The Lure (56 page)

Noel bent down, immediately felt the warm hilt of the knife connect with something deep and ready and longing inside of him, and turned back to the car, where they still struggled.

The knife was a burning ember in his hand, melded to his arm by an urgency he couldn’t explain or resist.

“It’s always worked before.”
He heard Loomis’s last words thudding through his mind, as though Loomis were inside his skull, shouting in glee. “It’s always worked before.”

And Noel felt the split he had fought off so successfully before, sensing this time the split was for real, that this time he would complete his mission, and wreak the final outrage, to destroy what Loomis could no longer get near.

“It’s always worked before.”
Loomis’s words danced a frenzied tarantella through his reeling, buzzing mind, as Noel turned to face the wrestling forms in front of him, feeling the urgency of the knife blade wedded to the poisoned fingers that held it, move forward, ready to strike, to plunge, to cut, slash, rip, tear, feel flesh separate from bone, tissues come asunder, nerve ends snap, synapses scream, skin split like butter, blood issue, ooze, stream, gush, cooling him—

He felt the split, saw the two men facing him, expressionless, as he froze them both to stillness—trapped against the fender of the car, both mouths open to beg, scream, cajole.

And the knife was a burning coal. It had to be doused or the fire would consume his flesh, too, so he plunged it in, feeling the urgency take over, and the soft tissue melting under the frozen blade, finding sweet relief in the wet coolness that surrounded each thrust, cutting, ripping, tearing, upward, downward, in, across bones, muscles, cheeks, ears, eyes even, those deceiving mirrors, those lying reflectors, immersing himself in the methodical slashing and tearing, finding the split resolving itself in relief, not minding the pummeling of fists at his back, the futile attempts by mere human hands to dislodge him from this preordained encounter, but taking his time, cutting, and plunging again, feeling all time stop, feeling both the heat in his hands and the coldness that had frightened him so before evaporate now, as the head in front of him began to slide off the slimy wetness of the metal fender, the torn mirrors of its eyes hidden now, as it crumpled slowly onto the tops of his shoes, and he plunged once more into air, unable to stop himself, then stopped, and all he could feel was utter, total, complete, and life-restoring relief.

For an instant.

Before the voice repeated its incantatory drone,
“It’s always worked before,”
and the relief was gone, and Noel back, one person, not two, on the Lower Manhattan sidewalk, looking down at a confusion of hair and blood and material crumpled in front of him. He looked around, dizzy with the onslaught of sensory stimuli as sounds, smells, images, sailed before him, and slowly came to a stop and became ordinary, recognizable as before.

“I’ve killed,” he said. “I did what he wanted me to do. I’ve killed. He’s won. He knew he would win.”

Noel began to cry: a hard racking disabling weeping.

“Give me the knife,” someone said. “Give it to me.”

Noel did as he was told. It didn’t matter now.

“I’ve killed,” he tried to make him understand. “He’s won.”

He was grabbed around the shoulders, held close, as Eric’s voice breathed into his ear, “We won, Noel. You and I.”

They were surrounded by men in uniform, moving in on them. In the distance, Noel heard siren’s screams, coming closer, but above their piercing wail was a calm, steady voice from within, saying over and over, “We’ve won.” It was a victory: for Kansas and Vega, Randy and Alana, for the dead, and those who might have died. “We’ve won.”

Felice Picano is the author of twenty-three published books, including novels, novellas, short story collections, poetry, memoirs, and other nonfiction. His work has been translated into thirteen languages including Japanese, Hebrew, and Slovenian. He has been nominated for or received over a dozen literary awards in several literary forms and genres. In the U.S., Picano is considered a founder of modern gay literature; internationally, as a noted American postmodernist. Writing about him can be found in several references including
Contemporary Authors, The Cambridge History of American Literature,
and Wikipedia.com. His third play was revived in Palm Spring for a sold-out run in 2008.