Chapter 38
At home, after a celebratory jerk-off in the shower—still relishing the sight of Charlie’s twisted face—Paul towels off and stands, drained but exhilarated, drinking in the middle of his living room, swaying naked to Charles Mingus on the radio.
That was much more fun, he decides, than even his ballsiest theft, which was probably the time he stole fifteen rare books at once, cramming them into his backpack and walking right past the snobbish, oblivious clerk.
He has no physical reminders of the past night—like the books he has on his shelves to this day—but the high is more intense, and probably longer lasting.
To affect someone deeply, to snatch away their sense of wholeness and security. Especially someone like Charlie, so deserving of the fear. Much more gratifying than pilfering groceries or books.
Before long, Paul is staring drunkenly at the neighboring building’s brick wall, toasting each and every individual brick—the dark red brick; the light, chipped-away brick; the yellowish brick loose in its slot. “To Charlie!” he yells. “To my-goddamn-self!” And the last one: “To Judith!”
When he finally sits and begins smoking one cigarette after another, he quiets.
The nicotine is clearing his head, dissolving his buzz.
He begins to see the night differently, to doubt what he’s done—or hasn’t done.
He really didn’t do much, did he? All he did was cough, without even emerging from his hiding place.
She didn’t scream, she didn’t run—she jogged, but she didn’t run.
Was she really that scared? Her face conveyed fright, but was it enough, provoking her from such a distance?
Has he taught her what it’s like to be hunted, to be harassed, to be made to feel miserable and insane, the way he has in recent days?
He doesn’t think so. He thinks she’ll recover quickly, and return to her usual haughty, provocative self, with the memory of one night’s fear fading fast.
So: he has to go back, to leave a lasting impression. Just one more time, then he’ll be finished with Charlie.
—
After spending the next morning and part of the afternoon on the phone with Jahan and a journalist from The Washington Post, and with only two days before the gallery opening, Paul dresses carefully despite his speeding pulse and drives out to Charlie’s place at sunset.
While he follows the now-familiar route, he dwells on how utterly estranged the two halves of his day are from one another.
He doesn’t judge himself for any of it, but isn’t it weird?
How he’s Paul Sorenson, rising curatorial star, and also Paul Sorenson, mask-wearing avenger.
He chuckles a bit at this and pulls thoughtfully on his cigarette before tossing it out the window.
This time, when Charlie pulls in, she parks in a different spot, one closer to the building entrance.
It throws Paul a little, but not enough to dampen his plan.
He likes seeing her, through the eyeholes of his mask, hastily lock the car and look around.
Like a scared little bug ready to scuttle to safety.
As soon as she turns, he’s on her. He catches her by the shoulders and pulls her back, screaming, clamping a hand over her mouth and an arm around her neck.
She tries but fails to bite his gloved hand.
He drags her into a shadowed corner by the door, letting nothing escape but the sound of his breath, hot and urgent in her ear.
He doesn’t whisper bitch, like he’s tempted to do, or say her name to scare her—he’d be stupid to let her hear his voice.
Instead, he pins her against him so she can feel his erection and wallow in a moment of paralyzing fear.
After that, he’ll loosen his hold enough to let her go.
But before he can, her hands flail up at him somehow, and something sharp comes slashing at his arms. A knife.
He sees the blood darken his shirtsleeves before he feels any pain.
But when the pain comes, it’s searing. He groans and loosens his hold.
Charlie twists out of his arms, stumbles forward, and grabs for the door.
Another man might follow her, might chase her inside, up the stairs, might pull her back and put an end to things. But he isn’t that man—though he has to remind himself of that. The urge is strong to do it and the pain eggs him on but he isn’t that man.
He drives off in his ski mask without giving his arms more than a glance.
But before he gets on the highway, he pulls over and peels off his mask and shirt to examine the stinging wounds.
There are quite a few slash marks, all bleeding profusely, but he doesn’t think they’re that bad. That knife of hers didn’t do so much.
It was he who’d done much. He’d terrified her.
Touched her. Physically attacked her where she lives.
And even though she struck back, like a little mouse with its claws, he knows she’ll be the one to suffer, to carry that night for a long, long time.
It will scar and subdue her. And Paul? He’s on his way home, where he’ll shower and tend to his injuries, knowing he’s finally secured Charlie’s silence, that he’ll never be bothered by her hateful letters or calls or insolent harassment again.
He’s run an obstacle course, really, from the moment he stood on Tom Stanley’s front porch all those months ago to lobby him for Judith’s pictures.
He is bone-tired and weary—but energized, too.
He’s done it, he’s cleared his path of every obstacle at last. He’s free now to shine all night at the opening, to step through the doorway to his bright new world.