And Vaughn got his first good look at his destroyer.

not a dog not a dog at all oh jesus And Vaughn got religion in that instant, oh yes he did, p.i.s.sing himself and praying to his maker as the horrible maw clamped down harder this time, piercing his jacket and sweater, cracking his chest like a walnut. He felt something go pop and squirt stale rank mist, as twenty years' worth of pent-up tobacco smoke vented from his punctured right lung . . .

oh G.o.d oh G.o.d help me . . . and then he was out of the light, removed from the light forever: the monster lifting him in its jaws, carrying him helplessly farther into the warehouse dark. He smelled himself, borne on the beast's hot breath, got a vivid flash of his future at the pay end of the food chain. The animal started to run and his mind blacked out, snapped back again: awash with agony, denied the luxury of oblivion. There was no escape, save death. And death was still minutes away.

Vaughn spontaneously voided, almost as a courtesy, loading his pants and throwing up the last meal of his life. Chunks and stomach acid wrapped around his face, lay scalding in his eyes as the monster loped across the broken rubble of a back-alley lot.

Then suddenly he was falling, the agonizing pressure on his torso released. There was no mercy in the movement, just a sickening plummet and the brittle crack of his skull fracturing as his face smacked a ragged outcrop of cinder block and slid. His cheek came away like cheese through a grater. His head filled with billions of stars.

The seeing part was over now, and shock was setting in. The noises he made were not human at all. Blindly, he shivered as the thing flipped him over onto his back. He heard panting, felt the tug of something working at his belt, then the front of his jeans.

Dim confusion flickered in his muddled trauma-mind. Buried memories wrenched themselves free, floated to the surface as raw experience. Was he having his diaper changed? It seemed like it, yes. But there was blood in his mouth. His vision whirled and blurred. His mind skittered and split in half, trying to make it make sense: part regressing to infancy, part fast-forwarding to death.

A giant loomed over him. A hairy mountain with hands. Its breath was a swampland of hot damp rot and something else that he recognized. It took him all of one infinite second to place; and, once known, it was too late to forget. It was a smell that yanked him unpleasantly back to the present.

The smell of tequila.

oh G.o.d.

Then his sodden pants were shredding and sliding down his legs, bunching in tatters at his ankles as his bare a.s.s slapped the icy ground. Oh G.o.d, he thought, his mind at once totally, terribly clear. His s.c.r.o.t.u.m retracted into a shriveled pouch, his p.e.n.i.s turning thimble-sized as it shrunk like a turtle's head ducking into its sh.e.l.l. Vaughn went fetal, felt his sanity smack against reality like a bird hitting a plate-gla.s.s window as the beast hunkered over him, its monstrous hands gripping his knees. He fought to keep his legs closed. It spread its arms wide. Vaughn heard two wet pops.

The world went hot and white.

He came to less than three seconds later: his pelvis cracked like a sloppy-wet wishbone, his hips dislocated, his thighs mashed into the ground on either side. The monster hovered at the shattered juncture as its great snout descended, buried itself in his all-too-exposed crotch. His mind bargained madly through the pain, going sorry I'm so sorry I'll never f.u.c.k again oh please jesus . . .

The monster sniffed him a moment, reading his scent. Then the corners of its ghastly mouth curled upward, became something that very much resembled a sly and wicked smile.

And then the jaws snapped and closed, sawing through strips of omentum and coils of colon, coming up from below to latch hold of his spine and shake it like a dog with a rag. He shrieked and wheezed, shrieked again. His bowels tore loose as his spine went snap and the world went red and numb and dead, as the great chomping maw came away with a mouthful, leaving him a huge raw jigsaw-puzzle gap where his groin used to be.

OH G.o.d OH G.o.d OH G.o.d OH.

At that moment, Vaughn merged with the scream, became that wild and dying sound, his soul spinning out and out of his throat like a slowly unwinding thread. His eyes attempted one final focus, saw only eyes and fur and blood-covered snout. It hovered inches above him, br.i.m.m.i.n.g.

And then, horribly, opened wide.

Vaughn Restal's mouth was open, too, caught in the act of his last dying gasp. It left him no defense against the sudden gushing torrent of his own masticated organs, a steaming mouthful of entrails spilling into his face. His mangled p.e.n.i.s slapped his cheek like a gory coda: a pallid slug, skidding down its own slime trail.

Vaughn Restal died, choking on his own s.h.i.t and viscera.

Nora felt certain that Syd would be pleased.

21.

In the hours that followed her departure, Syd had way too much time to drink and think: pacing the too-small confines of his apartment, alternately d.a.m.ning her and cursing himself for being such a fool. He'd actually gotten dressed to go chasing after her, got all the way down to his car before he realized he didn't have a clue where she'd gone, if she was still even in the town. Or the state, for that matter.

And that thought had made him crazy, sent him careening back to hit the bottle and bounce off the walls. And even though three days ago he would have laughed out loud if someone had suggested that he would ever let himself get so totally flummoxed over a complete stranger, he could not deny it: she was in him now, under his skin and in his blood, completely invalidating his previously sacrosanct autonomy.

The phrase rebound relationship sprang to mind. Syd laughed until he cried. This was not about "healing" and "feeling good about yourself" or any other psychobabble bulls.h.i.t; this was something he'd hungered for his whole life long. The simple truth was he needed Nora, needed her desperately in his life.

And now she was gone.

He stumbled into the kitchen, found the bottle of tequila, downed a double shot, looked around. Detritus from their lost weekend lay scattered across every available surface. He began to clean: muttering to himself as he sorted through the wreckage, tried to put his life back in order. Dirty plates and crusted cookware, empty bottles and full ashtrays were everywhere. He found a broken wine bottle in the living room; as he washed the dishes he found the little-chicken-that-wasn't, still congealing in the bowl.

What the h.e.l.l was that all about? He tried to remember and the pain between his eyes returned, a dull-bright throbbing ball of misery deadbang in the center of his skull. The only way he could make it go away was to not think about it, concentrate instead on the mundane.

Syd thought of Karen, for some strange reason. As he cleaned he flipped the stove light on, spotlighting the little figurines perched atop the range hood. They were the figures from their wedding cake: little wind-up G.o.dzilla and King Kong toys, custom-altered into a tiny monstrous bride and groom. King Kong sported a little top hat above his nasty simian scowl; G.o.dzilla had a veil, and clutched a tiny bouquet to her scaly reptilian breast. When you wound them up, they whined and wobbled mechanically forth, and sparks shot out of their mouths.

Syd looked at them, began to giggle.

Just like real life, he thought.

And that started him to laughing, a manic Renfield cackle that continued as he wandered from room to room to room, for the first time realizing that what he had was not a home but a shrine, an altar to a dead past upon which to sacrifice his hope for the future.

Whatever else Nora had done, she had also-in the s.p.a.ce of a few short days-blown holes in every weak-kneed rationalization he had for continuing to p.i.s.s his life away: letting it slip past him one second, one month, one decade at a time, until one day there would be nothing left but bitter regrets and recriminations; miserably staring back down the wrecking-ball trail of all his missed and blown opportunities.

For the first time in years, he'd actually felt like it was good to be alive. Like it was worth any price to stay alive, so long as it was lived on these terms and no others. By comparison, nothing else mattered: not his job, not his friends, not the place where he grew up or the existence that had evaporated out from under him. It was all completely worthless without her.

He wandered into the bedroom then, collapsed into a fugue-state of physical and mental exhaustion. As he drifted off the events of the last several days blurred and ran in his mind until he didn't know what was real and what was a dream anymore, or exactly where the line was drawn.

He only knew that since he'd met Nora the life he'd been living made no sense at all.

If it ever had.

Syd awoke to strange sounds from the kitchen. But this time, he didn't wake up confused. From the moment his eyes opened, there was only one thought in his head: the sum total of all his obsessional focus. His only prayer, answered.

She's here. She actually came back.

There was no way to overstate the magnitude of his relief. It was like getting the Governor's phone call, two seconds before they threw the lever and the trapdoor dropped. To downplay his relief would be to minimize his panic, and his panic had been nothing short of epochal.

But at the same time, there was no peace in the revelation, no automatic reprieve from the killing tension. Her return did not imply a full pardon. It might merely be a stay of execution: a way of dragging out the torture for another day or two.

I gotta go out there, he told himself. And then we've got to have a little talk.

He had blacked out on the bed with all his clothes on.

His body, upon waking, was exactly where he'd left it. He pulled his face from the pillow, looked up at the clock. It said five thirty-six. He heard the clank of plate on plate, unconsciously braced himself for the deja vu sound of destruction. When it didn't come, the psychic noose eased off a notch: not enough to free him or anything, just enough to keep him from choking on the stress.

His footing was a little unsteady as he hoisted himself up. He braced himself on the bedside table, instantly flinched as he remembered the cut on his hand. He looked at his palm.

The gash was gone.

Had he really cut himself? He couldn't clearly recall. All this drinking had screwed with his memory as well as his equilibrium. Syd had some very uneasy a.s.sociations with alcoholism, and the psychology of blackouts frankly terrified him, with their tacit self-exonerating clause of oh, I must have been drunk, I didn't know what I was doing. Lurking way in the back of his head was the understanding that they'd have to discuss this aspect of their relationship someday. But not yet. Certainly not now. There was plenty of time to work those kinds of problems out later.

The main thing was, Nora was back; and there wasn't a thing in the world that couldn't be worked out from there.

Syd opened the bedroom door and the smell hit him: rich and heady, overpoweringly compelling. It was the smell of meat, receiving the kiss of flame. She was cooking again.

He vaguely remembered something about yesterday morning-was it yesterday?-and feeling ill from the odor of food cooking. He felt no such illness now. He tried to lock on the memory, felt it skitter from his grasp, usurped by the staggering aroma.

Then he rounded the corner, and Nora was there: barefoot and freshly showered, wearing nothing but one of his shirts. Her magnificent hair was damp, swept back. A skillet was sizzling on the front burner of the stove.

She looked up, saw him. The s.p.a.ce between them began to hum, as if someone somewhere had thrown a switch, charging the air with nervous energy.

Then the next thing he knew, she was crossing the kitchen: wrapping her arms around him, burying her face in his neck. Her embrace was more than strong; it was ferocious in its intensity. Syd felt a rush run through him. Every place where their bodies connected pulsed with energy. She kissed his neck, and his knees went weak.

"I am so sorry," she whispered at last.

"Me, too," he said. He felt his throat tighten, forced his words through the gap. "I was afraid I'd never see you again."

"I couldn't stay away," she said, then added almost in a whisper, "especially not today."

It took a second for that to sink in; then suddenly it dawned on him that he'd utterly forgotten: in all the excitement and insanity of the last few days, it had totally slipped his mind. "Oh my G.o.d, you're right." He shook his head and laughed out loud. "Thirty-five. I can't f.u.c.kin' believe it."

"Believe it, Grampa." She grinned and licked his nose. "Happy birthday."

He laughed again, and then they kissed: a soul-searching plunge into each other's depths. When they came up for air he said to her, "I can't believe you actually remembered."

"Hard to forget the birthday of someone you love so much," she replied.

Syd did a double take. "Excuse me?"

"I said, I love you."

Syd heard the words and felt something give inside him, like a floodwall collapsing. The words were like a force of nature that swept away every stick and shred of resistance. And it felt so good to hear those words again, to know down to his bones that they were true, that this was really happening. His mind sped back to the day he was married: to the feeling of standing in a chapel as a robed and rambling priest prayed to some distant, cloud-bound deity.

And all those words were fine and dandy-they'd a.s.suaged the flock in their search for meaning-but Syd himself in that moment had taken an alternate route: reaching inside, to make a very personal covenant. This is the one I've chosen. This is the one I want.

Then he flashed forward, back to the wild and wonderful creature in his arms. And suddenly it was all very clear.

"I love you, too," he said, losing himself in her eyes.

And because he was inside those eyes-because they were virtually touching souls-he knew that she knew the utter depths of his conviction. Knew that he would do anything for her: drop everything he'd ever owned, dump everyone he'd ever known, chase down the shadows in the darkest corners of the world. And even kill: yes, without a doubt. He would even kill for her.

Nora saw it very clearly, in that moment. Slowly, she nodded her head. Her eyes had never been more intense.

"You must be starved," she said. He nodded. Nora gestured toward the kitchen table. A place setting was lovingly laid out. "Have a seat," she said, and he gladly complied.

Then she went to the stove, returned with a heaped and steaming plate. Syd looked in amazement at a huge curving slab of meat, two fried eggs sidling up to it like a pair of bulging eyes.

"Jesus," he softly exclaimed. "Is that steak?"

"It's a special cut," Nora explained.

"Mmmmm." Inhaling deeply. "Where did you find this in the middle of the night?"

Nora smiled. "Oh, I had to hunt around a bit. But I finally found a place that had what I was looking for." She took a seat across from him, her eyes bright and attentive. "Dig in."

Syd smiled, picking up his knife and fork. The meat was red and thick and rich, barely singed by the griddle. Drops of juice squeezed from the striations as he sliced it, dripped from a lone protrusive vein. Nora watched attentively as he brought a forkful to his mouth, popped it in, began to chew. His eyes went wide. His smile expanded.

"Well?" she asked, grinning. "Do you like it?"

"It's . . . great. Jesus!" There was reverence in his tone. Nora beamed. Syd chewed and swallowed. "I've never tasted anything like it." He took another bite, chewed thoughtfully. "How'd you make it?"

"Secret recipe," she teased, and it was clear that her delight was enormous. She watched as Syd chowed down, cutting another hunk off the slab and scooping up a forkful of eggs.

"I can't believe how hungry I am," he said, champing happily. "Aren't you gonna have any?"

"I already ate."

Syd nodded and dug in. As he ate, he felt a strength and a clarity return to him. There was something in the b.l.o.o.d.y taste and b.u.t.tery texture-in the experience of the meat itself, dancing around his teeth and tongue-that grounded and centered him in his body. It was the most deeply satisfying meal he'd ever had.

Syd took one last look around his kitchenful of ancient relics; and in that moment, it was over. The withered umbilical cord that had held him to this dying place was severed; the cut was surgical and clean.

"Darlin'?" he said. There was food in his mouth. He talked around it. "I've been thinking about everything you said."

"Uh-huh."

"And I decided you're totally right. There's nothing to hold me here." He sawed off another hunk and shoveled it in, then waved his fork at the room. "A couple of days to get it together, and"-he stopped in mid-thought, picked a piece of gristle from between his teeth-"I could probably be ready by the end of the week."

Nora grimaced slightly. "Why so long?" she said. "I don't understand."

"Well," Syd countered, "basically, I'm ready when you are. . . ."

"And what if I'm ready today?"

It was Syd's turn to grimace. "I still need a couple days," he said. "Till Friday, at least. . . ."

"No," she said.

"Nora . . ."

"I'm not staying around here that long."

Getting frustrated now. "Baby, I've got a lot of s.h.i.t to take care of. There's loose ends to tie up, people to say good-bye to, I've got to pick up my paycheck from work . . . " He tore off a hunk of bread, began sopping up the blood and yolk that intermingled on his plate. "Plus I wanna see if I can unload my stereo. . . ."

Nora stood then, began pacing the cramped confines of the kitchen. "Waitaminute, waitaminute," she said, suddenly annoyed. "Are you saying we've got to hang around here for the rest of the week so you can sell a G.o.dd.a.m.ned stereo?"

Syd looked at her, surprised. "Well, s.h.i.t, between that and my CD collection I can probably get close to a grand. . . ."

"Who cares?"