“A little. The aorists paid homage to their apostate demons by sacrifice and incarnation — in other words, substituting themselves through surrogates. This gave the demon a momentary opportunity to be flesh on earth. Baalzephon’s sects went further, though. They practiced sacrificial incarnation rites year round as a general homage. But once a year they executed a more specific rite that involved selective sacrifices. They believed that the triangle was a doorway, or something like an interplanar dumbwaiter. They’d do three incarnation sacrifices first, girls who would please Baalzephon specifically — passionate, attractive, and creative girls — then they’d sacrifice a fourth girl right in the triangle. This possibly triggered a nonsurrogotic incarnation—”
“Baalzephon himself makes an appearance, you mean.”
“Yes, to bless his worshipers in the flesh and to have intercourse outside the territory he’d been condemned to for eternity. This was the ultimate slight to God, a demonological loophole. The end of the rite was called the ‘transposition,’ where the fourth victim transposes into Baalzephon’s space.”
“You mean…”
“The fourth victim physically enters Hell through the impresa. I haven’t found out exactly why, but one of the texts mentioned that Baalzephon likes to take a human wife on a yearly basis.”
Jack winced. “This is some crazy shit, Faye.”
“Sure it is. And the craziest part is that your killers are doing the same things that Baalzephon’s sects did six hundred years ago. It’s almost to a tee.”
Jack brewed on it awhile. Then, perhaps unconsciously, he mumbled, “Devils.”
“What?”
“We had a second witness, a dock bum. He said the killers leaving Susan Lynn’s condo were devils. Not men. Devils.”
“I wouldn’t put much stock in a bum’s observations.”
“I’m not. It’s just that this case gets freakier and freakier.”
He was brooding again, rubbing his face in what he felt was his failure. But that wasn’t all; Faye knew that. She’d known it the instant she stepped into the kitchen.
“But there’s something else bothering you, isn’t there?” she asked. “It’s not just the murders, and your being dropped from the investigation. There’s something else.”
Jack looked up at her.
“Tell me,” she said.
He told her everything then, and the details he’d never mentioned. He told her how this Stewie person had come to him with his worries, how Veronica had seemingly disappeared. He told her about this “retreat” she’d gone on at some rich dilettante’s estate, and how he’d broken into Veronica’s apartment, and a friend’s, to try to find out exactly where they were. He told her about the directions he’d found.
“And you’re going to go there,” Faye said rather than asked.
“I don’t know. It’s not my business, really. I should just give the directions to Stewie, let him go.”
“You should go,” Faye said. It was very abrupt. But what would possess her to say that, to encourage this man, who she possibly loved, to seek out a woman who had rejected him? The past always hurt — this Faye knew from experience. Perhaps she felt complicit with him.
The following silence made her uncomfortable. An inkling told her to leave. Just get up, say goodbye and good luck, and leave. But she couldn’t. Veronica had left him. Faye would not, even if her presence meant nothing.
All she wanted was to do something for him.
What, though?
“What do you want out of life, Jack?” she asked.
“I don’t know. A drink would be a good start.”
“I’m serious.”
Here came back the doleful smile, mirth in the face of defeat. “I have no idea. What about you?”
Faye couldn’t tell him. She said good night and went to bed.
The brittle yellow streetlight from Main Street seeped into her room. She lay awake on her bed. What did she think she was going to do? The ceiling extended as a grainy, infinite terrain, just as her mind felt.
She heard Jack go up the stairs. She waited awhile, a half hour, perhaps, to give him time. Next, she herself glided barefoot up the steps, her nightgown like mist about her body. She quietly opened his door and stepped in. She skimmed off her nightgown and felt licked by the tinted dark.
“Jack?” she whispered. She leaned over, shook him gently. He snapped awake, frightened for a moment, then gazed up.
“Faye?”
“Shh,” she said. “Don’t say anything.” She pulled the covers off. She sat on his belly and opened her hands on his chest.
Oh, God. What now? What would he think of this? Had she come in here just to fuck him? That might only make him feel worse.
Give him something, anything. Something he can’t have anymore.
Even in the dark his eyes shone plainly with uncertainty.
She ran her hands up his chest. “You can pretend,” she said.
“What do you m—”
“You can pretend that I’m her.”
His eyes stared up.
“You can pretend that I’m Veronica.”
“No—”
“Shh.” She took his hands and placed them on her breasts. “Pretend that I’m Veronica. Call me her name.”
“No. That would hurt you.”
She leaned down and kissed him. “I’m Veronica.” She kissed him again and he kissed back. She reached behind and felt him.
Was this so false? What else could she do for him? Sure, it was a fantasy that would be dust in the morning, but in the gift, if only for a night or only a moment, she could give him back a sliver of the past he’d lost. She pondered the irony. It was surrogatism in a sense, wasn’t it? It was transposition. She was transposing herself with someone else, for him.
She kissed him more fervently now, more wetly. His penis felt hot, hard. “I’m Veronica,” she whispered again. “Make love to me, Jack. Make love to me like you used to.”
She slid back on his belly and guided him in. The sensation nearly shocked her, to suddenly be occupied by his flesh. Should she pretend too? Should she pretend that Jack was her own dead love? The idea never crossed her mind. To Faye, he was what he was in reality. He was Jack.
“I’m Veronica, and I still love you.”
He let the fantasy take him then. He surrendered. “I love you too,” he whispered. He rolled her over in the bed, drawing his thrusts slowly in and out. She wrapped her legs around him at once, and her arms. She liked his weight on her, and the steady movement cocooned within her limbs. She was shivering now, as the slow, precise thrusts grew more forceful.
Her impending orgasm seemed to hover, watching her. He moaned in her ear when she squeezed him with her sex. “I still love you, Jack,” she whispered, and squeezed again as hard as she could, and then the delicious pressure in her loins broke and she came, and one more squeeze and he came too, spurting the gentle heat into her sex, whispering things, undecipherable endearments, and when he was done, when he had expended the last of himself into her, he whispered, “Veronica,” and kissed her.
She had given him her gift. She wished she could give him something more real, but what else was there? This was all. She would give it to him again and again, for as long as he wanted. She would be someone else for him all night, and—
“Veronica,” he moaned again.
— and she would not allow herself to cry.
Chapter 30
Creation often came to her as a trance, an autohypnotic removal of conscious things from the subconscious. Veronica thought of it as a veil, opened by the pure, raw energy of her muse. Frequently she remembered nothing of a day’s work…