Terrorscape (22 page)

She shivered with loathing.

When she came out of the bathroom clad in
nothing more than a towel she discovered that Gavin
had taken the opportunity to dispose of her clothes,
leaving her with little choice to don whatever he had
brought for her. He seemed to be laughing at her
silently as he went into the bathroom to shave,
leaving her with a small window of privacy to dress
herself, quickly.

I hope he cuts his throat
, she thought, yanking on
the jeans.
I hope he slices into one of the veins. That the
blood spurts out onto the mirror, the walls, and everything;
I hope he dies.

The white tank top was snug, tight, and cut low.
He had bought a forest green cardigan to go with it
that felt like cashmere and probably was. The outfit
looked good—of course it did, he had an eye for color
—and the green of the sweater matched her eyes
perfectly.

“It's real wool.”

He appeared in the mirror behind her, naked now
from the waist up. He was one of those men who
shaved bare-chested so as not to drip the lather on his
shirt. His beard had been tamed to a fashionable
shadow around his chin and mouth. He smelled like
the sandalwood soap, and it was even stronger fresh.

“A wolf in sheep's clothing,” she murmured.

“You are many things, my dear, but a wolf is not
one of them.” She stumbled a little when his hands
slid under her arms, wrapping around her midsection
as he embraced her from behind like a lover. Which,
she realized sickeningly, she supposed he was. “Nor a
lamb, either,” he said absently.

“Then what?”
“Hmm?”
“What am I?”

“A fox, perhaps. Yes. They are predators, preyed
upon by man and wolf alike. And they, too, are black
—” he tucked her hair behind her ear, stroking the
skin beneath it with the pad of his thumb “—and
white—” he leaned down, so the last word was a
scarcely audible purr, “—and red.”

She flushed, and his laughter rumbled along her
back. He looked normal when he laughed. Almost.
Yes, it softened his face and warmed the eyes. But that
was an illusion like so much else.

“What about my clue?”
“Savior.”

That was it? That was the clue she was supposed
to use to solve a puzzle that would save a life?

That was what she labored for?
She felt him smile against her neck.
“See you in three days, vixen mine.”
Chapter Fifteen

Rhododendron

The dorm was empty when Val arrived back,
much to her relief. It was around 7 P.M. If Mary was
gone long enough she could attempt to pass off her
absence as an excursion downtown. Shopping, maybe
—or dining out. Not that Mary would believe her.

(You're always here whenever I come home unless
you're at school or something and then you just come right
back. You never go
any
where.)

People pretended it was her that they cared
about, but it all came down to self-preservation in the
end. Unadulterated altruism was a thing of legend.
Even if people helped because it made them feel
good, that was still self-motivated at heart.

Thinking about Mary and her attempts to “help”
filled her with a sad, helpless rage. She didn't want to
be a project, or an object of sympathy. She just wanted
to be left alone. What she wanted was companionable
solitude.
Et tu, Brute?

Running
errands.
That
was
dry
enough.
Utilitarian. Mary ought to accept that. Val hoped she
did, anyway; she couldn't stand another intervention.

If I have to work this hard at pretending to be normal,
what does that make me?

 

Stupid question. A freak, obviously.

Her cell phone chose that moment to ring. The
horrible thing seemed to have a preternatural sense
for catching her with her head down. She looked at
the display with dread but it wasn't Lisa's number.
She didn't recognize this one. That meant nothing,
and it didn't mean it wasn't him.

She sighed. “Hello?”
“I know you're alone.”

The words were like something out of a B-rated
horror movie.
Not Gavin.

Probably some old pervert.

But her hand was shaking. That was one thing
that escaped translation in horror movies; everything
was so much more frightening in real life.

“Fuck off,” she said.

 

“Is that any old way to great an old friend
Valerian?”

 

Val froze. “Who is this? How did you get this
number?”

 

“I'm the man who's going to kill you—and that's
all you need to know.”

 

The world ground to a halt. “What?”

There was a brief sound that might have been
laughter. “You heard.”
And then the line disconnected.

▪▫▪▫▪▫▪

 

“Alex, I'm serious. The girl needs friends. Not just
a boyfriend, but actual friends.”

 

“What are you? Chopped liver?”

A Hitchcock movie was playing on the TV but
neither Alex nor Mary were watching it. Mary tugged
at one of her bracelets, playing with the stretchy
plastic material. “I think I'm the only friend she has.”

Alex shook his head. “This is college, Mare. If she
doesn't have any friends there's a damn good reason.
She's a freak.”

“That's a horrible thing to say!”

“It's true, though. Didn't you say she never leaves
her room practically? That's pretty fucked-up right
there. And then what happened with Jade? Did she
freeze his cock off with that ice queen act?”

“I haven't heard from him in a while,” Mary lied.
“I'm not surprised.”
“Jade isn't like that.”
“You're delusional.”

Alex didn't live with Val. He couldn't see how she
looked all the time, as if the world were coming to an
end around her and she was powerless to stop it.

“She's so unhappy.”
“So send her to a psychiatrist.”
“I don't think she would like that.”
“Crazy people never think they're crazy. Proof

that she's completely off her rocker.”
“Maybe we should have another party.”

“Jesus Christ. Another one? I'm still cleaning up
the beer cans from the last one.”

 

Mary pointedly eyed his dorm, which he shared
with three other boys. “I don't see a real difference.”

“Not my fault these jizz-rags can't locate the
fucking trashcan.” Alex raked back his blonde hair so
that a small diamond stud caught the light. “Look, I'll
think about, all right?”

He leaned in and Mary pushed him away. “I was
thinking this Friday.”

“Didn't somebody call the cops at that last one?”
“Not ours.”
“Aren't you worried about drugs?”
“It'll be a small party.”

“There's no such thing as a small party.” He
framed the words in air quotes, in case it wasn't clear
enough that he was mocking her.

“We can have it at your dorm since you're so
concerned about ours.”

 

“Why are you so set on this?”

“Because I'm worried about Val. I told you before,
she's spending too much time alone. That's the last
thing she should be doing right now, especially when
she looks so depressed.”

It
annoyed
her.
Val
was
always
there,
as
permanent a fixture in the room as the bed or the
lamp. Staring absently into space with that hangdog
look. Never mind that she sometimes felt like being
alone. That she had times when she was also upset,
and had to hold it in, and tiptoe around Val so as not
to upset her further.

And yes, Mary was a little worried, too. Who was
to say that Val
wasn't
crazy? That she wouldn't snap
one day and open fire, turning Halcyon University
into another Columbine or Virginia Tech?

She certainly fit the profile.

 

At least if Val was out of the dorm, doing things,
living her life, Mary would be less likely to be around
her when everything inevitably went to hell.
Alex sighed. It wasn't a particularly disagreeable
sigh and Mary leaped in for the kill.

 

“Do you know any people who'd be good to
invite?”

 

“Fuck, I don't know. Brian Murphy, maybe. Or
Vance Benveniste.”

 

“Benveniste? That sounds familiar—doesn't he go
to this school?”

 

“I don't think so. But he's a real party guy. Has his
own apartment and everything.”

“He's not some old dude, is he?” Mary scrunched
up her nose. “What does he look like?”
“I don't know. I'm not queer. I don't notice that
shit.”

“What does he look like?” Mary repeated. “He
has a face, doesn't he?”

 

“God, you're so—” he shook his head “—tall,
dark hair, eyes that are some color…maybe blue.”

“Is he cute?”
“He has a sister. Now she's cute.”

“Good. Invite him—and her too,” she conceded
reluctantly. “They sound perfect.”

 

▪▫▪▫▪▫▪

Val tried to take notes but her professor's voice
swam in and out of focus. She was afraid someone
would notice what felt so painfully obvious to her.
That
it
was
inscribed
in
every
breath,
every
movement, every fiber of her being. Whenever a pair
of eyes happened in her direction, her body braced
itself for the accusation until they moved on. Then she
collapsed in relief only to have the cycle begin anew.

Nobody is looking at you.
No, that wasn't quite true. The professor was.

“Do
you think
you could save
your music
appreciation for another time, Mr. Winters? I believe
the school offers a class for it. In the meantime, please
refrain from using your headphones during my
lectures.”

He was looking behind her. Val sighed in relief.

“There are ten personality disorders arranged in
three
clusters
within
Hendricks
continued.
the
DSM-IV,”
Professor

He
had
a
droning
voice,
probably because of his age, and even though the
class was interesting it put a lot of people to sleep. His
eyes roved, searching for another victim in that
student foolish enough to take a quick snooze or
munch from a chip bag.

Val stared down at her textbook. On the right
hand corner she had sketched a grid that looked
suspiciously like a chessboard. She erased it guiltily.

What are you thinking?

Professor Hendricks clicked his remote and the
projector switched to a slide with the masks of
Comedy and Tragedy. Over the masks were the words
“Cluster B”, written in Gothic font.

“Today we're going to focus on the personality
disorders,
with
behaviors
classified
as
dramatic,
emotional, and erratic. There are a multitude of
symptoms, some of which you may recognize within
yourself, but I strongly advise against checking
yourself into the nearest institution just yet….”

A few people laughed obligingly. Val, thinking of
her own checkered mental history, remained in tightlipped silence.

“First
we
will
cover
borderline
personality
disorder. People afflicted with borderline personality
disorder often report feeling empty inside. It is as if
they are an emotional cup that can never be fully
filled, try as they might.

“They have intense relationships which tend to be
very black and white. Very 'all or nothing.' Anything
less than absolute devotion is pure hatred. There is no
middle ground, no gray areas.”

“Sounds like my ex-girlfriend,” muttered one of
the boys behind Val, eliciting a laugh from his friends.

“Excuse me, but I thought I made it quite clear
that this lecture material is not intended for providing
diagnoses, Mr. Chemmanoor.”

The boy muttered a half-convincing apology.
Professor Hendricks nodded curtly and continued on
to
discuss
histrionic
and
narcissistic
personality
disorders, pausing to point out the many similarities
between the two, and how to differentiate between
them.

This was in the book. She had been through it,
highlighting the pertinent information. Twice.
“How
many
of
you
have
ever
been
called
antisocial?”

 

Fabric rustled as a few students raised their
hands. Val kept hers between her thighs.

“That's what I thought.” He cleared his throat.
“The correct term for you folks, who I assume are
merely shy, is actually asocial—that is, somebody
who is indifferent to or exists separately from society.
This is an individual who spends a lot of time alone
engaging
in
solitary
activities.
Such
traits
are
generally considered relatively normal on the vast
continuum comprising human behavior.

“Antisocial
behavior
consists
of
markedly
different behavioral patterns. Often criminal, though
not always. They
may
be disingenuous, selfish,
pathologically
exploitative.
Somebody
who
is
antisocial may not be shy at all. Quite the opposite.
Many antisocial individuals appear very social and
charming at a glance. They also tend to be quite
successful with the opposite sex.

“However,
the
antisocial
personality
is
not
someone you would want as a romantic partner or
spouse. This is an individual who has no qualms
about going against societal norms to preserve their
own self-interests. To them, other people are simply a
means to an end. These people lack empathy and a
true sense of conscience—at least in the way that we
understand it. You may be familiar with the term of
sociopath. It is an obsolete term but refers to this
diagnosis.

“The symptoms of antisocial personality disorder
consist of pathological lying, narcissism, superficial
relationships, impulsiveness, thrill-seeking or risktaking
behaviors,
promiscuity,
profound
lack
of
empathy, and a disregard for their own personal
safety and the safety of others, in addition to societal
norms, as I mentioned earlier.

“Given these traits, it may not surprise you that
many
criminals
are
often
diagnosed
as
having
antisocial personality disorder. Indeed, the greatest
proportion of violent crimes are committed by a
relatively small percentage of individuals, mostly
those
with
antisocial
personality
disorder—yes?
Question in the back?”