Shiver (33 page)

She picked up the shoe and pitched it at him, a final, desperate, meaningless gesture. He brushed it aside with a cough of laughter.

After that, she was finished; her pitiful last stand was over. She lowered her head and waited for him to do what he would. She hoped he would shoot her. A bullet would be quick.

Then softly he spoke to her, and strangely his voice was gentle, almost kind.

“Don’t be afraid, Wendy. I’m not going to hurt you. Not this time.”

Slowly she lifted her gaze and stared up at him through the webwork of hair plastered to her face.

“Oh, I admit I wanted to hurt you very badly last night. I wanted to do terrible things to you. But then I saw that I was wrong. That I’d missed the significance of what had gone on between us. That I’d failed to appreciate you properly. I saw that only a most exceptional woman could play the game so well.”

“The ...” Her voice cracked. “The game?”

“I saw,” he went on, unhearing, the words dripping in a slow metronomic cadence, “that it could not have been an accident that I selected you. Out of all the lesser women I might have chosen, I had been led to the only one on earth who made a worthy adversary. Such things are never the product of chance. No, it was destiny that brought us together.”

He chuckled, embarrassed by his own eloquence.

“That sounds so cornball, doesn’t it? Like something in a Hallmark card. But I’m serious. I believe in destiny, in fate. I believe in a deeper meaning that transcends the ordinariness of life. And with that same faith, by the light of that same understanding, I believe we were meant for each other.”

He gazed down at her fondly. He was smiling. A shy, almost boyish smile.

“What I’m trying to say is ... I love you.”

As Wendy watched, unable to move or speak or think, the Gryphon reached into the pocket of his coat and handed her a small clay statuette.

24

Wendy accepted the statue with numb fingers. She stared at it, turning it slowly in her hand.

“See the detail,” the Gryphon breathed. “The delicacy of the carving.”

“Very pretty,” she said quietly.

“Like you.”

She went on studying the figurine between her fingertips. Her body was a huddle of shock. Her mind was empty. She felt as if that hammer of his, the one he’d used to smash the car window last night, had slammed down on her brain and made it into mush.

“You ... you said you love me,” she whispered at last.

“Yes.”

“But...” She almost choked on the words, on the idea of having this conversation with this man. “But that’s impossible. That’s ...”

Crazy, she wanted to say, but didn’t.

“Of course it’s impossible, Wendy. Every great thing is impossible. That’s precisely what makes it great. That’s what greatness is: the act of overcoming. Overcoming the possible, the normal, the mundane.”

She swallowed, barely hearing him, her mind occupied with a new question. “Is this the statue you were going to give me last night?”

“Yes. But now it holds a very different significance.”

“Does it?”

“Yes, it does. Then it was a marker of death. Now it is a token of my love to you. You must believe that, Wendy.”

He kept saying her name, as if he took pleasure in pronouncing it. Her first name only; she wasn’t Miss Alden to him anymore. The obscene familiarity implied in his choice of words revolted her.

She drew a sharp breath. “Look. If you’re serious about ... about what you said ... then let me go. Let me just walk out of here.”

“No.”

“But if you”—say it, go on, say it—“if you love me ...”

“I do love you. Honestly, I do. But I can’t release you, because you don’t understand what’s happened between us. Not yet, anyway.”

He knelt before her, tapping the pistol lightly against one knee. His sunglasses gazed blankly at her like insect eyes.

“I don’t blame you. I don’t question your lack of faith in me.” He sighed heavily, a melodramatic, grandiloquent sigh. “This world is so choked with ugliness and pettiness and commonness. Sometimes it seems hard to believe that any genuine beauty or spirituality could exist here. But look, Wendy.”

His hand closed lightly over her wrist, lifting the figurine closer to her face.

“If something as special as this can be shaped out of mud, out of dirt, then so can the love that is our destiny.” He shrugged. “But until you see the truth in what I’m saying, until you’re willing to accept it, I’m afraid I simply can’t let you out of my sight.”

His grip on her wrist tightened. He stood up and pulled her to her feet. Her legs felt weak and wobbly. There was a frightening tilt to the ground that hadn’t been there before.

“Now, come along,” he said as if to a hesitant child. He gave her arm a little tug. “Come on.”

She let him lead her back to the white Ford, its door still hanging open. He released her hand, and she sagged against the car, her knees buckling. She had no idea what he would do next. She almost didn’t care. Fear had drained out of her, leaving her hollow.

“Now, please ... get in.”

She obeyed. As she was settling into the passenger seat, he leaned in and tapped her arm. “Behind the wheel, if you don’t mind.”

She realized he wanted her to drive. He’d made her enter on the passenger side only to ensure that she would never be out of his reach.

With difficulty she climbed into the driver’s seat. Sliding in beside her, he shut the door and handed her a set of keys. She stashed the clay statue in the pocket of her blouse, then turned the ignition key in the slot. The engine growled.

“Excellent,” he said pleasantly. “I don’t know about you, but I feel that this whole thing really is working out quite well.”

His grating cheerfulness only made things worse. If things could be worse. If anything could be worse than this.

“Where are we going?” she asked flatly.

“I’ll tell you in a second. But first, listen to me. Listen good.”

She stared straight ahead, rigid in her seat.

“Look at me when I talk to you.”

Reluctantly she turned toward him. For the first time she looked, really
looked
, at his face. She saw brown hair, curly and close-cropped. A high forehead. Thick brows. A fleshy nose, humorless mouth, square clean-shaven chin.

It was not the face of a monster, not a face that belonged in a lineup or a mug shot or a chamber of horrors. It was a face she could pass on any street, a face so ordinary it almost didn’t exist.

Then, with a small, distant shock, Wendy realized she knew that face from somewhere. But she had no strength to think about it now.

“I know you still want to get away,” the Gryphon was saying quietly. “And you’ll think of all kinds of clever ways to do it. Send the car into a skid, drive off the road into a ditch—things like that. You’re most resourceful, as I’ve already learned, much to my chagrin.” His voice dropped lower, till it was nearly inaudible. “But there’s one small detail you ought to be apprised of, Wendy dearest. Even though I’ve come to care for you very deeply, even though I cut you a good deal of slack just now, even with all that, my patience is not unlimited. To put it quite plainly, if you do attempt to pull off any of those clever schemes you’re known for ... I’ll have no choice but to kill you.”

The gun jerked forward, the muzzle biting the skin beneath her jaw like a hungry animal.

“I’ll blow your fucking head off!” he snarled.

With his free hand, he whipped the sunglasses from his face, and suddenly she was staring into his eyes, gray eyes, small and flat and dull, like nailheads.

“Do you hear me, Wendy? Do you?
Do you?
”

She tried to nod, but the gun in the hollow of her jaw made it impossible. “I hear you.”

“Good.” He smiled, withdrawing the gun a few inches. His features smoothed out, and his voice was calm again, but hardly reassuring; she thought of the dangerous, unreal composure of an executioner. “I apologize for swearing. I wouldn’t get so upset if I weren’t genuinely concerned about your welfare. The thought of losing you after all I’ve gone through to make you mine ... Well, it makes me a little crazy, I guess.”

“I guess,” Wendy echoed.

Her fear was back now. And with it came the knowledge that she still wanted to live. Despite everything that had happened or soon would, she wasn’t ready to fold up and die. The thought astonished her and, in an odd way, made her proud.

“Now for those directions I promised,” the Gryphon said matter-of-factly. “Go north on Sepulveda, over the hill, into the Valley. We could take the freeway, but I’d prefer not to travel that fast. Just in case I have to shoot you and seize control of the car. That could be dangerous at high speed.”

“Yes,” she agreed soberly, “it could.”

“At the north end of the Valley, we’ll hook up with San Fernando Road, which will take us to the Sierra Highway in the high desert. I’ve got a place out there, you see.”

He chuckled. It was the sound of rattling bones.

“My special place.”

She swallowed and put the Ford in reverse.

“Hey,” he said sharply. “Wait a second.”

She looked at him, wondering what he would want now.

“Buckle up,” he said.

“Right.” She fumbled with the strap.

“It’s dangerous to drive without a seatbelt,” he informed her with evident sincerity as he strapped himself in. “And besides, in California it’s against the law.”

Finally she got the buckle to snap. “Well,” she whispered, her voice dark, “we wouldn’t want to break the law, would we?”

She pulled out of the alley and turned onto Sepulveda, heading north. She tried not to think of anything at all.

The road was snaking into the mountains when the Gryphon turned on the radio. Music crackled through aged speakers. John Denver singing “Fly Away.” The lyrics hurt, because they named her thoughts too clearly.

She wanted to fly away. Wanted it so badly.

“You like this song?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“I like it too. You see, we have a lot in common.”

Sepulveda carried them over the Santa Monica range. Wendy was careful to stay within the speed limit. She didn’t want a motorcycle cop on their tail. She had a feeling the man beside her might react rather badly to that development.

“Pretty,” he said suddenly.

She jumped a little, startled. “What?”

“The snow. See it?”

He pointed. She looked ahead and saw the distant cones of the San Gabriel Mountains, dusted white by winter storms.

“Yes,” she said. “It is. Very pretty.”

“But not as pretty as you.”

She tightened her grip on the steering wheel.

“You know what they call snow when it’s newly fallen?” he asked. “Virgin snow. Because it’s still so pure. Not fouled and spotted with dirt. And its purity makes it beautiful and special.” He looked at her. “I’m glad you made your boyfriend sleep on the couch last night. That was the right thing to do.”

“Was it?”

“Uh-huh. Most women of your generation wouldn’t display such a sense of decorum, of propriety. People nowadays, they’re like ... like animals. Like rutting goats. They disgust me.”

“I didn’t make him sleep on the couch,” she whispered, not knowing quite what made her say it,

“Sure you did. He was there when I came in.”

“But I didn’t
make
him. It was his idea. He offered. He didn’t want to take advantage of me. He was ... a gentleman.”

“Was he? Maybe. Or maybe he was just trying to con you. Gain your trust. Men do that, you know. They pretend to be your friend, when all they really want is ... is ...” He looked away, and Wendy realized with a stab of astonishment that he was embarrassed. “Well,” he said vaguely, “you know.”

“Yes. I know.” Out of the corner of her eye she watched his face in profile against the blur of the roadside. “But you’re different. Aren’t you?”

“I am.”

“So”—she spoke slowly, forcing out the words like paste through a tube—“what is it
you
want?”

He swiveled in his seat and looked right at her. “You, Wendy. I want you. But not in the way other men do. Lesser men. Men who could never appreciate you, could never hope to equal your strength of spirit. What you and I will have—oh, it will be something wonderful. A merging of minds, a commingling of souls. Nothing cheap or casual or meaningless. A partnership that will lift us both to new heights, heights neither one of us could have reached alone. That’s what I want, Wendy. I won’t take anything less. I want you. I want you. I want you.”

Anger and terror and revulsion boiled inside her, reached a flashpoint and merged in a white heat of fury that made her reckless.

“But I don’t want
you
!” she screamed, then stiffened, catching her breath, afraid of what she’d said and of what he would do.

But he merely smiled.