Neuropath

  Like most, Thomas had moved on. Humans were hardwired for conviction, thoughtless or otherwise, and had to work to suspend judgment—work hard. He had taken the low road, allowing the assumptions to crowd out the suspicions. The years passed, the children grew, and he found himself packing all the old questions away, even as he continued playing Professor Bible, destroyer of worlds in the classroom. Nothing killed old revelations quite so effectively as responsibility and routine.

  But Neil… For whatever reason, Neil had never let go. Thomas humored his ramblings, of course, the way you might humor old high school football stories, or any reminiscence of irrelevant glory. 'Oh, yeah, you sacked him real good.' He even wondered whether it was a sign of some hidden distance between them, an inability to connect outside of on-campus residences and off-campus bars.

  Last night had simply been more of the same, hadn't it?

  He was trying to talk me out of loving my kids.

  Peekskill glared beyond the windshield, whipping this way and that as Thomas gunned the straightaways and squealed around the turns. He peered like a pensioner over the steering wheel when he turned down Nora's crescent. The sight of her black Cherokee in the driveway made him numb.

  So much for her trip.

  His heart sucked ice-cubes in his chest.

  'San Francisco my ass,' he muttered.

  Special Agent Samantha Logan put her white Mustang into park and let it idle. She flicked her cigarette outside, watched Thomas Bible through the windshield. He trotted up to the front door of a grey-brick bungalow. He looked agitated.

  Somehow she'd known he was heading home. She'd followed him from Columbia to the West 116th subway station, then raced north to beat him to Peekskill—halfway to fucking Poughkeepsie! Somehow she'd known there was more to Thomas Bible than met the eye.

  If it wasn't for Shelley Atta and her insistence that Bible see the BD, they might already have what they needed. But no, the idiot thought Cynthia Powski would rattle the man into compliance. As if anyone with two marbles to rub together would be anything other than outraged by Neil Cassidy's little 'sitcum', as her sometime-partner Danny Gerard had wickedly dubbed it. When Atta had mentioned her plan, the first thing Samantha had wondered was how she herself would react. But that was the problem with pricks like Shelley Atta: they just couldn't step outside their own skin. Or didn't care to.

  Samantha Logan had understood why Thomas Bible had kicked them out of his office. She had even secretly applauded him for doing it. But why had he raced home afterward? And why had he raced here immediately after that?

  Just where was here, anyway?

  Thomas paused in the shade of the porch. He'd been to Nora's 'new place' more times than he could count, picking up the kids, delivering the kids, and once to help her carry in a new refrigerator—something he still alternately congratulated and cursed himself for doing (they had ended up screwing on her tacky living room couch). And yet despite the frequency of his visits, nothing about the place felt familiar. He was an interloper here, an unwelcome passer-through. The long low porch with its impenetrable windows, its bustling planters and sun-hanging geraniums, its whitewashed railing and black aluminum door, had always seemed to personify Nora somehow.

  And Nora no longer loved him.

  But there was more to his hesitation; there was Neil and the FBI as well. Why had Neil mentioned her? And what was it he had said? Something. Something… Thomas rubbed his face in frustration.

  This isn't happening.

  He simply stood and breathed, stared like an idiot at the closed door. The house seemed preternaturally quiet. When he blinked, he no longer saw Cynthia Powski, he saw inside.

  Signs of struggle. Lines of blood roped across hardwood floors…

  No way. No fucking way.

  A fly buzzed in the corner of the window's concrete sill, caught in a dead spider's woolly webbing. Another bounced across the opaque glass, summer quick. Sunlight streamed through the railing, casting oblong bars of brilliance across the floor. One of them warmed his left shoe.

  Nora. Even after so much bitterness, so much dismay and disbelief, he continually worried about her living all alone. Patronizing concerns, he knew, but…

  After so long. After trying so hard.

  This is crazy!

  He rapped the door, his knuckles lighter than air.

  He waited in silence.

  A dog barked from some neighbor's backyard. Kids squealed through a series of swimming pool explosions. Poosh… Poosh-poosh.

  No one answered the door.

  Thomas pressed thumb and forefinger against the bridge of his nose, tried to massage away the ache. From over fences, a masculine voice shouted at what must have been the swimming children. Thomas could almost see the water making oil of sunlight. He could almost smell the chlorine.

  He knocked again, harder and faster.

  Quiet.

  She probably was in San Francisco. She probably took a cab to the train station. Or maybe she went with what's-his-face, that young intern at her agency—didn't he live somewhere in Peekskill? He probably picked her up. Maybe Neil hadn't said anything about seeing Nora. There was no—

  Thomas grasped the cool knob, twisted… only to have the door yanked out of his hands.

  'Tommy—' Nora said, blinking at the ambient brightness beyond the eaves. She had a nimble brunette's face, with a model's pillow lips and large, hazel eyes that promised honesty and a shrewd accounting of favors. Her straight, short hair was as Irish fine as her skin was Irish pale. Staring at her, Thomas suddenly remembered dreaming of their wedding reception that very morning, and it seemed she had looked the way she looked now, like yearning, like sanctuary and regret…

  Like the only woman he had ever truly loved.

  'I-I can explain,' she said.

  'Have you been crying?' Thomas asked. Beyond the confounded emotions, he felt relieved to the point of sobbing. At least she was safe. At least she was safe.

  What the hell was he thinking? Neil a psychopath?

  She itched an eye. 'No,' she said. 'What are you doing here? Where are the kids? Is everything okay?'

  'The kids are fine. They're with Mia. I came… ah…'

  She watched him.

  'I came because Neil stopped by last night. He mentioned something about seeing you.' Thomas smiled, finally finding his stride. 'Since you'd told me you were going to San Francisco I thought I'd swing by to make sure everything is alright. Is everything alright?'

  The question seemed to catch her off-guard, or perhaps it was the intensity of his concern. 'Everything's fine,' she said with a sour what's-this-really-about smile.

  A strange moment passed between them as he stepped into the foyer, a memory of forgotten intimacy, perhaps. Their eyes locked.

  'The San Francisco trip was bullshit, wasn't it?'

  'Yes,' she said.

  The exchange had been completely involuntary, or so it seemed to Thomas.

  'Why, Nora? Why lie?' Resentment was back in the driver's seat.

  Not like this… C'mon, you know better.

  'Because…' Nora said lamely.

  'Because… Christ, Nora, even fucking Frankie could do better than that.'

  'Don't say that. Don't say "fucking Frankie".' You know I hate it when you say that.'

  'How about San-fucking-Francisco? Or does that get under your skin too?'

  'Screw you, Tommy,' Nora said. She turned toward the kitchen. She was wearing a light cotton dress, the kind that made men wish for gusts of naughty wind.

  Thomas glanced down at his hands. They trembled ever so slightly. 'So what did you and Neil talk about?' he called.

  'Not much,' Nora replied bitterly. She turned to address the granite counter-top. 'He didn't come to talk…' She laughed, as though marveling over carnal memories. Then she dared his astounded gaze, her expression tight with shame, resentment—all those things people use to digest their sins. 'He never does.'

  Thomas stepped into the air-co
nditioned gloom.

  It was funny how natural such things could seem, how easily you could convince yourself you knew all along. Even as he recoiled at the impossibility, buzzed through the slow-assembling implications, part of him whispered, Of course.

  He forced the words past the hornet sting in the back of his throat. 'How long?' There was no certainty, no breath in his lungs, so he repeated himself just to be sure. 'How long have you been fucking my best friend?'

  Nora and Neil… Neil and Nora…

  Her eyes were swollen. She blinked tears and looked away, saying, 'You don't want to know.'

  'While we were married,' Thomas said. 'Huh?'

  Nora turned back, her expression somewhere between anguish and fury. 'I just… just needed him, Tommy. I just needed…' She struggled with her lips. 'More. I needed more.'

  Thomas turned to the door, grabbed the handle.

  'Have you seen him?' Nora called, her voice half-panicked. 'I m-mean… do you know where he is?'

  She loved him. His ex-wife loved Neil Cassidy. His best friend.

  He turned and grabbed her. 'You want to know where Neil is?' he cried. He cuffed her on the side of the face. He clenched his teeth and shook her. She would be so easy to break! He started pressing her backward. But then, in some strange corner of nowhere, he could hear himself whisper, This is a jealousy response, an ancient adaptation meant to minimize the risk of reproductive losses…

  He dropped his hands, dumbfounded.

  'Neil,' he spat. 'Let me tell you something about Neil, Nora. He's fucking snapped. He's started killing people and making videos to send to the FBI. Can you believe it? Yeah! Our Neil. The FBI visited me this morning, showed me some of his handiwork. Our Neil is a fucking monster! He makes the Chiropractor or whatever they're calling him look like a choirboy!'

  He paused, struck breathless by the look of horror on her face. He lowered his hands, backed toward the door.

  'You're crazy,' she gasped.

  He turned to the door.

  'You're lying! Lying!'

  He left the door open behind him.

  The ground seemed to pitch beneath his feet. The walk to his car seemed more a controlled fall. He leaned against the door to catch his breath. The metal stung his palms, and he found himself thinking how when it came to heat, the whole world was a battery, sucking it up, then releasing it in a slow burn. A convertible rolled past, filled with teenagers shouting over subwoofers. He glared at them in a disconnected-from-consequences way.

  Neil and Nora.

  The Acura's interior was amniotic, the air was so hot.

  He placed trembling hands on the steering wheel, caressed the leather. Then he punched the dash five times in rapid succession.

  'FUCK!' he roared.

  It seemed the world was ending. That the Argument—

  'Professor Bible?' he heard someone call. A woman.

  He squinted up at her beautiful face. 'Agent Logan,' he managed to reply.

  She smiled cautiously.

  'Professor Bible, I think we need to talk.'

  CHAPTER FOUR

  August 17th, 11.56 a.m.

  Thoughts like wasps at the beach, nagging, threatening, never really stinging. That's what it had been like. Of course he'd worried about Neil and Nora on occasion, but he had always decided to err on the side of trust. Trust.

  And now look at him: stung beyond sensation.

  Agent Logan had followed him back to his house so that he could drop off his car. Now he sat beside her in her Mustang, numb in more ways than he would have thought possible. A wool-haired kid with a squeegee cleaned her windshield at an intersection, and Thomas found himself comforted by the sight of her rummaging through her purse for loose change. He even smiled at her gentle curses.

  'Why you?' he asked after she had handed the kid several dimes and quarters.

  'Pardon?'

  'Why send you after me?'

  'The boss thought I was your kind of people.'

  'And what kind is that?'

  'Honest,' she said with a wry smile. She looked away to make her left turn. 'Honest and confused.'

  The bar was local, the kind of place that depended on the ebb and flow of the work day as much as the regularity of blacked-out sporting events. A TGIF, or something similar—Thomas literally couldn't remember. They paused at the entrance so that Sam could slip a five-dollar bill into a plastic Salvation Army donation bubble. Inside, one waitress stood at a faux-antique till, chatting with a woman who looked like the manager. It was completely deserted otherwise. Thomas followed Agent Logan to a front booth, feeling like an intruder despite all the signs of heavy human traffic. Compared to the sunny clamor of the street, the place seemed like a cave with dropped ceilings. It smelled of beer and sour cushions.

  'So what happened back there?' Agent Logan asked, propping her elbows on their table.

  Through the tinted window to her right, a parade of consumers marched along the sidewalk. A middle-class soccer mom. A brown-suited sales rep. A working-class New Jersey Devils fan. And on and on. Thomas pretended to be interested in them as he spoke.

  'You know, I still remember what Neil told me at our wedding reception. He pulled me aside and pointed to Nora—she was dancing with her father, I think. "Now that" he said, "is a fine piece of tail, my friend."' Thomas ran a hand over his face and stared across the bar's murky expanse. His laugh was pained. 'He was speaking from experience, I guess.'

  When he closed his eyes he could see them together. Neil and Nora.

  Agent Logan studied him for a moment, her eyes wide and full of sympathy. 'You know, Professor Bible, the systematic deception of intimates is a red flag for—'

  'No,' Thomas exclaimed. 'Please… spare me your FBI profiling crap. You know who I am, what I do. There's no need to insult me with half-remembered course notes from Quantico.'

  Agent Logan turned her face to the window, her expression unreadable.

  Thomas shook his head. 'Look, I'm sorry. I really am. It's just that…'

  'Just what, Professor Bible?'

  'Call me, Tommy. Please.' He paused as the waitress, a pink-faced blond, set down coasters and beers.

  'Do you know what dreams are, Agent Logan?'

  'I must have dozed through that part at Quantico,' she said drily.

  'Well our brains are plastic networks.' He paused, then added, 'Plastic like "malleable", not like your shoes.'

  'Ouch,' Samantha said, grinning.

  'All the behaviors generated by our brains arise from different neural configurations. In turn, these configurations arise in response to different stimuli from our environments—it's kind of like mini-evolution: those behaviors that allow us to successfully cope with our environments are reinforced. Reproduced. Those that do not are discarded, at least ideally.'

  Even as he said this, he realized he was speaking more for his own sake than for hers. Pain had a way of bending your words into circles. Had it really come to this? Sitting with a stranger in a franchise bar, spilling his guts. Was he really this alone?

  'So what does this have to do with dreams?'

  Thomas shrugged. 'Well, some say that dreams allow our neural networks to reconfigure themselves in possible as opposed to actual circumstances. By dreaming of different situations, our brain actually prepares itself for different possible eventualities. Dreams allow our brain to cope.'

  'Like training simulations?'

  'Exactly.'

  Samantha frowned. 'So what does that have to do with anything?'

  Thomas wiped angrily at his tears. 'Because I never, not once, dreamed that anything like this could happen.' The fist he raised to his forehead somehow became a wrist pressed against his temple. 'Fuck…' Neil and Nora.

  Thomas excused himself to make a call on his palmtop. He turned to watch Agent Logan from the middle of the abandoned dance floor. She stared out the window, the very picture of impatience and ambition—and all the more striking for it. Listening to the ring in the receiver,
Thomas found himself wondering whether she had a significant other. Careerists tended to stay single—

  'Hyu,' a rough voice answered.

  'Hi, Mia,' Thomas said.

  'Tommy, Jeeezus. I've been trying to reach you!'

  A host of parental instincts came clutching. 'Phone was off. Why? What's wrong?'

  'Nothing, really. It's just that Nora called and said she was coming to get the kids.'

  'What did you tell her?'

  'That I needed to talk to you first, and that I would call her back after.'

  He heard Frankie shouting 'Daddy-Daddy-Daddeee!' in the background. He imagined Ripley sitting by Mia's picture window, coloring, then an image of Cynthia Powski blotted her out.

  'Forget she even called.'

  'You sure? She sounded all weirded out on the phone. Wasn't she supposed to be in San Francisco?'

  'She was. It turns out she was fucking an old friend instead.'

  So easily spoken.

  'Oh…'

  'I have to go, Mia.'

  'Are you okay, Tommy?'

  'Can't talk now, Mia.'

  He clicked the palmtop shut, slipped it into his blazer pocket. When he glanced up Agent Logan was watching him, her smile the sad smile of those stranded at the perimeter of painful events.

  'Just had to check up on the kids,' he explained as he slid back into the booth.

  Samantha smiled. 'Beautiful kids.'

  He looked at her sharply.

  'You need to ease up on the paranoia, Professor Bible. I followed you from Columbia, remember? I saw them on your neighbor's porch. Like I said, beautiful kids.'

  Thomas scratched the back of his neck. 'Forgot about that. Why did you follow me, anyway?'

  'I was desperate. Desperate for leads. I wanted to tell you, by the way, that I loved how you dealt with us in your office.' She laughed. 'Showing you the Blue-ray like that was a mistake. I told Shelley she'd regret it.'

  'Agent Atta strikes me as a hard ass.'

  Samantha shrugged. 'She has to be. Not easy being an Arab-American woman in the FBI…' She trailed to take a healthy swig of beer, then with a guilty grin added, 'My dad used to say the only thing worse than a bitch was a woman angry for good reason.'