He sloshed the shot gla.s.s as she took it, spilling a dollop of sweet liquor on his fingers. Nora took his hand in hers, brought it to her lips. He watched her tongue emerge, soft and pink and darting, to lick them clean.

When Syd could see straight again, he looked at her. Nora was smiling.

By the time the band took the stage at a quarter past ten, it had started to get truly disgusting, so they moved from the bar to a booth near the back. It was dark and warm, semiprivate and cozy; and from there, things heated up with mind-bending speed.

The first kiss, for example. From the moment they sat her lips were upon his, bluntly bypa.s.sing all pretense of seduction, the better to get to the heart of the act itself. There was no mickeymouse subterfuge, no jockeying for position or storming of the psychos.e.xual ramparts; just a straightforward escalation of intensity that left Syd simultaneously unnerved and elated.

Nora was the kind of kisser for whom the act commanded total concentration, and absolute devotion. He could feel her soul moving through the delicate interplay of lips, the perpetual subtle shift and glide of her head: nuzzling sideways and leaning in to deliver one liquid punch line after another; then drawing back, to taunt and tease, to let her teeth and the soft pointed tip of her tongue provoke him to pa.s.sionate attack.

She was aggressive, but she knew when to relent, in fact had an exquisite sense of give-and-take. She liked to have her mouth invaded. She liked to let her mouth invade. Her kisses consisted of peaks and valleys and long slip-sliding continuums, wherein nothing existed but his mouth and hers and the hot swirling dance in which they were entangled.

And then she would start to move her hands, ever-so-slowly; and it was as if time had shifted gears and he could glimpse all the subtle mechanisms at play. Suddenly, time was measured in the long, slow seconds it took for her graceful fingertips to glide through his hair, luxuriantly trace the outer whorls of his ear, then slide back to settle on the nape of his neck, where they would inscribe intricate little patterns at the base of his skull.

It was at that moment that the world went spinning away, only to return a microsecond later, strangely amplified. It was as if all of his senses had expanded a bit beyond their normal boundaries, rendering his impressions of the woman before him and the room around him in oversaturated clarity.

And then he would remember that he had hands, too, and the universe would instantly expand to contain the multiple dimensions of the game: one hand cupping the back of her head, basking in the richness of her hair; the other exploring the strong muscles of her back, the delicate ridge of her spine, the long graceful slope to her a.s.s.

And all the while, their mouths would be moving: breathlessly working in tandem, wordlessly communicating their intention. And when her other hand came up to stroke his chest, squeeze one nipple erect inside his shirt, he would run his hand along the firm high crest of her hip, and her fervent mouth would grind into him hard as her body pressed flush against him.

And then he would submerge again, coaxing a moan from deep inside her, fingers circling and probing the secret s.p.a.ce inside her jacket in the seconds before she peeled out of it. Occasionally they would break for a moment, come up for air and each other's eyes.

They had just done both when the ba.s.s drum thudded, and the voice boomed out from the PA's speakers: "LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, PLEASE WELCOME THE FINEST BLUES SINGER THIS SIDE OF THE MISSISSIPPI! LET'S HEAR IT FOR QUEEN BEE AND THE BLUE HORNET BAND!!!".

The applause that followed was thunderous. Queen Bee was a house favorite, and the place was packed. But Syd was more than a little surprised to see Nora pull back and break the spell. She let out a war whoop, joining in the general clamor. She beamed at him.

"Wow," he began. He stared at her, slowly regaining his senses. "You know . . .?"

And then his voice was lost as the band kicked in, a full-tilt boogie that walloped against the walls. There were dozens of folks who had come for one reason. They took over the dance floor and made it their own. The tune was a smokin' instrumental: no Queen Bee as yet, just the Hornet Band a-buzzin'. Guitar Mark's gray fedora was pulled down over his eyes as he dug down deep into the evening's first solo. He had a face like Satch from the Bowery Boys, but d.a.m.n that boy could wail.

"YOU KNOW THIS BAND?" Syd hollered out. He had no other choice.

She nodded with vigor. "I LOVE QUEEN BEE!"

He grinned, shook his head. "I KNEW THERE WAS A REASON I LIKED YOU!"

She laughed and snuggled in close, brought her lips to his ear. "We need another drink," she said, just barely loud enough to be heard. "And then you need to dance with me."

He drew back for a second, made a broad comic grimace, then shook his head sadly and mouthed the words I don't dance.

She drew him back. "You do now," she whispered.

At that moment, her hand landed on his thigh and squeezed, thumb sliding up the inseam. Syd sucked in breath, shut his eyes, let them open. It was definitely time for a drink. He found his gaze casting around for the waitress. Jane was at the next table; he brought a hand up and waved. When she looked at him, he saw her eyes were dark with disapproval. Then she nodded, finished up her business, collected her tip and headed toward them. Nora turned just as Jane drew near.

Abruptly, Nora rose.

Syd looked up, startled. Her hand left his crotch, took hold of his as she stood. He could feel the tension coursing through her. She pulled, and he rose as well, confused. He looked at Jane.

Jane had stopped dead in her tracks.

And though Syd couldn't see Nora's face, Jane visibly stiffened, then averted her eyes. Was it fear that he saw there? He wasn't sure. Without another word, Nora brushed past her, heading for the dance floor with Syd in tow. He tried to meet Jane's gaze as he pa.s.sed, could not. Nora was leading him too quickly away.

And then he was weaving through the crowd, following her, in awe of the swath that she cut through the ma.s.ses as he trailed in her wake. The back of her dress was deep-cut and laced, scooping down the exquisite expanse of flesh clear to her sacral dimples. As he moved he found himself torn between the contours of her a.s.s and the sight of all those eyes upon him: familiar faces, transformed by surprise and naked envy, viewing him in an entirely new light. The light her proximity cast upon him.

And he suddenly remembered not wanting to see the p.r.i.c.k she'd come with, or come to see. Remembered what an automatic response that was, how deep it ran, and how ashamed it made him feel. Now somehow, in the course of the evening, he had become that p.r.i.c.k. For all of its perks, it was not an entirely pleasant place to be.

He could see it in the eyes of the good ol' boys, cl.u.s.tered around the bar. He could see it in the eyes of the small hairy man, his shapely companions for the moment all-but-forgotten. He could even see it in his good pal Tommy's eyes: a cold spark of jealousy and pain, beneath the plastic smile and supportive thumbs-up gesture.

He wondered, for a moment, what it was that Jane had seen.

Then Nora was bellying up to the bar, the crowd magically evaporating before her, re-forming at her periphery. He sidled up beside her, and looked in her eyes for the first time since they'd left the table. They sparkled with mischief, only barely contained. At least one significant factor hadn't changed. But there was something else there, too: something hard, and harder to place. It was the knife-edged glint of experience, and it summed up her feelings for the whole room and everyone in it, save himself.

"TWO DOUBLE SHOTS OF COMFORT!" she called across the bar to Jules. He nodded, shot a quick glance at Syd. Syd looked at Nora. "For us," she said.

He hesitated a second, then leaned close to her ear. "I don't do shots," he said. "They make me go away."

"Relax," she a.s.sured him. "You ain't goin' nowhere."

Then Jules was there, with his customary flourish, dispensing the rich red liquor. Nora carried no purse or wallet, save a little woven drawstring bag she dangled from one wrist. From this she withdrew a ten-spot, then slapped it on the bar just as the Hornets brought their jam to a close. By the time they all finished applauding, the ten was gone, and her change had replaced it. She left it where it lay, turned back to Syd.

"To us," she said softly, in the pocket of silence.

And raised her gla.s.s to his.

The sweet whiskey burned a track down his gullet, made a beeline for his medulla oblongata. Shots always went straight to his head, and this one was no exception. He could hear the applause well up again, Guitar Mark's voice shouting something over it. Over the heads of the crowd, he saw the Queen Bee herself take the stage. "Come on!" Nora said, taking his hand once more.

And then they were wending once again through the crowd-up onto the dance floor, toward the front of the stage-just as the band broke into its slow shuffling four-bar intro. Queen Bee positioned herself behind the mic stand: a big wide powerful-looking angel-faced black woman, beautiful and gifted and strong. Her face and voice had the kind of character that takes lifetimes to acc.u.mulate. When she sang, all the world's sweet sorrow, heartbreak and pain found embodiment in that voice, that soul.

She was singing now. His favorite Queen Bee tune. The one that he connected with best. He had listened to it just this morning. Before the deer.

Before the wolf . . .

"Every night, about this time I go to sleep, to keep from cryin' . . ."

. . . and Syd found himself thrown back to those moments, that sensation of hollow dread that began in his marrow and emanated outward, felt it well up and nearly subsume him in the moment before Nora stopped and turned and drew him close . . .

"Every night, about this time I go to sleep, to keep from cryin' . . ."

. . . and then he thought about Karen, and all the years he'd already p.i.s.sed away on her behalf: operating under the sway of her illusions, suckered in by his own need. Desperately trying to resuscitate an already-butchered thing. Trying to rebuild a relationship that was rotten to its foundations.

"'Cause my baby, yes my baby Always runnin"round . . ."

. . . and the thought of it-the thought of her-was so utterly toxic to his soul that he flinched from it, constricted against it, tried to drive it shrieking from his heart and mind. Its poison sank deep into everything it touched: the beautiful music in his ears, the incredible woman in his arms.

And then Nora kissed him again: twirling gracefully with him, in time with the music. And it was so altogether absolutely fine that it resisted and transcended the poison, overran the tiny voice in the back of his mind that said what if she's cheating on some husband somewhere? What if she's lying, too?

But the reality of this woman, this stranger, this mysterious Nora who had blown so overwhelmingly into his life was like an island of salvation in a vast and brutal sea. There was substance in her presence. There was power in her touch. It made him feel strong, to be kissing this woman. It made him feel almost immortal.

As her body pressed against him, the alcohol caressed his brain. And all of it conspired to free him from his pain. Her kiss contained more than a whiff of liberation. Her saliva felt alive in his mouth. Every single cell of his being bore testimony to that truth.

Syd kissed back hard, felt something long sleeping begin to stir within him.

He stopped and looked at her. Her eyes flashed in antic.i.p.ation.

"Let's get out of here," she said at last.

7.

The Bonneville moved through the night like a shark through dark waters, following the scent of blood. It was a late-model beast: its hide spattered and gravel-scarred from too many back roads and unpaved parking lots, the paint job stippled with road salt and rust until it faded to a bruised brownish-red, the color of scabs. The license plate was mud-caked to the point of illegibility.

Like the car, it was stolen. It was not a problem; the owner would not be looking for it anytime soon.

The driver pressed on the gas, nudging the big car up to a stately seventy-per. The engine roared to life, hurtling into blackness as the road opened up before him. The sky above was crystal clear, alight with stars. The headlights and dashboard illumination were off, the better to blend with the night.

The driver didn't need them; he could see just fine.

Up ahead a sign proclaimed YOU'VE GOT A FRIEND IN PENNSYLVANIA. The driver chuckled as it disappeared behind him. He was a hulking shadow behind the wheel, one hand steering languidly while the other draped over the empty pa.s.senger seat. He was completely underdressed for the cold, clad only in battered leather duster, black T-shirt, and jeans. A tiny chain of skulls dangled from his right ear, jiggling from the wind and road. A scar bisected his left cheek, a thin seam that arced from the corner of his mouth to the outside edge of his eye socket. It was the sole imperfection in his otherwise killer good looks, and even at that gave him a dangerous smirk, as if he was possessed of some secret, lethal knowledge.

A tiny silver bracelet dangled from his grasp. An uncapped bottle of Wild Turkey was nestled between his thighs. He reached for it, took a long sweet pull, felt it b.u.m through his bloodstream. It put a nice edge on things, sharpened him up for the hunt.

The road was a secondary highway, utterly deserted but for the big rigs that periodically rumbled past. Utility poles and power lines whipped by like ghosts, punctuated by the occasional darkened house. Cold breeze blasted through the open window, rustling the papers scattered across the floor. Road maps and local music mags from a half-dozen backwater burgs littered the interior like a telltale trail of bread crumbs, offering leads.

The driver sniffed the air, testing it. He could smell the locals, tucked in for the night in their little crackerbox cages, all snug and safe in their beds. No cages for him; not now, not ever. He sneered at their smug a.s.signations, reveled in the uneasy glances he inspired. It amused him, filled him with contempt just as surely as he filled them with dread, the shapeless fear of the herd. He could feel their brows tensing in slumber as he pa.s.sed, a fleeting shiver like a bad dream flitting across unconscious mindscapes, then gone.

He was a predator, cruising through a land fat with prey. There was danger in his gaze, death in his kiss. But not for them. Not tonight.

Tonight he had other plans.

The radio burbled under the roar of the wind: a smoky, sinister groove snaking out of the speakers. The driver smiled, thumbed it up a notch. Ba.s.s and drums conspired with lonely guitar to pump out an insidious backbeat; the singer's voice was husky, ripe with threat.

"Last call for whiskey, baby It's time to drive you home Let's pray it's not too far from here . . ."

The driver fingered the bracelet. His hands were big, prominently veined, strong yet strangely delicate. The bracelet was a pretty little thing, a dainty chain with charms hanging from it. Long fingers pinched each one in turn, like a string of rosary beads, reading them by shape. Heart. . . bell . . . flower . . .

His fingertips were smooth, the skin tough as glove leather and pebbled like a dog's paw, utterly devoid of fingerprints. His touch, like all of his senses, was keenly attenuated, highly tuned.

The bracelet was a souvenir from a sweet young thing he'd scarfed in a dive two nights ago, just outside of Morgantown. The memory of her still lingered on his tongue: soft and pink and tight, sweet young meat in fishnets and boots and a black leather bustier.

peace symbol . . . guitar. . . a tiny silver skull . . .

He hadn't even been interested at first, so caught up was he in the hunt. But then their eyes had met, and she smiled, and the spark had lit inside him. And it dawned on him that it had been a while, really, far too long in fact.

Her b.r.e.a.s.t.s were small but very firm, like the rest of her. A spinner. Her hair was a dark cascade of curls against milk-white skin. He liked the way her hips c.o.c.ked when she danced, a grinding circular motion.

dagger. . . crucifix . . . devil . . .

He took her down the road a piece, then he took her right there in the backbeat, her legs hiked up over the headrests and spread wide to receive him. He liked the noise she made when he slid inside her, full of hunger.

He gave her what she wanted. Then he took what he wanted. She fought him, at first. He liked that even better. On the radio, the music played.

"'Cause the road is rotten, honey You know the road is long A lot of things can happen In the time that you'll be gone, gone . . ."

The driver grinned. How true. Her name escaped him-Karen? Sharon? No matter. They all tended to blend together after a while, just faces and bodies and legs and a.s.ses, all meat for his table. And aside from the thrill of the chase, not one of them ever meant a d.a.m.ned thing to him.

She had to understand that, he told himself. It was all about the joy of the hunt. Sure, you might focus on 'em in the heat of the moment-what good hunter wouldn't? Let 'em know your eye was on them, and they would never, ever get away. That was half the fun. But still, in the end it was just meat.

Like Karen-Sharon. Whatever. He was h.e.l.l with names, but he never forgot a face.

And even if he did, hers was still in the trunk.

Up ahead, the trees gave way to a clearing; he could make out the winking red glow of a Stroh's sign. He tossed the bracelet out the window and eased off the gas, scanned the tree line as the needle dipped to sixty, fifty, forty, thirty . . .

He slid past, scoping the terrain. It was a low-slung building, set back into a carved-out niche in the woods. Cla.s.sic roadhouse configuration. The place was packed; a good three dozen cars and half again as many vans and four-by-fours were scattered across the parking lot. A porta-sign at the driveway read live music . . . wed wet T-shirt nite . . . drinks 1/2 price . . .

The muted thud of a band filled the niche, underscored by the distant pulsing of a hundred beating hearts. Off to one side of the building, he spotted a huddle of people sneaking a quick joint in the cold. Another car pulled up and parked, its occupants piling out and pushing into the front door of the bar. Easy to lose yourself in such a place, he thought. Easier still to lose someone else.

But not for long, he added. Not for long.

The driver sniffed, sifting the many heady scents. The stale reek of tobacco and whiskey and beer. The tang of sweating flesh. The sweet hot funk of l.u.s.t and hunger and naked human desire.

And, underpinning and permeating everything, her smell. Undeniable. Unmistakable. She'd been here recently, immersing herself in the crowd, trying to throw him off. But she was in heat, and she was cruising. Might as well spray it on the door, babe, he thought. You're so f.u.c.king easy. . . .

The scent was strong. The thought occurred to him that she might be here still, off in the bushes somewhere, or in somebody's bed. Getting off. Getting fed. The thought maddened him: a spike of jealousy jammed through the center of his skull, crowding out every other impulse. Dredging up things that snapped at his soul like a dog on a chain.

He touched the accelerator; the Bonneville rumbled and slithered by. He waited until the woods resumed before pulling onto the shoulder, some two hundred yards down.

He shut the engine off and sat very still, contemplating the darkness. The moon was there, in many ways his best and truest love: the only woman who'd always stood by him, and never let him down. Which was more than he could say for some people he knew.

But he didn't want to think about that right now.

There was a rumbling in the driver's belly: the hunger for meat, and the hunger for payback. The deeper hunger, beneath it all. Eating was the least of his worries: h.e.l.l, he could scrounge a snack from just the leftovers in the trunk. As for payback . . . well, maybe tonight he'd get lucky. He sure as h.e.l.l hoped so. For his sake, and hers.

But the other hunger, the one only she could fill. Well, that was a problem. That gnawed at him mercilessly, sent spasms up his spine and made his brain itch in a place he just couldn't scratch. The more he thought about it, the crazier he felt. She was off somewhere, giving it up to some unsuspecting shmuck. And if he didn't get there in time. . .

And suddenly the chain snapped, and the beast was loose in his brain. The balance in him shifted, his man-mind taking a backseat to his other nature, skittering off like a lantern tossed down a well. Suddenly the car felt too confining, boxy metal bearing down on him when the stars alone were all he wanted over his head. He reached up, raking his fingers across the ceiling liner, prying out huge divots, pressing his bulk against the seat until the seat supports groaned and buckled from the stress.

He had to get out. Wrenching the handle, he pushed open the door, stepped into the night, kicked it shut. The wind was wild, and fiercely cold; with that, he could relate. His clothes were too constricting to suffer for another second; his skin itched madly, hotter than a hundred sunburns. He peeled off the duster, tossed it into the open window. His black cowboy boots followed, then his T-shirt and jeans.

Finally he stood, naked to the night. His body was wiry-muscular, his arms cabled and covered with tattoos, each a different likeness of the woman he sought. The inkings shifted with each subtle play of ligament and sinew, until she appeared alive, rippling beneath the surface.

The night bathed him, felt alive on his skin. The roadhouse lights twinkled through the trees. His nipples hardened in the chill air; a tiny silver ring dangled from one, glimmering in the moonlight. The wind shifted and a backbeat came to him, faint as a pulse. The ghost of the snaky melody still echoed in his head, a lunar love song if ever there was one. He began to hum along.

"Last call for whiskey, baby . . ." he sang, "it's time to drive you home."