Edward Lee - Incubi

Veronica and Ginny could only stare.

“I’m certain we will have an enlightening time together,” the man bid. His hands splayed before him. “We all have our quests, am I right? We’re looking for something that is greater than what we actually are. That is the reason I’ve asked you here. To help me find what I’m looking for and, hence, what I am. In return, I will do the same for you. I will help you discover what you really are — what you were really meant to be.”

After the rain, the sun drew steam up Main Street’s bricks. Past the City Dock, boats rocked idly in their slips as the bay reflected clean light like slivers of shaved metal. Jack parked up by Church Circle, electing to walk.

He hoped the walk might clear his head. The after-storm air and salt breezes often revitalized him; that’s why he lived here. Every place he saw, though, and every place he passed reminded him of Veronica. He should’ve known. He should’ve driven.

There was the second-floor crab house he’d taken her to. That had been their first date, hadn’t it? Up ahead, he eyed Fran’s, which had been their last. He stared into the window of Pendragon’s, remembering the silver locket he’d bought for her there, then across the street to the art supply store where he’d bought her a bunch of pastels and things for her birthday. Two stores down was the record exchange where he’d found some obscure tape she’d mentioned — Cocteau Twins, a group he’d never heard of. Later they’d made love for hours to the layers of sedate, shifting music.

He felt disgusted with himself, a little boy pining over a first crush. Everywhere he looked, he saw Veronica.

He wondered about his guy Khoronos, and this retreat thing. He wondered when he’d see her again, and what seeing her again would be like. Strained smiles. False greetings…

A car horn blared, and a voice. “Is that pig I smell?”

Jack turned. Who the f—

“Hop in.”

It was Craig, grinning behind the wheel of a white Alfa Romeo Spider, a convertible. Vanity plates ALLINYT, and Sinatra crooning “Summer Wind” from the in-dash CD. Flawless white lacquer made the car look made of ice.

The door clicked shut like a well-oiled lock. “I see barkeeps in this town do pretty well. That or you’re a gigolo on the side.”

“Me? A kept man?” Craig shifted up to the light. “Haven’t met a woman yet who can afford to even look at the price tag.”

Jack shook his head, bemused. But oddly Craig went on, “You look like something’s bugging you.”

“What makes you think—”

“Yeah, something’s bugging you. Veronica, right?”

Now Jack frowned. “Since when do barkeeps read minds?”

“It’s part of the job, man.”

Veronica , Jack thought. It shows that much?

“Tell me if my keep’s wisdom is on the mark. You’ve been busted up with her for a couple weeks now, right? You’re depressed because she got over it quick, and you haven’t gotten over it at all. Right?”

Jack showed him a lackadaisical middle finger.

“You think she’s forgotten all about you. Right? And that makes it worse because you still love her. Right?”

Shut up , Jack wanted to say. “Yes,” he said. “How can you tell all that just by looking at me?”

“I’m a bartender. When you see things from the other side of the counter long enough, you know them at a glance. Trust me.”

“Fine. I’m impressed. What do I do?”

“Put yourself above it. If you don’t, you’re putting yourself down , and that’s a waste. You have to look at it this way: ‘I’m better than that. I’m better than her, and I’m better than whoever she’s balling now.’ You don’t have to have faith in other people, Jack. You only have to have faith in yourself.”

Faith in yourself . This sounded like good advice, but right now Jack didn’t feel better than anybody. “That’s kind of selfish, isn’t it?”

“Sure,” Craig said. The light changed, and the Spider jumped past the light. “But isn’t it more selfish to feel that your whole life’s falling apart because of a girl?”

Jack tried to assess the question. “I don’t get you.”

“We think we’ve got it tough? Shit, we don’t know what tough is. Ask people in Siberia about tough, ask people in India, in Africa. Ask all the poor fuckers who’re starving, or blind, or quadriplegic. They’ll tell you what tough is. What I’m saying is we shouldn’t take things for granted. My tuition just got hiked, and I’m pissed. You think your whole life’s shit because Veronica dumped you for some other guy. Poor us, huh? In Cuba, you’ve got to save three months to buy a pair of shoes that’ll fall apart in three weeks. In Chile, they torture people with power tools. Kids in Africa have to eat tree bark and dirt. And we think we’ve got it bad? Shit.”

Jack felt slimed in guilt. “I get you now.”

“When we take life for granted, we’re assholes. Every day we wake up and the world’s still turning — that’s a great day.”

Craig was right. Jack was taking things for granted. He was forgetting how lucky he was simply to be living in a free state. Usually simple things were the answers to the most complex questions.

The Spider’s engine hummed. Now Main Street came alive in the after-storm glitter. “So where you headed?” Craig asked.

“The Emerald Room. I’m meeting someone.”

“That’s the spirit. The best way to get over one girl is to go out with another.”

“Drop me off here is fine,” Jack said, indicating the corner of Calvert Street. “This isn’t what I’d call a hot date.”

“Who are you meeting?”

Jack began to get out. “Thanks for the pep talk, Craig. I’ll see you later tonight at the ’Croft.”

Craig’s sunglasses reflected duplicates of Jack’s face. “Don’t bullshit me, man. Who are you meeting?”

“A forensic psychiatrist whose specialty is criminal insanity.”

Of the city’s many outstanding restaurants, the Emerald Room was the best, and it had class without being stuck up, unlike certain other restaurants down on the Square. Immediately a stunning hostess smiled despite Jack’s attire, then noticed the shield clipped to his belt. He wore faded ink-stained jeans and a ratty dark raincoat through which his Smith.38 could easily be seen. “I’m here to meet a Ms. Panzram.”

“She’s right over here. Follow me, please.”

Jack had never actually met Karla W. W. Panzram, though he’d spoken to her many times on the phone. She was chief psychiatric consultant at the Clifford T. Perkins Evaluation Center. This was where all state criminals were evaluated for psychological profiles; whether they would be considered criminals or mental patients was decided here, and Karla Panzram was the one who did the deciding. She also consulted on the side for many outside police departments. Jack had couriered the TSD summary (of which there was very little) and the Barrington case file (of which there was even less) to Perkins that morning. On a psycho case, moving very quickly was very important, even when there was little to move with.

The voice on the phone had always showed him a large, even Amazonish woman. Reality showed him the opposite: delicate, if not frail, a petite woman. She had coiffed, steelish blond hair, and looked about forty. She wore a plain gray skirt and white blouse.

“Captain Cordesman, we finally meet,” she said, rising to shake hands. Her hand was cool, dry. “You don’t look like a cop.”

“I know. I look like a hippie who sleeps in a cement mixer.”

“Oh, but, you could never do that. You’re a claustrophobe.”