Part 17 (2/2)

”I know,” Syd said pleasantly. ”Make an exception.”

Bobo's glance flickered from Syd to Cecil to Beany and back. Syd's eyes remained on Bobo. Bobo looked like he was going to blow a hose. ”Ch-checks aren't cut yet,” he stammered.

”I know,” Syd said. ”Write one.”

Syd leaned forward. Bobo's head retracted into his shoulders, like a turtle flinching into its sh.e.l.l. There was a tense pause, punctuated only by the sound of sweat popping on Bobo's pate. Then Bobo leaned over, mumbled something, and pulled his ledger out of the desk. Beany and Cecil exchanged nervous, furtive glances, as if witnessing a miracle. Syd smiled as Bobo pulled out a pen, began to write. He waited patiently. Doing nothing. Ready for anything.

”Huh-here,” he mumbled. ”Duh-don't come back.”

”Don't worry,” Syd said. ”I won't.”

Bobo finished scribbling, tore the check free, and held it out. Syd plucked it from his grasp and Bobo flinched again, as if he feared Syd might take his hand with it, as a souvenir.

”Thanks,” Syd said, smiling pleasantly. He glanced at Bobo's henchmen. ”Take care, fellas. It's been a slice.”

He turned, the trio of eyes following his every move. As he did he made a special point of acknowledging Cecil, whose hands still clutched the magazine. ”Y'all take good care of those ma.s.sive fannies now, y'hear?”

Then he was out the door and gone, laughing to himself from the moment it shut. A wave of giddy exhilaration rolled over him. d.a.m.n, but that was fun! d.a.m.n, but those guys were stupid! If he'd known that quitting could be this much of a rush, he'd have done it a long time ago.

The forty-degree morning was warm on his skin. It made him feel comfortable, confident and strong. He felt like he could handle anything.

He felt like he could take on the world.

23.

The moon was innocent tonight. For this cycle at least, its power had peaked, was already on the wane. It could no longer be held responsible for anything that happened, not even in theory.

Nora watched it through the winds.h.i.+eld, and wondered just who she was supposed to blame.

Because Syd was in the driver's seat, blissfully oblivious, blasting them down the winding road to the bar where they'd first met. It's the only other thing I have to do, he'd told her. But it's very important to me, okay?

Of course, it was not okay; and she tried to tell him so. But her best arguments were utterly in vain. He just needed to say good-bye to Jules and a couple of the others, needed to say his good-byes to the place. Chameleon's was the only thing left in this town that meant a thing to him.

This had put Nora in a position both awkward and extremely delicate. From a relations.h.i.+p standpoint, it was really not a good night to push too hard. The rest of the day had been absolutely revelatory; they'd been drinking and celebrating since roughly noon, when Syd had returned home early from work. He was full of himself, full of his power as he relayed the story of Bobo and his sudden ”change of heart.” He told her they could leave as early as tomorrow. He was even selling his precious stereo to some guy at work for five hundred bucks, which she had to admit would keep the wheels greased until he was up and running.

So what was not to like? All in all, Syd was in too fine a mood, playing too smoothly into her hands. So when he suggested they go out, it was hard to say no. But there was no getting around the very real dangers implicit in the move. She had lost a couple days of lead time, after all; it was entirely possible that Vic could just show up at any moment.

Nora quashed the thought and the shudder it rode in on, took a deep swig off the Southern Comfort bottle, then turned to take a long hard look at the man beside her. His profile glowed in the dashboard light. She couldn't get over how fired up he was. It was a mixed blessing in the purest sense, both wonderful and terrifying; she didn't know whether to be more thrilled by his ardor or frightened by his newfound a.s.sertion of will.

Because Syd had eaten of the flesh, and now he was feeling it: revealing aspects of himself that had never before seen the light of day. Nora could never predict what would come roaring out; what secret scar tissue and raw potential; what deeply repressed desires and rages. And though Vaughn was a weasel, his lifeforce was strong, his predatory instincts unquestionable; even regurgitated, it was enough to propel Syd to the next level.

The question was, what next?

So far-with her, at least-Syd was remaining a slightly feistier version of his own sweet self. But she would be watching closely to see where and how his newfound fire expressed itself.

And on whom it would be unleashed . . .

Syd grinned as he negotiated a winding turn, then punched the Mustang up to eighty-five. Right now, from the looks of it, rage was the furthest thing from his mind.

He flicked his smoke out the open window, grabbed the bottle of Bud from between his knees, took a healthy swig, and grinned some more. His driving hand drummed on the steering wheel, in time with the raucous tunes. He looked like he was maybe sixteen years old.

And again she felt the pang. The one she'd been feeling, more and more, ever since the little speech he'd made over this morning's breakfast of Vaughn and eggs. It wasn't just love that she was feeling now. It was the first stirrings of trust: an altogether rarer and more dangerous commodity.

Because she could picture the home Syd would build her, the promise he held. The images were like snapshots in a sc.r.a.pbook, keepsakes of an impossible future. They were there, oh yes indeed, as inevitable a projection as the baby faces she imagined when she cross-referenced her looks with her chosen man's and did the genetic math.

And that was at the heart of it, wasn't it? She was certain she was pregnant; she could feel it. Her b.r.e.a.s.t.s were tender to the touch; her belly felt full and sensitive. As they drove Nora found herself touching her abdomen, surrept.i.tiously probing for life. She was already doing her DNA homework: grafting Syd's chin onto her cheekbones, divining the compromise position between his eyes and hers.

If it was a boy, would he be slender and wiry like her, concealing his strength behind a streamlined, deceptive grace? And if it was a girl, would she inherit his dark eyes and stocky peasant build, translate it into the kind of pale and black-haired zaftig abundance that Nora found attractive in women?

Would the child be beautiful? There was no doubt in her mind. She had already fallen in love with the planes and angles of Syd's face. He had beautiful, arresting eyes. And very good teeth.

Plus he's strong. She smiled, just thinking about it. Getting stronger by the second. There was little question in her mind that he could deliver on his promise, given the proper circ.u.mstances and a little bit of luck .

. . . and no Vic waiting in the parking lot, with fangs bared and murder in his eyes . . .

. . . and that was when the second set of pictures emerged, and they were not pretty at all. In her mind's eye, she watched Syd's profile peel off in a clean red sweep. She had seen Vic kill enough times to know what it would be like. It had never been enough for Vic to simply kill, that sick motherf.u.c.ker; he needed trophies to cart around, like merit badges of courage, for bravery under fire.

Once upon a time-way back, before the deterioration, Won. Texas and the point of no return-she had conjured baby faces with Vic, as well; and yes, of course, they were beautiful, too. She had carried those pictures around with her for years and years, before she finally realized that they would never come to pa.s.s.

And it was only once she had given up-torn Vic utterly out of her heart-that she had become his lifelong, tireless obsession. That was when the tattoos began to appear, like hash marks denoting time served. As if he could hold on to her somehow by capturing her likeness in his flesh. That was when the chase began, in earnest.

And that was the most infuriating, horrifying part: it wasn't until he understood that he really, truly could not have her that he seriously began to want her. And in so doing, to seriously make her life a living h.e.l.l.

Now he wouldn't rest until she was back in his clutches again. Or dead. Maybe both.

Her dread increased in intensity, the closer to Chameleon's they drew. At the same time, there were a few mental bones she could throw herself. Better to get this over with. It would get them out of town that much sooner, and anything that accelerated the process of putting this place far behind them was fine with her.

They rounded the last bend, came into the homestretch. She saw the little red and yellow lights. There really was no choice but to try and enjoy herself, hope for the best. Hoping against hope.

Nora swigged hard off the bottle of Comfort. And abandoned herself to her fate.

Syd's good mood was already beginning to sour, practically from the second they rolled onto the lot. In reality, it was just a series of diddly little nonevents; but taken together, they spelled erosion, and the beginnings of a night steering steeply toward the downhill side.

It started when Syd went to park the car, only to be reminded that Nora insisted upon being dropped by the door. Not a big deal, right? But it reminded him unpleasantly of the other night. He had managed to keep Nora's crazy ex-boyfriend out of his thoughts-she didn't talk about her past, and he'd pretty much left it alone-but there was something about being made to feel paranoid on your own stomping grounds that made Syd's blood boil. So that was enough to start it.

He'd dropped her at the door, then gone back to his favorite spot and parked. Getting out of the car, he found himself acutely aware of his surroundings. He looked around, searching the shadows as he sniffed the woods for danger. There was nothing out there, as best as he could tell. He realized, for the first time in ages, how much he responded to the smell of the woods at night, and paused to savor the crisp autumn scents: pine, rot, animal spoor, the actual smell of the cold itself.

His spirits had dropped a little more as he walked back across the lot. It was the same weird nostalgia he'd experienced this morning at the plant, only magnified to the fiftieth power: this was a place he actually loved, not a place he'd simply endured. This was gonna hurt, he realized. This would not be an easy good-bye.

At that moment, Syd had felt a strange sense of closure: the end of an era upon him. He wasn't sure if it was just saying good-bye to Jules, ushering in the post-Karen epoch, or if it was the entire first half of his life wrapping up. In the final a.n.a.lysis, it hardly mattered. It is what it is, he told himself.

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