Ingenious, unspeakable, the monarch stared back.
Tom saw it all. He saw time tick backward, death rot to life, whole futures swallowed deep into the belly of history. And he saw people too. Or things like people.
Tom shook out of the terror’s glimpse. The light changed green and he pulled through. In the passenger seat, one of the sisters grinned. She was hideous. White faced, red lipped, and hungry—always hungry, for food or whatever. Thank God the sunglasses hid her eyes. Tom could feel the madness buried there, the sheer disorder.
—Tom, what’s that?
In the headlights, a matty white poodle sniffed at the shoulder. “It’s a dog,” Tom said.
The sister looked puzzled. —What’s a dog?
“You know, an animal, a pet.”
—What’s a pet?
Jesus, Tom thought. These bitches are stupid. He swerved and promptly ran the poodle over. Its little body was dribbled beneath the car, then crunched. The sister shrilled with delight, looking back. The crushed poodle twitched in the road.
—Tom! What’s that?
Up ahead, some big redneck looking guy had his thumb out. A cardboard sign about his neck read: “Bowie, Maryland, or Bust.”
“It’s a hitchhiker,” Tom said.
—What’s a hitchhiker?
Tom snickered. “A hitchhiker is a person who, on dark nights, gets run over by cars. That’s what a hitchhiker is.”
—Oh, replied the sister.
Tom shifted down the Hurst. The hitchhiker’s face beamed. This fucker thinks he’s gonna get a ride, Tom thought. He began to pull over, but at precisely the proper moment, he swerved and mowed the hitchhiker down. Jesus Christ, it was fun running things down! The sister shrieked over the muffled thump. Tom smiled. The hitcher’s head popped under the wheel, then his crumpled body was spat out behind them.
The sister was exhilarated, giddy and wriggling her white fingers. —I liked that! she exclaimed. —Let’s find more dogs and hitchhikers!
Tom wished he could, but he’d almost forgotten there was business at hand. He drove a ways, then pulled over. Sure, running people down was fun but it wasn’t a good idea when you had a college student in your trunk. She could bang her head or something, break some bones. Hell, she could die back there.
Tom got out and opened the trunk. She was all right, just a little jostled. “Sorry about that last bump, Lois,” he apologized. She was kind of cute. Nice rack too, he concluded when he pulled open her blouse. She would at least appreciate it all in the end. Fuck college. This was destiny.
He got back in the car and drove on. He paused to wonder. The sister had settled down, placated by her own nameless thoughts. Tom couldn’t imagine what went on in their malevolent little heads. Who were these bitches? Who were they really?
The girl in the trunk had been on Besser’s list. Lois Hartley, an art history major who lived on the Hill. Tom had seen her around. She was into the art scene—avant garde, formalism, and all that. She hung out with the campus dilettantes. They all pretended to be bored and disaffected, swank in resigned ennui. They wore dark clothes and freaky hairstyles, listened to the Communards, and smoked blue cigarettes while they discoursed over the decline of aesthetics: phony misplaced Dadaists who thought it stylish to have nothing to do.
Plucking her had been easy. They’d found her wandering the Pickman Gallery’s abstract expressionism exhibit, which always gave Tom a hoot. You could slop paint randomly onto a canvas, blindfolded, call it Mother with Child, and that would be abstract expressionism. Lois had been standing in front of a mural entitled The Fighting Temeraire Part II, which looked like someone had gotten drunk after a big Burger King meal and then vomited on the canvas. Lois Hartley barely turned when the sister put the zap on her. That was some trick. All Tom had to do was carry her out and toss her in the trunk. Mission accomplished.
But he wondered what it must be like for them, what they must feel and think during the process. What did destiny feel like?
Tom pulled up at the Town Pump. “Beer stop,” he said.
—What’s beer?
Tom didn’t bother answering. “Howdy, partner,” said the proprietor when Tom came in. “We gotta special on the Rock this week.”
“No thanks,” Tom said. “Get me two cases of Spaten Oktoberfest.”
“Comin’ right up,” the prop replied. He was chunky and old, with a gray crew cut. He wheeled up a handcart with the two cases, then rang the total. “Say, fella, you don’t look so good.”
“I know, but I feel great,” Tom said. Then he picked up the two cases and held them easily under one arm. “Thanks,” he said.
“Hold up a sec, son.” The prop tittered nervously. “You’re forgettin’ somethin’.”
“Oh, yeah? What’s that?”
Another titter. “You owe me $52.96. Tax included, of course.”
“Oh, but I’m not paying,” Tom said.
“Uh, ya mean you’re robbin’ me? Is that what you’re sayin’?”
“Well, I guess you could put it that way,” Tom agreed.
Now the prop’s voice gave way to cracks. “I don’t want no trouble, son, so do us both a favor. Just you set that beer down, turn around, and walk out that door.”
Tom grabbed the man by the throat and lifted him over the counter—the two cases of Spaten still under one arm. The man’s legs pumped like he was trying to run away in midair. “Listen, Pops,” Tom explained. “I don’t expect you to understand this, but I have to get back to the Supremate. I have destiny to tend to. You get the message yet? I’m not paying. I’ve got more important things to do right now than pay for beer.”
The prop made choking noises, trying to nod. His face was turning blue. Tom flung the man sideways into the sale display, a six foot high pyramid of six packs of Rolling Rock. The pyramid toppled, green bottles exploding. So much for that sale, Tom thought.
He felt more like himself with a cold Spaten in his hand and the cassette deck going; he felt more human. Back on the highway, he opened his smallblock up and hit it. The sister giggled wetly. They traveled the Route into darkness, trees and fields sweeping by, on their way to the old dirt utility road which would take them home—
To the labyrinth.
««—»»
All Lydia knew was that she liked him.
She thought of a mouse in a maze. She felt as though something was expected of her, but she didn’t know what.
The answer, she knew, was in her heart. In her heart she wanted to sleep with Wade St. John. She wanted to physically love him.
But…
Why was it you never knew when to trust a man? Too often, the good ones, the ones who seemed honest and sincere, were the ones who wound up writing your name and number on the bathroom wall, with a list of proficiencies. Then they’d brag to their friends about the latest horny bitch they’d knocked the bottom out of. Jesus, what a nightmare—damned if you did and damned if you didn’t, because if you didn’t, you were frigid or a lesbian. Reading men was like reading foreign magazines. All you saw were the pictures.
Lydia felt jittery. She knew what she wanted—of course! She wanted things to be perfect. Didn’t everybody?
She lit the Marlboro she’d been tapping for the last two days.
“I don’t believe it,” Wade exclaimed. “You finally lit it.”