“I guess there was another reason I picked you.”
And Leo lifted his eyes in time to see the office door close as Adam Lee walked out of his life forever.
FIFTY-ONE
When I think of the taking of a human life, I find that it bothers me only slightly. But, truth be told, I seldom think of it. Why should I? What is done-is done. I can take it back no more than the sun can take back its light. Yes, of course, I admit that I sometimes think of these things. Sometimes I think of Rachel’s dead eyes staring, accusatory, and the flies buzzing lazily around her inert form, feeding and laying eggs in pools of her coagulating blood. I think of the sound of her skull collapsing under the solid weight of lead crystal when I struck her from behind. The sound of it, wet and hard, and, I think, somehow pressurized as though the bad thoughts were finally escaping her head.
I think of Albert. I see him there in the living room as I close the door on him to leave him sealed in with the corpse of his mother, my wife, for two days. I wonder if he ever even realized that she was dead. If he did, I imagine those nights were long and dark for him. I think of Albert in his dark place, and I feel no remorse. Why should I? I did not put him there.
I think of Monty and the golden light that I stole from him, and I feel no remorse. Perhaps I should, but I do not. I feel instead a sense of pride, a sense of cunning. I feel a sense of completeness in the knowledge that life has, at long last, come full circle. Now I am the golden one. Now he is in the dark place. All debts are paid. It is as it should be.
But, as I say, I seldom think of these things. Why should I? I am a new man now. A new man with a new home. I like this new home. It is foreign and therefore familiar. The days are long and hot and sun choked. The nights are cool and pass quickly. It suits me, I think. I also find that I no longer have a taste for drama. It bores me. Or, rather, boredom excites me.
I spend a great deal of my time at the beach. In my old life, I had never seen the ocean. It is the perfect pairing of dark and light. On the beach, in the hot salty sand, the light is inescapable. There is no way to avoid it. It will suffocate you if you let it. And should you feel the sun overwhelming you, the rays forcing themselves into your mouth and down your throat, there is one convenient cure. The ocean itself. It grows darker and more oppressive the farther out you venture, so you can gauge your own needs, take only the correct dose. I once went too far out and felt the thousands of feet of dark water yawning under me, wanting to swallow me and take me down forever. Phantom fingers of cool water would reach out from the warm depths, swirl around my legs, caressing me as a demonic lover might, seducing me to come with her to her unnamed depths. Forever. I resisted.
I have met someone new. A new partner for the new man. It seemed appropriate. I, too, have desires, passions. I met her at the beach. She came up to me golden and wet, sleek and delicious. Her name is Gail. I should have known from her name. I should have known from the tingling excitement I felt in her presence. From the attraction that coursed between us-we attract what we need. We needed each other. Yes, I believe that now. I needed her. As the mouse needs the comforting, squeezing death of the snake, as the deer needs the hunter’s bullet, as the fly needs to feel the sticky grasp of the spider’s web, I needed her. And she me.
I tell her that I want to go for a walk on the beach, alone, to clear my head and settle my thoughts. She nods in agreement and offers me a loving smile. She understands, I think. She understands me and is content to let me be my own entity, to let me exist apart from her and yet be with her. When I return, her eyes are red rimmed and swollen; tear tracks are drying into desert paths in her heavy makeup. She tells me that she can’t help it, that she loves me so much that she just goes crazy from it. I go to her and comfort her. I tell her that everything is fine. That we are fine. Soon her smile returns and she leads me to the bedroom. This is a scene that will be repeated many times.
She tells me that I don’t love her, that I never have and never will. She says that she loves me and I hate her. That I think she’s crazy. That I hate her and am afraid of her. I tell her that I am not afraid, that I do not think she is crazy. Liar, she screams, and picks at the scabs in her scalp. Liar, she screams, and pulls out clumps of her hair. Liar, she screams, and rips open her flesh. Why do you hate me so? You do hate me. Admit it.
No, I say. No. I love you.