Neuropath

by R. Scott Bakker

  'I hear,' she said, her voice now as small as his.

  Shwish-swish-thump…

  He turned to her horror-stricken face. The flashlight lay between them, illuminating her face from below. Earlier that night she had put the flashlight to her chin and tried to make scary faces. Frankie had only laughed. Now she looked scarier than any face in the whole world.

  'I don't want to be spaghetti,' Frankie murmured. 'Ripleeeeeeee …'

  They heard a pop from the peak of their pup tent. Ripley clasped the flashlight with both hands, pointed it toward the sound.

  Something pointy whisked across the orange nylon.

  Frankie couldn't breathe. He wanted to scream, but something clamped his mouth shut.

  Another pop. Ripley jerked the flashlight toward the entrance.

  It was black-black beyond the mosquito-screen gauze. The zipper started dropping, tooth by shiny tooth.

  Click-click …

  Ripley screamed. The zipper ripped down.

  Something dark exploded into the light. Frankie felt an iron hand clutching at his stomach.

  'I'M A BEAR!' a voice boomed, and Daddy's laughing face bobbed into the light. Ruthless fingers tickled and tickled. Both Frankie and Ripley screamed with laughter and delight.

  Crowded as it was, Thomas lay with his kids, joking and poking, until they both drifted asleep. Afterward, he turned the flashlight on its head so that it was little more than a ring of light against the ground, then carefully made his way from the tent.

  'Aaaarh,' he softly growled as he did up the zipper, making a face he found funny because he knew how his kids would have giggled had they seen it. He walked to the back patio and took a seat.

  He fished a Rolling Rock out of his cooler, popped it, then surveyed the dark expanse of his backyard: the bland fence, the lonely maple, the kids' swing set, the space where he and Nora had once talked about putting an in-ground pool. He felt at once sad and proud, the way he imagined many men felt when taking stock of their humble kingdoms.

  Strange the way that word, mine, so often stirred shame when attached to things.

  That shed is mine, he thought, taking a drink. Loser-shed… Mine.

  The significance of small childhood traumas had been all but discounted in psychological circles. Kids were doughty little buggers, those in the know now believed, pretty much idiot-proof when it came to parenting. Only genes, the vagaries of peer socializing, or extreme parental malfeasance could ruin them. Everything else, the experts maintained, came out in the wash.

  Thomas disagreed. The small traumas lived like spiders in the emotional cracks of adulthood, catching what they could, and leaving the rest to larger predators. His parents had been poor and alcoholic, but his friends at school had come from relatively affluent households. He'd grown up ashamed, of his last-year's-hit-movie-lunch-box, of his Wal-Mart clothes, of his bruised-apple-instead-of-a-Twinkie. He'd grown up being quiet at lunch time.

  Now shame tainted everything he owned. Everything 'mine'.

  But as Mia would say, that was the whole point of economic freedom. Shame.

  Those kids, though, he thought to himself. They were a different story.

  Heartbreaking pride.

  He rubbed his eyes, jumped when he glimpsed the shadow floating along the back of his house.

  'Who-the—'

  'Just me,' Mia called, holding up his own beer. 'Thought I'd join you for a drink.'

  'Jesus, Mia,' Thomas gasped.

  'Jumpy, aren't we?'

  'Shush,' Thomas said, nodding to the pup-tent in the middle of the black yard. 'The kids just fell asleep.'

  Mia nodded and laughed. 'They've been babbling about the great expedition for days now.'

  'I promised them before the shit hit the fan last week.' Part of him still regretted caving to their relentless pressure. Thanks to the divorce, it was a parental paradox Thomas knew well: it was hard not to be indulgent in times of family crisis, and harder still not to be stern. 'I figured with all the craziness it would be a good distraction.'

  Mia nodded. 'Hear anything new about Nora?'

  Thomas grimaced. 'Still refusing to talk. Still behind bars.' The nightmare triggered by Neil's visit had taken a couple of surreal turns in the following days, Nora's imprisonment the sharpest among them. Just thinking about it triggered a sense of disbelief similar to what he'd felt when the Twin Towers had imploded, the sense that someone had switched reels in the Great Projection Room, and now CGI and producer rewrites were running amok in the real world.

  Nora refused to believe that Neil had anything to do with what was going on.

  She loved him.

  Neil and Nora.

  'Pooor, pooor lass,' Mia said, mimicking Frankie's lame Scottish accent. He'd been squarely in the serves-the-bitch-right camp ever since Thomas had told him about her and Neil.

  'I feel sorry for her,' Thomas admitted.

  'You shouldn't. She's a back-stabbing slut.'

  Thomas grinned, remembering an old tirade of Mia's on 'honest epitaphs'. 'I thought you wanted something like that chiseled on your tombstone…'

  'So?'

  'So, don't throw stones—'

  'When you live in Israel. Yeah-yeah, so I'm a hypocrite. I've changed my mind about my epitaph, anyway.'

  'So what's it now?'

  He held up his hands marquee-style. '"Not so funny after all"'

  Thomas laughed, though something about the joke mildly repelled him—like glimpsing Q-tips in someone else's garbage. 'You're such an ass.'

  A smile cracked Mia's deadpan stare.

  'Speaking of getting laid,' he said, 'what's going on with Special Agent Samantha Logan?'

  Thomas chuckled. Just hearing her name tickled him. 'She just got back from Nashville. Apparently some televangelist named Jackie Forrest went missing a few days ago.' Hearing about Jackie Forrest's abduction had sent Thomas sifting through the bookcases in the basement, where he kept all the textbook wannabes sent by academic publishers and whatever else he had been too lazy to throw out. He found the book relatively quickly: it was hard to miss, not only because of its garish, gold-embossed spine, but because it had found its way beside a vagrant copy of his own book, Through the Brain Darkly. Coincidences could be so cruel.

  It was called The New Hero: Why Humanism is a Sin, by Jackie Forrest, an eight-year-old relic of Nora's brief flirtation with fundamentalism. He could still remember the rush of relief when she announced her return to agnosticism. At the time, Thomas had thought he'd shown her how dim the light of Jesus was compared to that of Reason, but now he imagined that her affair with Neil had been the deciding factor. When it came to her immortal soul, Nora had decided to err on the side of fucking.

  'They think it has something to do with Neil?' Mia asked.

  'From the sounds of it. Jackie Forrest fits the profile, at least. Half-ass famous.'

  Mia shook his head. In the silent moment that followed, Thomas imagined he was either thinking of the preacher shrieking in some dingy basement, or like him, trying not to. Despite Agent Atta's injunction, Thomas had continued to brief him on the details as they arose. Mia wasn't simply nosy, he was relentlessly nosy, and with such I've-got-your-best-interests-at-heart curiosity that he was well-nigh irresistible. Thomas inevitably told him everything about everything, and felt better for it afterward. Mia had a keen eye, and perhaps most importantly, had no problem giving honest feedback.

  But this stuff with Neil's personal semantic apocalypse… Sometimes even Mia seemed to regret it. 'When you said he'd gone psycho,' he had admitted the day before yesterday, 'I thought of blood, knives, and titties in the shower. Not this. This is beyond sick and healthy.' His Number One Neighbor had strayed into curiosity-killed-the-cat territory, and he knew it.

  Mia cleared his throat. 'So, have you got Sam a red wig yet?' A clumsy way of changing the subject, Thomas thought, but a welcome one.

  'Huh?'

  'You know… To do the whole Agent Scully thang.'
<
br />   'So you had the hots for her too, huh?'

  'Huge,' Mia said, warming to the topic. 'If it wasn't for Fox Mulder, I might be straight. You and I would be sitting here talking pussy and football.'

  Thomas laughed. 'Aren't we talking pussy now?'

  'A privilege of growing up in a bilingual household.'

  'Well, to answer your question, no, I haven't bought her a red wig yet. She packs a pistol you know.'

  'Probably for the best. She's not Agent Scully hot, anyway…'

  'Scuse me?'

  'Doesn't have that "I'm-frumpy-let's-fuck" air about her.'

  Thomas roared with laughter, then caught himself, remembering the kids.

  'Sh-shush,' Mia said, laughing.

  'Sometimes,' Thomas gasped, 'talking to you is like smoking a joint.'

  Mia had done this many times before, especially during the darkest days of his divorce: distracted him from his troubles, reminded him what it was like to laugh. Thomas pulled two more beers from his cooler and tossed one to his Number One Neighbor.

  'So you had a thing for what's-his-face… The guy who played Fox. David Duchovny?'

  'Who didn't?' Mia replied. 'Why do you ask?'

  'All the girls at Princeton were ga-ga over Neil because they thought he looked like him.'

  Always getting laid, weren't you, Neil?

  Mia hesitated, reluctant to stray into potentially painful territory—or so Thomas imagined.

  'I hate to say it, but old Fox doesn't hold a candle to Neil. Remember how Bill and I would always ask you to bring him over for a swim?'

  Thomas smiled. 'You don't have a pool.'

  'That was the point. Something Olympian about that man…'

  Mia paused, then hastily added: 'Which of course is why he's a fucking raving lunatic. The perfect ones always are.'

  It was painful territory, Thomas realized. He looked away, at a loss for words.

  As always, Mia took up the slack. 'So Sam is hot,' he said, pretending to itemize the proceeds of their discussion.

  'You're both covered in pubic-hair burns… I hate for you to think I'm nosy, but her car seems to be parked in your driveway more often than not. You guys getting serious?'

  Thomas studied the pup-tent in the darkness, imagined his kids bundled like little larva inside. Warm. Safe. According to Sam, information passed on from the NSA indicated that Neil was somewhere in Florida. Ironclad intelligence—something about purchase patterns and several CCTV images. Atta and Gerard were in Florida now, following up with the local authorities, while Sam continued to comb New England for leads, interviewing family, old friends, that sort of thing. Neil's biometric data had been uploaded into almost every realtime digital video network in the country: airports, train stations, subways, even toll-roads and urban intersection surveillance systems. What the FBI lacked in terms of feet on the ground, it more than compensated for with eyes in the sky—or the ceiling, as the case might be. There was nothing to worry about, Sam had assured him.

  Not that he could imagine Neil doing anything. Even if Neil was doing all of this for his benefit, it meant that Thomas was the audience…

  And the audience always got to hide in the dark. Didn't it?

  Relax.

  It dawned on him that he had caved to the kids more to prove that everything was back to normal than anything else.

  'Nah,' he said, suddenly uncomfortable. 'Nothing serious.'

  Mia stared at him thoughtfully. 'Why so coy, Tom? I know it's not because it's me. After all the years talking relationship shop, what haven't we discussed?'

  Mia was right. What was the problem?

  'It's just that…' Thomas hesitated. 'It's just that everything seems so… so fucking fragile, you know?'

  Mia nodded. 'Like if you talk about it, you make it real, and if you make it real Thomas smiled, recognizing his own advice.

  'It is real,' he said. 'It's not perfect, but it's real.' Thomas took a nervous drink. 'She so wants me to be an active part of the case—you have no idea. I discuss it with her, give her what insights I can, but I can tell she's disappointed deep down. I sometimes worry she thinks I'm a coward. Sounds stupid, doesn't it? But here's Neil on this killing spree, mutilating and torturing innocent people—even children for fuck's sake—and all I can think about is… is…'

  Nora.

  Thomas had been looking down at his beer. He dared Mia's friendly gaze.

  'I've never felt so… so beaten before, Mia. All this time, he's been banging Nora, dodging around through the darkness behind my back. All this time, making a fool out of me. And instead of hating him, all I want to do is curl into a little ball.' He blinked, saw Cynthia Powski, sweat-slick and gasping between climaxes. 'Truth be told, I am terrified. More frightened than I've been in my entire life.'

  'Me too,' Mia said. 'And I'm just the neighbor.'

  He wasn't joking, Thomas realized. Psychopaths belonged to movies, salacious news exposes and clinical studies, not quiet Peekskill neighborhoods. Culture had a code for other types of threats, storylines that provided neighbors a measure of comfort. Estranged husbands murdered wives and children, but respected property lines. Fugitive gangsters left town in the middle of the night. Terrorists shaved their beards, forgot to water their lawns but otherwise tried to keep a low profile.

  Psychopaths were something altogether different.

  'Some fucked up shit, huh, Mia?'

  'Fiercely fucked up, my friend.'

  Thomas breathed deeply, steepled his fingers about his beer. 'Listen, I know I have no reason to say this, but I need you to keep this stuff under your hat.'

  'About you and Sam? Or Neil?'

  'All of it.'

  Mia snorted. 'I've been wondering why none of this has made the news. Just Chiropractor, Chiropractor, and more Chiropractor.'

  'Neil was NSA. I told you that.'

  'So why is the FBI hunting him?'

  'Because it's domestic.'

  Mia nodded in a yah-yah manner. 'With all the madness going on, I imagine they're spread pretty thin.' He tossed a cap, sent it clinking across the patio stones.

  'So they keep telling me.'

  Thomas had always measured his friendships by the silences they could absorb. As roommates, he and Neil had literally spent hours together without speaking a word. With Mia the gaps between jokes or questions or observations were never as long, but they seemed more profound for some reason, more indicative, a product of common appreciation rather than boredom or distraction.

  'Did I ever tell you,' Mia ventured after two or three contemplative drinks, 'that I worked for the Department of Fatherland Security?'

  Thomas nearly choked on his beer. 'You gotta be fucking kidding me,' he said, drawing a sleeve across his mouth. The man held more surprises than a magician's pocket.

  'Just technical contracts,' Mia said, staring into the night. 'Different stuff, for the NSA, CIA, even helped the FBI with some troubleshooting.'

  Thomas gawked. 'A self-proclaimed Marxist, working for the CIA.'

  'Don't forget that I'm also an old queen,' Mia said, copping his coquette drawl. 'I've spent the better part of my life undercover.'

  Laughter, then another long, but comfortable silence. A million questions crowded Thomas's thoughts, not the least of which was why Mia had never told him about working for the DoHS. But he knew the answer. Everywhere you turned now, you were signing away your right to say this or that, especially in commercial contracts involving the most powerful corporation of all, the US government. It was one of those things the pundits squawked about from time to time, the Commercialization of Speech they sometimes called it. Issues like this genuinely concerned Thomas, but in the way of wars in unvisited countries. It was like the 'Expression Biometrics' issue with retail employees: sure, the idea of computers watching to make sure all clerks and cashiers continually smiled was creepy, but it was kind of nice from the customer's point of view. Even Thomas had to admit that shopping at Wal-Mart was more pleasant than at
Target.

  And, truth be told, it was nice living in a world where people kept their mouths shut.

  'So far it's been all me-me-me,' Thomas said finally. 'How about Mia-Mia-Mia?'

  It was an old joke of theirs. 'Great,' his Number One Neighbor said, shrugging his shoulders. 'Bill and I have been great. Too much going on at the Bibles for those little things to seem important.' He paused, frowning as though struck by something both sad and humorous. 'I hate to say it, but back when you and Nora were fighting all the time…' He trailed, looking guilty.

  Thomas shook his head, chuckled.

  'You really should be miserable more often,' Mia continued.

  'Things were that good?'

  'No, our sex was that good.'

  Thomas groaned. Though Mia made light of the fact that he was gay, the sheer frequency of the references told Thomas that issues remained. For not the first time, Thomas found himself wondering how open Mia really was. Sure, he was embarrassingly frank about his relationship with Bill, but he almost never mentioned his past before moving to New York. The sheer audacity of his personal revelations, it sometimes seemed, was nothing but a subtle form of misdirection, like the flourish of a magician's hand.

  Perhaps this was what made the ensuing silence brittle.

  'I imagine you need me to look after the kids next week,' Mia eventually said.

  Thomas sighed. 'I'll get something figured out, Mia. It's just—'

  'Don't worry about it. School starts soon. Besides…'

  'Besides what?'

  'I never thought I'd say this, but, well… I love it.' He looked away with uncharacteristic embarrassment. 'I mean, I love them. I never saw myself as the paternal type, you know, what with dressing up like a girl and all, but…'

  He looked at Thomas apologetically. Sometimes it seemed Mia was always apologizing.

  'They get under your skin,' Thomas said.

  'They get under your skin.'

  Thomas held up his beer. 'Here's to them,' he declared softly, nodding to the shadowy pup-tent.

  The clink of bottles warmed the night.

  After Mia left, Thomas set his air mattress and sleeping bag across the patio. He'd agreed to let the kids camp out only after crumbling under relentless pressure. He sure as hell wasn't about to leave them alone, even if the FBI thought that Neil had relocated to the Gulf Coast. Besides, it had been a long, long time since he had last slept beneath the stars. And he rather liked the idea of standing guard over his children.