Rage, page 13
She giggled—a girlishly carefree sound that brought a grin to his face—then patted his knee. “Maybe some other time.”
“Yeah.” He cupped his hands behind his head and leaned back against the tree, remembering all the great times he’d had growing up here. “In the winter the pond freezes over,” he told her. “We’d ice skate and go sledding down the back hill. Sometimes we’d have bonfires and stay outside playing until our fingers and toes tingled with the cold and our mittens were stiff with icy little clumps of snow.”
When she leaned under his arm and rested her head against his shoulder, it felt right and natural. He draped one arm around her and told her stories about growing up, surprised at the memories he’d tucked away for so long. It was like getting in touch with a part of himself he’d forgotten long ago. He realized that coming home had been the smartest thing he could have done. Maybe it wasn’t too late for him, after all.
After a while they both fell silent, each lost in their own thoughts, but it was a relaxed quiet that joined rather than separated them. When Blaize broke the silence, Spyder realized that the note of desperation had left her voice. But that didn’t make the story she told any less fantastic.
“I guess it all started with the invitation in the newspaper,” she began then shook her head. “No, it all started with Richard.”
He listened, spellbound, as she related a series of events that led her, eventually, to his doorstep. She told him about her vision correcting the words to his song, a song she’d never heard before, and brought him right up through her friend Joyce’s disappearance and the note she’d found there. She told the story quickly, with little embellishment, as if afraid he’d lose patience and stop her before she was done.
When she finished, he didn’t say a word. It was a lot to digest, but who was he to judge? There were troubling parallels here, although he still didn’t know how his dreams related to the events she’d recounted.
“Let’s go back to my place,” he said, taking her hand and pulling her to her feet. “There’s something I want to show you.”
Her hand no longer trembled, but he held it just the same. He gave it a reassuring squeeze and she squeezed back. Blaize hadn’t realized how much she’d needed him to believe her. He hadn’t said he did, but he hadn’t called her crazy, either.
She knew she hadn’t imagined the comfortable bond she’d felt forming between them. It was the kind of closeness that came from years of familiarity, not just hours. If she’d been inclined to believe in such things, she’d swear they’d spent other lifetimes together and were now simply picking up where they’d left off.
But a part of her worried that this bond she felt had a more sinister origin. Perhaps it was only one more illusion conceived by the ravings of Algernon Pierce. Maybe even here she was simply his puppet, following a path he’d already outlined for her.
At the doorway, Spyder released her hand and strode across the room. She followed him into a small kitchen area where he bent over a table, pushing papers and cups aside until he finally found what he was looking for. “Here,” he said, then turned to her with a troubled frown and placed a slip of paper in her hands.
When their fingers touched, the air pulsed between them. She knew without a doubt that, right or wrong, she’d make love with Spyder Raines before the night was over. She saw the same realization in his eyes and looked away.
Then she glanced at the note he’d placed in her hand and everything changed. Her breath locked in her throat and her field of vision shrunk to focus on the slip of paper and the four neatly typed lines.
She knew immediately what the note would say, but read it anyway. Then read it again.
THOMAS JEFFERSON RAINES
*YOU* have been chosen
Welcome to “THE PLAY”
Act III: Death and Destruction
“Thomas Jefferson?” she asked, focusing on the trivial as if that would deny the obvious.
“My real name,” he explained. “Not too many people know that. I found this note tucked into my motorcycle helmet the other night.”
“Oh God, oh God,” Blaize moaned. “See? We’re all tied together.”
“Wait just a second,” he said. “I’m not buying into this little fantasy just yet. Anyone could have slipped that note into my helmet while I was away from my bike.” She heard the implied accusation—even you.
Suddenly everything crashed down on her. Too little sleep, too much stress. She felt lightheaded. The room started to spin and Spyder caught her before she realized she was falling. He led her to a chair and she leaned forward, cradling her head and resting her arms on the table. He brought her a glass of water and knelt on one knee in front of her.
Her eyes widened and she smiled, feeling hysteria bubbling up inside her.
“What’s so funny?” he asked.
“You look like a man about to propose.”
He leaned forward and ran his fingertips down the side of her face. His breath was warm where it caressed her cheek. She sighed.
“And you look like a woman about to say yes,” he replied.
“Yes,” she whispered, leaning closer, drawn to him, all traces of dizziness forgotten. Nothing else mattered. Maybe she was using him to avoid thinking about what this note meant. She didn’t care. This was meant to be. As she moved closer, her elbow hit the glass, which crashed off the edge of the table. They both jumped, the spell broken.
While Spyder picked up broken glass from the floor, Blaize reached for a napkin and knocked over a prescription bottle, spilling little red pills across the table.
Suddenly everything she’d ever heard about the wild exploits of the infamous Spyder Raines came flooding back to her. What was she thinking? He wasn’t anyone’s idea of a knight in shining armor.
Her shoulders slumped and she looked at the pills with disgust. “Oh, you’ll be a big help.”
He followed her gaze. “I’m not…” he started to argue, then seemed to think twice about it. “Oh forget it.” He didn’t meet her gaze, confirming her suspicions. “And what do you mean by help?”
She shook her head. “I’m going to get to the bottom of this, and you won’t be any help to me if you’re getting high half the time.”
“Who said I was gonna help you?” There was a defensive note to his voice now. She could hardly believe this was the same man who had charmed her with childhood memories. “Besides, I don’t get high anymore,” he said. “I don’t need these. They’re just here.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. Just in case.”
She folded her arms across her chest like a shield. “Well, if you don’t need them, then get rid of them. I need you clearheaded.”
“You’re assuming an awful lot here, little darlin’.”
Assuming? Hadn’t he listened to a word she’d said? “You know there’s a connection, don’t you? You feel it, too.”
He looked away. His back was stiff, his eyes guarded.
“There’s more,” she said.
“Go on.” His voice was cold and emotionless.
Although he seemed angry, Blaize knew he was fighting. He didn’t want to believe what she was saying. She’d gone through the same denial, but this piece of paper confirmed her suspicions that Spyder was just as much a part of this mystery as she was.
She told him about Algernon Pierce’s book and the connections she’d found there. She explained how all the dates lined up—the accident, the murder, Spyder’s song. “See?” she asked, as if she’d just explained long division to him.
“All I see is that you’re freakin’ nuts,” he snarled, getting to his feet.
If he’d said that earlier, when she’d first recounted her story, she might have believed he meant it. But there was too much bravado behind the words, the way a child might shout, “You can’t make me,” and knowing all along you could and would.
“Wait here,” she said, and before he could stop her she ran out to her car and got the book she’d brought along. When she came back in, he was sitting at the table. She pulled up a chair beside him and flipped through the book, finding the passage Pierce had written describing the fictional “Scorpion.”
“That’s supposed to be me?” he asked. “That pansy-ass singer? Come on, if this is the best you’ve got…”
“I can show you more,” she insisted. “Page after page, scene after scene, enough proof to convince even you. But that still wouldn’t be enough, would it?” She closed the book with a soft thud, reached out and touched his cheek, forcing him to face her. “Spyder. Have you been having dreams?”
He stopped, an indrawn breath caught in his throat. His eyes narrowed. “What kind of dreams?”
“Erotic dreams,” she said. “Sensual, sexy and wild. Have you, Spyder? Have you dreamed of me?”
He pinned her with a burning look that was all the answer she needed. Breaking her gaze, he leaned across the table and scooped a handful of pills into his palm.
Then he turned his back on her and walked away.
There was no answer at Pierce’s door. Gate wasn’t surprised, but he was prepared to wait. The heavy brass doorknocker, a snarling lion with a full mane, reminded Gate of Pierce himself. He pounded it again and the lion seemed to growl back at him.
A window opened above him and Pierce leaned out. “Go away,” he shouted. His voice was like boot heels crunching over gravel. “I told you to leave me alone.”
Gate looked up, shielding his eyes. “I have to talk to you.” Quickly, before Pierce could slam the window shut, he cupped his hand around his mouth and yelled, “It’s happening all over again.”
Pierce glared down at him, a long, cold, unflinching stare. With his wild, flowing hair and intense eyes, he seemed more dangerous than the snarling lion’s head that guarded the front door. With a grunt, Pierce slammed the window closed and Gate waited.
A few moments later the door opened. Pierce filled the doorway, dressed in a black silk bathrobe that blended into the dark shadows of the room, making him look like a disembodied head floating out of the darkness. He tightened the sash of his robe and stared at Gate. “I was resting,” he growled. “What do you want?”
Gate shoved his foot in the door, just in case Pierce changed his mind. “It’s happening again,” he said. He knew that if he wanted to get any information from Pierce, he’d have to use whatever means he could, even if it meant feeding into the author’s paranoid delusions.
“I heard you the first time,” Pierce growled. “What do you want me to do about it?”
“Let me run the interview. Let me tell your side of the story this time.”
Pierce threw back his head and roared with laughter. “I see. So, once again it’s all about you and your precious article.”
“No, listen,” Gate insisted, stepping a little closer into the doorway. “It’s about protecting yourself. When the events start to unravel, they won’t be able to blame you. I can see to that.”
Pierce leaned forward and barked into his face. “You can see nothing. Nothing!”
Gate took a step backward, resisting the urge to wipe the spray of spit from his cheek. “I—”
“You’re a fool,” Pierce screamed, advancing on him. “A silly young fool with big dreams. You think you can change the world, don’t you? Well you’re wrong. If you knew what was out there you’d lock yourself away in your bedroom and never come out again.”
“What…” Gate stammered. “What’s out there?”
“Pain. That’s what’s out there.” Pierce’s hands flew in every direction, punctuating each word with jerky flourishes. “It may be spelled differently. Marriage. Career. Parenthood.” He snorted. “But believe me, it’s all the same word. Pain. Raw pain, dull pain, searing pain, chronic pain, beating-you-into-the-ground pain. Pain, pain, pain.”
His voice rose on each word. His eyes seemed to glow with a reddish cast. A maniacal giggle escaped his lips. “Do I sound crazy to you? Perhaps I am. Or perhaps I’ve simply learned what you and your colleagues are too blind with aspiration to see—that nothing you do will make one iota of difference in this world. All you can do is add to the general miasma of pain.”
As Pierce crowded him, Gate became aware of the room beyond. He smelled mustiness, age and decay. The air inside was stale, the shadows deeper, as if the very house was in a rapidly advancing state of decomposition. He stared into the yawning chasm of Pierce’s mouth, once again reminded of the lion’s maw, as the delirious babbling stream continued.
Pierce was on a roll, seemingly unaware of Gate’s existence, speaking more to himself than anyone else. “For a long time I blamed myself for sending more pain out there into the world. I stopped doing what I loved most. Did it make a difference? I don’t think so. Those people who would have deluded themselves into thinking they were characters from my book only turned around and imagined themselves in a different scenario. Perhaps they saw themselves as villains from a favorite movie, or maybe they heard voices in records played backwards. One way or another, they found a way to wreak havoc on society. They didn’t need my words to inspire them.”
Gate stopped retreating and held his ground. The glitter of madness was even more apparent in Pierce’s eyes, and for the first time Gate began to feel afraid. His hopes of getting any answers from the author were shattered. The only answers to be found here simply raised more questions.
Pierce blinked and focused, as if finally remembering Gate was there. “You think I’m crazy, don’t you?” he hissed. “I can see it in your eyes. That only proves how far you have to go to see the truth in what I say.” His voice rose, seeming to bounce and echo back at him. “Don’t you see what I’ve become? I am the creator. I am God!”
The darkness behind Pierce seemed to creep forward, enveloping them both in the open doorway. Gate thought he could see shadows separating from the darkness, swirling and coalescing. He took a step back.
Pierce straightened, becoming even more imposing, more threatening. “There will be no article,” he said, his voice booming. His eyes narrowed, his gaze becoming more intense. “There will be no interview. I will neither explain nor justify my work. There will be no blame accepted and no forgiveness asked.” He stepped back and began closing the door.
Gate reached out, slamming the flat of his palm against the swinging door. “Wait!”
“No,” Pierce said, resignation thick in his voice. His body seemed to fold in on itself, shoulders slumping so slowly he looked as if he were melting into the darkness, becoming one with it. “Go home now. I need my rest.”
A sudden, sharp pain stabbed into Gate’s hand and he jerked it back. Jesus Christ! He tore his hand away from the door, convinced that the lion had come to life and bitten him. But that was crazy. He inspected his hand, surprised to find all his fingers intact. An incisor-shaped sliver of wood protruded from his palm, blood rising lazily around the entrance wound. Where the hell had that come from? Before he could recover, the door slammed shut in his face.
Gate stared at the door a moment, working the sliver from his hand. The lion seemed to be gloating now. “Screw you,” Gate said, not sure whether he meant it for Pierce or the lion or both. He turned and walked back to his car, surprised to see that it was still light outside. It had felt dark in the doorway, as if he’d been standing at the mouth of a cave that sucked all the color and light from the world.
Outside the sun was shining, but inside there were only shadows of madness.
Spyder poured the rest of the pills into the toilet. That was all of them now. Every last one. One hundred tiny little red pillows of pleasure, each with the ability to tune out the madness, if only for a little while. He pushed the knob again, flushing away the last few stragglers. He’d been meaning to do this for days. The look of disappointment in Blaize’s eyes when she’d seen the pills on the table had been the final push he’d needed to let go once and for all.
It didn’t make sense. Why should he care what she thought? He didn’t even know her. There was a good chance she was certifiable. But for some reason he did care. He wanted to be the best man he could be for her. Fuck. Since when did it matter what a woman thought about him? And this one was trouble with a capital T.
He reached down and adjusted himself. He’d been hard since she’d walked in the door. But that didn’t mean she wasn’t freakin’ nuts. Maybe she was a stalker who’d concocted this whole story just to get close to him.
But he knew he was grasping at straws. For one thing, she knew about the dreams. He hadn’t told anyone about the dreams. When she’d asked if he’d dreamed of her, it had been like a fist to his gut. How could she know that? But she was right. He’d known since the moment he’d seen her that she was the one. She was the woman he’d been dreaming about.
What he couldn’t figure out is why he’d even let her in. It hadn’t been a conscious decision. One minute he was standing there blocking her path and the next she was walking past him, brushing her body intimately against him in that teasing, seductive way that belied the cool schoolteacher image. Oh, she was a temptress all right. Maybe he should just give her what she wanted. Just like he always did in the dream.
His hands clenched and tightened. She didn’t seem to understand the rest of it, though. If what she said was true, then he was destined to kill her, strangle the life from her in the throes of orgasm. If for no other reason than that alone, he had to prove her wrong. He had to help her get to the truth.
He knew she was there before she spoke. He felt her presence before she touched him. With a tenderness that made him moan, she wrapped her arms around his waist and leaned against his back, resting her head in the hollow between his shoulder blades.
“Thank you,” she said, her voice a mere whisper. Then softer, “I need you.” He knew it wasn’t what it sounded like. Or was it?
He felt every curve of her pressed against his body, her wrists crossed over his belly, the soft in and out of her breath along the nape of his neck. He grew even harder, straining against the tight denim. He wanted to rock her, he wanted to fuck her, he wanted to hold her and never let her go. His whole body trembled with the need to possess her and become a part of her finally, after all this time, after all those many dreams.
