Part 10 (1/2)

Syd looked at her, looked away. ”I wanted to kill him,” he said at last. ”I wanted to tear his stupid f.u.c.king face off.”

”Better,” she said. ”At least that's honest.” She leaned across the table.

”So why didn't you?”

The question hung in the air like an indictment. Syd took a swig off his beer. Nora watched him intently. Her eyes were inescapable; in the soft glow of the candles they looked hypnotic, otherworldly.

”I don't know,” he said. ”The cops came, and it felt like the moment had come and gone. I missed the window.” He sighed resignedly.

”After that, I would periodically get this feeling, like I wanted to go hurt him again. Like beating him up just wasn't enough. It was like, he hadn't suffered enough yet; I was still hurting, my life was still f.u.c.ked, but he just got to skate away as if nothing ever happened. But whenever I talked about it, everyone would tell me how wrong they thought that was, like I was some kind of psycho or something . . .”

”And how did that make you feel?”

”I thought-” He stopped, corrected himself. ”It felt like it was the only right thing in the whole sick f.u.c.king situation. Like if I didn't stop him-even if I had to kill him to do it-then nothing else in the rest of my life would ever mean a G.o.ddam thing.”

He paused; Nora nodded thoughtfully. ”There's a word to describe the reaction of everybody you talked to,” she said. ”It's called theriophobia.”

”Come again?”

”Theriophobia. It means fear of the beast. It's like a projection, a kind of self-hatred. Fear of the violent, irrational side of your nature. Most people are scared to death of it.”

For the first time in the conversation, her eyes looked away, out the window to the street below, as though searching the shadows. ”They spend their whole lives running away from it, and punis.h.i.+ng anyone who doesn't. They tell you it's crazy to feel things like that, like you're a monster for even having such thoughts, much less doing something about it.”

”Yeah, but it's funny,” he said, almost wistfully, ”while it was happening, it was the cleanest feeling I'd ever known. It wasn't so much irrational as something that transcended reason. There was no doubt, or guilt, or second-guessing myself. I had no idea what was going to happen next, or how things would play out, and it didn't even matter. I just knew what I had to do . . .”

”But in the end, you weren't true to it,” she said. ”I mean, he's still alive, right? He still slinks among us.” Syd looked down, nodded.

”Yeah, he hangs out down at Fifty-Five South and all the local yuppie watering holes. But at least he p.i.s.ses himself at the mention of my name.”

”Uh-huh.”

She didn't say anything else, just uh-huh. She didn't have to. It was uncanny, her knack for nailing him: in the s.p.a.ce of a second she had reduced the wild, b.e.s.t.i.a.l side of Syd that had so terrified his friends and acquaintances to a toothless, yapping lapdog. Her tone of voice was neutral, utterly without malice or judgment, but no less deadly for it.

Syd swished his beer, drained the dregs. It was the last one in the house. He glanced at the little pile of cans before him, checked his watch. Twelve-fifteen.

”h.e.l.luva time to run out of beer,” he sighed.

Nora watched him a moment longer, then stood, blew out the candles, crossed around to his side of the table.

”So c'mon,” she said.

”Where are we going?”

She leaned over and kissed him on the forehead, then whispered in his ear.

”Out,” she said.

15.

They were halfway to Chameleon's when Nora had a change of heart.

They were high up on the Mt. Haversford Road, Tom Waits's moody ”Bone Machine” playing low on the stereo. For the last twenty minutes Nora had been lost in thought, preoccupied: she stared out the window, watching the s.h.i.+fting shapes just outside the headlights' glare. When they pa.s.sed a sign that read REST AREA 1 MILE, Nora turned.

”Pull over up there,” she said.

Syd looked at where she was pointing, shook his head. He was feeling kind of weird, and he wanted a beer to calm his nerves. ”I don't know,” he protested. ”It's gettin' kinda late . . .”

”Just for a minute,” Nora said. ”Please . . .”

She placed her hand on his thigh, squeezed. Syd sighed and slowed, wheeling the car off the road and into the parking area. It was dark, utterly deserted, just a wide barren strip of asphalt, but up against the rim of the forest. A few picnic tables dotted its perimeter, empty and forlorn. Syd pulled into a slot, left the engine running, the lights on.

”Okay,” he said. ”Now what?”

Nora reached over and shut the engine off, then sat back, admiring the night.

”Beautiful, isn't it?” she sighed. ”I love it up here.”

”Yeah, me, too,” Syd said. He looked around, distracted, then checked his watch. Twelve forty-five. ”We should really go,” he warned. ”The bar's gonna close soon.”

”Mmmm.” She paused, nodded thoughtfully. ”I've got a better idea.”

Nora leaned over and kissed him, and as she pulled away Syd heard a click . . .

. . . and then she was throwing the door open, stepping outside. Syd looked first at Nora, then at the ignition. The keys were gone.

”Aw, s.h.i.+t,” he groaned, annoyed. ”Nora!”

But Nora just ignored him, moving away from the car and into the trees, the headlights casting giant shadow-puppets before her.

”Nora!” Syd shouted. Nora kept moving. Syd threw open the door, climbed out after her. He called to her again. Nora disappeared, laughing. He called to her again.

Nothing.

Syd cursed and considered his options. Not many. She was playing games with him. He was stranded. He was starting to get p.i.s.sed.

”NORA!!”.

From the trees, her echoing mirth. There was nothing else to do. Syd cursed again, and followed.

The woods were still and silent as he picked his way through the underbrush, the only sounds around him his own clumsy fumbling and the subtle rush of breeze through branches. The weather was a little warmer than yesterday, but not by much: he could still see his breath, felt the damp night chill on his skin. A gentle breeze wafted around him, hissing through the trees. Syd had left the Mustang's headlights on, the better to see her with; they tossed garish monster-movie shadows before being utterly absorbed by dense growth. Twenty yards in and he was steeped in darkness, without a clue as to how he was going to find her.

Then, without warning, the headlights shut off. And the real blackness settled in.

Syd whirled, caught the last faint glow of dying light. His pupils dilated, desperately trying to capture every stray bit of luminescence. Then it faded, withdrew.

And Syd was screwed.