Incubi

Chapter 28

“Has Jack been in?” Faye asked, briefcase in tow. “He’s not at his office, and he’s not home.”

Craig was crafting a perfect shamrock shape into the head of a pint of Guinness. “He was in earlier, but he left. Didn’t say where he was going.”

It was still early, not much of a crowd. Faye sat down at the end of the bar and sighed.

“Jack’s not on the case anymore,” Craig said.

“What?”

“They suspended him today.”

Faye felt incredulous, shocked. “Sus—why?”

Craig pointed to the TV. “Just watch. Here it comes again.”

It was the six o’clock news. “The Triangle case,” the newscaster kept saying. “Three ritual murders in a week.” The case had blown, and it had blown bad. The news made it look like it was the police department’s fault the murders had been committed, and now some man named Gentzel was passing the buck to Jack. “Captain Cordesman has been suspended from active duty,” the man said as they flashed a picture of Jack, “pending successful completion of the county alcohol program. Unfortunately he was assigned the case before his superiors knew he had a problem.”

“Pretty low-rent, huh?” Craig suggested.

“It’s awful. He was doing the best he could.”

“Those guys don’t care. They needed a fall guy for when the news found out, and Jack was right there.”

Faye could imagine how bad Jack felt. He’s probably getting plastered right now. But what could she do? She didn’t even know where he was. “Was he drinking when you saw him?”

“Nope. Said he was going to quit. His whole career’s on the line now. This time I think he’ll do it.”

Faye hoped so. And where did this leave her? Was she still on the case? Who was she to give her research to?

“Have a drink.”

“No, really, I—” She thought about it, “Sure,” she decided. “One of those big bottles I had last time.” After this, in addition to all the horrible stuff she’d read today, she figured she was entitled to a good drunk.

Next, a couple strolled in. Before Craig could take their order, they were sitting at a corner table, kissing. “You kids drinking tonight, or just here to eat face?” Craig inquired. The couple laughed, snuggling. Faye tried to remember the last time she’d been kissed. A year, she thought: A year.

“Tell me about this girl Jack used to see,” she asked when Craig returned from the floor. “Veronica.”

“Haven’t you ever heard of male confidentiality?”

“No. Just tell me about the girl.”

“Ask him.”

“He won’t talk about it.”

“It’s not my place to talk about his business.”

Faye laughed snidely. “Bartenders talk about everybody’s business, and don’t give me that male confidentiality crap.”

“Since you put it that way… He knew her for a while before they got involved. The relationship lasted about six months.”

“What broke them up?”

“Usually people break up because they find out they’re not compatible, or don’t have the same ideas about things. But that’s not how it was with them. I think it was confusion.”

“Confusion?”

“Sure, Veronica’s an artist, and artists are a little screwy sometimes. She’d never been in a real relationship before, and I guess she wasn’t sure how to deal with it. What she needed was time to adjust, but she thought it was something else, like maybe she wasn’t meant to be in a normal relationship at all. She was confused. She didn’t understand the situation, so she ended it. Then she went off on some kind of artists’ retreat. It’s a shame because I think things would’ve worked out for them.”

Faye sipped her Maibock. Confusion. Who isn’t confused?

“I knew her,” Craig went on, drawing six mugs of Oxford Class. “I was working the night they broke up. She had a lot of nutty ideas about ‘experience.’ She thought she wasn’t experiencing enough in life, and that’s why she felt out of place around other people. She thinks experience is what’ll cure her confusion, but if she’s not careful, she’s going to end up more confused.”

Faye felt equally confused. She hadn’t wanted experience; she’d wanted love but what she’d gotten instead was a facsimile. It wasn’t experience that had crushed her, it was finding out the hard way that a lot of awful things were easily disguised as truth.

The Maibock had her buzzing already. Damn it. Jack, she thought fuzzily. Where the hell are you?

Where the hell he was, exactly, and in no realm of legality whatsoever, was in the third-story apartment of one Virginia Thiel, also known as Ginny. The Dubbins nine-pin security lock had taken him ten minutes to tease open; he thought sure he’d be seen. But the hall had remained empty, by chance or by fate.

Wouldn’t that be great if she hadn’t gone, after all? he thought in the living room. He could picture the look on her face walking out of the kitchen — or better yet, the shower — only to discover a ragtag, unshaven Jack Cordesman standing stupidly with a set of lockpicks in his hand. It was a spacious, expensive pad, lots of good furniture, quality carpets and drapes, and one of those giant TVs where you could watch several shows at once. Must be nice, he humphed. Rich bitch. Veronica told him that Ginny made several hundred grand a year writing those things she wrote. Speculative feminism, the critics called her books. Tripe, Jack called them. He and Ginny had never really liked each other. Sometimes the three of them would go to the ’Croft, and Ginny and Jack would wind up arguing, which always amused Veronica. “You’re an unkempt, monarchical pig,” Ginny had once told him. “Monarchical? Does that word even exist?” he’d countered. “It’s probably like the stuff you write about. Pure horseshit.” “I’d kick you in the head if I wasn’t afraid of breaking my foot,” she’d come back. “Pound sand up your ass with a mallet, baby. How’s that?” “Immature, uncouth, and hostile, which is about all I’d ever expect from a cop.”

They were interesting arguments, at any rate. Jack found Ginny’s invitation in a basket of letters by the phone. It was close to identical to Veronica’s. Then be began his search. No purloined missives this time. Again, he didn’t really know what he was looking for. He snooped around the kitchen counter, any place where she might’ve written something down when she called to confirm. Ho! Contraband! he thought. In a drawer under some address books he found a little bag of marijuana. Shame on you, Ginny. He could not resist. He emptied the bag into the drain and refilled it with an equal portion of McCormick’s oregano from the spice rack. See how high you get on that, honey.

Next, the bedroom. This was irredeemable; he was enjoying it. Plowing through Ginny’s privacy gave him a perverse thrill. No, this was definitely not ethical, but what was the harm? It wasn’t like he was going to steal anything, or pull a whiz on the gorgeous beige carpet. Nevertheless, he imagined himself doing the most juvenile things: jumping up and down on the bed, moving the furniture around, writing “Kilroy was here” on the bathroom mirror. A few good squirts of whipped cream under the silk bedsheets would be nice. Or, hey, how about salt in the sugar bowl?

Time to grow up, he concluded. The underwear drawer revealed a surprising predilection toward panties of the crotchless variety. Holy-moly! he thought when he opened the next drawer. Ginny’s House of 1000 Delights. The drawer contained vibrators, electric ben-wa balls, numerous prods, probes, and ticklers and a few things that Jack, even in his wildest imagination, could not put a name to. They looked like alien appendages. One looked like the snout of a star-nosed mole. Another seemed to have tentacles. Jesus Christ, did women actually put these things into themselves? How could they keep a straight face? Last was a knurled black dildo over a foot long.

Jack had to strain not to laugh. You learn something new every day, he told himself. But next he opened the nightstand drawer, and groaned deep. A small night flask lay within; apparently Ginny wasn’t averse to a nip in the wee hours. Probably Scotch, Jack thought. Probably Fiddich. Had fate placed the flask there, to test him? Had God? The flask’s silver finish glimmered like a high sun. Jack watched his hand reach for it.

“No,” he said. “I…will not.”

He didn’t touch it.

Beside the flask lay a small notepad, the top sheet of which was askew with Ginny’s cramped handwriting. At the head of the page she’d written the name Khoronos.

Jack picked up the pad and read.

An address, followed by what seemed to be directions to someplace in the northern end of the county.

“All gone.”

It was a familiar lament, and always a brightly horrific one. Being up felt great except when she realized that coming down meant staying down. The three grams she’d brought were gone. It hadn’t even lasted three days.

Amy Vandersteen lay back and let the hot pipe fall out of her hand, just as her dreams had, and her life. Yeah, all gone, she thought. Everything…gone.

How long would her name last? A year? A couple of years? Her last movie had been a smash, and she had future deals for millions. So far, no one knew it was all a lie.

She couldn’t work anymore, she couldn’t focus. The things that had once meant the most to her — her craft, her art—had taken a backseat to her need. She hadn’t even lasted a week on her latest picture; she’d broken down on the set. Cocaine-related psychomimetic shock, the doctors had said. The screenwriter and assistant director had been the ones who finished the film, not Amy. Amy had been at a rehab clinic in Houston.

She tried to quit many times, but time was circumstance, and circumstance always reclaimed her in the end. Her secret drug dependency loomed behind every door, around every corner — her future’s shadow — waiting for her with a smile. She pretended she could handle it. But how much longer could she wear this mask when the mask was melting every day?

That’s why she’d come here, to Khoronos’ estate, to immerse herself in the convictions of her past and save her from the future. She thought sure that the sheer artistic power of Erim’s presence would embolden her, would give her the strength to stand up again and create.

Another dead end. Each time she fired up, she watched more of herself die. There was always a trade-off; the more she fed herself with the euphoric, hot vapors, the more completely her spirit starved.

Nobody likes me, she realized. The concession seemed so pitiful it was almost funny. But how could anyone like her? She wore her pretending like armor: no one must get to the real her. She wanted so much for Ginny and Veronica to like her; their closeness gave her strength — the cumulative power of womanhood — but even that was not strong enough to save her. Nothing was. Amy knew that now.

Nothing, she lamented.

Next, she was up. She was walking out of the house, into the backyard. She felt summoned by something, the need, perhaps, to be free of the mansion’s walls, which reminded her of the walls she’d built around her life. The warm night’s open space took the edge off some of her comedown. Suddenly she felt like running, breaking free into the beautiful gulf of night. I’ll run forever, she thought. I’ll never stop. I’ll run to the end of the world.

The fantasy seemed nearly absolving.

“Over here.”

Amy glanced to the back of the yard. A figure in white stood by the fence beyond the pool. It seemed to hover in place, an illusion caused by the soft moonlight floating on the water.

“Run!” the figure bid. “Follow me!”

The figure disappeared through the open gate into the woods. It was just a game, Amy realized. She didn’t care. She ran after.

The dark path twisted through dense, tall trees. She felt blissful somehow, chasing a stranger through the woods. The moon lit the narrow path with dapples of light. As her feet propelled her forward, she thought of a steadicam scene in one of her movies. The determined protagonist in wistful pursuit of the truth. What a wonderful symbol! Chasing the pure white of revelation through darkness. To what would the mad chase lead?

The white figure blurred just ahead, vanishing around each bend. Who was he? Where was he taking her? These questions occurred to her but to no real significance. She was the protagonist, chasing truth. That’s all that mattered.

Around the next bend, the figure was gone.

Where could he be hiding? Behind the trees? Amy slowed to a cautious walk, peering ahead. Another twist in the story. Suddenly the truth evades the steadfast protagonist, leaving her to wander amid the darkness of her own uncertainly. She’d been led deliberately to the point of being lost; now she must find her own way out. The symbol of every woman’s plight: alone, in darkness.

She walked ahead one step at a time, watching, listening, her hands splayed as if feeling for trip wires. An owl hooted, and she nearly shrieked. Unseen animals rustled in the woods, sensing her presence. The protagonist as trespasser, delving into unknown terrains.

When she rounded the next bend, the kiosk appeared.

It looked like a latticework of crystal in the moonlight. Khoronos had shown it to her the morning she’d arrived. Was that who beckoned her now? Khoronos? The figure stood in wait of her, directly in the kiosk’s center.

The end of the chase, Amy pondered. The protagonist finds what she seeks at the end of her own darkness.

Herself.

She saw herself standing in the kiosk, beautiful and naked in the moonlight. Radiant. Pure. Her smile was bright, like the sun. it was the Amy Vandersteen of the past, not the present. The real woman, not the slave. The tranquility before the storm. The artist uncorrupted.

The words tolled like distant bells. Before you can love others, you must learn to love yourself.

This impossibility did not distract her. She shed her clothes as she crossed the kiosk’s wooden floor, until she was standing before herself.

“Come to me,” her past said to her present. The figure’s arms opened to her. “We must free ourselves.”

Was this a flashback? A hallucinotic jag triggered by years of drug abuse? She remained rooted in the moment’s image, and its meaning. Nothing could be so important. Nothing in the world.

The final scene. Close-up of protag’s face, eyes wide half in fear, half in wonder. She feels the summons, the space between them drawing in. This is the ultimate moment of self-awareness, where the woman of flesh becomes wed to the woman of spirit. At last the protagonist finds what she’s been looking for. Her perfect self. Her womanhood undefiled.

“Kiss me,” the image said.

Amy and Amy embraced. She felt a surge like electricity as her flesh made contact with her flesh. Her cheek brushed her cheek. Her hands caressed her buttocks, and her breasts pressed against her breasts.

“Save me,” she whispered into her own ear.

At last the protagonist makes love to herself.

Their embrace tightened. Amy closed her eyes—

pater terrae

and kissed—

per me

her own—

terram ambula

lips.

“Aorista,” the image croaked.

Amy’s eyes shot open. She gagged as the foot-long tongue slid down her throat, and the penis, even longer, opened the moist rim of her sex and burrowed up straight into her womb. Her nerves pulsed like gorging veins, every muscle in her body flexing against the instantaneous avalanche of her own orgasms, and next she was lowered quickly to the kiosk’s moon-drenched floor, and her legs were pushed back as the penetration deepened in and out of her flesh, each thrust giving her a new climax which hammered the breath out of her chest with sensations of pleasure she could never even have conceived, and when her suitor’s own orgasm burst, endless cold gouts pumping into her loins, all she could see was the face of this unholy deception, this ruse of night—

Not her own face at all.

It was a devil’s face.