Animals. Part 17

"What do you mean, 'Who cares?' I care!" This was starting to p.i.s.s him off. "I mean, leaving's one thing, but I can't just cut and run without a dime in my pocket! How are we gonna pay for gas? Hotel? Meals?" He speared the last of the meat off his plate, scarfed it down. "I mean, we do plan on eating, right?"

Nora bristled with tension. "Why do you worry about s.h.i.t like that?" she asked. "Money's never been a problem for me-"

"Yeah, well, money's always been a problem for me!" Syd cut in, definitely annoyed himself now. "I've had to work for every f.u.c.king cent I ever got! And I think about things like that because it's my nature to think about things like that!"

There was an electric beat of silence as they faced off. Syd made a conscious effort to pin back the tension in his voice, the sudden flaring rage he felt.

But the fact of the matter was that he was p.i.s.sed. And he was not gonna be whipped into submission by this woman, no matter how much he loved her. She could see it in his eyes. She could hear it in his voice. But rather than flipping her out, it was visibly getting her off. There was a carnivore's curl to her fierce little smile, and he had her complete attention.

And Syd realized that this was a woman who liked to play hardball; that was what made her such a contrary b.i.t.c.h. She was no fawning little batty-eyed baby girl, waiting for daddy to spank her when she was bad. He got the feeling, in that moment, that he was finally earning her respect.

Syd stood abruptly, moved toward her. Nora held her ground. Her eyes never left his. He caught her by the sink, wrapped his arms around her.

"Listen," he said. "Last night you said you wanted my strength. You wanted someone to take care of you." He pulled her close, drew her tight. "Well, this is part of my strength. I gotta take care of myself. If I can't do that, then I can't take care of you.

"And then I'm no f.u.c.king good to either one of us."

He held her, leveling her with his gaze. Nora met it with equal fervor. There was one long elastic moment, where everything hung in the balance.

Then she embraced him, and he felt a wave of raw emotion pour out of her as a low, throaty moan escaped her lips.

"On the table. Now."

And he gave himself over to the urge, the insatiable sensation, picking her up and spinning her around in his arms, then lifting her up to set her on the table. Her hands swept back as her legs wrapped around him, drawing him in. This time, the sound of breaking dishes didn't bother him a bit. Her hands found his zipper and tugged it down to free him even as his hands unb.u.t.toned her shirt, exposed her nakedness.

They made love savagely, the table bucking and groaning beneath them.

And this time, when she told him to bite her, he did.

It was the best.

22.

By the time Syd arrived at the mill, it was ten twenty-six. Not so great from a job-security standpoint, but he was no longer thinking longevity. He parked and s.h.a.gged it up to the foreman's trailer, taking his sweet time to do so.

There was no line, of course, and hadn't been for four hours; the distant sound of clanging echoed through the plant, bespeaking men already well into doing their job. He got a weird pang of nostalgia, listening to it: the kind of feeling you get when you know you're doing something for what is probably the very last time. Even the dust kicking up around his heels had a flavor that he found himself noting and filing: an experience captured, a memory preserved.

Beau Harrell, on the other hand, was not a nostalgia-inducing experience. Syd could smell him from twenty feet outside the door, and one thing was for certain: the sooner their lives were no longer intertwined, the better.

He was seated, squat and sweating, behind his desk when Syd walked in. In person, Beau was even less impressive than he was in theory: an ugly little toad-man, Horatio Alger gone horribly wrong. He was a self-styled wheeler-dealer and post-Reagan robber baron; but despite his fancy German car and Armani suit, he still managed to carry his success with the cheesy elan of a trailer park tyrant, a big mean fish in a small and stagnant pond.

His bald head caught the reflection of the bare light bulb in the center of the ceiling. He had put on weight, squeezing his seams like an overripe kielbasa. Looking at him, Syd couldn't help thinking of Jon Polito in Miller's Crossing, minus the ethnic slant and esoteric ethical contemplations: running tings, ya gotta know, it's a lot tougher den you'd tink. He had a ton of paperwork spread out before him, as usual-the man was nothing if not ambitious-and as he looked up, his expression shifted abruptly from apelike grin to rabid foam-at-the-mouth exasperation. He tended to stammer when upset.

"Jarrett!" Harrell bellowed. "You're four f.u.c.kin' hours late! You better have one huh-h.e.l.l of an explanation, I can tell you that!"

Syd noted the drying-up of Neanderthal laughter, cast a glance off to the little sofa to his right. It was Beany and Cecil, Bobo's toady and pit bull, respectively. Beany was Bennie Holtzapple, a wormy little p.i.s.sant in a black leather Members Only jacket and a turtleneck, and he was blessed with a knack for agreeing with whatever Bobo said. Cecil was Cecil Karwicki, and he was built like an industrial freezer. He wore a navy cashmere overcoat over jeans and a snow-white designer sweatshirt, and his feet sported pointy black sharkskin boots that looked made for kicking. His feet, like his hands and every other part of him, were enormous. He had the total mental wattage of a refrigerator bulb, and he did exactly as he was told.

Cecil held, in his beefy mitts, a dog-eared copy of Big b.u.t.t magazine. Suddenly, Syd understood completely: it wasn't just that he was late, but that he'd interrupted something important. An honest-to-G.o.d enormous mudflap stared at him from the glossy back cover, beneath the slogan MORE b.u.t.tS FOR YOUR BUCKS!!! Syd couldn't help but crack a smile of his own.

"What's so, what's so f.u.c.kin' funny?" Beau demanded to know.

"Umm . . ." Syd shrugged, grinning. "Big b.u.t.t magazine, I guess."

"Don't get f.u.c.kin' suh-smart with me!" Bobo was practically apoplectic. "You, you got some explainin' to do!"

Syd tried to wipe the smile off his face, couldn't quite bring himself to. The reek of Brut and pheromones was unpleasantly thick in the room. He was not a welcome addition to their sweaty, leering inner circle. They wanted their Big b.u.t.t all to themselves.

Jesus. Syd started to laugh. He got a sudden vivid flash of Nora, juxtaposed it against the fumes off this squalid Cro-Mag b.o.n.e.r session. He could practically taste the rancid low-rent locker room tang, cheap and stomach-churning, redolent of the fragrance of heedless j.i.z. and macho posturing.

"JARRETT!" Bobo was standing semi-upright now, leaning hard into his desk, a.s.serting his authority. He looked like a flabby, shaved baboon. His face was red. His jowls jiggled over his too-tight collar. He had the kind of washed-out pale blue eyes that come from thirty years of Johnny Walker on the rocks. "WHAT'S SO f.u.c.kIN' FUNNY?!"

And there was something in the way he did it-some trigger buried in the tone of his voice, the smell of his sweat, the look on his face-that reached out and spoke directly to the new Syd: the one now awakening under his skin. It was like opening a single can of Alpo in a kennel full of starving dogs. It was like giving him Vaughn Restal to tear through all over again. Suddenly, everything about Beau Harrell consumed him with the urge to kill.

And it was all he could do to restrain himself.

Because as he looked in those eyes, all he could think was this man is a joke. He didn't deserve the power he had over other people's lives. He didn't deserve to live at all. In a sane universe, miserable creatures like him would be lucky to make it through the day without being dragged down, torn apart, and eaten alive. They would live in holes and count their blessings, afraid to go out by day or night.

It would be-by any standard-a substantially better world.

Part of him felt obliged to act on that understanding. Or maybe he was overexplaining it to himself. Maybe it was more a matter of imagining how enjoyable it would be to watch Bobo's throat peel open, the esophagus bared, then enjoy the whistling windpipe spritz as his trachea shredded.

Either way, suddenly Bobo's face didn't radiate quite the same level of self-righteous psychopathology. The eyes were still bulging, but their motivation had changed. Fear had replaced the bullying bl.u.s.ter.

There was a noise, very faint, off to his right. Syd turned. Cecil had closed the magazine. It lay very flat and still in his hands. It was clear that he was following all the changes in the room as well. At the next whiff of escalation, Cecil would stand. And then there would be violence. It was as simple as that.

Syd could feel his hackles rise. Cecil was easily six-four, two hundred and twenty pounds. His approach was purely business. He was rumored to have killed. Syd looked at him now, knew it to be true. But he also knew something else.

You're scared. It was a gut knowledge, an animal certainty. He stared calmly into Cecil's eyes, waited for the information to impact. It only took a second. They widened, then narrowed to slits. It was fear, alright, but mixed with an underlying thread of confusion. Like he didn't quite know why. Syd shifted his weight forward, ever so slightly. Cecil shifted back in his chair, maintaining the distance between them.

In that moment, all four of them were stripped to their primal essence: four mammals in a box too small, poised on the brink of primacy war. Even Beany had tuned in to the b.e.s.t.i.a.l frequency. It was a moment of astounding clarity. Syd savored it-the power and strangeness-holding his gaze hard on Cecil's for one more second.

And then, all at once, he let it drop.

And it was like throttling down on an industrial turbine, pulling back the reins on a runaway horse: not so much a loss of power as a conscious suspension of its exercise. It would be back, anytime he wanted. It would be there forever.

Syd looked back at Beau Harrell, who evidently was seeing him now in a whole new light: not so much with respect as with dread. It was, to Syd's mind, a substantial improvement. He smiled.

"I just came in to say I quit," he said at last, surprising everyone, himself included. "And I'd like my paycheck. Now."

His tone was perfectly level, menacingly matter-of-fact. It was not phrased as a request, nor was it received as one. Bobo looked like someone had just dropped an anvil on his head.

"Payday's not until Friday," he said. "You know that."

"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 windshield, 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 relationship 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.