"I thought so."
Ted hated himself, but he couldn"t resist.
"What"s that mean?"
"It means what you said, you"re an atheist."
"I didn"t say that."
"Hey, someone did."
"I said I didn"t go to church-"
"See."
"That"s not the same thing. I just don"t like organized religion, that"s what I said."
"Means the same thing. You don"t like or go to church, you"re an atheist," Ted sighed.
"Have it your own way, Larry."
"Hey, you ought to think about G.o.d and church, buddy. Made a new man out of me. Before that, well, wasn"t much about me that was any count."
"Yeah, well, you"re priceless now, Larry."
"Was that some kind of crack?"
"How do you do this to me? We did this all day yesterday. I went home with a headache. Do you do this every time you"re tied up with a partner?"
"Do what?"
"Drive them crazy."
"I haven"t had that many n.i.g.g.e.r-loving, commie partners, if you must know."
"Pull over."
"What?"
"Pull over."
"What for?"
"Just pull over."
"Tell me what the f.u.c.k for."
"I"m fixing to whip your a.s.s up one side of this highway and down the other."
"You and how many of your n.i.g.g.e.r buddies? That"s what I"m trying to ask you."
"Pull the f.u.c.k over, you chickens.h.i.t b.a.s.t.a.r.d."
"All right, G.o.dd.a.m.nit, all right, you"re gonna wish you"d kept your f.u.c.king mouth shut, that"s what you"re gonna wish, that"s what I"m trying to tell you."
Brakes slammed. The patrol car rocked. Larry jerked his door open, started around the front of the car. Ted got out on his side, proceeded to do the same.
"All right, boy," Larry said, "this is it, the big time, your day in the ring."
Ted kicked Larry in the b.a.l.l.s and dropped him. Then like one of the Three Stooges, bent down, took hold of Larry"s hat and jerked it down over his eyes and ears.
A car with an elderly lady in it drove around them (for they were only partially out of the highway). She stared, slowed, pulled over and stopped, watched through her rearview.
Well, Ted thought, it isn"t every day you get to see two highway patrolmen stop in the middle of the highway to go a few rounds.
He waved the woman on. She pulled back onto the highway, drove away. Slowly.
"Are you all right?" Ted asked.
Larry freed one hand from his crotch and pushed his hat up. "You ask me that with me sitting here ruptured, you ask me that?"
"Okay, you want some more?"
"I"m down here on my knees holding what"s left of my nuts and you ask me if I want some more?"
"Then shall we get on with the business of being respectable law officers?"
"Why"d you kick me in the b.a.l.l.s, man?"
"It seemed like the right thing at the time."
Larry finally let go of himself, wobbled to his feet. "Don"t hit me now."
"Larry, I"m not going to hit you."
"You just did. Kicked me. That isn"t manly."
"You pushed me too far, Larry. You"re f.u.c.king crazy and making me that way.
Here, let"s shake."
"No way. I"m not shaking hands with the man that just kicked me in the nuts."
"Have it your way. You want me to drive so you can hold yourself?"
"You don"t let up, do you?"
"Me!"
"Drive, G.o.dd.a.m.nit, drive."
Ted got in behind the wheel, Larry on the other side; he sat holding his crotch.
Ted glanced at him.
"You didn"t have to kick me in the b.a.l.l.s, pal. If you hadn"t got in the first lucky lick, it would have been rough."
"Yeah, I was lucky."
They drove in silence for a few miles, then Larry said in a surprisingly chipper voice, "Want a Snickers?"
Ted glanced at him. He had gotten a couple of candy bars out of the glove box and was offering him one, smiling. For a fleeting instant Ted wondered if it had a razor blade inside.
"Yeah, I guess," Ted said. "Thanks."
"I love "em," Larry said.
Ted took the candy. Larry began peeling his.
Ted unwrapped the bar with his teeth and a free hand, took a bite. No razor blades.
He glanced at Larry. Larry was eating as contentedly as a cow chewing cud. It was like the kick in the b.a.l.l.s had never happened.
Ted thought: Well, I"ll be a sonofab.i.t.c.h.
FIVE.
8:50 A.M.
She awoke not long after the dream about the b.l.o.o.d.y hand. The palm had something bright sticking out of it and there was blood everywhere: the fingers, the wrist.
When she sat up and put her back against the headboard, she realized that Monty was awake, up on one elbow, frowning. "Are you all right?" She nodded. "The dreams again?"
"Yes."
He rolled out from beneath the sheets and picked his pants from the floor. She watched him, really seeing his body for the first time in a long time. And for the first time in a long time, she found his maleness stimulating; nothing to scream from the rooftops about, but something.
He pulled on his pants, picked up his shirt and put it on. When he turned, he caught her looking at him.
"Becky, you want to tell me about the dream?"
"It doesn"t matter."
"It does matter." He sat down on the edge of the bed.
"It"s okay."
"No. It"s not okay. Not sure how to say this, but ... I care. I know you believe that these are more than common dreams, and that I"m . . . Well, I"m not trying hard enough to understand. Believe me, I am trying. But try to look at it from this side of the fence."
"I have tried."
"What I"m trying to say is this: Can we start over?"
"What do you mean?"
"Start over. Obviously this isn"t working. Obviously I"m not handling this right."
She was silent for a moment. Need and desire to please radiated off Monty like heat. She thought about a time not so long ago when she asked him to promise nothing would ever come between them, and he had promised. And now, there was this between them, and it was as solid as a metal wall.
"What do you suggest?" she asked.
"I suggest I listen to you, that you tell me about the dreams. I suggest that when you finish telling me about them, I refrain from trying to explain them in my pop psychoa.n.a.lyst way."
She smiled, "Monty ... I know it"s hard to understand, really. It"s just these things are so real ..."
And before she knew it, she was telling him all about the dreams again, explaining that new things had been added to the old visions. The goblins had been in the dreams for some time, but now there were details, surrealistic details. And there was this new dream about the b.l.o.o.d.y hand.
"I"m not so sure I"m not crazy," she continued. "Not so sure I"m not losing my mind. But these dreams are not like normal dreams, nightmares. They have a quality beyond that . . .sight, sound, smell, even taste, Monty. I can even taste the night air ... and most of all, there"s a feeling, a feeling of terror, like I"m walking blindfolded along a plank over an abyss, and I"m getting closer and closer to falling off."
"Okay," he said softly. "Is there anything we can do about it? I mean, let"s look at it like this: the dreams are real. They mean something. They really are . . . visions. What are they visions of? Let"s try to identify them, put a label on them, put them here in the real world and see what we"ve got."
"They look like . . . demons, goblins, devils ... I don"t know. Maybe the dreams are symbolic . . .
We"ve been over this before." She had a sudden feeling that Monty"s concern was in fact just another method of leading her down the psychoa.n.a.lysis path, but she didn"t say as much. Benefit of doubt, old girl. Give him benefit of doubt.
Monty shook his head. "I"ll be honest with you, I"m stumped. Nothing is even trying to click up there. I mean the b.l.o.o.d.y hand, the woman you think is you, are obvious.
They represent someone being hurt. But why? By whom? It just doesn"t click."
"No, and you"ve given it at least three seconds or four to click."
"Are we back to that?"
"I"m sorry." She wasn"t sure she was.
"Tell you what. I won"t patronize and you give me the benefit of the doubt, what say?"
"Okay . . . Listen, Monty. Maybe it is all just in my head. I won"t lie to you, this talk ... I mean me just talking it out, telling it to you, and your listening, without pitying, has helped. Things aren"t solved in my head, but I feel better ... a little bit like old times when we used to sit and talk and solve the world"s problems."
"Crazy, isn"t it? Solving the world"s problems when it"s hard enough to solve your own."
"Yeah, crazy."