Wolfman - Art Bourgeau (23 page)

I know you, he thought. I know who you are. And then
he was able to give voice to his feelings, now that he had clearly
seen who she was, what she was trying to do to him, just like always
. . . "l know you" — voice rising — "you hurt me
before but no more. I will be free of you, I won't be tortured any
more to please you . . ."

She looked at him closely. Obviously he was going
into another phase, but she was still startled, and not a little
frightened by the intensity of him, by what might be coming and
wondering whether she would be able to handle it . . . Concentrate,
she told herself, on what he is really saying, on those words about
being tortured . . . "Tell me who is torturing you," she
said.

His voice was near-strangled. "Oh, you know, you
damn well know, you've known right along but you pretended like it
wasn't happening. I won’t be part of it, no more, I'd rather be a
speck in space, lost out there, nothing. . ."

Like a schizophrenic, she thought, or an aggravated
hysteric — never mind the clinical analysis, she lectured herself,
this is a sick man, a patient, a human being. Never mind the label
and get back to work . . . "Who is torturing you?"

He was looking beyond her, through the windows and
into the darkness and the woods beyond. He knew, of course, that they
were being watched. His stepfather, he was out there and he had come
with her. A wary half-smile now. . . "You won’t get me to say
it, I’m too smart for that. I can keep a secret, I have for so long
. . ." And the look froze, gradually melted into an
expressionless mask.

The clinicians, she knew, would call it transference,
to her of what he had seen between his mother and stepfather. She was
now the mother, and he was talking to her, saying things he may have
once said to her, or wanted to say. She must keep it going. For him
it was like hypnosis, a self-hypnosis. She watched his eyes watch
her, move to follow her movements as she reached for her purse, took
out a cigarette, lit it. She knew he liked to watch her smoke, that
it reminded him of his mother and reinforced the transference . . .
"You can tell me," she said.

"No, I can’t, not you . . ."

"Some secrets are better shared. Share yours
with me," she said quietly, inhaling and blowing out a plume of
smoke.

But he was looking through the windows again. Yes, he
was still out there, he could feel him there, and now that he was
concentrating, looking closely, he could see the eyes watching in the
darkness. Those mean terrible scary eyes . . . It was starting again,
all over again . . . "Listen, I’ll bet you didn't know that
when a person dies, his hair goes right on growing, at least for a
while. Do you think that means the soul doesn't leave the body right
away, just slowly, in pieces, little pieces that can escape out there
. . . ?"

"That's an interesting notion. I didn't know
that. But I do know that's not the secret . . ." No question, he
had slipped into some form of self-hypnosis, into his own world, with
its terrors and traps and escapes. He was reliving the most awful
part of his life in the only way his mind could even begin to handle
it . . . in a hallucination that nonetheless was bordering on the
reality of his affliction.

His eyes seemed to focus more as he looked at her,
puzzled and angry all at once. He shook his head. "How could you
like something like . . . that? Want it to happen?"

She held her breath, waited. When he did not go on
she said, "I’m sorry, I don’t understand — "

"Oh yes, yes, you do." He had gotten up and
gone to the fireplace, staring down now at the cold ashes and the
burned log. "You let it happen, whatever he wanted, you wanted.
He's out there and you’re here for him, like always."

"No, I’m not here for him. I’m here for you.
I want to see you free of this, but it won’t happen unless you tell
me about it."

He was fiddling with the picture of the dog on the
mantelpiece, turning it one way and then another, then picking it up
and holding it ever so gently, like it was delicate china.

"That's not true. Wolf was the only one who
helped, the only one . . ."

She got up from the couch and went to stand beside
him.

"
May I see?" And at her tentative gesture
toward the picture he froze, then slapped her. "You, don't you
ever touch him. The only time it ever stopped was when Wolf saw what
he was doing to me and bit him. You know that. And you know that when
he left me alone it was because he knew Wolf would stop him and
protect me . . . and he did, until he was murdered . . . killed . .
."

Her legs were weak, she was still reacting to his
slap but forced herself to pull herself together and backed off to
the couch. It was a stupid thing to have done, to have approached him
and threatened him that way. But maybe not . . . maybe it had
provoked him to open up more . . . "Your stepfather, you're
talking about your stepfather . . ." At least that much of the
secret was out in the open, though it had been there for her to
suspect for some time. But now he had brought it out. She would risk
pushing him another step . . . "He was abusing you — "

"’
Abusing’ me . . . what a nice proper way
to put it. Don't be so delicate. He was doing to me what he did to
you. Just like I saw him do to you that night. Never mind, be nice to
him, try to love him, he’s your father now, that’s what you
always said. And I tried. I tried . . ."

His face was tight, showing some deep pain, some
shameful pain. But at least it was clear now — what lay behind his
hatred of his mother, who did nothing to help, nothing to protect him
. . . "You never told," she said. "Why?" Knowing
even as she asked the reason but wanting to hear it from him, wanting
him to hear himself say it.

"Because I knew what he would do — "

And abruptly his expression changed, as though
someone had snapped their fingers to bring him out of his depths, out
of his hypnotic state. He had to escape to the present, to the unreal
world that seemed safer. Mother was gone, Margaret was back, and
shame came over him about what he had wanted, what he had felt about
her, and wanted and tried to get from her earlier that evening. He
had become the kind of man he most loathed . . . the kind of man his
stepfather had been. Shame and guilt brought a craving for
punishment, any punishment, including the worst that might be waiting
for him out there in the darkness. He deserved it.

He turned away to look down at the fireplace again,
afraid he could not say what he wanted to if he were looking at her.
"Margaret, at least this evening has shown me some things about
myself, not pleasant but at least I’ve seen them . . . I just want
you to know that I love you . . . I’ve never said that to anybody
before . . . oh, yes, that's what a lot of men say, but I mean it . .
." He kicked idly at the burned log. "When I tried to show
you how I felt, it all was wrong, it got mixed up somehow. Things
have always been mixed up for me . . . I’ve never admitted this
even to myself, but there were times when I . . . oh, God . . . when
I almost welcomed what was happening to me, when I was old enough . .
. by then it didn't hurt so much — this is terrible to say, but
what I mean, it wasn't like that about you. I wanted it to be so
different, and then I ruined it . . ."

"No, that's not true," she told him. "Your
feelings were fine, normal, but they were with the wrong person.
Under other circumstances, with another woman, not your therapist,
I’m sure your feelings and attentions would have been welcomed. You
have it in you to be a fine, sensitive man. A husband, a lover. You
have a ways to go, but it is possible, try to believe that . . ."
And try to believe it yourself, she added silently. He was going on
in a monotone, as if he hadn't heard her . . . "Margaret, I want
you to go now. I am not going to see you again not after what I did
tonight. . ."

"And your therapy?" She tried not to show
the near-panic she felt.

"That's over too, believe me, I know, I know
what is best . . . Now go, I can't talk about it anymore. GO!"

The tone, the finality in it made it clear to her
there was nothing more to be done now. Nothing but to say: "I’ll
keep your appointment times open. We're so close to your problems. I
very much hope you will reconsider"

When he did not reply or
look at her, she had no choice but to go to the door, open it slowly,
pause, then walk out and close it gently behind her.

* * *

After she had gone he went to the old leather club
chair and curled up in it, the oxblood redness cold at first, then
absorbing and reflecting his own heat like a caress. From there he
could see the darkness outside the windows. He searched for the glint
of the eyes he knew were out there. And then he saw them, gleaming
faintly in the trees, staring unblinkingly at him, twin pinpoints of
light in the black night. Now as he watched they seemed to move
slowly closer, and he looked away, willing them to be gone from his
life.

No use. It never was . . . He heard the voice, a
man's voice, soft and seductive. "You cannot hide from me,
Loring. No one can help you. Not her, that’s why you sent her away,
you knew. You belong to me, Loring, always have."

He shut his eyes tightly. "Who are you?"

"You know who I am. Abbadon, the angel of the
bottomless pit, with the power to change men, to make them seek out
death."

This was no dream, this was real. But it couldn't be,
it was happening to him but it wasn't. Like those other times,
beginning in the store with the shrinking, and later, just before the
loss of all awareness, and the awful sickness he felt afterward.
Afterward . . . ? Was it the belladonna? No, yes, he didn't know.
Abruptly he thought of the Bible class at St. Ignatius, and the text
from Revelation . . . "And the fifth angel sounded, and I saw a
star fall from heaven unto the earth; and to him was given the key of
the bottomless pit."

No, not the belladonna, it was the voice of truth,
telling the damnation he felt but tried not to believe was real, was
happening to him. Pray . . . "Holy Michael, the Archangel — "
The voice stopped him, reading his thoughts, censuring him . . . "No,
Loring. Michael did not help you when I changed you in the store,
when I made you shrink. He has not helped you the other times you
pretend not to remember. He will not help you now . . ."

So he had not been hallucinating, it had really
happened to him in the store. . . "What do you mean 'the other
times’?"

His voice was below a whisper.

"
Come on, Loring, you know. The park, of course.
The rabbits, the ducks, the dog, the man in the car, the boy, all as
I ordered, and you, good boy, obeyed. You have a convenient memory,
Loring. But that must change now. You must pay for your deeds.
Remembering them is the beginning. . ."

He tried to clear his mind, to block it all out, but
no use, what the voice said was true. And in a terrible flood,
everything came back to him, the blood, death. He saw, disbelieving,
yet knowing, saw himself steal the rabbits from the pen and kill them
with his teeth, then later the ducks from the creek . . . and finally
the taste for human flesh . . .

His stomach heaved.

When he was finally able to speak again he could only
say, "Please kill me," and meaning it with all his heart.
His back was to the window, unable to look into the darkness, at the
all-knowing eyes. "I can't live, knowing this . . ."

"After a time," the voice said, "but
first there are things you must do for me."

He squeezed into a tight fetal position in the chair.
"No, no more. Just let me die, now, please . . ."

"’Please,’ you say. Like always. Please,
mother, please, father, please. Please what, Loring? You fooled
Margaret, you were really very good. You even fooled yourself. But
you know better, of course. You did not hate your mother because she
did not protect you. You hated her because she had another man,
because you were so jealous. She belonged to you, she had betrayed
you, and she and the others would pay. You liked what your stepfather
did to you. You liked the redemption through his punishment. It felt
good, Loring. Remember, remember, it is beginning. And now you are
ready to do what I have prepared you for. You are the angel of peace,
the savior, the wolf . . . you will cleanse the herd, and only then
be able to save yourself. Now stand up, Loring, and see for the first
time what you have become."

Resistance was useless. He had no will. He stood and
looked in the mirror over the fireplace. At first he felt relief, it
seemed nothing had changed, and then he knew he was deceiving himself
again . . . because as he stared he saw the eyes staring back at him,
eyes not his own, eyes with a dark fire inside. And his lips, it was
not so but it was. His lips were pulling back, revealing teeth. . .

And then blackness.
 

CHAPTER 19

MERCANTO TOOK his seat at the conference table in the
fifth-floor room of the Roundhouse. He had stayed at the crime scene
late into the night, walking around, trying to get a feel for the
killer, but in the end he had come up empty. Even after seeing the
results of two killings first-hand, he still had no telling clue. The
man was, to put it mildly, an enigma. Crime was not such a difficult
thing for him to understand. Growing up in the inner city he'd seen
it all his life. The druggies, the gangs, professional thieves,
husbands who battered their families, barroom fights, even rapes made
some sort of sense to him. He didn't condone any of it but he at
least understood where it was coming from. They all had motives, most
of which boiled down to love and/or money, with the balance spilling
over into injured pride. But this was different. A kind of violence
where it seemed the act was the reason rather than the end-result. A
perpetrator whose rules were known only to himself.