Page 27 of The Forest of Lost Souls

As Deacon opens the correct cabinet and takes two wineglasses from a shelf, Vida says, “This is a business meeting.”

“Oh, darlin’, that makes you sound like a whore. You do have the equipment to be a high-priced item. But if that’s what you were, I wouldn’t be here. I never paid for it, and I never will.”

“The business to be discussed is what will make you go away.”

“I’m not goin’ nowhere, girl. You’re honey, and I’m the bear. There’s but one way that story unfolds.”

“I can hurt you bad. Don’t think I can’t or I won’t.”

As he puts the glasses on the table, he says, “A bear can take a hundred stings, two hundred, and he just sits there eatin’ honey. He knows every pleasure worth havin’ comes with a bit of pain.”

She bluntly defines him. “Rapist.”

“There’s not another woman alive who would say so. Those ladies who’ve been with yours truly will tell you how they were gentled, charmed, and satisfied.”

She keeps the table between them as he retrieves a lever-action corkscrew from a drawer. He’s as familiar with the house as if he’s been living here for some time.

“Keep an open mind,” he says. “Get to know me. I’ve got my admirable qualities. You’ll come around. I know you will.”

“You think I murdered Belden Bead. So then why won’t I kill you?”

Laughing softly, he peels the foil capsule from the cork. “You don’t scare me, darlin’. I figure Belden was being Belden, and you acted in self-defense. You don’t have true murder in you.”

“If it was self-defense, why did I dig that damn big hole and put him in it?”

“Well now, that’s sure to be part of our dinner conversation. I’m most interested in hearin’ your story.”

He removes the cork and inhales the aroma from the ullage. He pours a small sample, swirls it, smiling at Vida over the rim of the glass. He tastes the cabernet, is satisfied, and pours two servings.

“You’ll be drinking alone,” she says.

He slides her glass across the table, a wafer of light wobbling on the surface of the wine, and places it beside her plate. “Let’s sit and enjoy for a while before havin’ dinner.”

When he settles in his chair and sips his cabernet, she stands with her back to the sink, watching him.

“There was this lovely woman,” he says, staring into his wine as if it is a memory pool. “Not as lovely inside as out. She was somethin’ of a snob and very proud—a shallow person, I regret to say—but she was physically a stunner. This terrible thing happened. The thumb and index finger on her right hand were cut off.” He looks up at Vida. “Hey, darlin’, I’m sorry. What the heck am I thinkin’? It’s a good story, an instructive little parable, but not dinner conversation.”

Vida says nothing.

“Well, all right then, if you’re curious. By the end, it’s actually an inspirin’ story. Hopeful. This lady, she thought she was perfect. And she truly was a perfect beauty. But when she lost those fingers, she was devastated, so depressed. Her face and body wereunmarked, as special as before, but she felt disfigured. Her image of herself collapsed. That pride I mentioned was gone. She wasn’t smug no more, or snarky. But when she discovered she was still wanted, still very much prized, when she realized there are caring men in this world who can judge a woman by the complete package and overlook a bit of ugliness here or there, she was deeply grateful that she didn’t lose more fingers or even an entire hand, and her gratitude made her passionate. She gave her all, as long as she was wanted.”

Tormenting Vida like this gives him pleasure. The trick is to indulge him in his psychological games while she deftly plays one of her own. If she denies him too adamantly, with withering scorn, he will resort to violence with which she might not be able to deal successfully. On the other hand, if she yields too quickly, he’ll suspect that her submission is a ruse to encourage him to let down his guard. Intuition tells her that he expects to take a while to break her and looks forward to inflicting a series of fractures to her self-respect and spirit. To maneuver Deacon into a position of vulnerability, she must ever so slowly bend to his intimidation until he’s confident that she’ll eventually capitulate with just enough resistance to make his conquest exciting.

“If I’ve got to listen to this shit,” she says, “I’ll need that cabernet.” She sits across the table from him and picks up the wine he poured.

He smiles and raises his glass in a toast. “To Belden Bead. He’d be amazed to learn he’s become a matchmaker.”

“The only thing he’s become is dead.”

“Hush now. I won’t accept your confession.”

“Wasn’t a confession, merely a fact.”

“Last thing I want is you in prison instead of under me.”

“Won’t be either one.”

“Only other option you got is me dead.”

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