Neuropath

  HOT FEDERAL AGENT BANGS WORN-OUT ACADEMIC

  Too cool.

  He was still drowsing when she returned wearing her skirt and blouse. He watched as she craned this way and that before his full-length mirror, frowning as she tried to flatten a fabric crease across her bum, first by rubbing a palm across it, then by endlessly readjusting the waist. She murmured, 'Shit…' over and over, each time with the why-me contempt women reserve for uncooperative clothing and seditious body-parts.

  A long blink was all he needed to fall back asleep.

  But as he dozed worry shot threads through the drift of associations, then like a pyjama-bottom drawstring, began to cinch things up. He saw Neil reaching into the nethers of Nora's skirt, as though about to shake another man's hand. He saw Frankie hunched in the shadows at the top of the stairs, watching him and Sam in the bounce of pornographic lights. Then everything began to smear, flicker… Gyges scowling at his reflection. Mackenzie laughing like a gnome. Cynthia Powski shrieking, cooing, bleeding—

  The alarm went off.

  He felt nailed to his pillow by his sinuses. Moving as little as possible, he grabbed the phone and croaked, 'Work.' Suzanne's digital recording tickled his ear. 'Mental health day,' he said after the tone.

  Dragging his ass out of bed, he found the upstairs deserted. He hoped Ripley and Frankie were playing nice with Daddy's new friend. He shuffled to the bathroom, anxious and awake in a still-lurching body.

  It was obscene how good a hot shower could feel. His body exulted in the steamy downpour, even as his thoughts lurched in recrimination.

  Frankie and Ripley. They were the only important thing.

  Sam would understand. Wouldn't she?

  He trotted down the steps, still toweling his hair. Sam, looking almost as smart as she had yesterday, came out of the den with Ripley, who was clinging to her hand. They looked good, if somewhat uncomfortable, together.

  'What are you two up to?' he asked.

  Sam flashed him a baffled smile. 'I guess we're looking for something called—' she grimaced—'Skin-baby.'

  'I can't find Skin-baby anywhere, Dad.'

  'Did you look in Bart's corner?' Bartender had this corner in the basement where he liked to stash things from time to time.

  'No.'

  'Then go look there, sweetie. Bart's probably been chomping on him, her, whatever.'

  'Bart!' Ripley shouted in the imperious manner of little girls playing cross mothers. 'Did you take Skin-baby, Bart?'

  It was strange the way even the most natural moments could seem awkward in the presence of someone new. In the day-to-day routine of things, nothing felt self-conscious; all the edges were sealed by familiarity. But add a stranger to the mix and everything changed. With newcomers came the specter of judgment.

  After Ripley disappeared, Sam said, 'Skin-baby, huh?'

  'Bart! You mangy mutt!' floated up the basement stairs.

  'One of those creepy real-as-life dolls,' Thomas explained. 'They started calling it Skin-baby after they lost its clothes. For all the world it looks like a warm, pink baby…' He pursed his lips in a sour line. 'Only dead.'

  When Sam failed to reply, Thomas added, 'My kids are weird.'

  'Ahh, so they take after their father, then.'

  'Some days I think it has more to do with nurture than nature.'

  She looked at him pensively.

  'What's wrong?' he asked, even though he knew. The madness of the last couple of days had thrust intimacy upon them. Now, in the cobweb-calm of morning, that intimacy seemed a shocking thing, like mysteriously waking up without underwear. She was confused, perhaps even more so than he was, given that she was risking her career.

  And confused people tended to beat a hasty retreat.

  'I should—'

  'Look,' he interrupted. 'Have some breakfast with me and the kids. Get a feel for the Thomas Bible animal in his home environment. Do a little fact-finding before making any decisions.'

  She stared, her face all the more lovely for the small signs of their previous night. Puffy-vulnerable eyes. Slightly disheveled hair. Ad hoc cosmetics. He thought of the blue heart she had made on her tackboard back in her cubicle. Don't…

  'Sound fair?' he asked.

  She nodded nervously. 'Sounds fair.'

  He cursed himself for a fool as they walked to the kitchen. What the fuck was he doing? She wanted him—he could tell that much. But he couldn't shake the feeling that she wanted his help more. For some reason, this case had gotten its hooks into her—deep hooks.

  And he wasn't interested in package deals.

  My kids are all that matter.

  Breakfast on summer mornings never failed to remind Thomas why he loved his house, despite all the calamitous and claustrophobic memories of the divorce. It was shallow, he knew, but it seemed to have the character of a movie still. There was something poetic about the pose of things: the sunlight glowing off the panes, the kids awash in the waking glare, the gleam striping the fixtures, rolling across the clatter of knife, spoon, and fork. The shadow cast by the kettle's steam.

  Now if only Nora hadn't taken all the fucking plants.

  'Ah,' Frankie said to Sam in the best Scottish accent a four-year-old could manage, 'yew're keeper, lass!'

  Sam shot Thomas a what-planet-is-he-from? look. Her smile caught the sun.

  Thomas refilled her tea cup, then asked who wanted the last piece of bacon before—as he always did—popping it into his mouth. The kids laughed, as they always did. 'Aww, you wanted it?' he cried to Frankie in mock astonishment. 'You should have said something!'

  Sam's palmtop twittered from her purse. She swore softly after looking at the ID, then retreated into the living room. Thomas found himself admiring her buns yet again, this time through her skirt.

  'Did you show her your thingy too, Dad?' Ripley asked.

  Thomas nearly coughed up bacon bits. 'Did I show her what?'

  'Do you flush when you pee, Dad?' Frankie asked. Obviously this was Relentless Embarrassing Question Hour.

  'Okay, guys, this poopy-talk has got to stop. It's not cute anymore. Keep this up and you're going to get me arrested. No. More. Poopy-talk. Okay?'

  'Was that why the FBIs was here?' Frankie asked.

  He'd been dreading this one.

  'No,' he started carefully, 'that's not—'

  'They were here,' Ripley interrupted, 'because Uncle Cass is a psycho.'

  'Not funny, Ripley.'

  'What's a psycho, Dad?' Frankie asked.

  He glared at Ripley, warning her not to interrupt. 'A psycho is someone whose thoughts are broken. Someone who's sick. But I don't want to hear you using that word. It's not a nice word, Frankie. That goes for you too, Ripley.'

  'But aren't you a psycho?' Frankie asked.

  Thomas smiled. 'I'm a psychologist, son. I help fix people whose thoughts are broken.'

  That was the idea, anyway. Aside from mentoring the odd student here and there, all he did was pontificate in front of classrooms and argue obscure positions in journals and in conferences. But technically he was still a healer. He was just at several removes from those who needed to be healed.

  Until recently, that is.

  'How do you know when they're broken? Do they bleed?'

  'No,' he replied. Other people do.

  'They act crazy,' Ripley said. 'They don't do what they're supposed to do. Like flush the toilet.'

  'When it's yellow,' Frankie hollered with small-boy savagery, 'let it mellow!'

  'That's enough!' Thomas shouted, hitting the table. Everything jumped, cereal bowls, cutlery, and children alike.

  Scared witless, Frankie began to cry. Ripley glared.

  Thomas shook his head and grabbed a cloth to wipe up the spilled milk and Cheerios.

  'Sorry guys. Sorry-sorry. Your dad's just a little stressed, that's all.' At some point, he told himself, all this madness would end. He would invoice it, wrap it with flattering rationalizations, then store it in the Do Not Scru
tinize section of his brain. He knelt before Frankie, who leapt like a little monkey into his arms. 'Shush, sweetheart. I'm not mad at you.'

  'Are you mad at Ripley?' Frankie sniffled.

  'He's mad at Uncle Cass,' Ripley said. 'Aren't you, Daddy?'

  Thomas turned to his daughter and caressed her cheek. Good God, she was going to be an extraordinary woman. How could he be part of such a miracle?

  'Yes,' he admitted. 'I'm mad at Uncle Cass. I thought he was my friend. I thought that he loved me, you, and Frankie—'

  'And Mom?' Frankie asked.

  Thomas swallowed. The little buggers never made it easy, that was for sure.

  'And Mom,' he added. 'I thought he loved all of us, but he didn't. Listen to me, both of you. This is very important. You have to promise me that if you ever see Uncle Cass, you—'

  Just then Sam marched to her purse on the counter. She looked at them quizzically. 'Jeez, you guys, I was only in the other room.'

  'We missed you, babeeeee,' Frankie chortled. Thomas tickled him, and he squealed with laughter. He let go his father's neck and danced backward, his hands out in warding, his elbows pressed against his tummy.

  'Gotta go?' Thomas asked Sam.

  'Yeah, that was Shelley. Duty calls.'

  Moments later they were all congregated by the door, Thomas scratching his scalp, Frankie and Ripley acting like darling little hams. Sam seemed flustered by all the attention. She hitched a leg up, then leaned to pull on her left shoe. She glanced at Thomas, her eyebrows arched.

  'Hey, Sam?' Frankie asked.

  'Yes, honey?'

  'Where's your underwear?'

  Sam paused for a moment.

  'Frankie!' Thomas coughed.

  'The kid's short,' Sam muttered to herself. 'How could I forget that the kid's short?'

  'Where did they go?' Frankie persisted.

  'Good question.' Pained smile. 'Ask your Daddy, honey…'

  'Me?' Thomas exclaimed. He almost asked her if she'd checked the cushions, but thought better of it.

  Then it came to him. 'Bart,' he said, red-faced.

  'Mmm, nice,' Sam said. 'Tell ol' Bart he can keep 'em.'

  'I'll walk you to your car,' Thomas said. 'You two mouthpieces finish your breakfast.'

  He and Sam shared a significant look. People were always testing their roles against their circumstances. It was an important social reflex. She was freaked out, Thomas knew, not because of what his kids had said or done, but because they were simply there, suggesting roles and possibilities far out of proportion to a single night of crazy sex.

  'So that,' Sam said as they stepped into the morning cool of the porch, 'was a Thomas Bible animal in his home environment, hmm?'

  She laughed as he struggled for words. 'It's okay, Tom. I had fun. I'm glad I stayed.'

  Thomas could only shake his head. He hugged his shoulders as if the morning was chill, which it wasn't. He glanced down the street, struck by the way illuminated planes and complicated shadows could pinpoint an unseen sun.

  'Never a dull moment,' he said lamely.

  'I guess not.'

  'I'm sorry about Bart,' he added, still shamefaced and bewildered. 'He must have run out of pig's ears or something.'

  'Professor?'

  Call me Tom!

  'Yeah?'

  'You should quit while you're ahead.'

  Thomas sighed and laughed all at once. 'Good advice.'

  Without warning, Sam kissed him full on the lips. Her tongue probed deep.

  They disengaged after an anxious moment. Sam actually glanced toward the street, obviously worried that someone might be watching. They had broken rules, and after the night before last, Thomas was certain he would be the talk of the neighborhood. Celebrity was the last thing he wanted just now.

  'So when can I expect you at the Field Office?' she asked, as though in passing. This is crazy! her eyes shouted.

  Thomas hesitated.

  'Ah. I've been wanting to talk to you about that.'

  Her smile faltered. 'About what?'

  'About what you said the other night. You know, how it seemed Neil was doing all this for my benefit.'

  'Which is exactly why we need your help.'

  Thomas scratched his brow.

  'Maybe.' He looked at her intently. 'But I have more than myself to think about.'

  Sam searched his eyes. 'You're afraid that—'

  'Wouldn't you be?'

  She paused. 'I suppose I would. But there's measures we could take. We could make it impossible for him to find you.' She hesitated, then said, 'Or your children.'

  She felt it too, he realized, the superstitious paranoia that mere talk could turn horrific possibilities into horrific eventualities. Humans were hard-wired to see story-arcs where none existed. The hero had to suffer—everyone knew that.

  'You don't know him,' Thomas said. 'Neil is… gifted. He has an uncanny ability to circumvent obstacles.'

  'Yeah, well, he's met his match, don't you think?'

  'In the FBI?'

  'I was thinking of you.'

  Thomas shook his head. 'Wrong answer, Agent Logan. For as long as I've known him, the guy's kicked my ass in everything from Risk to racquetball.'

  'But you wouldn't be playing alone this time.'

  There was something in her look that at once troubled and exhilarated him to the point of breathlessness. He could almost feel the dopamine flooding his caudate nucleus. He was falling for her, he realized—falling for her hard. And that was a problem. As Neil would say, precious little distinguished the neurochemical profile of love from that of obsessive compulsive disorder. And now, more than at any other time in his life, he needed to be rational.

  'I'd like to say that comforts me. I really would. But the FBI…'

  Sam blinked, obviously hurt. She brushed a lick of hair, as soft as floss, from her cheek. 'I was thinking of me,' she said, turning to her car.

  'Sam?' Thomas called, following her down the walk. 'Sam.'

  'It's okay, professor,' she said, tugging open the door to her Mustang. From her expression he knew she'd transformed into Agent Logan once again. 'You know Neil better than anyone else; you've got to protect your own. I can appreciate that. Believe me.' She squeezed his hand.

  'I am sorry, Sam.'

  'I know.'

  Several awkward moments passed. She swung into the car, then with a blank forward look, turned the ignition. The sound of her car had teeth.

  Frankie and Ripley were fighting at the kitchen table when Thomas came back in—something about Sam's underwear, of course. Thomas was about to intervene, but the phone startled everyone into silence. He glanced at the caller ID, cursed. He closed his eyes to gather himself, then picked up the phone.

  'Nora?'

  'Hi, Tommy. Listen, could you do me a favor?'

  For an instant he had no idea what to say. A favor? After these past couple days?

  He left the kids in the kitchen. He could hear Ripley say 'Uncle Cass… is a psychopath,' in her radio DJ voice.

  'You gotta be fucking kidding me,' he said to his ex-wife.

  'Da-ad!' Frankie called. 'Ripley said psycho!'

  'Daddy's talking to Mommy,' he called, knowing that would shut them up. It did.

  'I just need you to keep the kids for a bit longer,' Nora said.

  Thomas paused, brought up short by the quaver in her voice. He found himself surprised by just how little he had thought about her since the previous night with Sam, and idly wondered whether this was a staple of male psychology, something 'pre-programmed to maximize reproductive possibilities.' A bird in the hand, as they say…

  'Where are you calling from?'

  'It's been horrible, Tommy,' she whispered, the way she always did before crying.

  Terror flushed hot through his limbs, face, and chest.

  'What's been horrible, Nora?' He turned his back to the kids. 'What are you talking about?' His throat ached saying this, as though he had forced the words through a mor
e primal urge to cry out.

  He was seeing Neil around every corner now.

  Please-no-no—

  'The FBI,' she said, her voice hitching. In a rush of relief, Thomas realized they must have taken her into custody, probably to scare her into cooperating. 'You-you told them about me and Neil, didn't you?'

  'What did you expect me to do, Nora?' Do the crime, do the time, bitch.

  'Look, Tommy. I don't know why I told you. I-I should never have told you. The last thing I want is for you to be hurt…'

  Unfuckingbelieveable. She was apologizing for telling him that she was fucking his best friend, as though honesty were the only real sin here.

  'Yeah, I was pretty shocked,' he said with breezy cruelty. 'I mean, imagine that. Finding out your whole life was—' A sudden pang pinched his voice silent. He squeezed hot tears from his eyes. Cursed himself for an idiot. 'Imagine,' he continued in a broken voice, 'finding out your whole life w-was a fucking sham.'

  How could you do this to me, Nora? Please!

  'You're bitter,' she said, as though naming some inevitable adolescent phase.

  Fucking bitch! Fuck-fuck-fucking cunt-whore-bitch!

  Somehow he managed to squeeze out, 'I'm sure it'll pass.'

  A long, uncomfortable silence followed. Thomas realized that she was crying.

  'Hey…' he said softly.

  'What am I going to do, Tommy?'

  She loves him. Loves Neil.

  His sigh was as much the product of disgust as regret. 'Listen. You gotta get a lawyer, Nora. Don't mess around. You can be guaranteed they won't.'

  'But who?'

  'You need someone ruthless. Bloodthirsty and smart. What about that Kim guy you used with us?'

  'He's a divorce lawyer, Tom.'

  'Exactly,' he said, hanging up.

  He leaned his head against the wall for a moment, afraid he might vomit. Being mean-spirited just wasn't in his nature—no matter how hard he tried.

  Stupid. So fucking stupid!

  What was he doing, feeling ashamed? Served her fucking right.

  Besides, they were probably just bullying her.

  'I wanted to say hi!' Frankie bawled from the kitchen. Ripley stared into her empty cereal bowl.

  Thomas jumped when the doorbell rang, actually dropped the phone.