If he hadn't pushed, it might have lasted longer – maybe quite a while. But Monks could not leave things like that in general, and she was right. Today's events had put him in the mood to have it out. He could have pushed it the other way, and asked her to marry him. But that would only be trying to bind her, to keep her from what she wanted – another chance at the kind of life most people considered normal, the kind of life that he had pretty much let go.
He had not thought he would ever live with a woman again. But once he had started, he had come to realize that when she was not here, he felt a sour gnawing absence.
They managed to keep up small talk while they ate. She asked more questions about what had happened today and Monks told her, but it was dutiful from both sides. Afterward, with his belly full and drowsiness coming quickly, he turned on the TV and settled back on the couch, head in her warm lap and her hand stroking his hair.
"I do love you," she murmured. "You know that." Monks nodded. "I love you, too," he said, in a voice that was thick with exhaustion.
Chapter 11
Her voice leads you to a different street, another doorway. It's darker and quieter in here than the last place. The bottles lined up on the back-bar shelves glitter with dusty colored light.
She's a silhouette, alone at the bar, posed for you.
She gives you a quick smile when you walk up next to her. She's in her late twenties, thin, wearing a tank top and jeans. She's probably been hit on several times already tonight, by men and women both. You look better than most of what she sees.
You order a glass of wine, a Clos Pegase merlot this time. Then you admire the bracelet on her right forearm. It wraps around, a silver and turquoise snake crawling up her skin. The silver seems liquid, but not from the room's light. From her.
"Where'd you get it?" you ask.
"In LA. It's Navaho."
You touch it, feeling her warmth shoot up through it into your finger.
"It looks alive," you say. She smiles again and tosses her hair.
She tells you she's from the Midwest. She's been traveling, working part-time here and there, crashing with people she meets. Her name is Lynn. You tell her a name, too, and let her know right away that you're a doctor.
Her eyes flicker. That could mean drugs.
She chatters on, but you listen past her words to what her voice is telling you in your head – what has hurt her all her life. She's almost pretty, but her chin recedes, and her nostrils flare at the tip.
You'll start with a rhinoplasty – remove a little cartilage from the base of each nostril, then tighten them together. Then implants in the mandible to move the chin bone forward. When it's finished, her face will have a beautiful balance. She'll wish you'd found her years ago.
"Are you really a doctor?" she asks teasingly. Are we really talking drugs?
"Really." You show her your medical license, making sure she also sees plenty of credit cards and crisp cash.
Then you lean close, lips just brushing her ear, and say very quietly, "Look, we're both grown-ups. Let's not be coy. I like to party, and I've got a whole pharmacy at my clinic."
She doesn't say anything, doesn't even look at you, but it's just what she wanted to hear.
"Why don't we talk it over in my car?" you say.
You're parked several blocks away, and the two of you don't talk much on the walk. She's wondering whether she made a bad move.
But when she sees the car, her eyebrows rise.
"Nice," she says.
You unlock the passenger door for her. As she's getting in, you press a folded hundred-dollar bill into her palm.
"Just a little fun money," you say.
She acts surprised, even offended. "This isn't really what I do. What do you – you know – want from me?"
"Maybe you can help me with a fantasy."
"Well, maybe," she says warily. "But nothing weird, okay?"
"Of course." You start the engine. It has a smooth, reassuring purr.
"You mind if I smoke?" she asks.
"Go ahead."
She takes cigarettes from her purse and lights up, then relaxes back into the seat. This is looking good. There's money and drugs.
You're a doctor. You can give her what she wants.
Chapter 12
When Monks woke up, the house was dim, with the only light coming from down the hall. He was still on the couch, covered with a blanket. Memory of the earlier hours began to return, and then, the fear that Martine had gone home.
But she was still here, a small mound in his bed, buried under covers in the now cool night. He put a hand on her lightly to assure himself and heard a slight pause in her breathing before it evened out again. Omar, the big Persian, was curled at her feet, looking almost half her size. There was the sense that he had been posted as a guard while the other two were out taking care of nightly cat business.
Monks went to the bathroom to urinate, rinse his face, and brush his teeth, then back to the kitchen to put out fresh spoonfuls of cat food in their bowls. He turned out the light. The green LED numbers on the microwave clock said 1:08 a.m. The previous day's events were flickering through his mind like a videotape now.
He stood in the dark room, grappling with the urge to start drinking again, to blast on through the night, to reach that feverish black edge between this reality and a further one that lured, promising that it was realer still. He had been there many times, but not in several years.
He walked back down the hall to the bedroom. When he undressed, he realized, with surprise, that he was half-hard. He lay down beside Martine and touched her small breasts, an exploratory caress, not sure how welcome he would be.
But she stretched luxuriantly, then turned and cupped his tightened scrotum, hefting it curiously, as if judging its weight. Her hand moved to stroke his shaft, using the inside of her wrist, then pricking it with her fingernails.
Her touch was exquisite. He adored her. He tried to concentrate all his being on her, knowing that this would soon be gone, too.
And yet some lewd uncontrollable part of his mind kept playing the image of Eden Hale as she had been in that film, luscious, intense, braced on hands and knees and wide open to the ramming bursting need of men.
Chapter 13
The night is yours now. You move through the pitch-dark woods without light or sound. The trail is steep and overgrown, but your steps are sure. Power surges through your veins and pounds inside your skull, burning and brilliant and supreme. You are beyond all limits.
Inside the plastic bag you carry is a warm limp weight.
You come to a deep cleft in the mountainside, a spring that was diverted years ago, to fill the swimming pool for the mansion below. No one comes here anymore. You pull away the rocks and brush that you had piled in the entrance. A strong odor seeps out, but musty, like copper and wet earth. The lime has done its job.
This is where you keep the leftover parts.
You lay her down on top of the others, then remove her silver-and-turquoise bracelet and wind it around your own arm. It burns with her heat, right through your skin.
Your body is tired, but your mind is full of her song, a song of worship, for the beauty you have given her.
Chapter 14
Monks arrived back at Mercy Hospital before eight o'clock the next morning. He had slept poorly – had lain awake beside Martine for a long time after making love, finally dozing a little. But the memory tapes had kept playing in his head, and he was wide awake by six. He had gotten up, showered and shaved, and driven to the city.
He stopped first at the Emergency Room to check for messages. There were two. One, a hand-scrawled note from Roman Kasmarek, just said, "Stop by."