Bad Thoughts (10 page)

      
But still, if she was right and this was the answer, how could he turn it down? Resistance fizzled out within him. Like a dying ember buried in snow. He told Horwitz to go ahead and make the arrangements, that three o’clock would be fine. As he started to get up, he stopped himself and gave the therapist a sheepish smile.

      
“You know, I haven’t eaten anything all day,” he said. “Want to get something?”

      
She seemed taken aback by his offer. She noticed her tape recorder still running and reached over and turned it off. “I don’t know if it would be a good idea,” she started, her peaches and cream complexion quickly turning a warm pink. “And you’re married—”

      
“I’m not asking you on a date,” Shannon said.

      
“I don’t know.” She hesitated, the warm pink now brightening into a deeper red.

      
“I feel good around you,” Shannon explained. “I guess right now I don’t know if I can handle being away from you. At least for the next few hours.”

      
She sat studying her patient, the little resolve in her eyes weakening. After a long silence she nodded. “I am hungry,” she admitted.

      
“Then let’s go.”

      
“How about I meet you in a half hour?” she asked. She suggested a restaurant on Harvard Street in Brookline and Shannon agreed. He didn’t know the place, but it didn’t matter. She could’ve suggested a soup kitchen and it would’ve been fine with him. As long as she was going to be with him. He left her office feeling a little funny inside, but also feeling hopeful, maybe even upbeat.

* * * * *

      
Shannon had the restaurant sized up as soon as he stepped inside it. A yuppie hangout with overpriced drinks and mediocre food. The type of place that put sun-dried tomatoes in everything and offered more types of pasta than anyone would ever care about. He sat down at the bar and studied the liquor bottles lining the back wall. He was surprised to find he didn’t want to sample any of them. The bartender, a beefy, football player–type with a crewcut and a thick, red neck, asked him what he wanted.

      
Shannon thought about it.

      
“What can I get you?” the bartender repeated, annoyance straining his smile.

      
“A beer,” Shannon found himself saying. “A Bud.”

      
When Elaine Horwitz showed up twenty minutes later, Shannon was still drinking from the same bottle. He almost didn’t recognize her. She’d gone home and changed and had put on a tight-fitting green dress and black stiletto high heels. Shannon had seen her dressed up before but not to this extent. And she looked different out of the office. More curvy, more sexual.

      
He called out to her. She turned, caught sight of him and started to grin. Then she spotted the beer bottle in his hand.

      
As she approached him, Shannon noticed she had on a richer shade of lipstick than usual. As she got closer, he could smell the Giorgio perfume from her skin.

      
“Do you think that’s wise?” she asked, her voice subdued, her eyes focused on the beer bottle.

      
Shannon held the bottle up to the light and studied it casually. “It’s the only one I’ve had,” he said, smiling. “And it’s the only one I’m going to have.”

      
He left the unfinished bottle on the bar and led her back to the front of the restaurant. There, a young girl wearing way too much gold costume jewelry showed them to a table. Shannon sat to the side of his therapist. She still seemed subdued.

      
“Why did you do that?” she asked.

      
“To see if I could,” he told her matter-of-factly. “You know, I’m not an alcoholic. During most of the year I can walk away just as easily after one drink as I can from half a dozen.”

      
“But you told me you don’t drink except before your breakdowns?”

      
“I stopped a few years ago.” Shannon looked away from her and started to pick at a fingernail. “It made my wife nervous and after everything I’ve put her through . . .” He let the sentence die as a soft growl in his throat.

      
“You’ve put her through a lot?”

      
“Yeah, I’d say so.”

      
“How do you feel about her?”

      
He glanced up and caught the tension in her face. There was more to the question than a therapist trying to treat a patient. He started laughing.

      
“I really don’t know,” he admitted after a while.

      
He leaned back in his chair and thought about it. It was a good question. He used to love his wife, he knew that, and he was also pretty sure she used to love him. Now, sometimes he’d look at her and know she was only a coin flip away from leaving him. The sad part was he’d just as soon give her the damn coin. Even though Susie never blamed him outright for what happened, even though she’d make a point of insisting it wasn’t his fault, he knew deep inside she blamed him for everything. And she had every right in the world to. The problem is, over the years all the blame and apologies tend to wear thin, eroding little pieces of you. Shannon had a good idea what was dead inside and what was quickly dying. He didn’t know, though, what, if anything, was still kicking and breathing. He told Horwitz about it, he even told her how the sex between him and Susie had the last few years become both infrequent and joyless.

      
As Elaine Horwitz listened her face took on a soft glow.

      
“You’ve opened up more tonight than the nine months you’ve been seeing me,” she said after Shannon had finished. As she talked she leaned forward and her knee momentarily pressed against his. She let the contact linger for a long heartbeat before pulling back, all the while smiling a sly Cheshire cat smile. Shannon felt a rush of excitement. Simply caused by her knee touching his. The thought of it made him dizzy. Then he thought about Susie and felt ashamed.

      
He got to his feet and mumbled something about having to make a phone call and that he’d be right back. He then headed to the front door, stopping to ask the girl with the fake jewelry to leave a message with his date that something had come up and he had to leave.

      
Even if he didn’t know what was still between him and Susie, he knew she hadn’t deserted him yet. That as bad as things had gotten she’d stuck with him.

      
Shannon walked almost blindly towards his car and was halfway there before he felt the cold air biting through his shirt and realized he’d left his coat in the restaurant. He slowed for a second and then kept walking. Then he sped up his pace.

      
He could always buy another coat.

* * * * *

      
Susie was waiting for him at home, watching TV. She observed him quietly until he sat next to her. Then she told him Joe had called and that she had been worried sick about him. He explained how he’d spent the afternoon with his therapist, that she’d thought he had a breakthrough and wasn’t going to black out this year or any year. When he was done he could tell she didn’t believe a word of it. He couldn’t blame her since he didn’t, either.

      
She sat trying to smile at him, exhaustion sagging her face. For a moment she looked like an old woman. She asked what happened to his coat.
 
 

Chapter 11
 

      
February 7. Twilight.

      
Shannon squinted at the alarm clock. It was three in the morning. Susie was fast asleep, her small body clinging as tightly to her edge of the bed as it could. This had become routine. He knew she didn’t intentionally do it; it was more her subconscious wanting as little contact with him as possible.

      
He lay on his back and stared at the ceiling, making sure to keep his eyes wide open. Because when he’d close them his mind would start racing and images would start snaking in and out. He didn’t want to see those images anymore.

      
It was too quiet in the room. So quiet he could hear Susie’s soft, shallow breathing. If he strained he was pretty sure he could also hear the quiet thumping of her heart. Too damn quiet. No matter how hard he tried he couldn’t keep from hearing his own blood pulsing through his head.

      
When he would let his eyes close it would start to play out again in his mind.

      
What Elaine had been told about his mother’s death was only partly true. He did come home and find her body and for the most part it was the way he had explained it. But she wasn’t alone, and the killer wasn’t caught weeks later, and he didn’t die in prison. And the rest of it . . .

* * * * *

      
When he did get home that day he knew something was wrong as soon as he got to the front door and found it unlocked and all the lights out. He’d spent the afternoon playing street hockey with his buddies, and instead of leaving his hockey stick by the front door like he usually did, he kept it with him. And he moved as quietly as he could through the house.

      
He found them in the kitchen. His mother lying on the table, her legs hanging loosely over the edge, and him bent over her, looking as if he were caressing her cheek, his own head casually moving from side to side as a long, dirty ponytail swayed back and forth with it. At first all Shannon felt was embarrassed and confused, then he noticed the knife, the way it was coming out of his mother’s mouth, the angle it was tilting at, and after an agonizing moment he realized why. His blood chilled ice cold with the realization. The room started to sway. All he could see through a blur of tears was that ponytail swinging back and forth. And then he moved.

      
His hockey stick caught the killer on the side of the face. The blow cut a jagged gash running the full length of his cheek and the shock of it knocked him over. The killer rolled with the blow, spun to his feet in a fluid cat-like motion, and twisted his body so he faced Shannon. As he stood up, he towered over him.

      
More than anything it was his face that stuck in Shannon’s mind, permanently scarring his consciousness. Twenty years later and he could still vividly see that face leering at him. It was almost like a hatchet had been taken to it, leaving it with only a tiny slit of a mouth and even less of a jaw. The gash had left him bleeding like a stuck pig. The killer put a hand to it, noticed the blood and showed a slight twisted smile.

      
“That was pretty stupid,” the killer said.

      
Shannon swung the stick again but he was only thirteen and a good foot shorter than the killer and eighty pounds lighter. The killer let it bounce off his forearm and pushed forward, grabbing Shannon by the throat. Without much effort he lifted the boy and turned him on his stomach with Shannon’s right arm twisted behind his back. He pushed back two fingers and broke them the way you’d break a pencil. When Shannon screamed, he gave the fingers a hard jerk. The pain was unlike anything Shannon had ever felt.

      
“What’s the matter, boy, you jealous? Wanted your mommy all to yourself?” the killer whispered lightly, his breath hot against Shannon’s ear. When he didn’t answer, the killer applied more pressure to the broken fingers until Shannon repeated what the killer ordered him to.

      
“That’s better,” the killer whispered, his tiny, slit mouth close against Shannon’s ear. “Let me ask you something, boy. You think you have the right to make a god bleed?” After working more on his broken fingers, Shannon screamed out that he didn’t.

      
The killer jerked Shannon to his feet, one hand pushing the boy’s head, the other twisting the broken fingers. Then he forced him forward, until Shannon’s face was inches from his mother’s.

      
“Go ahead,” he whispered. “Take a good look. See what happens when you anger the gods.” Shannon had his eyes squeezed shut, but the killer kept whispering to the boy, modulating the pressure on his bent fingers, using them the way a puppeteer controls a marionette by its strings. When Shannon couldn’t stand the pain anymore he opened his eyes and looked into his mother’s dead face.

      
“Now breath deeply,” the killer ordered, “smell that beautiful smell of death.” And Shannon did what he was forced to do.

      
“That wasn’t so hard, was it, boy?” the killer asked softly. Then he jerked Shannon away from the table and applied pressure on his bent fingers until Shannon was kneeling on the floor.

      
“I was fifteen before I had my first chance to smell that beautiful smell,” he whispered. “How old are you, boy?” A little twist made Shannon answer. “Aren’t you lucky,” he whispered, his breath obscenely hot. “Starting off so young. But this will be your only chance, boy. ’Cause you know what I’m going to do to you after this?” He described it in great detail, his breath flicking in and out of Shannon’s ear, tickling it like a snake’s tongue.

      
At times Shannon would black out from the pain. When he’d fade back in the killer would be whispering to him about how little time Shannon had left.

      
“Time to get up and kiss mommy good-bye,” the killer breathed lightly as he escalated the pain. He forced Shannon to his feet and back to the table. The killer pushed harder on his fingers, trying to force him forward. The pain screamed through Shannon’s head like a siren, exploding into a fiery burst. Then it went black. With the next twist, the pain reached a new level, a level beyond any conscious awareness.

      
The pain was no longer a part of him. It had gone beyond that. It was as if Shannon was outside of himself, observing the scene from a distance.