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Very slowly I stepped out, with my arms at my sides. I wantednothing so vulgar as his reaching for his gun. But he hadn't reachedfor it. He merely looked at me, blinded perhaps by the bright littlelights so near to him. The halogen beam threw the shadow of theangel's wing on the ceiling. I came closer.
He said absolutely nothing. He was afraid. Or rather, let me say,he was alarmed. He was more than alarmed. He felt this might verywell be his last confrontation. Someone had gotten by him totally!
And it was too late to be reaching for guns, or doing anything soliteral, and yet he wasn't actually in fear of me.
Damned if he didn't know I wasn't human.
I came swiftly towards him, and took his face in both my hands.
He went into a sweat and tremble, naturally, yet he reached up andpulled the glasses off my eyes and they fell on the floor.
"Oh, it's gorgeous, finally," I whispered, "to be so very close toyou!"He couldn't form words. No mortal in my grip like this couldhave been expected to utter anything but prayers, and he had noprayers! He stared right into my eyes, and then very slowly took mymeasure, not daring to move, his face still fixed in both my cold, coldhands, and he knew. Not human.
It was the strangest reaction! Of course I'd confrontedrecognition before, in lands the world over; but prayer, madness, somedesperate atavistic response, something always accompanied it. Even inold Europe where they believed in the nosferatu, they'd scream out aprayer before I sank my teeth.
But this, what was this, his staring at me, this comical criminalcourage!
"Going to die like you lived?" I whispered.
One thought galvanized him. Dora. He went into a violent struggle,grabbing at my hands, realizing they felt like stone, and thenconvulsing, as he tried to pull himself loose, held mercilessly by theface. He hissed at me.
Some inexplicable mercy came over me. Don't torture him likethis. He knows too much. Understands too much. God, you've hadmonths of watching him, you don't have to stretch this out. On theother hand, when will you find another kill like this one!
Well, hunger overcame judgment. I pressed my forehead againsthis neck first, shifting my hand to the back of his head, let him feelmy hair, heard him draw in his breath, and then I drank.
I had him. I had the gush, and him and Old Captain in the frontroom, the streetcar crashing past outside, and him saying to OldCaptain, "You ever show it to me again or ask me to touch it and Iwon't ever come near you." And Old Captain swearing he neverwould. Old Captain taking him to the movies, and to dinner at theMonteleone, and on the plane to Atlanta, having vowed never to do itagain, "Just let me be around you, son, just let me be near you, I'llnever, I swear." His mother drunk in the doorway, brushing her hair.
"I know your game, you and that old man, I know just what you'redoing. He bought you those clothes? You think I don't know." Andthen Terry with the bullet hole in the middle of her face, a blond-haired girl turning to the side and crumpling to the floor, the fifthmurder and it has to be you, Terry, you. He and Dora were in thetruck. And Dora knew. Dora was only six and she knew. Knew he'dshot her mother, Terry. And they'd never, never spoken a word about it.
Terry's body in a plastic sack. Ah, God, plastic. And him saying,"Mommy's gone." Dora hadn't even asked. Six years old, she knew.
Terry screaming, "You think you can take my daughter from me, youson of a bitch, you think you can take my child, I'm leaving tonightwith Jake and she's going with me." Bang, you're dead, honey. Icouldn't stand you anyway. In a heap on the floor, the very flashy cutekind of common girl with very oval pale pink nails, and lipstick thatalways looks extraordinarily fresh, and hair from a bottle. Pinkshorts, little thighs.
He and Dora driving in the night, and they never had spoken aword.
What are you doing to me! You are killing me! You are taking my blood,not my soul, you thief, you . . . what in the name of God?
"You talking to me?" I drew back, blood dripping from my lips,Good God, he was talking to me! I bit down again, and this time I didbreak his neck, but he wouldn't stop.
Yes, you, what are you? Why, why this, the blood? Tell me, damn youinto hell! Damn you!
I had crushed the bones of his arms, twisted his shoulder out ofthe socket, the last blood I could get was there on my tongue. I stuckmy tongue into the wound, give me, give me, give me. . . .
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