Four: If You Only Knew

1.

Which must mean we're getting close to the end.

Ta-Da!

It's a relief to get to here, isn't it?

I mean up to now you've gotten so much thrown at you—Voyagers, Martians, Vampires, Werewolves, Judges, Shackling, Awakening.

My God, you think, they've got an answer and a term for everything.

And then there's that last bit: The part where I'm getting my throat cut open by Ran in one of his lupine hissy fits.

Wait.

What's that face you're making?

You did figure that out, didn't you? That I've been telling the whole story all along—me—Thane by name.

No?

I see some of the others shaking their heads, too. Confused, the lady over there whispers to her friend, "I didn't get that, did you?"

Sorry. I tried to give you hints along the way.

Oh, but now I see a few nods from the corner. Good for you. You got it. Nice feeling, right? To have figured something out. I don't have a prize or anything, but. . . .

2.

"Quiet in there."

Thane stops pacing and looks about his cell.

They see everything; hear everything, don't they?

"Stop it. Now."

This is the price I pay for telling a good story. Getting locked up.

You see . . .

"Silence, Thane. This is your last warning."

"Yes, sir." He smirks. I'll find a way.

He feels the electric shock surge up through the steel floors.

He howls, licks his chops, and curls into the corner.

The moon will set soon.

Then I'll see about all this.

3.

"What just happened?" James was standing in the middle of his living room.

Naked.

Daryl was sprawled on his couch.

Also naked.

"Again with the naked. What is this?"

Daryl looked up at him, the yellow-green glance piercing through and through.

Compelling.

Those eyes.

"Stop it." James turned away, moving towards the kitchen.

Daryl got up, too, and followed him.

"You've seen everything you need to at this point, Professor Thomas."

James folded into one of the wooden chairs. "I don't get any of this."

"We had supper. We came back here. We had a few drinks. One thing led to another. Here we are." He sat down across from him, the kitchen table between them. "I mean if you're worried I'm gonna tell someone—well, stop. I'm not gonna say anything. I liked it. Really."

James looked up. "But what about all the other stuff?"

"What do you remember?"

"We had supper at Compton's over on Broadway. We ended up back here. I tried to get away from you and you . . ." He suddenly blushed.

"I what?"

"You kissed me. But not a regular kiss. Like you sucked the breath out of me. Then there was something about being Awakened. That I'm something you called a Voyager—a descendant of space travelers from another galaxy—carnivores—sanguivores. And then . . ." He winced. He felt like he'd just woken up with the worst hangover he'd ever had.

"Then what?"

"Then I remember being taken to some cave near here, near Saratoga Springs—that's where I live, right?" He was clearly struggling with memories. "Where was it again?" His face strained. "Yes, Ticonderoga. That's it. You somehow took me from Saratoga over to Ticonderoga. Then there was something about your brother. Val was his name. And then another brother Thane who could punish people with thoughts, handcuff them—no, Shackle them—to the memories of the worst things they'd ever done. And then you guys were telling me about slipping back and forth in space and time."

His head dropped into his hands.

"Is that all you recall?"

"There was something more—something about us being werewolves or vampires. And a group called Feeders who ate humans."

He jumped up, knocking the chair back, shuddered—and barely made it to the sink.

Wretching.

Daryl went over, put his hand around James's shoulder. "Sorry, man."

James looked up, bloodshot, a piece of vomited food stuck to his bottom lip. "What the fuck did you do to me?"

"Nothing, really."

"This is nothing?"

"You got drunk, Professor. Really drunk. We made out. We . . ."

"But I've got a girlfriend."

"So? You have a girlfriend and we had sex. Big deal. I ain't telling on you. Plus that, for a guy in your forties you're pretty hot, man."

James realized that Daryl was holding him, that they were still both naked, so he shrugged off the arm—not so much in disgust or anger, just the gesture of a guy needing desperately to sort things out—and walked back to the table. But before he could sit, he aimed back to the sink for another round of throwing up.

"Jesus, you really got it bad. You OK?"

In between heaves, James muttered, "Does it fucking look like I'm OK?"

"Should I call 911 or something?"

He felt his knees grow weak. Daryl caught him and set him in a chair.

"I'll call." Daryl's pants were draped over the couch. He dug out his cell and pressed the numbers.

After an operator picked up, he said: "Yes, I'm with someone who's really sick. Vomiting. . . ."

He put the phone to his chest. "What's your address here?"

But James had slumped across the table.

4.

We are in a room in a very old house.

Victorian.

As our eyes adjust to the lighting, we know it's a library—the kind you might see in a film. Heavy paneling, oak shelves, leather bound books, flames lapping logs in a stone fireplace.

Thane, dressed in jeans and leather jacket, leans back in a leather chair.

Ran—khaki slacks, tee-shirt, shoulder-length blond hair—stands by the door, his smirk illumined by the fire.

"Very good, Thane." He starts to applaud. "Excellent job. Reinvent the story to make things better. Recreate your reality so you can live with yourself."

"That's not what I'm doing."

"Of course it is. You're scared the Council will take your powers, that you won't be able to change next moon. That it's over. Neutered." He said the word a with satisfaction that made Thane want to cringe.

But he kept his calm.

5.

Let's start again:

"What just happened?" James was standing in the middle of his living room.

Val and Daryl materialized next to him.

"I got us out of there before Ran could kill us, too." Once fully embodied, Daryl began to pace. "Shit that was close."

Val ran his hands over his head. "Crap. How did Ran escape? We saw Thane vaporize him. It's not possible."

"Is it something to do with saving Townshend back in 1759?" Daryl felt guilty. It was his idea to save the British soldier in the first place. "Thane wondered about the time line. If Townshend lives, he might disturb the balance between the two factions. maybe—somehow—saving Townshend in 1759 gave the Feeders the edge. The change somehow meant Thane wouldn't kill Ran in the present."

"He warned us about that."

James put up his hands and nearly shouted: "Just shut the fuck up! I've had it. For the last few days—ever since I gave you a ride home"—he glared at Daryl—"my life's been one fucked-up mess. One ridiculous, far-fetched, Twilight Zone story after another. I don't know how you guys are doing it, what drug you're using, what hypnotic suggestion, but just fucking stop."

The three of them stood staring at each other for a moment.

"Please," James said more calmly. "Just stop the games."

Daryl's eyes glowed brighter for a moment. "I wish I could, but it's too late."

James: "It's never too late."

6.

Ran sat in the chair opposite Thane's, the fire casting its veils of light about the room softly.

"No, that's too overwrought, isn't it? "‘Casting veils of light about the room softly.' Sounds like a cheap romance novel."

So he sat staring at the blank wall in front of him, ignoring the two-way glass to his left. I'll think of a way to end this story. I will. You'll see.

7.

"And why do you think he'd come up with such a wild story?"

Sari Jamison sipped her coffee slowly.

"It's a way of dealing with guilt perhaps." James Thomas looked out his office window. Skidmore was always beautiful in October—more orange and yellow than one could imagine. And when you stepped outside, you were almost assured of smelling the smoke of a wood fire from one of the many Victorian mansions that lined the streets of Saratoga Springs.

"Do you really think he killed someone?"

"Possibly."

"If he did, he's using the story to confess?"

"Again, I'm not completely sure, but that's my guess. He can detach from the experiences then. Dress them in fantasy. Deal without dealing."

"But that raises so many questions," Sari said. "First we have to figure out why he's writing a story and not a confession. Then we have to imagine why he's including us in the story. Why write a story about us—then show us. Is he taunting us? I mean it's pretty lurid stuff. In one section he kills me. In several, he's obviously have a sexual encounter with you. And he makes himself your student. And me your lover. Is this just the rant of a delusional mind? Listen, am I being too paranoid here, or is this another Charlie Manson trying to freak us out?"

"Clearly . . ."

8.

Maybe this is better:

"What just happened?" James stood reeling in the middle of his living room.

Once materialized, Val and Daryl grabbed onto James who was about to faint to the floor.

"Whoa. I got you. Easy does it." Daryl guided James over to the couch and sat him down; Val pulled off James's shoes.

"What's going on?" James was still clearly dazed.

"What do you remember?" Val placed the shoes next to the sofa, then sat on the floor by James's feet.

Daryl sat down next to him.

"Your cologne."

"My Cologne?" Daryl asked.

"I remember eating with you and then you . . ." he struggled with memories. "That's it. Then you kissed me. No, you sucked out my breath. And that's when I noticed your cologne." It was as if he were drunk or high on some drug, his words nearly slurring, his thoughts slipping about. "I remember your telling me something about being a Martian. No, a Voyager. No, a . . ."

9.

"Enough of this Thane." The voice was calm. No accusations, just a call to reality.

He stood on his hind legs, licked his paws and rested up against the two-way mirror. "You're in there, aren't you?"

"Yes, Thane, we're here."

"You and Sari."

"Yes.

On the other side of the glass, Sari whispered, "I almost feel sorry for the bastard."

"Me, too."

"But we've got to remember who he is and what he's done."

"Yes. Still . . ."

She sighed. "Still . . ."

Thane saw his breath on the silvered glass and muttered: "Still . . ."

10.

So this is the truth.

Big chunks of this whole story have been lies.

Yes, I'm a carnivore. Yes, I'm a sanguivore. That's true.

So is the part about being from another galaxy, living on Mars for a while, then coming to Earth.

Yes, Sari and James are also alien. Voyagers.

But a lot of the rest is just imagination in overdrive. Shackling, Time Folding, materializing any place we want. That's sci-fi stuff. We can't really do that, though it'd be very nice.

I leave to others why I invented all of that.

They're the professionals, not me.

I'm just the crazy werewolf in the middle of the living room.

And there aren't fifty thousand of us left, either. That's really wishful thinking.

Maybe twenty or thirty of us are left as far as I can tell. Though we look so much like humans, our genetic makeup is different enough that intermarriage just isn't possible. We've tried. Sadly, it doesn't work.

What else? Yes, we do live a long time—probably 200 or so years. And in our humanoid form we manage to grow old gracefully, but the age factor means we have to move around, otherwise suspicions are raised.

Which brings us to why I'm incarcerated, doesn't it?

And who James and Sari really are.

And what about Ran—aside from the fact that I had to invent a villain because all good stories need conflict.

And most importantly, why I'm writing this down, why I'm inventing variation after variation, making it so hard for you to determine reality.

"Thane."

They're calling again. They're on the other side of the glass. I hear their voices over the intercom.

"Please Thane."

I stop pacing the room. It's nearly dawn anyway and I'm slowly transforming back to my human identity. Soon I'll put on my clothes again—they're draped over the chair in the corner of my cell.

Oh, yes, my cell: it's about ten feet by ten feet. One wall has the two-way mirror, one wall has a doorway. The other two walls are blank grey. There's recessed lighting, a ceiling surveillance camera in one corner, a speaker in the other. Dimly lit. Calmly lit. The colors are muted—earth tones, autumnal, soothing. It's actually not bad.

"Just relax Thane. Stop all the babbling. Just relax and your transformation will be easier."

"Yes, yes." They mean well.

Sari looks at James. "This can't go on. His fabrications have to end."

James just shook his head. He loved Thane dearly, but he was afraid there was no choice but to keep him institutionalized.

11.

"What I find remarkable about this record is the extraordinary detail. He creates such vivid scenes and characters, but clearly towards the end, it's a jumble. He doesn't know how to end it." Dr. James Thomas places Thane's handwritten notebooks on the table and slides them across to Sari Wilson, detective with Albany County homicide.

"Maybe that's because if he ends it happily and the reality is different, then he's grossly disappointed. If he ends it tragically, it's almost as if he's daring us, hoping we wouldn't carry out his worse fears--to find him guilty and execute him or put him away for life."

"Perhaps, but I think there's much more to it."

The door to Dr. Thomas's conference room opened.

Ran Therwald stuck in his head, the slightly paunchy detective who's Sari's partner. "You guys wanna see us?"

"Yes. Come in."

Ran entered, followed by Dr. Val Mason, James's intern assistant.

"Please sit down."

The four of them sat casually around the square oak table.

The second-floor room of the New York State mental health facility outside Albany was typical--clean cut lines, institutional sea-foam green walls, large windows, shades partially drawn to keep out the afternoon glare.

"So what's the latest on Thane?" Ran asked.

"I heard," Val said, "that he agreed to let you guys read his journals."

"He did." Sari said. "They're quite extraordinary actually. He's created a complete world for himself."

"Which isn't all that unusual," James said. "Delusional personalities do this all the time. They create a reality that's convenient for them."

"In this case, his being a werewolf?" Ran said.

"Exactly." Sari shows them the notebooks.

Val picked up one.

"He started writing a few days ago. Sometimes he just sits at the table and talks aloud to himself--even changing his voice to assume the different characters. Then when he thinks he's got it, he starts to write. It's actually quite mesmerizing. He's a wonderful story teller. You get caught up in it." James put down the pen he'd been turning over in his hand.

"Until you realize the truth." Ran said.

"Yes, until you realize the truth."

"You almost sound sad, James."

"Well, I am." But added. "To a point."

"Why?"

"Because to some degree he trusts me--all of us really; I mean he's actually included all of us in his narrative. On some level he really does want to confess everything. But then I realize, he's probably taunting us. Or setting us up perhaps. He's rubbing the story in our faces."

"Yeah," Sari said, "and look what he does to me? He kills me off by vaporizing me. I'm the enemy."

"That's his issue with women, for sure." James picked up the pen again, beginning to turn it over slowly, end over end.

"No kidding." Sari laughed.

"At least two of the burial sites we found up in Saratoga have the bones of women."

"Still unidentified?"

"Yeah, but we're going through the missing person's files. We're bound to find a match."

James steers them back: "But there are other reasons for Sari's murder in the story, which I'll get to. But first let's look at this: For much of the story I'm the one he focuses on. I'm the one who doesn't understand. I'm a college professor, but I just don't get the truth. Time after time, I just don't get what he's trying to tell me. I'm the one he wants to enlighten."

"Why's that do you think? Why does he paint you that way?" Val asked.

"Well I have a theory," James said, "which is why I've asked you all here. I want to see what you think."

Sari went to the cart in the corner. She pointed to the coffee maker: "Anybody else?"

"Nah, I'm fine." Ran held up the bottled water he'd come in with.

"Me, too. I'll just have some of this." Val poured from the water carafe on the table.

Sari sat down: "So shoot."

"Well let's start with the character Thane. He's an ambiguous fellow. He starts out appearing evil, for lack of a better word, but then seems to turn into a good guy--or someone out to support a good cause--let's protect ourselves from all those nasty vampires and werewolves out there who run around wanting to eat humans. We're the enlightened carnivores. We only eat animals. Yet all through the story he's violent--a fact other characters point out. First he kills Sari. Then he disintegrates Ran. By the way, he's knows how to murder through thoughts--something he learns while imprisoned in a Russian gulag. He makes his victims experience all the horror of all the things they've ever done wrong. He makes them victims of their own worst actions."

"Killed by their own guilt?"

"Great metaphor, isn't it? And it tells us a lot about what Thane's going through. But then there's Val and Daryl. Now we know Val is real--I mean there you are, sitting at this table. But what of Daryl? Who's he in this scenario?"

"In the story he's sexually ambiguous and is clearly attracted to James." Sari answered.

"True. But James is also attracted to him. He keeps saying that he's compelled somehow, that he's attracted and can't help himself. And then there's this part in Thane's narrative"--he reached for the notebooks, checking the carefully numbered covers for the right one--"when James screams at Thane." He found the book he wanted and quickly paged through it. "Yes, here: James says, "I'm so fucking sick of this. It's absurd. For the last two days, I've been pushed all over the god damned place. Don't you guys know how to hold a conversation without bringing in Harry Potter and a fucking Hogwarts side show?" Maybe if I make a joke out of it . . . "Glad you're loosening up, James. I was getting worried." Thane winked. Then James says, "Fuck you." To which Thane says, "Maybe later. Right now we have to bring everyone up to speed." And then he begins to elaborate more on the supposed history of the werewolf characters. What I find interesting is that in the story Thane seems to be admitting to his own sexual ambiguity, his own attraction to James. That Daryl and Thane are both attracted to him--and both apparently wouldn't mind a roll in the hay."

Val smiled, "Should you feel complemented?"

"I think Thane's trying to confess to something. Something he can't live with."

"That he's attracted to men?"

"Yes. And the guilt is extraordinary for him. I'm sure we can find all kinds of goodies in his personal biography--including his super religious parents--that explain his homophobia. But I think what he's telling us is more profound. Look what he's done. He's murdered Ran. He's murdered Sari. But he hasn't killed off Val. . ."

"Why not?"

"Because you're really an outsider here. You're an observer, you're not really involved in Thane's actual life story. But then there's Daryl and James. He hasn't killed them either. Yet. Can you guess why?"

Sari went pale. "Shit."

Val seemed puzzled.

"Because he hasn't gotten to that part yet." Sari spoke quietly, as if she were piecing it together out loud. "If he had the chance, you'd be next. But he's conflicted. If he kills you, he might antagonize you--the real life James Thomas. The one who has control over his fate. Or so he believes."

"Yes. And why all this agonizing conflict? Because I'm unmasking him."

"But in real life he didn't kill Sari or Ran." Val said.

"No. Of course not. But who are the two officers who did the investigation and made the arrest?"

"We did." Then it hits Ran. "Crap. I'm dense. He gets to kill us in the story--he gets to fulfill a wish--he kills off the people who caught him."

"More importantly, he kills the people who found him out. He sees himself as extraordinarily clever--a brilliant, erudite man of the world who . . ."

Sari finished the thought: "Who eats and drinks his victims."

"Jesus, a Hannibal Lechter copycat." Ran picked up one of the notebooks and began thumbing through it. "Which explains why we've only found a few bones at the burial sites. No flesh. Little if any evidence of blood."

"And guess what we found on his book shelves? Do I have to say it? That's right, the collected novels of Thomas Harris." James placed the notebook on the table. "But it's the fact that he's been found out. That's what's truly enraging him. He doesn't like the idea that others might be clever enough to find him out. Or, more accurately, that there are people who are more clever than he."

"OK, so that brings us back to the mystery character." Sari takes a sip of her coffee. "Who's Daryl?"

12.

We're back in the cave at Ticonderoga

It's the present—not 1759 or another such fabrication.

This is the real deal, James.

I'm even writing it down for you—not saying it aloud in one of my dramatic monologues that you've probably been recording for the last two weeks since you swept me up from my student apartment over on Clifton Street.

Like eagles seizing the defenseless cub.

Of course, ever since, I've been quite the model patient—that's what I am, right?—the obedient, pleasant patient, always there with the cheery hello.

Of course, you know that's as much fabrication as the 1759 cave.

But I digress.

Before we get to the Cave, we might as well have our final cup of Joe at Uncommon Grounds, served up by Cath. She's real, you know. And she really does change her hair color every day, spiking it with lavish globs of gel. I think she's gay and enjoys showing off her rainbow pride—one color at a time. Good for her!

It's two weeks before you took me in.

I'd seen this guy in my lit class at Skidmore. He seemed smart. One of those cool intellectual types. The jeans, sweat shirt, long coat guy, with the great mop of hair. Perhaps someone I could get to know. I'd also seen him a few times at Uncommon Grounds sitting at the counter writing in a notebook.

No need for long exposition here—just get to it, right? One day—like I said about two weeks before you nabbed me—I sat next to him and struck up a conversation. He was working on a horror story for some webzine. It was about werewolves. Well, of course, that piqued my interest, and after a couple of hours we'd had a really terrific conversation.

It was about dinner time, so I asked if he wanted to go across the street to Compton's and catch a snack. He agreed and the talking continued until closing time.

Then the important part. That's what you want me to get to, don't you James? How do we get from Compton's to the cave at Ticonderoga—near enough to Saratoga, but hardly a short drive.

Easy enough to explain. After Compton's we walked up town towards his apartment. Turns out we lived a couple of doors apart on Clifton.

Man, he was totally looped and I had to hold him up at a few points, especially when that October wind blew down the street. There were even a few flakes dashing around the street lamps. Pretty, actually.

I got him to his place and he invited me in to continue the conversation, maybe have a few more beers.

What can I tell you, I couldn't resist.

Young, handsome—that great jet black hair of his, those blue eyes, the trim muscles. A swimmer's body. A keen mind. Compelling, indeed.

We were talking, sitting on opposite ends of the couch. I hardly heard a word he said—my heart was beating so fast, so hard—a snare drum rapping, buzzing with excitement.

Those eyes.

That smile.

That's when I make my first move.

It's a risk, but he's drunk. What the fuck, I think. Go for it. Full stoned fruit hanging from the bough.

And kiss him.

He's startled, for sure, but looks at me with a strange glance—one that transforms from fear to desire—all in moments—and we kiss again.

The clothes come off and we're at it for an hour—on the couch, on the floor, in the kitchen, laying down, standing up.

Jesus, I think we both come about four times.

I have him. He's mine.

So I say casually: "I know this cool spot by Ticonderoga."

"That's an hour away."

"It's not even midnight. We could get more beer at Stewart's and head up the Northway, cut over on 74. We'll be there in no time."

"I don't know, man."

"Oh come on. You know you want to. We could fuck in the moonlight. It's a full one tonight."

He's all over me again, beer kisses on my neck. "Well, that does sound nice."

"Nice? That's your word for it? It's fucking awesome, man."

So we go at it for a while again and he says, "What the fuck. Let's go."

And all I could think was, Got ya. I knew I could do this.

On come the clothes, we walk out, get in my car—it's parked by my place, but like I said, I'm only two houses down Clifton—and before I can start up the engine, he wants to go for one more round.

That's when this guy and his girlfriend walk past the car. I think, Shit, hope they don't know me. But then I see the windows are fogged up. They can't see in. Besides, they just keep walking and he's got his arm around her and she's laughing. They're into their own thing. I breathe.

Off we go.

It's after midnight and we park by the entrance to the State Park. No one's around and it's easy enough to hop the chain.

Even Daryl can do that. Hop.

He's over.

Though he stumbles a bit and starts to giggle like a kid.

I laugh along.

He's cute, I think, but then realize: No, he's beautiful.

Makes it all the more exciting.

I know this cave in the woods—kinda hidden away—just a slit of an entrance, a forest vagina.

We walk towards it. The leaves crunch underneath. Twigs crackle.

A breeze blows.

We arrive, go in.

The only light coming inside is a shaft of moonlight.

It's cold, but off come the clothes.

We lay on his coat.

I bunch mine up next to him.

He's on his back.

I'm on top of him.

His breath's on my neck.

I have one arm stroking that extraordinary hair; it distracts him.

With other hand, I reach into my coat pocket.

It's there—I was afraid it'd fallen out when we tossed our stuff on the ground. But it's there.

I pull it out.

I try to catch one last kiss, one last look from those eyes, those remarkable eyes.

There's just enough moonlight.

Compelling.

And cut straight across his throat—his scream starts and stops in the same gurgled breath, blood shooting out in heartbeat spurts across my face—so warm, so fresh. The salt of it on my lips, my tongue, down my throat.

Drinking it. Catching it in my mouth. Sucking it out.

Then, when he was quite still, there, in the darkness, the splinter of moonlight guiding my hand and knife, I began to slice and eat the best dinner in a long, long while.

13.

14.

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