So when he pulled around front to find Nora waiting just inside the door, part of him was not entirely surprised. She stepped out and stiffened, as the wind shifted into her. Then she was moving toward the car with surprising speed: throwing open the passenger door and jumping in before he even had time to stop.
"Go!" she told him. "Now . . . !"
Syd didn't need to be told twice. He punched it, the Mustang's tires biting hard into gravel and catching, rocketing them out of the lot in a hot-rubbered hail of flying stone. . . .
10
. . .JUST AS, SIXTY miles away, a low-rent dope dealer named Billy Hessler looked up from his latest transaction. He wasn't sure exactly why. There wasn't time for it to matter. There was barely time, in fact, for him to see the snarling, hurtling mass come crashing through the passenger side window of his Trans Am. He winced from the impact, brought one arm up to shield his face. Two seconds later it fell to the floor, sheared off at mid-bicep.
His face followed a few seconds later, hitting the carpet with a thick splutting sound. Blood sprayed the inside of the windshield as the body kicked and flailed. Vic crouched atop him and reared his massive head back, then brought it down savagely, his snout cracking the breastbone like a pickax, plunging deep until he found the succulent, still-beating heart. He seized upon it and shook: the body spasmed and sagged.
Vic sheared off and swallowed a great steaming hunk, tasting the terror and the panic. He could feel his victim's screaming lifeforce enter him even as the flesh slid down his throat, the stolen spark merging with his own, becoming part of him. Amping his power.
Making him stronger.
It was a high to end all highs, the consummate rush. Naked energy surged and crackled through his nervous system, overloading his senses. Vic growled and thrashed, ripping deeper into the steaming pile of human meat . . .
. . . and then the buzz receded, ebbing off to a low thrumming rumble. His man-mind glitched back into focus a heartbeat later, and as it did his rational side returned. Vic sniffed the corpse: surveying his grisly handiwork. Searching for clues.
Shit! he realized. Wrong guy. He sniffed some more, grimacing. But he's seen her, and lately. Haven't you, buddy? Bill Hessler's head was pitched forward, dripping. Vic grabbed the skull, jerked it up and down, nodding. Sure you have.
He released the head, let it flop to
the side. She was close. He knew that much. The scent was faint, maybe a day old. Poor ol' Bill couldn't give him much more in the way of information, but he did have some cash and a valid Visa card. Vic also found a regular pharmaceutical warehouse stashed under Bill's front seat—percodans and black beauties and honest-to-god quaaludes, not to mention a half-ounce of crank, which was a real plus.
Vic reached down, and pushed the body aside. As he slid into the driver's seat he looked at the face lying in the seat well. Still upon it was an expression of utter disbelief: as if he never even knew what hit him.
Vic licked blood from his lips, and laughed.
They never did.
11
NORA WAS A cool one, Syd had to give her that. Even whipping out of the parking lot at a psychotic sixty-mile-per-hour climb, she managed to keep her expression essentially neutral. Only problem was, she kept looking back over her shoulder, and it kind of ruined the effect. Syd, for his part, kept one eye glued to the rearview mirror as they hit the road, watching for the headlights she seemed to be anticipating.
When they came, a moment later, his heart jumped and skipped a beat.
"Fuck," Nora hissed. She was riding sidesaddle in the bucket seat, her knees toward Syd; but when she saw the lights appear in Chameleon's driveway, her body tensed and drew in tight: head down, legs up in an almost fetal crouch, as if she were trying to provide the tiniest possible target.
Syd leaned hard on the gas, felt his adrenaline surge in tandem with the Mustang's rising roar. The poor old 289 under the hood was too cold to be pushing this hard; it clattered and groaned, rising valiantly to the occasion. As they hit eighty Syd leveled off, the blinking neon Chameleon's sign diminishing behind them as they blasted down the road.
But it wasn't until the mystery car pulled out, heading in the opposite direction, that Nora actually dared to breathe again. She exhaled deeply, then turned and settled into her seat, rummaging through his cassettes as if nothing had happened.
Syd took a deep breath, waited. A sign to the right warned of sharp, winding curves for the next seven miles. He eased off on the gas, coming into the first turn, brought it back down to sixty-five. She stiffened a little as they slowed, but said nothing.
"So," he said. "You wanna tell me about it?"
Nora sighed deeply, abruptly gave up the search for tunes, stared dead ahead. He waited, negotiating the turn. To their right, the mountain sloped nearly straight down, the valley sprawling beyond. Her hand reached down between her knees, came up with the brown-bagged bottle. He watched her peel back the seal, twist the gold cap loose. The smell was medicinal, sweet, like cough syrup. She took a long pull, tilting her head to let it slide down her throat. Then she offered it to him.
"No, thanks," he said. She shrugged, contemplating the mouth of the bottle without drinking.
"I love Southern Comfort," she said. "It's like a bourbon liqueur."
"Nora . . ."
"A friend of mine said that to me once. Michael. I always thought it was a very elegant description." Her voice turned wistful. "A bourbon liqueur." She seemed to savor the words, and the memory they framed. Then she took another swig, much smaller this time, and turned to look at him.
Now it was Syd's turn to cringe a little. He was amazed by how quickly jealousy bloomed, embarrassed by his own presumption. Her eyes upon him were unnervingly frank. They had not missed a thing.
"So," he said, keeping his voice as level as possible, "was that your friend Michael back there?"
"No." She didn't flinch, did not look away.
"Okay. Then, if you don't mind me asking . . . who was that back there?"
"Did you actually see anybody?" She was watching him, if anything, even more closely than before.
"No. But I had a really strong sense of being shadowed, if you know what I mean." She nodded, said nothing. "And I'll tell you real honestly, as straight as I can, so there's no misunderstanding later: I just went through an incredibly ugly and painful divorce . . ."
"Ah." At last, her eyes averted.
". . . so there are certain things I'm very sensitive about right now." He glanced at her in the pale light of the dashboard and moon. She took another healthy pull, then lowered the bottle and stared at her knees.
"Did you love her?" she asked. It was hard to be sure, but he thought he saw a flicker of jealousy play across that face. It was weirdly gratifying.
"Yeah, I did," he said, smiling a little. "But, in retrospect, it probably wasn't a very good idea." She let out a rueful little laugh of her own. "The point is that I spent a lot of nights wondering where the hell my wife was until six o'clock in the morning. And when I finally found out where she was, my nights got even worse. I hate the idea of anyone spending their nights like that. Especially on my behalf.
"Which is why, if you've got a boyfriend, or a husband . . ." He paused for a reaction; her face gave away nothing. ". . . this is something I really need to know about. Now. Before we go any further. Okay?"
"God, this is so awkward," she said.
He nodded, thinking oh fuck, here it comes.
"No no no." Obviously, his poker face wasn't as good as hers. "It's not like that. What it is, is . . ." She groped for the words. "Okay. I guess I just sorta went through a divorce, too. Even though we were never really married. A guy I was involved with for a very long time before I realized that—how did you put it?—loving him wasn't such a hot idea."
The road swept wide to the left. Syd concentrated on his driving, felt rather than saw Nora's eyes upon him as she continued. "The only problem was, he had a hard time with the idea of losing me. He didn't want me when I was around, mind you—when I was around, he couldn't keep his hands off every bitch in a ten-mile radius—but the second I was gone, well, suddenly I was the only thing he could think about. If you know what I mean."
He did. Just before he left Karen, in fact. For some strange reason, the sight of all those boxes packed up made her realize what she was losing. At about half past the twelfth and final hour, she had finally begun to make all the noises he'd been waiting to hear. I'm sorry. I DO love you. All of which boiled down to one simple message.
" 'But what'll I do without you'?" he said.
She nodded. "Exactly. Too little, too late. So now what happens is, every couple of months or so, he'll get tired of chasing bar bitches around and decide to see what ol' Nora is up to. Remind me of his undying love."
"Lucky you."
"Lucky me." She took a small hit off the bottle, again offered it to him. This time, he thought about it a second before declining.
"Aw, c'mon," she persisted. A hint of the old deviltry was back in her eyes. "Now that we know all about each other, you've got some catching up to do."
"We're almost home," he said, and the last word audibly caught in his throat; it had a barb of unexpected sadness on its tail that took him completely by surprise. Home. What a fucking joke. He thought about the dinky little rattrap he was dragging her back to, felt suddenly ashamed.
He heard her breath catch and hold as she tracked his emotion. Shit. He tried to think of some kind of clean segue to safer ground: a self-effacing quip, a droll observation, anything. Nope. His cupboard was bare. The silence ballooned between them. He could feel the heat of Nora's gaze, or maybe it was just the flush of his cheeks. He wished he could bring himself to look at her, but he couldn't just yet.
"So this guy," he said, almost defensively. "I get the impression he makes you nervous."
"Don't worry about it," she said flatly. "I can take care of Vic."
The silence welled back up, oppressive.
And that was when she broke the barrier between them. The barrier of distance. The barrier of flesh. She made a tiny animal noise that went right through him—a kind of sympathetic, nuzzling trill—and then her left hand came up to touch his hair, just his hair, tracing the curve of the back of his skull on the way back down his neck. The sensation was subtly yet potently electric, less like a vibrator
than a Van de Graaff generator. It awakened a tickle at the base of his brain. A very deep itch.
A very very deep itch.
Then she leaned across the space between them, and he could practically feel the air molecules part as her exquisite face made its way to his throat, lightly kissed the pulse point just below the jawline. He felt his blood respond to the kiss, the proximity of her body, the touch of her hands as the first firmly cradled the back of his head and the second began moving softly across his chest.
Then her tongue slid up and around the bend of his jaw, flicked the lobe, softly entered his ear. He moaned as she leaned into it, body-press in hot conjunction with her tongue's wet, probing tip. His flesh began to stir. He shifted in his seat uncomfortably. She nuzzled him, withdrawing the tongue. With her right hand, she snaked inside the buttons of his shirt.
The road began to swim before him.
Nora grabbed the bottle in her right hand, took a deep pull of Comfort, swallowed hard, then tilted her mouth up into his. He tried to keep his eye on the road, but the pull of her kiss was too intense. He had to yank himself back just in time to catch the westward leaning of the mountain pass they drove.
She pulled away from his lips. Her breath was sweet.
He somehow negotiated the curve. Outside, the wind whistled and howled. She brought the bottle to her mouth again, came back up to kiss him.
When he opened his mouth to her, Southern Comfort and alchemy flowed from her lips. She had warmed and brewed it, imbued it with some of her magic. He could not help but swallow.
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