Part 27 (1/2)
”It's something wild,” he said. ”It feels like, I don't know, like this animal side of me that's always been there, only I'd kept it locked away. And once I realized it I felt like, for the first time in my life, I knew who I really was.
”The problem is, I'd starved it so long that when I did finally let it out, it tore my whole life apart.” He paused, as a chill rush pa.s.sed through him. ”And I'm afraid of it now.”
Syd stopped, tears welling up in his eyes. ”I mean, I feel like now that I know what it is, I'll die without it, or be as good as dead.
”But if I let it out again, it'll kill me,” he said. ”Or else it'll hurt the people I love.”
Like Jules, he meant to say. Like you . . .
Jane sat up then, turned toward him. The setting sun was just kissing the mountain's ridge: throwing long shadows across the valley, bathing her features in red and gold. She studied him skeptically, shook her head emphatically.
”Bulls.h.i.+t,” she said.
Syd looked at her, shocked.
”Being an animal isn't your problem, Syd.” Her tone was matter-of-fact, unwavering. ”Being an animal has nothing to do with it. Everyone's an animal. It's the natural order of things.
”But it's not a license to be a jerk.”
Syd opened his mouth, closed it again. Her gaze was hot upon him. He was about to tell her no, you don't understand, but she stopped him before he could speak.
”Your problem is that you think too much,” Jane said, ”and you get way too bent out of shape about s.h.i.+t that shouldn't even matter. Some things you just know, like you know them in your gut. Nora was nothing but trouble, Syd, you'd have to be blind not to see that. And as for Karen, Jesus . . .”
Jane stopped, caught herself. Syd read her look, sensed some secret knowledge hidden there. ”What about Karen?” he asked.
”Nothing,” she said. ”It doesn't matter.”
”No, tell me,” Syd insisted, suddenly annoyed. ”What about Karen?”
The question hung in the air like a threat. Jane looked around as if there might be some way to deflect his attention. Syd followed her gaze, offering no escape. ”It's nothing,” she reiterated. ”I just saw things, okay?”
”What kinds of things?”
”Things I didn't like very much.”
”Like what?”
Jane paused, not liking the interrogatory s.h.i.+ft the conversation had taken. ”She came into the bar a lot,” she said finally, the last word pregnant with meaning.
”What, like with Vaughn?”
”Yes . . .” she said, then, ”. . . and with other people.”
”Like who?” Syd stared at her disbelievingly. The tension level skyrocketed, as Syd's expression changed from I can't believe I'm hearing this to I can't believe I'm hearing this NOW!
”Who'd she come into the bar with?”
”I don't know,” Jane replied, annoyed herself now. ”Other guys. Some guy named Doug. Another guy, an artist . . .” She thought about it. ”Philip something or another. He was from New York, I think. . . .”
Syd flipped back through his internal Rolodex, searching for all the Dougs and Philips that might fit the bill. The only Doug he knew was this dweeby guy that hung on the periphery of their acquaintance pool, a harmless would-be hipster who got s.h.i.+t-faced at parties and wore T-s.h.i.+rts emblazoned with catchy slogans like ten reasons why beer is better than women. And as for the other guy. . . .
”What about this Phil?”
”What about him?” Jane said.
”Tell me about him!” Syd demanded.
”I don't know anything about him!” she cried. ”What does it matter?”
”IT MATTERS!!” he roared. Jane backed away instantly, recoiling from his explosion. Syd pinned back his rage, beat it down, tried again. ”I'm sorry,” he said. ”I just have to know, okay?”
Jane shook her head. ”Some of them I knew, most I'd never seen before.” Syd winced at the word most; Jane sighed and continued, her gaze painfully intense. ”She did it a lot, Syd. She did it all the time.”
”Jesus, Jane!” he said. ”Why the h.e.l.l didn't you tell me this?”
”I didn't know you!” she shot back. ”I didn't know what your rules were. You work in bars long enough, you see some pretty strange s.h.i.+t. Maybe you knew. Maybe you got off on it. How was I supposed to know?”
”You could have asked me!” he said bitterly. ”You could have said something.”
”Yeah?” she replied sarcastically. ”What the h.e.l.l did you want me to say: hey, Syd, how's it hangin'? By the way, did you know your wife is a s.l.u.t?”
Syd stood then, started pacing and shaking his head. There was one final question, burning in the center of his brain. Syd took a deep breath, faced her.
”Did Jules know about this?” he asked. His voice cracked, as dry as dead leaves. The look in Jane's eyes telegraphed the answer before she even opened her mouth.
”Everybody knew, Syd,” she replied softly. ”It was happening right out in the open. There was no way for us not to know.
”The only reason you didn't see it,” she said flatly, ”was because you didn't want to.”
Jane stopped then, regret implicit in her tone, as though she wished there were some way to take it back, or at least soften the impact of the knowledge. ”I'm sorry,” she said. ”I didn't mean to . . .”
. . . but Syd was no longer hearing anything she said, so busy was he listening to the sound of his own blood roaring through his veins. His breathing was quick and shallow; when he next looked at her he saw a red that had nothing to do with the setting sun.
And then he was moving, he was moving, away from Jane and up the path, into the darkening woods. She called out to him, but Syd ignored her. One thought alone held sway in his mind, a single snarling impulse behind it.
She lied, he thought. She f.u.c.king lied to me.
Syd gave himself over to the impulse, under the setting sun, as the night descended upon them.
And the luminous moon rose high.
32.
Meanwhile, some four hundred miles away, the beat of business-as-usual was wearing very thin.
In fact, Vic thought, if she doesn't shut up pretty soon, I'm gonna rip her f.u.c.king head off and p.i.s.s down the stump.