But even running just the bar was immensely distracting.
Especially while keeping one eye on the door.
Syd dropped his guard when a slew of rowdy fratboys ordered a fresh round of pitchers and Seven-and-Sevens. Midway into the order, the Bud keg ran dry, and Syd had to duck down to change the taps.
Suddenly, flesh was prickling on the back of his neck. Oh fuck, he thought, standing, scanning the queue at the door. There was a shadow at the back of the line. A familiar shadow. Patiently waiting its turn.
Fuck! Syd braced himself, automatically trading the drinks for cash. He turned to the register, and his thoughts turned to Jules: how his friend must have felt, the night Vic first walked in. He glanced into the mirror, looking over his shoulder. The hair was longer, but otherwise nothing had changed.
Syd punched the keys and steeled himself, stunned once again by how much sheer power the motherfucker exuded. He could feel it with his back turned, from all the way across the room. But even more unsettling was the realization that something felt off, somehow. Unstable. Diseased. This only scared him a hundred times more.
Vic was moving through the crowd, obviously favoring one leg. He'd been hurt, evidently. This was not bad news. Syd counted out the change, hoping he hadn't already lipped his hand. He could smell the intimidation, the mounting, thinly veiled menace.
Jules. Please, he prayed. If you 're out there, man, give me strength.
Then he turned back around. And Vic was there.
"Welllllll . . ." Vic began, a big smile on his face. "Long time no—"
"Hang on," Syd interrupted, holding one finger up politely. He went over to the college boys and started counting change. "That's thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, and five makes twenty. Have a good one." They thanked him, took off with their drinks. He swabbed the bar down as they did.
That finished, Syd returned to Vic.
"So," he said. "What can I do for ya?"
Vic was confused. Not ten seconds ago, the little fuck had blanched with mortal terror; now he was staring him square in the eye. Without even flinching. Vic wondered if that car wreck hadn't maybe done some damage, joggled his brain out of its socket.
"Remember me?" It was the first time in his life he could recall having to ask that particular question.
"Yeah, I remember you. So what do you want?"
Vic stood there a moment, not believing his ears.
"Well, let's see," he said. "You can start by telling me where Nora is. . . ."
"Can't help ya there." He shrugged. "But how 'bout a drink?" Syd reached below the bar, came up with a can of beer, plunked it down. Vic looked.
Coors Light. The Silver Bullet.
Syd smiled.
"Funny," Vic murmured, blood starting to pound in his head. This boy was beginning to piss him off. Syd kept smiling, except for his eyes; his eyes held another emotion entirely. There was a wall in there, and something was flickering behind it. The little bastard was hiding something, but Vic was damned if he could suss it out.
"So, let me get this straight. You haven't seen Nora . . ."
"Nope."
". . . and you have no idea where she is. . . ."
"Yep."
"Well, then maybe I'll just sniff around a bit. See what turns up."
"Suit yourself."
This idea didn't sit very well with Syd, and it showed. He tried to cover his discomfort, much to Vic's delight.
"Don't mind if I do."
"Though you can see for yourself that Nora's not here," he said, thinking shut up now, just shut up. "I mean, I think you'd know it if she was."
Syd paused, waiting for a reaction. The lack of one told him exactly what he needed to know. Vic couldn't smell her; he was just blowing smoke, trying to make Syd crack.
The bad news was, it was working. The silence gave Syd's thoughts room to roam, started him thinking about how many ways this could blow up in his face. He wondered whether he should just pull the gun, empty the clip into Vic's head, and hope for the best.
"Look," he said, fighting his panic. "Nora hasn't been back. But if she did, you're right, she'd probably come here first. She always liked the tunes."
He looked at Vic; Vic nodded suspiciously. A small crowd was forming: thirsty people, psychic vultures.
"I mean, if you don't believe me, why don't you just stick around and see for yourself?" He spread his arms in mock-welcome. "Hang out as long as you like. Crowd's good, the band is smokin' . . . hell, the drinks are on the house—"
Vic smiled—a very evil smile—and Syd knew at once he'd gone too far. Why why why did I fucking SAY that? It was like making a fatal move in chess, except in chess your opponent usually didn't eat your queen if you lost. But one look at Vic told him there would be no retracting the offer.
"So, let me see if I got this straight." Vic absently fingered his scar as he spoke. Syd stood his ground, revealing nothing. "You want me to hang out here, all night if I want? And I can drink for free?" He shook his head in ersatz-admiration. "I guess you just must be one hell of a guy!
"I guess I am," Syd said flatly. "What'll ya have?"
Just then, a pack of newcomers pushed through the door, a cute young redhead among their number. She looked vaguely familiar to Syd, though he couldn't quite place her face.
Vic followed Syd's line of sight, and his expression changed to one of sly bemusement. He tracked the redhead's descent down the steps and into the room. The redhead saw him, smiled. Vic nodded appreciatively, then turned back to Syd.
"Now that ya mention it, I guess I will hang out a while. Seein' as how you offered.
"A little tequila, if you please."
"You got it." Plunking a shot glass down on the bar, skipping over the Cuervo in favor of the overproofed brand. All the while thinking great! NOW what do I do?
He came back, set Vic up with a double. Vic picked up the glass, held it up to the light. Then he kicked it back, set it back down again, and tapped his finger expectantly on the rim. His eyes were bright with mirth.
Syd dutifully poured him another. "Anything else?" he said. Meaning fuck you, too, pal.
"Not at the moment," Vic replied. "But if I think of anything, I'll be sure to let you know."
And with that, Vic ambled over in the redhead's direction. She brightened visibly as he approached. Vic cocked his head, said something witty. Within seconds, they were engaged in meaningful social discourse. A minute later, they had peeled away from her pack of friends and were making their way toward a booth in the back.
Where had he seen her before? Syd couldn't recall. He could only watch in horror as Vic's hand snaked out, lightly made contact with the small of her back. As they reached the booth, Vic ushered her in, then slid in across from her. Careful to take the seat facing the door. And the bar.
Then he fired a little smile at Syd.
The waiting game had begun.
42
THE NEXT HOUR was complete madness. The bar kept filling up. The band came on. The atmosphere grew loud and hot and heavy: down-and-dirty blues goosing the crowd to a good-natured mania, as close to two hundred crazed sweaty people drank and laughed and danced their collective cares away.
By contrast, on the far end of the fun spectrum, there was Syd.
Syd was definitely not having a good time. Between trying to keep an eye on Vic and servicing the ever-increasing stream of customers, his dance card was punched. To complicate matters, he quickly found that he could not so much as step away from the bar or duck into the bathroom to take a leak, without Vic's watchful eye upon him. The motherfucker seemed able to anticipate Syd's every move almost before he thought of it; Syd would no sooner turn to slip away when Vic would be there, waiting. A big malicious grin plastered across his face. An empty glass in his hand.
In fact, the only thing Syd could do was keep the drinks flowing. And flow they did: it came as no surprise
that Vic was a quantity user. What was surprising was exactly what quantities he
was capable of. By nine-thirty Syd had already sent Trent to the stockroom to score a fresh bottle of tequila to replace the one he'd already poured into Vic's bottomless glass.
And therein lay his only hope.
Because by all appearances, Vic was having a marvelous time. All of his immediate creature comforts were being catered to, and then some. The redhead was responding to his overtures and generally keeping his libido stoked. The effects of the tequila were slowly beginning to show. If he could keep Vic drunk and happy and distracted enough, sooner or later the time would come. And Syd would get his chance.
Halfway through the second bottle Syd noticed that the grin was getting bigger, if no less menacing. The gleam in his eye, that much more unfocused. Vic was spending less and less time eyeballing Syd, more and more time eye-balling the redhead.
Syd motioned Bonnie over, handed her a fresh round of drinks, nodded toward the couple in the back booth, and told her to put it on his personal tab. She looked at him like he was crazy; he told her just do it, please, thank you very much.
Bonnie shrugged and placed the drinks on her tray, trundled them off to their appointed destination. Syd watched. Vic looked up as the waitress arrived, thanked her graciously, and gave her a nice fat tip for her trouble.
He never once looked back at the bar.
Now, Syd thought. It's now or never . . .
. . . and then he was moving, sliding past Trent, who looked up from busily hefting a double handful of Bud Light longnecks out of the cold chest. "Back in a flash," he said. "Gotta hit the john."
Before Trent could register a reply Syd was ducking under the swinging counter at the far end of the bar and heading across the dance floor toward the back hall. In seconds he was gone, lost in the throbbing mass of humanity clogging the floor.
The door to Randy's office was at the end of the hall, just past the bathrooms and right before the rear exit. Syd paused at the men's room door, waiting to see if he was being followed. When no Vic appeared, he went down the hall to the office, slipped his key into the lock, and quickly ducked inside.
His heart was hammering as the door shut behind him. So far, so good. Syd flicked on the light. He half-expected to see Vic, kicking back in Randy's big leather chair, his mouth splitting into a grin full of teeth that just grew and grew and grew. . . .
Enough, he told himself. He was definitely losing it. Syd moved to the desk, grabbed the phone, dialed information, got the number. His fingers were trembling as he punched it in.
The phone rang once, twice. Three times.
"C'mon, c'mon," Syd hissed. He looked at his watch. Nine thirty-five. Shit. On the fourth ring, a female voice picked up.
"Huntington Memorial Hospital, where can I direct your call?"
"Intensive Care, please."
"I'm sorry, sir," the voice intoned. "ICU closes at nine. You can try tomorrow at—"
"Please," he interrupted, trying to remain calm. "It's an emergency. . . ."
VIC HAD TO admit it: he was having a fine old time. The booth was nice and dimly lit, very cozy. He had a first-class buzz going, his senses swimming in a sea of pleasant sensation. The music was great, the crowd was lively, he certainly couldn't complain about the service. All around him was vibrant sound and color, and the rich ripe smells of excitement and seduction and fun. And underlying and permeating it all, the intoxicating aroma of lust.
The scent of fresh meat worked in tandem with the liquor, soothing the nagging feelings that had driven him here, bringing his attention firmly back to the matter at hand. Namely, the sweet young thing sitting across the table from him.
She didn't have Tristana's tough carnality, or Nora's killer looks, but she was quite pleasant to behold, nonetheless. Her hair was wonderful: a burnished, flowing copper, the color of a new penny. Her face was youthful, girlish even, yet there was a strength there that Vic found quite appealing.
It was something in the eyes, he decided. Her eyes were clear and gray, and had definitely seen more than most. Life. Death. Pain. Suffering. Triumph. He could read it all in their shining depths, the tiny lines that crinkled around them when she smiled.
She was smiling now. Maybe it was because his hand was on her thigh. Or maybe it was the fact that the two of them were higher than a pair of kites. Maybe both. Vic smiled back, tried to think of her name. She'd told him twice already; three times might tend to put a damper on the proceedings. He thought about it as he leaned forward, insinuating his index finger into the soft crevice between her legs. She shifted in her seat, parted her thighs a little to assist the process.
And then, just like that, it came to him.
"Tanya," he said, drawing it out luxuriously. She paused in mid-margarita and her eyes lit up, radiating inebriated heat and hunger. Vic saw her nipples stiffen under the fabric of her shirt, got a very clear sense of what it would be like to pop them in his mouth, like little flesh gumdrops. It made him reconsider the urgency of his hunt, at least for one more night.
"You're a very interesting woman," he said playfully, feeling the whole rest of the room evaporate, leaving them in a warm little universe for two. "Why do you suppose that is?"
"Guess I must lead an interesting life," Tanya replied, setting down her glass. She was drunk, getting drunker by the minute.
"Ah," Vic said. His hand slipped up under the hem of her skirt. "And what is it that's so interesting about your life?"
His fingers started tracing artful patterns near the seam of her panties; Tanya shifted again, giving out a dirty little laugh, followed by a low purring sound. "Welllll . . ." she began. "Let's see. I have a very interesting job. . . ."
"Really," Vic said, not caring in the slightest. "What's so interesting about it?" It was a game now, a very enjoyable game, the object of which was to see if he could find the spot that would short-circuit her powers of speech.
Tanya was good; she continued to talk under pressure. "Well, I work at a local hospital, and . . ." She had to stop for a moment, as Vic scored a point. ". . . and, um, it's very . . . exciting. . . ."
"Hmmm," Vic murmured thoughtfully. His grin grew wider and wider. "So what's the most exciting thing that ever happened there . . . ?"
Tanya thought about it for a moment, against overwhelming distraction. Then her eyes, went wide, as she remembered. It happened just the other night, she told him. The Jane Doe with the jacked-up metabolism, the one whose blood couldn't be matched. The one who should have died five times over, but miraculously pulled through.
The one with the savage bite marks, all over her body.
Tanya told him all about it, in fabulous forensic detail. By the time she finished, Vic wasn't smiling anymore.
And the game was definitely over.
"What's wrong?" she asked, feeling his hand suddenly withdraw from its warm hiding place. "Are you okay?" Watching him slump back in his seat, his color gone ashen.
"I'm sorry . . ." she began, feeling suddenly very stupid for going too far. Most people had a low threshold for blood, she knew from experience; the macho studly types, doubly so. It was Tanya's curse, to forever be attracted to guys who could bench-press their own body weight but couldn't put a Band-Aid on a paper cut. Most of the time, a look like this spelled an end to the evening's festivities. Tanya sat up, ready to fumble her apologies.
And then, miraculously, he recovered. The smile came back, albeit a little dimmed. And though his color remained chalky, the sparkle in his eyes was pure sincerity. "I'm okay," he said, taking her hand and kissing it gently. "It's just that hospitals make me kinda nervous."
"And nurses?"
"Naw." Once again grinning. "I like nurses just fine."
There was another beat of silence, in which he glanced at their empty glasses. His color was returning, in tandem with her sexual confidence. "Looks like that waitress has gone and forgotten all about us," he said, all at once mock-woeful. He looked back to her. "Darlin', how's about you go and get us a couple o' drinks?"
Tanya smiled.
"Sure," she said. "Why not."
He still had her hand as she slid out of the booth; and as she stood he pulled her over, gave her a little kiss on the neck. "Don't be long," he murmured, and nipped her, sharp teeth grazing soft skin. She shivered, smiled again.
"Be back in a flash," she told him, and he said he'd be here waiting.
But of course, when she got back, he wasn't.
43
JANE HEARD THE dying sound at exactly ten oh-three.
It separated itself from the rest of the agony by coming so abruptly, and by taking place in the corridor just outside Intensive Care.
It came unexpectedly, yanking her from her twilight haze.
And then, just as suddenly, stopped.
Apprehension settled over her as the near-silence resumed. The half-dozen other inhabitants of the ward stirred uneasily as the sound penetrated through the veil of drugs and destruction, impacted directly on subconscious survival circuits. Instinctively attuned to the subtle frequencies of suffering, they had learned to sift through the minutiae, unconsciously read the many layers of pain.
But this was not the sound of lingering illness.
This was the sound of sudden death.
Jane tensed, shooting fresh agony through her stitched and bandaged torso. The heavy leather restraints on her arms and legs bound her firmly to the bed frame, gave her only a couple of inches of play. The bondage was her reward for resisting the Demerol intravenous they'd forced upon her this afternoon. The drugs left her dazed and groggy, made the arduous task of healing that much more difficult.
Jane fought her way back to the surface; her lidded eyes swam wildly in a head too heavy, too heavy to lift from the pillow. Through the opaqued curtains that ringed her bed she saw only dim light and blurry silhouettes, making a muddled wash of the world.
Then the door opened onto ICU, a bright misshapen rectangle at the far end of the room, and Jane's awareness tweaked up a notch. The drugs and the darkness left her vision blurry and diffuse; she could make out nothing of substance in the dim shadow-world of the ward.
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