Deficiency

  Deficiency By Andrew Neiderman

  PROLOGUE

  Paige Thorndyke paused just inside the entrance of the Underground. The Underground is a perfect name for this dance club, she thought disdainfully. The stairway descended a full flight below the sidewalk, and the moment she opened the door to the lobby she was greeted by a musty odor that reminded her of what the basement at home smelled like, especially when the humidity was too high and everything had that dank, awful, redolent odor. Whether intentional or not, the walls here were just as poorly lighted and looked like raw cement. She crossed the small lobby in which two pumped-up wannabe television wrestlers strained their undersized tuxedos at every seam. As if they were really passing judgment on her qualifications to enter, they nodded their approval, each man's neck bulging like a pinched inner tube. Neither smiled. They looked as if they had superglue smeared around their lips, keeping them from relaxing. Paige hesitated as she approached the second set of doors, but as if some modern-day Satan was watching her and pushing buttons, the doors opened automatically with a dramatic swish, giving her the feeling she had indeed descended into a region of Hades and was now being sucked into its belly. Inside, the dance hall resembled an inferno -- the blazing pink and blue, red and yellow lights flickered over the crowd and up the pink stucco walls. The dance floor itself was a layer of glass beneath which a ruby-tinted liquid flowed, giving the revelers the sense that they were dancing on a stream of wine or blood. The fog generated by dry ice twisted and knotted above and around them, spinning a web of smoke that gnarled and curled like a snake slithering into itself.

  Paige regretted agreeing to meet Eileen Okun here. She was never fond of barhopping and found hanging around in dance clubs even more uncomfortable and somehow threatening, especially this one. The loud music, the liberal pouring and drinking of booze as if it was water, the entire atmosphere changed people or perhaps liberated the wildness and evil that hitherto lay restrained within them. It reconnected them to their animal selves. To Paige, most everyone down here recalled a mole or some reptile. That tall, thin black-haired girl in the skintight leather mini wiggled as would a rodent working its way toward scraps of food. Her eyes even bulged. And that buxom redhead who wore a pushup bra hovered over her shorter companion like a cat about to pounce, her fingers bent into small claws as she swung her arms above and around him.

  Of course she knew what Eileen would say -- at least these girls were dancing; they had partners and more than likely, they would leave with someone. Unfortunately, Eileen was right. Men were so simple, always going for the obvious ones, she concluded. I don't know why I agreed to come here, she thought and actually heard herself whimper. She had merely stepped foot in the place and her mind was already in turmoil because of it. Why do I keep doing things I really don't want to do?

  Because you're twenty-eight, she replied to her own question, and you're unmarried, unattached, and working in a travel agency where the only eligible bachelor is Clarence Tugman, a short, pudgy thirty-year-old who still lives with his parents. Most of the young men who came to the agency as clients either had someone already with whom they were traveling, or didn't seem to be interested in her. Maybe it was because she showed little interest. She wasn't good at flirting and was disdainful of it in others. I'm wound too tight, she thought, remembering a boy in high school who had accused her of being just that. She had no one to blame but herself. Why had she come back to her hometown?

  Why had she let herself sink in the quicksand of complacent security by living at home like Clarence Tugman? Why hadn't she gone off to California like Adrian, or New York City like Toby and Betty? Her closest high school girlfriends were all married or into exciting careers. Her current best friend here, Eileen, really her only friend, at least had an excuse for being here. She was relatively new to the area. For Eileen, this place was some sort of an adventure. But Paige could easily see the future she was committing herself to when she had returned after four years at the state university in Albany where she acquired a degree in liberal arts to hang on her bedroom wall. She had heard the warnings and she hadn't heeded them.

  Voila. Here she was; here she had been for almost six years after college. This was the year of her first high school reunion, ten years later, and although she had sent in her check and said she was attending, she dreaded the thought. Most anyone else with whom she had been friendly from the class and who had remained here was at least married with a family by now, even "Slow Boat Shirley" who had simply been given an attendance diploma. Her eyes went down; she sought out the darkest, most secluded spot by the bar and fumbled nervously through her purse for her money to buy herself a drink.

  "Relax," she heard someone say. He was seated so deeply in the shadows himself that she hadn't noticed him. Actually, it was more like he had suddenly appeared out of thin air. "Your money is no good here."

  "Pardon me?"

  He seemed to rise out of the darkness like a fantasy out of the coils of a deep sleep.

  "I said, your money's no good here," he said more authoritatively. "What will you have?"

  She stared at him for a moment. Was this blond-haired, evenly tanned man with the most beautiful blue eyes she had ever seen actually talking to her, really to her?

  "I..."

  "You came to the bar. You wanted something to drink, right?" he said smiling. It was such a warm smile, and yet those white teeth, those sensuous lips sent tingles down her spine, making it more than merely a friendly smile. He had a small cleft in his chin, just enough to make it interesting. This was a very sexy, very handsome man, she concluded. Was she dreaming? Did she long for it so much that she had freed a reckless imagination and concocted this wonderful illusion? Am I talking to myself? she wondered, or am I talking aloud without realizing it, and being overheard?

  He continued to stare at her, to hold his smile, to drink her in with such intensity, she felt undressed.

  "It's not a hard question," he said laughing softly.

  "What? Oh yes. Um... Vodka and tonic."

  "Vodka and tonic," he said sharply to the bartender. Then he sat back, the shadows closing in around his face again. She moved to the black vinyl stool and placed her purse on the bar.

  "Thank you," she said.

  Paige wasn't comfortable permitting men to buy her drinks, especially men she didn't know, not that it happened that often. She believed that when a man bought you a drink and you accepted it, he immediately thought that meant he bought you.

  Of course you would jump to think that, her other side quickly snapped. Always thinking negatively, especially when it comes to men.

  Maybe she was being too harsh. Eileen wouldn't hesitate to accept a drink from a stranger, would she? If it weren't for Eileen, she wouldn't be doing anything tonight, she concluded sadly.

  Anyway, she had no idea why she had so quickly and easily accepted a drink from this stranger. She surprised herself with her impulsive action.

  "No problem. You looked kind of lost for a moment and I thought, there's someone who feels the way I do." He leaned forward again and smiled. "I'm a stranger in these parts," he added in a mock-western accent, pretending to tip back a cowboy hat.

  "Oh." She laughed, a thin, wispy sort of laugh, a laugh she hated because it sounded so forced. "Well, I'm no stranger to these parts, but to be perfectly honest, I was indecisive about coming in tonight. Even after I had entered. Especially after I entered," she added with a frankness that even surprised herself.

  "Oh?"

  She gazed around as she spoke.

  "A friend was supposed to meet me here and she's not here," she continued as if that would explain everything -- her whole life, why she was alone, why she looked and felt the way she did.

  "Yeah, I thought you might
be looking for someone who hadn't arrived." His smile turned into an expression of concern -- thoughtful, deep. "It can't be easy for a young woman these days, especially one who's alone." The bartender brought her drink.

  "Well, I'm... I'm not usually alone," she lied. "Usually, I go out with friends, but it's just one of those nights where I was somewhere and my friend was somewhere and..."

  "Sure," he said turning his palms out as if to say, "That's my point." She felt herself relax, her body pour down to the stool as she sipped her vodka and tonic. Why worry about making excuses, creating a false front? Be yourself, be comfortable in yourself, she urged herself.

  "It's very crowded tonight anyway," she said looking back at the dance floor. She felt a need to keep talking as if the silences between them would give him time to reconsider what he had done and he would move away quickly.

  "Yes, it is. Apparently, the Underground lives up to its reputation. This afternoon I asked someone where was the hottest place in town, and he told me to come here. I got here only a few minutes before you did," he said. She thought he was explaining why he hadn't another girl beside him, but of course, she recognized that as her own insecurity.

  "Oh," she said. And then she smiled and thought, if Eileen could see me now, she wouldn't believe it. Where was she? How could she not show up? Maybe she never would!

  "My name's John," the dark stranger declared and extended his hand. My mind is clouded with animal imagery tonight, she thought, for his arm seemed to slither over the portion of the bar between them and his long, graceful fingers rose up toward her like the head of a snake about to strike. She turned awkwardly on the stool to shake his hand, and felt the heat in his palm, a heat that seemed to travel with electric speed into hers and up her arm. Also, his fingers clung to hers, but not because he was squeezing hard; it was more like his skin was magnetic. She held onto his hand at least three times as long as she normally would hold onto someone's hand when she shook.

  "John," he repeated, widening his smile. "Follow me and I will make you fishers of men."

  "Pardon?"

  "Christ's invitation to the disciples."

  "Oh." She finally released his hand.

  "Actually, I think I was named after Kennedy. My mother was in love with him."

  She smiled. He was so warm and relaxed; he sat there so casually and had such poise, while her heart thumped so loud she was sure he must hear it. She looked nervous and stupid, fidgeting with the plastic mixer stick. And, he made reference to the Bible. How many young men today even read any of the Bible?

  "After all that, aren't you going to volunteer your name?" he asked.

  "What? Oh. I'm Paige," she said. "Paige Thorndyke."

  "Paige. Are you a page in someone's book?" he asked, smiling.

  "Hardly. No. I'm no one's little story," she replied, and he laughed. She laughed herself, but still nervously.

  "I'm glad of that even though you make it sound like a fault," he said, suddenly looking serious. He gazed at the crowd. "Maybe it is. Too many of us become someone else's little story. People don't take each other as seriously as they once did. Everyone uses everyone," he added. "We're so accustomed to disposable things, we even treat each other that way," he concluded, turning the glass in his hand.

  She was fascinated for the moment. She even held her breath. How deep, she thought, and how right.

  He apparently realized his pensiveness and turned quickly to her.

  "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to get so heavy. This is not exactly the place for philosophical discussions," he added smiling again.

  "That's okay, I..."

  "Would you like to dance?" he asked.

  "Dance?"

  "It does seem to be one of the main activities here," he kidded. She had to laugh at herself. Sure, why not? she thought. She would be on the dance floor with this handsome man when Eileen finally arrived. Wouldn't her eyes pop?

  "All right," she said.

  He took off his jacket, folded and left it on the stool, and then reached for her hand. She gave it to him and stood. He was at least three inches taller than she was and broad shouldered with a narrow waist. His turtle-neck, milk-white silk shirt emphasized his dark complexion and made his eyes seem positively luminous. She noted how snugly his jeans fit and how tight was his rear end, tight and very enticing.

  Even though her aerobics gave her the stamina to dance all night, her nervousness shortened her breath and she was self-conscious about the way she looked in the lights. She was positive she appeared awkward and gangly beside these other young women who had moves that rivaled Broadway dancers. That was the main reason why she hated dancing. People weren't dancing with each other; they were competing for attention. Every move was a desperate cry,

  "Look at me! Me!"

  But something odd happened once they began. He focused intently on her and she felt herself drawn to him, held in his orbit like a planet held to the sun. He was a wonderful dancer, graceful and smooth, his body undulating in perfect rhythm to the music. Almost immediately, she began to move in synchronization with him, mirroring his movements. It was as if he had control over her body, as if there were some invisible cords binding them so she would move as he wanted her to move.

  She lost track of time and even became oblivious to everyone else around them. Never had dancing been more exciting or had she felt so complete and fulfilled by it. They barely spoke while they danced, but he never took her eyes from her and she couldn't look away from him. After a while she felt as if she had slipped into a warm cocoon, a cocoon he had spun around her with his gaze, his movements, the wet sensuality of his lips.

  They returned to the bar a number of times to refresh themselves with new drinks. They danced on and on, and even though they talked at the bar, she couldn't recall anything he said. His words were like music; she was mesmerized by the melodic rhythms, not the meaning. What he said almost didn't matter. Whenever he touched her, she felt an excitement building, and she didn't back away.

  Vaguely she thought, something special is happening here and I feel so good about it. Perhaps for the first time, I like the sense of abandon, the freedom, the excitement.

  So she let it go on and on and she even forgot that Eileen never arrived. She didn't bother to even look for her anymore. The club had become so crowded anyway.

  Hours later, (she really wasn't sure about time), they left together. He had leaned forward and whispered an invitation into her ear, only it didn't seem like an invitation from him, it seemed like an invitation from herself. The thought, the proposal came from her own dark thoughts, that promiscuous second self with whom she was always debating. She drew upon her own well of fantasies and indeed she felt as if she were moving in a dream.

  Maybe she hadn't paid enough attention to how many drinks she had, too. Whatever, some time later, like someone who had been literally hypnotized, she was surprised to find herself in a cheap motel room naked in bed with this handsome and beguiling stranger. And just as unexpectedly she felt the blood drain from her face. Although his lips were on hers and she welcomed his naked body against hers with more passion than she thought possible, she was confused by the mixed physiological messages being processed in her brain. She wanted him, more than she ever wanted any man, but instead of feeling complete and pure ecstasy, she was now feeling more like someone about to lose consciousness.

  She raised her hands from the small of his back and ran her fingers through her hair, pressing her palms against her temples as if she wanted to keep her thoughts contained or her head from exploding. He was kissing her neck and moving his lips down over the base of her throat to the valley between her supple breasts. She felt the tip of his tongue move over one nipple and then the other, but when she heard herself moan, she thought she sounded more like someone moaning in pain than in sexual delight.

  She opened her eyes and he raised his head so she could look into his. They no longer looked light blue. Instead they looked blacker, deeper, larger. It was as
if they were absorbing the rest of his face until he would be nothing but eyes. Suddenly she felt a terrific aching in all her joints. It was difficult even to bend her arm without experiencing some pain. The back of her neck felt tight, as tight as it would if someone had placed a metal clamp over it and had begun closing the clamp. She opened her mouth to express her discomfort, but he pressed his lips over hers and his tongue jetted into her mouth and over her own tongue, attaching itself to it like fly paper.

  She began to gag. She willed her arms to push him away, but they remained limp at her sides.

  Vaguely she knew he had entered her and they were making love, but the initial pleasure was gone from his thrusts. There was a terrible ringing in her ears that grew louder and louder. She was struggling now to extricate herself from his embrace. The chill that had come into her face grew even colder. She felt her eyes going back in her head and she fought desperately to remain conscious, but it was impossible. Everywhere his body touched hers, it felt sticky. The last thing she thought was, it feels as if he is oozing over me. Then she went dark.

  ONE

  STAT!

  Dr. Terri Barnard dropped Irene Heckman's medical chart and rushed from her hospital room. The seventy-two-year-old woman had just begun to describe her chronic back pain in a slow, monotone voice as if the aches had taken over completely and turned her into another one of the walking dead, aged zombies parading through the corridors of Medicare, haunting the consciences of doctors. Terri knew it was arthritis and there was little she could do in the way of a cure, especially an instant cure, but she was prepared to be patient and sympathetic despite Mrs. Heckman's laying all the blame for her aches at the foot of her doctors and an uncaring medical community. Terri had an especially good bedside manner when it came to elderly patients. It made sense for a doctor to have that quality, she thought. Most of his or her patients would be elderly, wouldn't they?

  STAT!

  It was originating from the emergency room, and the Community General Hospital serving the once-famous resort area in the Catskills had no doctor on duty during the fall months. The participating physicians were rotating the responsibility. Tonight, it was hers, and for the first time!