Georgianne was all wrong for him. He could see that finally. It must be the longest lesson in history, but he had more or less grasped the point. She had a limited imagination, a stunted intelligence, and an overriding self-interest that masqueraded as sweetness. She belonged in Foxrock, living her vacuous little suburban pseudo-life. He should have left her there and forgotten about her. What a mistake!
Still, he'd followed the damn trail all the way to the truth, nasty as it was, and that had to be better than perpetuating a fantasy. It was, in a way, a triumph for him.
The fire was much closer now, and the heat very nearly unbearable. Jeff examined himself. Five or six shots had been fired in his general direction, but Georgianne had shut her eyes and waved the gun wildly, like a little girl in a cornball horse opera. The only respectable wound was to his left knee, which looked quite bloody and generated a lot of pain. He tried to push that foot to the floor, but he winced and groaned, and his vision was blinded by a swarm of black spots. No, he wasn't going to walk anywhere on that leg.
He'd been grazed on the right shoulder too, but the damage there was trivial. It didn't even hurt. What else? He smiled. The Blaupunkt had taken a smashing hit, and another bullet appeared to be lodged in the door panel. That left one or two that had probably gone right by him and out the open window.
The gun was lying on the passenger seat. He picked it up, pointed it at his forehead, and pulled the trigger. Click. Nothing. Typical, he thought. She'd left him absolutely nothing.
It had been a brilliant try, a long effort full of dazzling moves and bold strokes. But Jeff could see now that he had missed an even greater brilliancy. He'd fooled himself with misguided nostalgia and childish sentiment. She was in every way unsuitable for him.
What he should have done was remove Sean and Georgianne from the scene. Then the way would have been clear for him with Bonnie. Dear, beautiful, bright, young Bonnie. She had liked him, she was in tune with him. He would have wooed her and won her, brought her to Southern California ... oh, it all would have been so much better. How had he missed it? He could have done anything he wanted with Bonnie. She would have been Georgianne as she should have been. He could have taught her, molded her, composed her. It would have worked. He was sure of it.
The car was full of smoke. Jeff put the key in the ignition. He was dizzy and he could feel the air being sucked out of his lungs. The left front Michelin exploded while he was trying to recall the look on Georgianne's face in bed when she mentioned Bonnie. Did she know? She had to know. But then, why hadn't she tried seriously to kill him? There wasn't even enough substance to her to sustain a desire for revenge. He should have come right out and told her to her face, before she ran. Made her eat it-anything to raise a sign of life in her. But she was just another walking stiff. The right front tire detonated a few moments later. He didn't care. He wasn't going anywhere.
. He'd gotten to the truth, and that was something. He tried to light a cigarette and eventually succeeded in spite of the fact that it was almost impossible to inhale now.
Ah, shit, shit, shit. But the truth. It abolished fear, and Jeff appreciated that.
THOMAS TESSIER grew up in Connecticut and attended University College, Dublin. He is the author of several acclaimed novels of terror and suspense, plays, poems, and short stories. His novel Fog Heart received the International Horror Guild's Award for Best Novel, was a Bram Stoker Award finalist, and was cited by Publishers Weekly as one of the Best Books of the Year. He lives in Connecticut.
