Riptide

twenty-two

In a corner of the darkness he lay curled in a fetal ball, rocking slowly back and forth, hugging his knees.

Like a fetus in the womb, awaiting birth.

Or rebirth, possibly.

At times he thought-was almost sure-that he had been born once before, as old Jack. And now, though he was a new man, he was still the old one.

At other times he thought this was a snare and a delusion, that old Jack was dead and he was only who and what he was.

But what he was-that was the true miracle. His calling, his destiny was unique in the world.

For years he’d fought against it, waging a lonely, secret battle.

At last he had yielded, and by yielding, he had won.

Now he was free. He contended against himself no longer.

It was illness that liberated him. His weakness was his strength.

People looked at him as a sad freak, a ruined shell. They pointed and mocked. But he was stronger than they knew.

Take what he had done tonight, for instance. Following little Jennifer to the gymnasium, watching her from the bleachers, in plain view of everyone, but unseen, because he wanted to be unseen.

And afterward, while she lingered over supper with that whore Sandra Price, he had returned to the house, slipping in so easily through the window.

He’d thought for sure he could find the diary. Take it from her, away from her unworthy eyes.

But it was nowhere. Nowhere.

She was a clever bitch. She’d hidden the treasure. Hidden it so craftily he could not find it.

He could have waited for her to return. Could have made her show it to him. But then he would have had to kill her. And he wasn't sure he was prepared to do that.

Not quite yet.

Soon, perhaps. His patience was great, but not inexhaustible. And he would weary of their telephone games eventually.

When he was ready, he would do it.

And he would make old Red Jack proud.