Shiver

24

Wendy accepted the statue with numb fingers. She stared at it, turning it slowly in her hand.

“See the detail,” the Gryphon breathed. “The delicacy of the carving.”

“Very pretty,” she said quietly.

“Like you.”

She went on studying the figurine between her fingertips. Her body was a huddle of shock. Her mind was empty. She felt as if that hammer of his, the one he’d used to smash the car window last night, had slammed down on her brain and made it into mush.

“You… you said you love me,” she whispered at last.

“Yes.”

“But…” She almost choked on the words, on the idea of having this conversation with this man. “But that’s impossible. That’s…”

Crazy, she wanted to say, but didn’t.

“Of course it’s impossible, Wendy. Every great thing is impossible. That’s precisely what makes it great. That’s what greatness is: the act of overcoming. Overcoming the possible, the normal, the mundane.”

She swallowed, barely hearing him, her mind occupied with a new question. “Is this the statue you were going to give me last night?”

“Yes. But now it holds a very different significance.”

“Does it?”

“Yes, it does. Then it was a marker of death. Now it is a token of my love to you. You must believe that, Wendy.”

He kept saying her name, as if he took pleasure in pronouncing it. Her first name only; she wasn’t Miss Alden to him anymore. The obscene familiarity implied in his choice of words revolted her.

She drew a sharp breath. “Look. If you’re serious about… about what you said… then let me go. Let me just walk out of here.”

“No.”

“But if you”-say it, go on, say it-“if you love me…”

“I do love you. Honestly, I do. But I can’t release you, because you don’t understand what’s happened between us. Not yet, anyway.”

He knelt before her, tapping the pistol lightly against one knee. His sunglasses gazed blankly at her like insect eyes.

“I don’t blame you. I don’t question your lack of faith in me.” He sighed heavily, a melodramatic, grandiloquent sigh. “This world is so choked with ugliness and pettiness and commonness. Sometimes it seems hard to believe that any genuine beauty or spirituality could exist here. But look, Wendy.”

His hand closed lightly over her wrist, lifting the figurine closer to her face.

“If something as special as this can be shaped out of mud, out of dirt, then so can the love that is our destiny.” He shrugged. “But until you see the truth in what I’m saying, until you’re willing to accept it, I’m afraid I simply can’t let you out of my sight.”

His grip on her wrist tightened. He stood up and pulled her to her feet. Her legs felt weak and wobbly. There was a frightening tilt to the ground that hadn’t been there before.

“Now, come along,” he said as if to a hesitant child. He gave her arm a little tug. “Come on.”

She let him lead her back to the white Ford, its door still hanging open. He released her hand, and she sagged against the car, her knees buckling. She had no idea what he would do next. She almost didn’t care. Fear had drained out of her, leaving her hollow.

“Now, please… get in.”

She obeyed. As she was settling into the passenger seat, he leaned in and tapped her arm. “Behind the wheel, if you don’t mind.”

She realized he wanted her to drive. He’d made her enter on the passenger side only to ensure that she would never be out of his reach.

With difficulty she climbed into the driver’s seat. Sliding in beside her, he shut the door and handed her a set of keys. She stashed the clay statue in the pocket of her blouse, then turned the ignition key in the slot. The engine growled.

“Excellent,” he said pleasantly. “I don’t know about you, but I feel that this whole thing really is working out quite well.”

His grating cheerfulness only made things worse. If things could be worse. If anything could be worse than this.

“Where are we going?” she asked flatly.

“I’ll tell you in a second. But first, listen to me. Listen good.”

She stared straight ahead, rigid in her seat.

“Look at me when I talk to you.”

Reluctantly she turned toward him. For the first time she looked, really looked, at his face. She saw brown hair, curly and close-cropped. A high forehead. Thick brows. A fleshy nose, humorless mouth, square clean-shaven chin.

It was not the face of a monster, not a face that belonged in a lineup or a mug shot or a chamber of horrors. It was a face she could pass on any street, a face so ordinary it almost didn’t exist.

Then, with a small, distant shock, Wendy realized she knew that face from somewhere. But she had no strength to think about it now.

“I know you still want to get away,” the Gryphon was saying quietly. “And you’ll think of all kinds of clever ways to do it. Send the car into a skid, drive off the road into a ditch-things like that. You’re most resourceful, as I’ve already learned, much to my chagrin.” His voice dropped lower, till it was nearly inaudible. “But there’s one small detail you ought to be apprised of, Wendy dearest. Even though I’ve come to care for you very deeply, even though I cut you a good deal of slack just now, even with all that, my patience is not unlimited. To put it quite plainly, if you do attempt to pull off any of those clever schemes you’re known for… I’ll have no choice but to kill you.”

The gun jerked forward, the muzzle biting the skin beneath her jaw like a hungry animal.

“I’ll blow your fucking head off!” he snarled.

With his free hand, he whipped the sunglasses from his face, and suddenly she was staring into his eyes, gray eyes, small and flat and dull, like nailheads.

“Do you hear me, Wendy? Do you? Do you? ”

She tried to nod, but the gun in the hollow of her jaw made it impossible. “I hear you.”

“Good.” He smiled, withdrawing the gun a few inches. His features smoothed out, and his voice was calm again, but hardly reassuring; she thought of the dangerous, unreal composure of an executioner. “I apologize for swearing. I wouldn’t get so upset if I weren’t genuinely concerned about your welfare. The thought of losing you after all I’ve gone through to make you mine… Well, it makes me a little crazy, I guess.”

“I guess,” Wendy echoed.

Her fear was back now. And with it came the knowledge that she still wanted to live. Despite everything that had happened or soon would, she wasn’t ready to fold up and die. The thought astonished her and, in an odd way, made her proud.

“Now for those directions I promised,” the Gryphon said matter-of-factly. “Go north on Sepulveda, over the hill, into the Valley. We could take the freeway, but I’d prefer not to travel that fast. Just in case I have to shoot you and seize control of the car. That could be dangerous at high speed.”

“Yes,” she agreed soberly, “it could.”

“At the north end of the Valley, we’ll hook up with San Fernando Road, which will take us to the Sierra Highway in the high desert. I’ve got a place out there, you see.”

He chuckled. It was the sound of rattling bones.

“My special place.”

She swallowed and put the Ford in reverse.

“Hey,” he said sharply. “Wait a second.”

She looked at him, wondering what he would want now.

“Buckle up,” he said.

“Right.” She fumbled with the strap.

“It’s dangerous to drive without a seatbelt,” he informed her with evident sincerity as he strapped himself in. “And besides, in California it’s against the law.”

Finally she got the buckle to snap. “Well,” she whispered, her voice dark, “we wouldn’t want to break the law, would we?”

She pulled out of the alley and turned onto Sepulveda, heading north. She tried not to think of anything at all.

The road was snaking into the mountains when the Gryphon turned on the radio. Music crackled through aged speakers. John Denver singing “Fly Away.” The lyrics hurt, because they named her thoughts too clearly.

She wanted to fly away. Wanted it so badly.

“You like this song?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“I like it too. You see, we have a lot in common.”

Sepulveda carried them over the Santa Monica range. Wendy was careful to stay within the speed limit. She didn’t want a motorcycle cop on their tail. She had a feeling the man beside her might react rather badly to that development.

“Pretty,” he said suddenly.

She jumped a little, startled. “What?”

“The snow. See it?”

He pointed. She looked ahead and saw the distant cones of the San Gabriel Mountains, dusted white by winter storms.

“Yes,” she said. “It is. Very pretty.”

“But not as pretty as you.”

She tightened her grip on the steering wheel.

“You know what they call snow when it’s newly fallen?” he asked. “Virgin snow. Because it’s still so pure. Not fouled and spotted with dirt. And its purity makes it beautiful and special.” He looked at her. “I’m glad you made your boyfriend sleep on the couch last night. That was the right thing to do.”

“Was it?”

“Uh-huh. Most women of your generation wouldn’t display such a sense of decorum, of propriety. People nowadays, they’re like… like animals. Like rutting goats. They disgust me.”

“I didn’t make him sleep on the couch,” she whispered, not knowing quite what made her say it,

“Sure you did. He was there when I came in.”

“But I didn’t make him. It was his idea. He offered. He didn’t want to take advantage of me. He was… a gentleman.”

“Was he? Maybe. Or maybe he was just trying to con you. Gain your trust. Men do that, you know. They pretend to be your friend, when all they really want is… is…” He looked away, and Wendy realized with a stab of astonishment that he was embarrassed. “Well,” he said vaguely, “you know.”

“Yes. I know.” Out of the corner of her eye she watched his face in profile against the blur of the roadside. “But you’re different. Aren’t you?”

“I am.”

“So”-she spoke slowly, forcing out the words like paste through a tube-“what is it you want?”

He swiveled in his seat and looked right at her. “You, Wendy. I want you. But not in the way other men do. Lesser men. Men who could never appreciate you, could never hope to equal your strength of spirit. What you and I will have-oh, it will be something wonderful. A merging of minds, a commingling of souls. Nothing cheap or casual or meaningless. A partnership that will lift us both to new heights, heights neither one of us could have reached alone. That’s what I want, Wendy. I won’t take anything less. I want you. I want you. I want you.”

Anger and terror and revulsion boiled inside her, reached a flashpoint and merged in a white heat of fury that made her reckless.

“But I don’t want you!” she screamed, then stiffened, catching her breath, afraid of what she’d said and of what he would do.

But he merely smiled.

“You will,” he said with finality. “Tonight.”

She licked her lips. Her heart thumped in her ears. Sweat trickled down the insides of her arms, pasting the blouse to her skin. She hated to ask the next question, for fear of what the answer surely would be; but she had to ask it, because she had to know, just had to.

“What… what’s going to happen tonight?”

He didn’t answer. Instead he snapped his fingers with a sudden thought.

“Oh, gosh. I knew there was something I forgot to do. We’re running low on gas, aren’t we?”

Her gaze flicked to the fuel gauge, where the arrow was brushing the red zone.

“Almost empty,” she reported.

“Darn. We’ll have to fill up, then.”

Fill up. At a gas station. With people around. Lots of people. He wouldn’t shoot her there. Not in front of everybody. Would he? Maybe he would. But if she took him by surprise… if he didn’t react quite fast enough…

All she had to do was throw open the car door and run, get inside the office or the service bay, and then-

“I know what you’re thinking, Wendy.”

A wave of light-headedness passed over her. She felt as if his fingers had been prying inside her brain. “I’m not thinking anything.”

“Oh, yes, you are.” He sounded amused. “It’s written all over your face. Little Red Riding Hood thinks she’s found the golden opportunity to get away from the Big Bad Wolf.” The gun pressed deeper into her side. “But you’re wrong, Wendy. Very wrong. Fatally wrong. I warned you about what would happen if you tried anything. I made myself explicitly clear. Didn’t I? Didn’t I? ”

“Don’t kill me,” she breathed, the words coming out so spontaneously she was astonished to hear them.

“Don’t make me,” he answered coolly. “Lock your door.”

She depressed the lock.

“Good. Now if you have any thoughts of making a break for it when we stop for gas, consider this. You’re wearing a safety belt. Your door is locked. It’ll take time to unbuckle that belt and unlock that door. A full second, at least. How long do you think it will take me to put a bullet in you?”

She didn’t answer.

“How long?”

“Okay,” she whispered. “I understand.”

“You yell for help, you honk the horn, you do anything out of the ordinary-and you’re dead.”

“I understand,” she said again, more sharply.

The Ford coasted down the mountain into Studio City. A few blocks ahead, the bright orange ball of a Union 76 sign hung against the sky like a setting sun.

“Pull in there,” he ordered.

She guided the Ford onto the asphalt and pulled up alongside a full-service island, then shut off the motor, silencing Rosanne Cash, who was singing about a runaway train. Wendy knew about trains like that. She was on one right now.

“What now?” she breathed.

“When the attendant asks, you say you want a full tank.” He was buttoning up his brown coat to conceal the policeman’s uniform underneath. “And remember what I told you.” The gun snaked behind her, the metal cylinder of the five-inch barrel hard against her lower back.

She cranked down the window, waited for an attendant to arrive, and asked him to fill the tank.

“Check the oil?” he asked briskly. “Tire pressure?”

A painfully false smile distorted her face. “No, thanks.”

The attendant hooked up the gas-pump nozzle, then squeegeed the windshield with broad vigorous strokes. As he was scraping off the soapy water, Wendy turned toward the passenger seat.

“I don’t have any money with me, you know,” she whispered.

“That’s all right.”

“What are we going to do? Drive away without paying?”

“Wendy.” He looked genuinely distressed. “That would be immoral. Of course we won’t do anything like that.” With one hand he fumbled in his coat pocket and gave her a well-worn wallet. “There ought to be enough in there to cover it.”

The attendant rang up the total. Wendy handed him a couple of bills through the open window.

“Thanks,” he said as he dug in his pocket for change. “Nice set of wheels.”

He was looking right at her. She looked back. Their eyes met. In that instant she considered trying to signal him somehow, with a facial expression or a whispered word or… or something.

Courage failed her. She could imagine the shuddering blast of the gunshot as it tore through her spine.

“We like it,” she said with another faltering smile.

“Yeah, they really built ’em back then. What is it, a sixty-two?”

“Sixty-three,” the Gryphon said helpfully from the passenger seat.

The attendant nodded. “Nice condition.”

“Well,” the Gryphon said politely, “I’ve always believed that if you take care of your car, it’ll take care of you.”

“Hey, you know it.” The attendant handed Wendy her change. “Have a nice one.”

Wendy started the engine and steered the car out of the service station, rolling up the window. The deadly pressure on her back eased.

“Congratulations,” the killer told her. “You’re a very smart girl.”

She took a breath. “You never answered my question,” she said softly. “What’s going to happen tonight?”

“Oh, nothing so awful.” He was smiling again. “We’re going to get to know each other a little better, that’s all. We’ve been enemies, and now we’re going to be friends. And something more than friends.”

Her voice was a whisper. “Something more?”

“Lovers, Wendy,” he breathed. “That’s what we’ll be. And I promise you, once you’ve known my passion and my power, then you will love me too.”