Jeffery Deaver - Speaking In Tongues

Oh, the desperation Matthews could see in the olive eyes was so sweet… He nearly shivered with pleasure. He whispered, “You should forget about her.”

“But I love her!”

“Forget about her. For your own good.”

Matthews realized he’d been right. The man had probably arrived at Hanson’s office toward the end of the session, planning to confront Megan-and presumably the doctor too-about Hanson’s advice on breaking up.

A little obsessive-compulsive, are we?

Or just too much testosterone in the blood?

If it weren’t for romance we poor psychiatrists would have nothing to do. As Freud said, more or less, love’s a bitch, ain’t it?

“You talked her into breaking up with me so you could see her!” Joshua said.

“Megan said that?” he snapped. “Well, it’s not true. That’s completely unethical and I’d never do it.”

Joshua blinked at the vehemence in Matthews’s voice. The therapist had deduced that the boy would be a rules-and-regulations victim. Thanks to the other parent, of course-Dad the soldier.

The therapist continued, “She decided to break up with you on her own, Joshua. And then we started going out.”

“That’s not what she said. She said you told her to break up with me.”

“No, Joshua. That’s not the way it was at all.”

“But she told me!”

“Well, we can’t blame her for not being completely honest all the time, now, can we?”

“Blame her?”

“See, Megan has trouble taking responsibility for certain things. Not unusual, not a serious problem. We all suffer from it to varying degrees. It’s hard for her to express her inner feelings. Given her parents… You know Tate and Bett?”

Hearing the names, the familiarity in Matthews’s voice, the boy’s defenses slipped a bit more. But he was still dangerous. Too confused, too much in love, riding on too much emotion. Matthews decided he couldn’t win the boy’s confidence; he’d have to go in a different direction.

“I’ve met her mother, not her father,” Joshua said.

“Well, believe me, they’re to thank for a lot of her problems. Her lying, for instance. And the way she’d lose her temper sometimes. It could be bad, couldn’t it?”

“A couple of times. But who doesn’t blow off steam?”

The question told Matthews that the boy was buying the argument. He laughed. “Joshua, put that thing down and go home. Forget about Megan. This is only going to mean heartache for you.”

“I love her.” He was nearly in tears.

By now Matthews had pegged the boy the way a geologist recognizes pyrite. An underachiever terrified of his parents. Military dad. Supermother cutting a swath through America Online or TRW. A couple who probably were-to use Megan’s tired adjective-great people. And so Joshua wouldn’t let himself be angry with them.

But the anger was there inside him. It had to be. But where? Let’s find out…

“Joshua, you don’t understand. You-” “Then tell me.”

“It’s not appropriate-”

Joshua persisted. “Tell me! What is going on?”

Matthews’s eyes went wide, as if he were losing his temper. He said, “All right! You want to know the truth?”

“Yes!”

Matthews started to speak then shook his head as if he were struggling to control himself. “No, no, you don’t.”

“Yes I do!” The boy stepped forward, menacingly.

“All right. But don’t blame me. The truth is Megan didn’t like you.” The young man’s face froze into a glossy ebony mask. “That’s not true!”

Matthews’s mouth grew tight. “She told me that the first night we slept together.”

Joshua gasped. “You’re lying.”

“You don’t think we’re lovers?” Matthews asked viciously; as befit a man no longer fearful but angry

“No, I don't.”

“Well, then how do I know about that birthmark just below her left nipple?”

Joshua couldn’t hold Matthews’s cold eyes and he looked down at the moss covering a fallen tree. His hands were shaking.

“What do we think of her pubic hair? A bit sparse? And what does she like in bed? She likes men to go down on her all night long. And she loves to get fucked in the ass.”

But not by you apparently, Matthews observed, noting the young man’s shocked face.

“Stop it!”

“During our first session she asked me how she could get rid of you.”

“No.”

“Yes!” Matthews spat out. “You know what she called you? The white nigger.”

The eyes glazed over in pain as the scalpel of these words incised the young man’s soul.

“She’d never say that.”

“You were the big minority experiment. She wanted a black man to fuck. But somebody who wasn’t too black of course. She thought you’d be a good compromise. About as white as they come. But then she decided she’d got herself a clunker. She told me she had to drink a half bottle of Southern Comfort just so she could kiss you!”

“No!”

“She and Amy’d stay up all night making fun of you. Megan does a great impression of you. She’s got you down cold.”

“Go to hell!”

“Joshua, you asked for this!” Matthews shouted. “You pushed me, so you’re going to hear the truth whether you want it or not. She wanted your pathetic face out of her life. White nigger. You were a toy. She told me again this morning. When we were fucking on the desk in my office.”

The boy erupted. And while Matthews’s words might have driven someone else to act ruthlessly and efficiently it drove Joshua manically forward toward Matthews, out of control. He dropped the machete and flailed away with his fists. “She never said that!” he cried. “She never said that never said that never said that-”

Matthews fell to the ground, covering his head with his left arm. And when he rose a moment later he was holding the machete.

The young man froze.

Matthews studied him for a moment-the boy suddenly realizing that something very bad was going on.

Joshua lowered his arms. “What are you going to do to me?” he asked in a soft, pathetic whisper.

Matthews tasted the extraordinary voice one last time and stepped forward, swinging the machete into Joshua’s throat.

The boy gave a gurgling scream and stumbled forward. Matthews leapt back, away from the boy’s swinging fist, and slashed his arm deeply Then his leg. Joshua fell onto his back, cradling the gash in his throat.

Matthews plunged the rusty blade into the young man’s abdomen. But with astonishing strength Joshua pushed Matthews off, twisted away, and rose to his knees, choking and coughing. The blood flowed between the fingers clutching his torn neck as Joshua crawled fast, like an animal, back through the gate toward the hospital. Matthews didn’t bother to pursue him. Joshua got thirty feet into the field surrounding the hospital before collapsing in a stand of Queen Anne’s lace, which turned a deep purple under the spray of his blood.

Matthews slowly walked toward him. Then stopped. He heard an animal snarling, growing closer. He backed quickly away from the quivering body.

The rottweilers appeared from behind the house. They paused, stood rigid for a moment then charged forward hungrily Matthews stepped out of the gate and swung it closed as the dogs swarmed in a single muscular pack over the body, which had looked so strong and impervious moments ago and was now just ragged meat.

Matthews leaned against the bars of the gate, enraptured, watching the young man die. Joshua fought hard-he tried to rise and struggled to hit the dogs. But it was useless. The big male rottie closed his enormous jaws on the back of Joshua’s neck and began to shake. After a moment the body went limp.