Neuropath (21 page)

They were walking
gnosis
, secret knowledge, an expression of the nihilistic truth of existence. And this, Skeat insisted, was why psychopaths were the only holy men, the only real avatars left to humankind.

Thomas wondered what Professor Skeat would think of Neil now. Star pupil. Prodigy.

A prophet of the oldest testament of them all.

So many stars.

They reminded Thomas of Neil's crazy seminar in Skeat's class. Rather than present anything of his own, Neil had dressed as the Man in Pink and sung Eric Idle's 'organ donation song' from Monty Python's
The Meaning of Life
. The whole class, including old Skeat, had roared with laughter. But Skeat wasn't about to let Neil off the hook for sheer moxy's sake. Afterward, he demanded that Neil explain the significance of the song.

Neil nodded, smiled rakishly, and said: 'We live in a world where asking about the meaning of life has become a joke. It's no longer just the answer that eludes us. We've lost the question as well.'

The prick received an A, of course.

Staring at the stars, Thomas silently mouthed the lyrics—how could he forget them after enduring so many drunken rehearsals? And it seemed he could feel the entire earth
float
beneath him, wheeling beneath the light of a never-ending nuclear holocaust… A sun. A star.

A granule of light drifting in an infinite void.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

August 25th, 7.23 a.m.

'Dad! Daddy, wake up!'

'Wah?'

It was Ripley, sobbing. She had blood on her palms.

'Bart's dead, Dad! Somebody killed Bart!'

Thomas pulled a hand across his face, struggled out of his sleeping bag, stumbled to his feet, at once alert and still sleeping. What was happening?

Bart seemed impossibly black, slumped across the dew-grey lawn between the patio and the kids' pup-tent—so black that Thomas didn't realize the wetness matting his fur was blood until he looked at his finger tips. Brown eyes fogged and open. Tongue slack across the grass.

Ripley stood sobbing, wrist pressed to wrist, hands clutching her cheeks. 'Bart!' she cried.

A terror unlike any he had ever felt clutched Thomas about the throat.

'Sweetie,' he said as calmly as he could manage, 'where's Frankie?'

'I dunno.'

His daughter's words struck him like a hammer. He stood, his stomach bubbling, his limbs as light as styrofoam.
Just adrenalin
, he thought.

He walked over to the pup-tent, calling, 'Frankie?'

He jerked open the flap. Nothing but tangled sleeping bags in orange gloom.

He ran to the house, yanked open the patio doors, crying, 'Frankie!'

The house had the falling-snow quiet of returning from a long trip.

He ran upstairs, hoping that Frankie had crawled into his own bed. Nothing.

'Frankie!' he shouted.

He tried to laugh, to tell himself that Frankie sometimes liked to hide.

'This isn't funny, son!'

He dashed down the stairs through the main floor to the basement.

'Frankie! Jesus Christ… This is not funny!'

He searched the basement. Nothing.

He exploded through the front door, desperately rooted through the bushes, shrieking, '
Frankie
!'

'
Daddy
!' he heard. His heart stopped.

'Where are you son?' he croaked.

'
Daddy
!' again—from the backyard!

He dashed around the house, smiling through his tears even though he knew.

Oh-you-little-bastard
…

He jumped the driveway gate, rounded the corner, and saw Ripley still standing next to Bart's inert form. Somehow, it seemed he had known it was her calling all along.

'Daddy, I'm scared!' she bawled.

Thomas knelt before her, tried to grasp her gently, but his hands shook too violently.

'Sh-shush, sweetie…' he hissed.

'Where's Frankie, Daddy? Where'd he go?'

Thomas stood, pressed both palms against his brows.

This-isn't-happening-this-isn't-happening…

'
FRANKIE!'
he howled.

He couldn't stand. He fell to his knees.

He could hear Ripley crying, feel Mia shake his shoulders, though he had difficulty recognizing his face.
Frankie
… Neil had his son.

CHAPTER TWELVE

The following days were a fog of horror. Nothing was real.

Sam, Thomas could tell, was torn between consoling him and doing everything possible to find Frankie. The Evidence Response Team descended on his home once again, doing what Sam called a fingertip search of his backyard, combing the grass and the pup-tent for hairs, fibers, flakes of skin, anything, forensic or otherwise, that might constitute a 'clue'. It made Thomas nauseous just thinking of the word… Clue. How had something so silly, a trite Hollywood conceit, become the very hook from which, not today, not tomorrow, but
hope itself now
hung?

This couldn't be happening.

But it was. Thomas watched it from the den window, pacing back and forth, grabbing his hair and thumping his head against the wall. He even prayed—something he had never done even as a child. Please God and all that bullshit. Undo what you've wrought, motherfucker. He watched the technicians stump through the grass, laughing at unheard jokes, rubbing their backs when they got sore. And all the while, Bart just laid there, like an oil-stain in the heart of a tacky carpet. They didn't remove his body until late afternoon. Thomas had cried then, wept for his dog. It hollowed him out, gouged him so deeply he thought he might stop breathing, were it not for Frankie, and the…

Possibility.

Word wasn't long in coming. No clues, aside from a superficial match from what seemed to be several of Neil's hairs. DNA confirmation would come tomorrow. The family dog, some genius determined, had been killed at close range by a gunshot to the head.

Case closed. Time for dinner and a handjob.

Sam and Gerard, meanwhile, had canvassed the surrounding neighborhood, searching for potential witnesses. No one saw anything. Of three 'strange' vehicles reported—a black Toyota, a white van, and an aging Ford Explorer—two of them, the van and the Explorer, checked out. The Toyota was too generic to be of much use.

Sam was almost in tears when she came to his door late that evening. 'Sorry, professor,' she said. 'Tom…'

The FBI immediately released Nora from custody, knowing that cooperation would no longer be a problem. From what Sam said, she was even more of a basket case than he was. But she cooperated with a vengeance. Whatever hold Neil had over her, it could not compare with her love of her son. She was baying for Neil's blood, Sam told him.

Her tone hesitantly suggested he should be too.

But nothing was real. His son was gone and nothing was real.

Except Ripley.

Ripley had difficulty understanding what was happening. She missed Frankie, Thomas imagined, but the idea that something truly horrific had happened was something she had to borrow continually from adults. Thomas was tormented by the knowledge that for her the trauma lied in
his
manifestations of grief and bewilderment. But for those first three days seeing her filled him with a sense of desperation unlike anything he had experienced. He couldn't look at her without either seeing Frankie or the monstrous shadow of Neil—without seeing his loss or his demon. Even though going to work was out of the question, he still sent her over to Mia's for a few hours during the day.

She didn't complain.

Nora, Sam told him, was too much a wreck to look after herself, let alone her daughter. She blamed herself, Thomas knew.

And perhaps she should.

Using the investigation as a pretext, Thomas found himself interrogating Sam on the details of Nora's statement. As Thomas suspected, Nora had started her affair with Neil
before
, not after, their marriage. Apparently it had been an impulsive, drunken thing, which they had immediately regretted and swore they would never do again because of their love for Thomas.

Thomas wept at this point, and Sam stopped, promising to bring him a copy of the transcript—even though it could mean her job. The important thing was finding Frankie, she said.

It was both easier and more difficult, for some reason, reading Nora's actual words. The intimacy of the transcribed discussion seemed at once shocking, and yet strangely appropriate to a conversation between strangers. What could strangers do with such small and catastrophic honesty?

After a hiatus of years, Nora and Neil had resumed their relationship around the same time her marriage had started to seriously stumble. Nora chalked it up to coincidence, but Thomas knew better. Shared secrets fostered intimacy, while lies deadened it. The spouse being cheated on literally had no chance, outside inertia and the fear of financial ruin. He or she was bound to seem pathetic or judgmental or insensitive or what have you. People always justified their crimes.

The affair was, if Nora's description could be believed, almost pathologically passionate. Neil, she said, became an addiction, and she'd assumed that he had felt the same for her. They met regularly, if infrequently, and though they were strangely reckless in their choice of sexual venues—parks, movie theatres, even a couple of restaurant rest rooms—they were exceedingly careful when it came to Thomas. Poor Tommy.

When the interviewers asked Nora about her feelings for him during this time, Thomas felt his heart slow to what seemed a beat a minute.

sINT 1: How would you describe them?

Nora Bible: My feelings for Tommy? He's a good man. I loved him.

sINT 2: But if—

Nora Bible: But if I loved him how could I… betray him? What do you want me to say? That he beat me? He didn't. That he continually psychoanalyzed me, attempting to undermine my self-esteem? No. Not unless we were fighting—but who plays fair in fights? Tommy just couldn't…

sINT 2: Couldn't what, Ms Bible?

Nora Bible: Couldn't fuck me the way Neil could. Hm? Was that what you wanted to hear?

sINT 1: Are you saying your husband was impotent?

Nora Bible: Tommy? No.
Hell
no… He just wasn't… He wasn't Neil.

sINT 2: You know, Ms Bible, your answers seem, well…

sINT 1: Imprecise.

Nora Bible: Look. I married Tommy because he
knew
me, he really knew me. But… I think I started resenting him for it. For Tommy weaknesses are supposed to be accepted. We're not supposed to punish ourselves every time we screw up, just forgive… that, and try to cultivate better habits. But with Neil…

sINT 2: Neil didn't know you?

Nora Bible: Oh, Neil knew me.

sINT 2: But then what are you trying to say?

Nora Bible: I was always just a project for Tommy, I think…

Tears had tapped onto the transcript page as he read this. Of course, Nora would try to find reasons for what she did; that much didn't surprise him. Owning up was expensive, reasons were cheap. The
causes
were quite clear: women, like men, were pre-programmed for infidelity. The murky alchemy of attraction, from flirt to tingle to climax, was simply a patsy for the biology of reproduction. Given the onerous child-rearing demands of
homo sapiens
, human females were often forced to make pair-bonding compromises. One guy to pay the bills, another guy to ring the bells.

Nora was simply acting out a script inked in DNA, and authored by millions of years of heartbreak and adaptive advantages, unconsciously following an eon-old biological imperative. She had no reason for breaking his trust, his heart. No reason whatsoever.

At least that's what Thomas told himself at first.

He laid in bed all day, transcript pages scattered about, before he realized what he already knew.

Nora fucked Neil because Neil was stronger.

He had been a failure as a husband. As a man. And now he was a failure as a father as well.

Good God, Frankie…

Things couldn't get any more real.

August 27th, 1.09 p.m.

Thomas blinked. Both in shock and against the sunlight. When the doorbell rang, his thoughts had leapt to Sam and to the promise of information.

'Hi, Tommy,' Nora said, wincing and smiling beneath her sunglasses. She wore a black skirt and a pearl blouse, like she was dressed for a funeral. 'I was nearby so I thought I'd take a chance and see if Ripley wanted to come home early.'

Thomas wanted to slap her. She had always played little games, but more so after their divorce. 'Seeing what the
kids
wanted' meant unilaterally changing the plan to suit
her
schedule. 'Bring them home' meant bringing them to their
real
home. This shit was bad enough at the best of times. How could she do it now?

Thomas glared at her.

'Where is she?' Nora said, peering around him. 'Ripley!'

'She's still at Mia's,' Thomas explained. 'You want me to go get her?'

She bit her lip. 'No, no, that's okay. I'll come back later… when I said I would.'

Two tears streaked from beneath the black lenses. Thomas was struck breathless by remorse.

Always so hard on her.

'Don't be silly,' he said. 'People in Europe are dying because of all our driving. I gotta get her things together anyway, so ah…' He shrugged. 'Why don't you come in?'

Just please-please don't mention our boy!

She wiped her eyes, then wordlessly stepped past him into the living room.

He was struck, quite against his will, by the differences between her and Sam. Nora was dark where Sam was sunny, mother-soft where Sam was still school-girl tight. What troubled him wasn't the comparison—both were beautiful in their own way—it was the comparing.

Nothing should be normal.

'Would you like a coffee?'

She nodded, taking off her sunglasses. Her eyes were red, smeared with mascara.

'You remember how I like it?' she asked.

'Two sugars, sub-Saharan black,' he said with phony mirth. 'Do you remember mine?'

'One sugar, Scandinavian white,' she said, smiling—or trying to, anyway.

The joke brought a pang to his throat. It was one of those running gags that couples use to seal the finer cracks of their intimacy. Stupidity made everything smooth.

She lingered at the kitchen entrance while he poured the water, leaning precisely where Sam had leaned the night she'd asked him to drive with her to Washington.

So far so good
, he thought.
Pretenses intact
.

'Oh!' Nora exclaimed. 'Where's her album? You know, the photos we gave her from when Bart was a puppy?'

'In the office, I think,' Thomas said. 'On one of the shelves. Do you think that's a good idea?'

She was already halfway into the living room. 'I dunno, Tommy. I thought that…' He lost the rest of what she said to the gurgle of the coffeemaker.

He found her still in the office a few moments afterward. She was standing before his Earth poster, with British Columbia and Alaska rearing blue-green over her right shoulder. She was staring at the small photo-album, her eyes obviously overmatched by what they saw. She glanced at him, then closed the album. She set it down on the desk, almost reverently.

'Nora?'

She leaned against the poster and crumpled, not to the ground, but in a direction not described by space. Her sunglasses fell from her fingers.

'I forgot,' she said. She gestured weakly at the album. 'Forgot th-that there were pictures of… pictures of…'

She started weeping.

Thomas clutched her in his arms without realizing he'd crossed the room. She shuddered, sobbed.

'Oh, Tommy,' she gasped. 'Pleeaase-pleease-pleease…'

'Shhh… All we can do is wait, sweetheart. Be strong for Ripley.'

'
Ripley
,' she sighed, breathing deeply. 'Ripley…' as if she were the only mantra, the only prayer she had left.

He brushed tear-soaked hair from her face, stared into her anguished, vulnerable eyes. She seemed so open, so derelict and exposed. So true.

They kissed. Slow, soft, and yet swollen with promise. She tasted like mint.

Her lips became desperate, even violent. Her hands searched his back. She pressed against him. He clutched her right breast, felt her sigh into his mouth.

He pressed his left hand up her skirt, between her thighs, against warm, powdery cotton. She gasped. She undid his fly, began tugging on his cock with cold hands.

He pulled her panties aside and pressed himself against her heat. She hooked a leg around his thigh, then suddenly, shockingly, he was moving inside her.
No
, something whispered inside of him, far too late.

She cried out, smeared his cheek with wet lips. He thrust harder. '
Ungh
,' she moaned. '
Ungh…
'

He'd forgotten that this was what she had felt like—tender, yielding center, clawing legs and arms. Insatiable mouth.

'
Upstairs
,' she gasped.

He withdrew. Things were moving too fast anyway. He wanted to enjoy her, cherish and remember her. He wanted to make her come the way Neil had made her come.

Thomas scooped her in his arms, carried her down the hall to the stairs. She watched him with swollen eyes. 'I missed you, Tommy,' she whispered.

They undressed slowly, the memory of heat and hardness still thick between them. Then she stood before him, older, but glorious still. How could such a woman…

He pressed her down onto the bed. Tears streamed from her eyes.

'
I want my little boy back
,' she murmured. '
My little baby
.'

Lyrics from a different song.

Thomas stared at her, horror-stricken all over again. She rolled onto her side, and he curled naked behind her. He pressed himself between her legs, but not inside. He held her as she wept. Combed her hair with his fingers.

They lay in silence for some time, skin growing slick against the heat of skin. A crease in the pillow bit into his cheek, but he did not move. The pain was like a pin, a place to focus, something to hold him here, pressed against the shuddering body of his ex-wife.

Frankie was
their
boy, the bond that no amount of bitterness could break. The miracle was easily forgotten, and when it was remembered, it so often seemed absurd. A man spilling hot into his wife, the biology of blood and slurry, and then
life
, another dumbfounded soul breaching the surface of the black, the all-encompassing black.