Incubi

Chapter 1

Lilacs drooped in the glass of water: doom forthcoming.

Veronica could see the doom in his eyes even before they spoke. Experience? he’d shouted at her yesterday. What are you talking about! God, didn’t he understand anything? Experience wasn’t even the issue. The issue was life.

She loved him, but that wasn’t the issue either. Jack was just a flatfoot — that’s what he always called himself. He had baggage, all right. “You’re a terrible dancer,” she’d once joked to him. “Baby, I’m terrible at a lot of things,” he’d returned, “and damn proud of it.” Paranoid, she thought. Insecure.

Did she need that?

“Well?” he said.

Veronica looked at the dying lilacs on the bar.

“Speak,” he said suddenly. “Spit it out. What’s going on? I didn’t come here to look at the goddamn wall.”

So much anger. Have I caused that? she wondered.

“I’ve done a lot of thinking,” he said.

Oh, please. Dump me. You do it. Don’t make me do it.

“We were meant to be together,” he asserted. “I believe that. I don’t think we should trash the whole relationship because of a few disagreements.”

Whoa, Jackson, she thought. But all she could say back was, “I need a vacation.”

“What!”

Veronica looked down at the bar rail.

The Undercroft was their favorite hangout; they were regulars. It was a tavern, really, an under-the-street sort of place made of old brick and mortar and old wood. People came here who didn’t want the downtown scene, an interesting mix of art students, journalists, writers, etc. But the ’Croft was just one more fixture in her life that she questioned. She’d met Jack here; she knew everyone. And that made this whole thing so much more unpleasant. Thank God she and Ginny were going on the retreat. Time away. Time heals.

Experience, she thought.

They were both confused; she knew that. At the onset, their problems had bonded them. But now? Jack had had a serious drinking problem after the Longford case. It was before they’d met. Something about a pedophile ring and child pornography. Jack had solved the case, but its aftermath had nearly destroyed him. Veronica sometimes forgot that he had problems too. How many times had her own confusion deluded him? How could he still pursue her when the language of her life clearly stated that now was not the time for her to be in love? It didn’t matter that she loved him. Her life was missing something.

“I’m going on a retreat,” she said. “This creative thing.”

“Creative thing? What’s that?”

“A forum for artists. We get together and look into ourselves.”

Jack closed his eyes as if to nudge something back, rage probably. “Look into yourselves? What are you looking f—”

“Hey, gang,” Craig cut in. “What can I do you for?”

Craig was the weeknight barkeep. He was notorious. He probably accounted for half the ’Croft’s business alone, via women. Ultimate charisma and preposterous good looks. Women had to take a number to go out with Craig.

Veronica and Jack smiled; they always did. Like nothing was wrong. Like, hey, no problem here, Craig. No, no, we’re not having another fight. And if you believe that—

They ordered two Glenfiddich on the rocks…and smiled.

When Craig turned away, Veronica repeated, “I need a vacation.”

“A vacation!” Jack snapped, then lowered his voice. “Fine. We’ll go to Ocean City or something. Wherever you want.”

Veronica’s throat lurched. “I meant a vacation from you.”

There. She’d said it.

Jack’s eyes strayed down the bartop, then to the lilacs. He absently lit a cigarette and spewed smoke.

Experience, the thought kept coming back. “I need some time to myself,” she said. “Maybe that’s why things aren’t working. I need time to experience new things. I need—”

“I know. Wild oats,” he said. “That’s usually the guy’s line.”

“Artists need to experience new things. I really haven’t, and I need to…to be a better artist.”

Jack bitterly tapped an ash in the big Spaten tray. “Don’t bullshit me. This is about sex, isn’t it?”

Be honest! she shouted at herself. “Well, maybe that’s part of it,” she admitted.

“Getting laid by every swinging dick on the street is not going to make you a better artist, Veronica.”

There he went again. Hostility. Sarcasm. Petty jealousy. He didn’t even want to know what she meant.

He went on, “You’re famous now, and—”

“I’m not famous.”

Jack laughed. “TV interviews and news articles mean famous. Hey, Time magazine — that’s famous. ‘The herald of the postmodernist revival.’ ‘A celebration of the New Womanhood in art.’ I know. You’re hot stuff now, and I’m old news.”

Is that what he thinks? Goddamn him. Why should she feel guilty about being a success?

“Sometimes you’re the biggest asshole on earth,” she said.

He didn’t hesitate. “I know that. But let me tell you something, honey. If you’re looking for perfection, good luck. You ain’t gonna find it.”

Now she wanted to kick him as hard as she could. Were all men this immature, this pitiable?

He slumped at the barstool. Craig put their drinks down, knowing it best to walk away.

Jack’s voice sounded ruined and black. “But I still love you.”

I love you too, she thought oddly. But she couldn’t tell him that, not now. She must be honest. She must move on.

He was trying not to break apart in front of her. “I want us to give it one more shot,” he said.

Veronica gulped and said nothing. The pause unreeled like a long rope over a cliff.

“At least tell me this. Have there been other guys since we’ve been together? Just tell me. I’ve got to know.”

“I—” she said. She felt forged in ice. The truth, damn it! Tell him the truth!

“Just one,” she said.

Jack’s face looked about to slide off his skull.

“It wasn’t sexual. It was just, you know—”

“No. No, I don’t know. So tell me.”

She looked into her drink as if its depths possessed cabalistic answers. “It was rapport or something. He was the one who invited me to the retreat. When I met him…sparks flew.”

“Sparks flew!” Jack countered too loudly. “Sparks fly when my muffler falls off my car, but I don’t fall fucking in love with it!”

Craig looked on forlornly from across the bar; so did several customers. All Veronica could do was close her eyes.

“Our relationship is over, isn’t it? Yes or no?”

She looked everywhere but at him. “Yes,” she said.

He was nodding slowly, numbly, eyes shut. “So who’s the new guy? What’s his name?”

Veronica gazed again at the dying lilacs. “Khoronos,” she said. “His name is Khoronos.”

What was it about the man?

Certainly more than his looks. Veronica never let that sway her. Maybe just timing and place. Success could be obstructive a lot of the time. The show, the praise, the sales that Stewie had made. But that wasn’t it either. Something about the man himself. His air, perhaps.

“My name is Khoronos,” he’d announced in a faint, attractive accent she couldn’t place. “I’ve long been a voyeur of subjective psychology in modern art.”

Subjective psychology? He must be another critic. “Voyeur is a strange way of describing artistic enthusiasm.”

“Is it, Ms. Polk? Is it really?”

He stood six feet, dressed in a fine gray suit. Well postured, slender. She could tell he was in good shape by the way the suit fit. He looked late forties, early fifties, and had long grayish blond hair to his shoulders, which added to his dichotomy.

“Besides, Mr…Khoronos, I paint objectively.”

He smiled like his accent. Faintly. “Of course. Just as Faulkner said he never put himself into his books, and da Vinci never used himself as his own model. It’s every artist’s right to lie about the motivations of his or her art.”

Was he trying to insult her? She was lying, but like the man said, it was her right.

There was something about him, though. Just…something.

“Your work is brilliant,” he said.

The show had gone beautifully. She was used to them by now, and now that she’d broken somewhat into the big time, Stewie got her shows as frequently as possible, if not too frequently. A Post critic had shown up, so had someone from Connoisseur. The local papers had shown up too. When would they quit with the Local Girl Makes Good stories? But it was all very flattering, especially to a woman who hated to be flattered.

And now this man. This Khoronos.

“I appreciate your compliment,” she eventually said.

“Oh, it’s not a compliment, it’s an observation. If your work weren’t brilliant, I wouldn’t say it was.”

“What if my work sucked?”

“Then I would summon the necessary gall to tell you. But only if you asked me first, of course.”

Veronica liked him. He looked aristocratic, she thought; that or refined through some vast experience. His face was strikingly handsome — perfect hard angles and lines. His eyes were dark, yet she could not discern their color.

Inexplicably, Veronica felt a tingle.

“Why exactly are you interested in subjective psychology in modern art, Mr. Khoronos?”

“The feminine mystique, I suppose.”

“What?”

“Your paintings are emblematic of the things men can never understand about women,” he answered, half eyeing the canvas she stood before. “It’s your camouflage that rouses my…curiosities. Not necessarily what your art is saying in general, but what you are saying about yourself.”

“That’s fairly rude, Mr. Khoronos.”

“I’m sorry. I was just trying to be objective”—he smiled again—“to an objective painter.”

The canvas he addressed was her least favorite of the new batch. It was called Vertiginous Red. A tiny stick figure stood within a murky red terrain while swirls of darker red — blood red — weaved across the background. The figure looked abandoned, which was exactly what she wished to depict. “All right,” she challenged. “What does this painting say about me?”

His answer came unhesitantly. “It’s an expression of sexual ineptitude, since you asked. Disillusionment in, oh, I’d say a very young mind. This painting is about your very first sexual experience.”

Veronica tried not to react. Is this guy psychic? Vertiginous Red was her attempt to paint how she felt after her first time. She’d been seventeen. The boy had left her hurt, bleeding, and terribly…disillusioned. She’d never felt more unsure of the world.

“Of course, that’s only my interpretation,” Khoronos was prompted to add. “Only you can know the painting’s true meaning.”

“Do you want me to tell you?”

He reacted as if stung. “Heavens, no. Artists must never betray their muse. In fact, I’d be disappointed if you did.”

Veronica felt embosomed by some smeary kind of wonder. She didn’t know what it was, she only knew that it was definitely sexual.

Khoronos glanced at his watch, a Rolex. “The show’s nearly over. I’d like to browse a bit more if you don’t mind.”

“Please do.”

“It was a pleasure meeting you, Ms. Polk.”

She nodded as he stepped away.

“Who was that? The man of your dreams?”

Stewie stood beside her now. He was her manager/sales agent, though he liked to refer to himself as her “pimp.” He made a point of dressing as ridiculously as possible; this, he claimed, “externalized” his “iconoclasia.” Tonight he wore a white jacket over a black “Mapplethorpe at the Corcoran” T-shirt, pink-spotted gray slacks, and leather boots that came up to his knees. His perfectly straight black hair and bangs, plus the boots, made him look like a punk-club Prince Valiant.

“He’s just some guy,” Veronica answered.

“Just some guy? Looks to me like he put some serious spark into those girlieworks of yours. Quit staring at him.”

“His name is Khoronos,” she said. “What is that? Greek? He doesn’t look Greek.”

“No, but I’ll tell you what he does look. Rich. Maybe I can milk him. He likes Vertiginous Red.”

“Oh, Stewie, he does not,” she complained. “It’s my worst paining in years.”

“He likes it. Trust me. I saw it in his eyes.”

Several patrons greeted her and thanked them both. The usual compliments were made, which Veronica responded to dazedly. Most of her consciousness remained fixed on Khoronos, across the room.

“I think he’s a critic,” she said a minute later.

“No way, princess. That guy’s suit, it’s a ’Drini, a megabuck. Art critics buy their suits at Penney’s. And did you see the diamond stickpin on his lapel? He’s money walking.”

“Shhh! He’s coming back.”

“Good. Watch Stewie take him to the cleaner’s.”

Stewie’s commercial intuition always hit home, which was why Veronica tolerated his ridiculous wardrobe and haircut. He’d sold twelve of her paintings tonight, one of them-called Child with Mother, an inversion of the traditional theme — for $10,000. She felt intimidated now, though. She felt second rate, even though she knew she wasn’t. “Don’t ask for more than a thousand,” she said.

Stewie laughed.

God, he’s good-looking, she thought as he approached. The little tingle worried her. Stewie was right. She was hot.

“A most impressive show,” Khoronos said in his strange accent.

“Thank you. Would you care for some champagne?”

“Oh, no. Alcohol offends the perceptions. The muse is a temple, Ms. Polk. It must never be reviled. Remember that.”

Veronica was close to fidgeting where she stood.

“Hello, sir,” Stewie introduced. “I’m Stewart Arlinger, Ms. Polk’s sales representative.”

“Khoronos,” Khoronos said, and declined shaking hands. He viewed Stewie smugly as a hotel owner viewing a bellhop.

“Are you an art critic?” Veronica asked.

Khoronos laughed. “Heaven forbid. I’m nothing like that, nothing like that at all. Nor am I an artist myself.”

“What are you, then?”

“I’ve already told you.” The faint, measured smile returned. “I’m a voyeur. And art is what I feast my vision upon.” Abruptly he turned to Stewie. “I would like to buy Vertiginous Red.”

“I’d be happy to sell it to you, Mr. Khoronos,” Stewie answered. “Vertiginous Red makes quite a profound and important creative statement, wouldn’t you say?”

“I’m aware of the work’s artistic significance.”

“But I’m afraid the asking price is considerable.”

Khoronos frowned. “I didn’t ask you how much it was, I told you I wanted to buy it, Mr. Arlinger.”

Stewie didn’t waver. “Twenty-five thousand dollars.”

Veronica almost fainted. Goddamn you, Stewie! That piece of shit isn’t worth twenty-five CENTS!

Khoronos’ face remained unchanging. “My people will be here at eight a.m. sharp. Please see to the painting’s proper exchange.”

“That’s no problem at all, sir.”

Khoronos was suddenly peeling bills off a roll of cash, which he then stuffed into an envelope and handed to Stewie. He turned to Veronica, smiled that cryptic smile of his, and said, “Good night, Ms. Polk.”

Then he walked out of the gallery.

“Christ on a surfboard!” Stewie frantically counted the money in the envelope. Veronica was too dizzy to think.

“I don’t believe this,” Stewie muttered. He handed Veronica the envelope. It contained $25,000 in hundred-dollar bills.

Thoughts of Khoronos swam in her head all night; she’d scarcely slept. Late next morning, the phone roused her.

“Hi, Veronica. Long time, no hear.”

It was her friend Ginny. “How are things in the novel gig?”

“Not bad. You’ll love this, though. My publisher actually had the balls to tell me to make my books shorter because the price of raw paper went up. That’s like telling you to use less paint.”

“The things we do for art. What’re you going to do?”

“Write shorter books. Fuck art. You should see my mortgage.”

Ginny wrote grim, deceitful novels which critics condemned as “pornographic vignettes of bleakness which trumpet the utter destruction of the institution of marriage in particular and morality in general.” Ginny swore these reviews increased her sales, while the fringe critics hailed her as a genius of the neo-feminist movement. Her themes were all the same: men were good for nothing but sex and could never be trusted. Her last one, Love Labyrinthine, had sold a million copies.

“I met the most wonderful man the other day,” Ginny said.

“I thought you hated men.”

“Except for bed warmers, I do. But this one was different.”

“I’ve heard that before.”

“Would you listen! I was doing a book signing at Glen Burnie Mall last week. At signings, most people fawn over you. But this guy spent the whole time talking about the function of prose mechanics, syntactical projection of imagery, creative dynamics, stuff like that. And it was really funny because there wasn’t a shred of falseness in him. When was the last time you met a man without a shred of false—”

“Never,” Veronica said.

“He was so enthused, you know? About literature, about art. When was the last time you met a man who was enthused about—”

“Never,” Veronica repeated. “There aren’t any.” But then her brow rumpled. This man sounded a bit like—

“What did he look like?” she asked.

“Oh, God, Vern. A panty-melter. Tall, slim, great clothes, and a face like Costner or somebody. He was older, though, and really refined, and he’s got the most beautiful long gray and blond hair. An accent too, German maybe, or Slavic.”

Veronica smirked hard. It sounded just like Khoronos.

“His name is Khoronos,” Ginny dreamily added.

The pause which followed seemed endless.

“Vern? You still there?”

“Uh—” This was too much of a coincidence. “I met him last night during my show at the Sarnath. He paid twenty-five grand for one of my canvases, and you’re right, he is sexy.”

“This is outrageous!” Ginny wailed. “Then he must’ve invited you to the retreat too, right?”

“What retreat?”

Ginny impassed. “It’s a get-together he has every year at his estate, an art-group kind of thing. He called it his ‘indulgence,’ his chance to be an artistic ‘voyeur.’”

Veronica’s frown deepened.

“He said he likes to be in proximity to artists, to talk, party, get to know each other. Something like that.”

Veronica simmered. Her face felt hot.

“So I told him I’d go. There’ll be other people there too. Two guys, a poet and sculptor I’ve never heard of. Oh, yeah, and Amy Vandersteen’s going to be there too.”

“You’re kidding!” Veronica almost yelled. Amy Vandersteen was one of the biggest feminist directors in Hollywood. All at once, Veronica felt jilted. Why hadn’t she been invited?

“Well, I hope you have a good time,” she said.

Ginny could tell by the tone of her voice. “You’re mad, aren’t you? You’re mad I got invited and you didn’t.”

“I’m not mad,” Veronica scoffed. She was mad, all right. It made no sense, she realized, but she was madder than hell.

“I didn’t mean to gloat, Vern. I won’t go if you’re mad.”

“That’s silly. Go. Have fun. Tell Khoronos I said hi.”

“I will, Vern. ’Bye.”

Veronica slammed the phone down. But why should she be so riled? It was stupid. Or—

It wasn’t just the idea of missing out. It was Khoronos. She wanted his attention, his presence, his shared interest. It was a cryptogram that implied she was less worthy than the other people. Not good enough. Fuck! she thought.

Depression assailed her.

She went through the day’s mail, to get her mind away. Bills and junk mostly. A renewal for ARTnews. But the last letter looked like a wedding invitation, gold letters on fine paper. There was no return address. She opened it and read:

Veronica squealed in joy.

When she looked up at the lilacs again, Jack was gone. Ice melted in his empty glass, and he’d left the keys to her apartment on the bartop. How long had she been recounting the events which had led to her invitation? Her eyes were wet; she knew how Jack would take this, but what could she do? She had to be honest.

Craig, the barkeep, brought her another drink. His long look told her he knew exactly what had happened.

“Jack’s a great guy,” he said.

“I know.”

“So you two are finished?”

Experience, she thought, or was she really thinking of Khoronos? “I haven’t experienced enough in life,” was the only answer she could summon.

“What kind of experience? There are all types,” Craig said.

“That’s just it. I don’t really know.”

Craig poured earthquake shooters for some rowdies at the bar, then drifted back, twirling a shaker glass. Craig and Jack were good friends. This was hard.

“You think I’m a bitch,” she suggested. “You think I’m stupid and selfish for dumping Jack.”

“No, Veronica, if you don’t love him anymore, then you have to move on, and let him move on. It’s the only honest way.”

Do I still love him? she asked herself. The question was turmoil. She didn’t know. She didn’t even know if she wanted to know. “Maybe I just need some time away. Maybe things could work out for us later.”

“Do you think you really want them to?”

“I don’t know.”

Veronica tried to think of Jack, but all she could see behind her eyes was Khoronos.