American Gothic (23 page)

36

To Be Like a God

“W
OULD YOU LIKE to sign up for our e-mail newsletter?” Ophelia sighed. “I already get it.”

The clerk smiled, oblivious to her irritation. The sort of people who worked at Ophelia’s favorite bookstore—ponytailed, latte-sipping, wannabe literati—drove her up the wall. They tended to collect in San Francisco anyway, the city exerting its strange gravitational attraction to the self-consciously hip. But she didn’t want to interact with them, except when circumstances left her no choice.

“You know, every time I come in here, you ask me that question.”

“We get in trouble with the manager if we don’t,” the clerk said with a grin. He was wearing a Che Guevara T-shirt. Ophelia was willing to bet he had no more than a vague notion who Guevara was, at best.

“You have asked me on at least three other occasions if I want to sign up for the e-mail newsletter. I’m in here a couple of times a week.”

“No, really. Sorry. I don’t remember. And I’d have to ask you even if I did. It’s, like, a rule.”

“Then it’s, like, a stupid rule,” she said savagely, mocking him. “I have a suggestion for you to share with your manager. Every time I come in here, I have to wait in line while the other hippies who work here stand around talking to one another, pretending they don’t notice the jam-up at the checkout counter, pretending they don’t hear the pages for more assistance at the front desk. Why don’t you do a time study to determine the amount of time the average customer spends standing in line, waiting to give you money to enrich your stockholders. Then set a goal to cut that time in half. Something like that would be of actual service to your customers. Asking people to sign up for an e-mail newsletter—again and again and again—is really just a self-serving attempt to get people on your advertising list so you can spam them mercilessly with pitches to buy the latest pathetically written book that some publisher is trying to turn into a best seller.”

The next person in the line, a man in a blue blazer, cleared his throat impatiently. The clerk stood there, too terrified to react to the petite young woman decked out in her ankh and Gothic regalia.

“Oh, forget it,” Ophelia said, snatching up Amy Clampitt’s poetry collection and charging toward the door. The clerk stood holding her receipt, his mouth open. At least he had the presence of mind not to ask her if she wanted it.

“You missed your appointment.”

It was Dr. Glass. Squeezing her eyes shut as if against a painful light, Ophelia turned around toward the voice. Glass was standing there, an insipid expression of concern on his face.

“I didn’t have an appointment.”

“I made one for you. I left messages on both your answering machine at home and your cell phone.”

“I told you, Dr. Glass. I’m through with all of that.”

The psychiatrist stared at her. “Are you absolutely sure? We were finally beginning to make progress.”

“I am totally sure.”

He nodded. “I understand.”

“Good,” she said.

“Can I give you a lift home? The streets aren’t safe after dark.”

Ophelia looked up at him. It was interesting how different he looked when he smiled. It was as if he could turn off being a doctor and just become someone ordinary.

“Sure,” she said. “That would be nice.”

Dr. Glass led her to a green Jaguar sedan and opened the door for her.

“What did you buy?”

“A book of poetry.”

Glass nodded and pulled into traffic. “Any more thoughts on college?”

“I’m still thinking I’m not going to go.”

“Maybe it’s for the best,” Dr. Glass said. “It’s something you have to decide for yourself. Emily Dickinson never went to college.”

“True. The quickest route to my house is if you take a right here.”

“We’re not going to your house.”

“And where are we going?”

“It’s a surprise.”

“Dr. Glass.”

“Trust me,” he said, looking at her full in the face and smiling again.

Ophelia did not trust the psychiatrist, but there was something almost playful in his manner that made her curious about what he was doing. They drove down toward the bay without talking, Mozart playing quietly on the CD player in the Jaguar. After a short while they entered a down-in-the-heels neighborhood with which Ophelia was more than a little familiar.

“Are you going where I think you are going?”

“And where would that be?” Dr. Glass asked, his tone almost teasing.

They came around the corner and the psychiatrist pulled the car over to the curb across the street from the alley entrance to the Cage Club.

“How do you know about this place? I didn’t tell you.”

“I am your doctor, Ophelia. It is my job to know.”

Ophelia felt her face begin to burn. “You followed me.”

“Don’t be silly. Professional ethics would prohibit that.”

Ophelia regarded him closely in the quiet car. He no longer seemed free of the sort of danger women instinctively know to steer clear of, and at the same time the interior of the Jaguar seemed to grow smaller and more confined, an inviting space that only too late she suspected to be a trap.

She was sitting at an angle to Dr. Glass, so it was easy for her right hand to find the door handle without him seeming to notice. Showing no fear but also with perfect economy of time and motion, she opened the door and got out in a single quick movement. Dr. Glass made no attempt to stop her. She shut the door and stood there, wondering whether she should walk or run toward the Cage Club, when she realized she’d left her new book on the seat. Not that she would risk her safety for the sake of something she could easily replace, but it did make her hesitate a moment. The driver’s door opened and Glass got out of the car, holding the book.

“You forgot this.”

He held the book out to her. Ophelia did not move a muscle for a few moments, though it seemed like much longer to her. She couldn’t make up her mind what to do—indeed she couldn’t even manage to consider the options rationally, the thoughts frozen in her mind. Some combination of her upbringing, her uncertainty about the psychiatrist’s motives, and the wish not to act like a timid girl made her step toward Glass. He met her at the front of the car still smiling, the book held out to her. When she took it from him he made no attempt to grab her, no threatening moves. He was, she thought, a completely baffling person.

“Thank you. I’ll find my own way home from here.”

“Whatever you wish, Ophelia.”

“Good night.”

She turned and started to walk. She could hear his footsteps coming after her, not hurrying, but there, just behind her. She kept going until she got to the door.

“You can’t come in here.”

“Of course I can,” Dr. Glass said.

“The club is only for vampires and fledglings in the Ravening.”

“So?”

“I’m not trying to be dramatic, Dr. Glass, but not all of my friends are as nice as I am. There are some boys down there you do not want to meet, especially not in the cellar of the Cage Club, where there isn’t anybody who can help you if things get out of hand. It’s a rough crew.”

“I can take care of myself,” the psychiatrist said. He made a motion with his hand to get Ophelia’s attention. She looked down, and saw that he was holding a pistol, the streetlight glittering on its silver surface.

Dr. Glass’s smile was bigger than ever. He put his hand on Ophelia’s arm, and she didn’t dare pull away.

“My friends will castrate you if you do anything to hurt me, Dr. Glass.”

“Now you are being dramatic, Ophelia. But not to worry. This is only a precaution,” he said, and waved the gun. “This is just for persuasive purposes. Turn around like a good girl now and in you go.”

Ophelia opened the door, hoping someone would hear them coming. The sound of industrial metal music throbbed dully, the sound floating up the elevator shaft from the lower level. It was dark inside, almost impossible to see once the outside door closed behind them. But Dr. Glass kept his hand firmly on Ophelia’s arm so that she couldn’t pull away from him.

The single dim bulb shined through the slats in the grate over the freight elevator. Glass let go of her long enough to raise the gate so they could enter. He seemed familiar with the place, as if he’d been there before. Ophelia thought of Dr. Glass hiding in the shadows, watching her and the others. For the first time, she thought she might be in serious danger. This was followed by a realization that struck her with the force of an epiphany: She did not want to die, at least not at the hands of someone like Dr. Glass.

Glass pushed the elevator button with the barrel of his weapon. The elevator began to rise.

“I see surprise in your face,” he said.

Ophelia didn’t answer.

“I know perfectly well about the basement revels. Our business is upstairs.”

She was suddenly wet with sweat, though it was chilly in the elevator. Ophelia tightened her hold on the slim volume of poetry. She could hit him in the head with it, but she doubted it would even stun him.

The elevator stopped.

“Here we are.” He raised and lowered his eyebrows.

Through the slats in the elevator door came a flickering glow, but even when Dr. Glass raised the gate, the source was too diffused to make out. He took her by the arm and led her through the abandoned department store. Someone had stapled huge sheets of translucent plastic from the ceiling.

“Careful,” Dr. Glass warned, stepping over a fallen light fixture. “This place is a real mess. But you know that.”

Ophelia didn’t know it, for the Ravening had confined its activities to the basement. Certainly some of the boys had explored the rest of the building, but Ophelia had never been on the upper floors.

“Our destination is just a bit farther.”

Glass pulled open a slit in the plastic and went through, his hand firm around Ophelia’s wrist, pulling her after him toward whatever awaited in the middle of the room, bathed in weak illumination. She could see it moving just beyond the folds of hanging plastic, something short, an animal, maybe even a child. She bit hard on her lower lip to keep her composure.

The tentlike enclosure occupied a small open area in the center of the room, a circular space roughly thirty feet across. In the middle of this area was an old-fashioned wooden office chair with arms, one of those stout, institutional-looking pieces of oak furniture that appear too uncomfortable for sitting. In the chair was a skinny blond woman in bra and panties. Her arms and legs were secured to the chair with thick wraps of silver duct tape. She had a ball gag in her mouth, the sort of thing Ophelia had seen on S&M Web sites she’d visited late at night when looking for diversions on the Web. The woman was about Ophelia’s age, but that appeared to be the only thing they shared, besides an unfortunate association with Dr. Glass. There was something common about the girl. She had the wild eyes of someone who had been smoking crystal, but there was madness in her eyes, too, along with fear.

Behind Dr. Glass’s prisoner, on either side of the chair, were two blue plastic fifty-gallon drums, set up like tables and each holding a candelabra. It wasn’t until Ophelia saw the drums—the pair of them—that she guessed how bad it was really going to be. Not that the drums signified anything, but since each drum was the perfect size to hold a human body, nobody needed to paint a picture for Ophelia.

She looked around behind her, judging her chances to escape back through the slit in the plastic, when she saw what else the psychiatrist had brought to his snug and lethal lair. Folded neatly on the floor was a black plastic apron of the sort Ophelia had seen during autopsies on true-crime television programs, a pair of yellow dishwashing gloves, and a battery-operated lantern.

“I trust this meets with your approval.”

She forced herself to turn back to Dr. Glass. He stood beside the girl in the chair, stroking her hair with his hand.

“I was very careful in my preparations, not knowing how you vampires prefer to do things. There won’t be a trace of evidence, once I pull down the plastic sheeting. It’ll all fit in one of the blue drums. There’s a big incinerator at the hospital for disposing of medical waste. I know just the right time to come around, when there won’t be anybody there, and pop it in. I think you’re going to find it very convenient as we begin to explore the mutual benefits of our new association.”

Ophelia made herself nod.

“And what about the girl?”

“Poor Candy.” He gave the girl a sad smile, to which she recoiled with as much horror as her bounds would allow. “Miss Priddle is also one of my patients. Alas, she has not been one of my successes, although I really did believe the electroshock therapy would help her turn the corner. We can pop her into the second barrel and no one will be the wiser. I’ll have to come back in my Navigator to get her, though. The barrels are too big for my Jag.”

Ophelia tried to think of something to say, but her mind was spinning helplessly.

“Dr. Glass,” she said finally, amazed at the control in her voice, “what are you doing?”

“Isn’t it obvious?”

Ophelia shook her head.

“I want to become one of you. I have come to admire you very much, Ophelia. You have stripped away the lies and illusion and exposed the true inner core to everything—power and blood. They’re really the two essences that it all comes down to, aren’t they?”

“Dr. Glass…”

“I want to join you. I want to be one of you. I already made one sacrifice for you, but you chose to ignore it.”

Ophelia felt as if she’d been slugged in the stomach. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t tease me, Ophelia. It isn’t nice. It was on all the television stations. The newspaper is still writing about it.”

Ophelia took a stumbling step backward, covering her mouth with her hand to keep herself from screaming.

“You didn’t care for those sniveling little bastards. I overheard you railing about them to your friend Zeke. Or didn’t you know that I was the one who slaughtered Letitia, Damien, and Pendragon like pigs in the cemetery?”