Do You Come Here Often?

Rodman waited a moment. He glanced at the woman and saw she was looking at nothing in particular and he knew she was trying not to look his way, so he slid out of the chair and crossed the room. She looked at him as he approached her, exasperation and interest showing on her face simultaneously.

She said icily, "Let me guess: What's a girl like me doing in a place like this without a bodyguard."

A bitch, he thought. A beautiful bitch.

"Do you have a bodyguard?" he asked.

"No. But I'm beginning to think I need one."

"That depends on the company you keep."

She offered him a smile that was like a cold blade pressed across his throat. "And I suppose you're the company I should keep?"

Rodman began to wonder if it was worth the bother. He decided to press on. "I promise not to bite."

The cruel smile vanished. "Funny," she sneered. Then, "Let me see your teeth."

He opened his mouth. He stuck out his tongue at her. He went, "Aaaahhhhh."

"I hear the newer generations can hide their teeth. Did you know that?"

Rodman parodied a scowl. "I hear they don't like vodka." He nodded at her glass. "You believe everything you hear?"

She smiled again, and the cruelness didn't return. But it was replaced by something almost as bad. Indulgence? Yes, Rodman thought. Indulgence, but maybe a wisp of desire.

"I also hear," she continued, "that they're accomplished liars, that they fake emotions to trick us. They can pretend to hate, pretend to pity, pretend to feel . . . lust." Her tongue seemed to linger on the word. "How do I know you're not a clever monster, hoping for a chance to bite me?"

Rodman said, "May I sit down?"

Her eyes measured him. At last, she nodded. He dropped into the seat and said, "How do I know you're not one of them?"

She sipped her drink and answered into the glass. "You came over here. That's a risk you'll have to take." But she set down her glass and opened her mouth. She pointed to a filling. "Genetic mimicry or not, I don't think they can duplicate dental work, but if that isn't proof enough for you, you're welcome to leave."

But she knew he wouldn't, he thought, so he parried, "You want me to leave?"

She seemed to ponder this. Then, "I don't have anything to do just now. Why don't you stay? Grady won't be here for another 20 minutes."

Yes, she was a bitch. A tease, too, Rodman guessed. But maybe not so formidable as she pretended.

"But don't expect me to trot up to your bedroom—at least not until I've finished my drink."

Rodman swallowed the wrong way and coughed. The woman laughed. Her fluorescent eyelashes flickered in the wan light. "Just a joke." She leaned back into the chair with effected weariness. "I couldn't help but overhear your conversation with the bartender. You really should do something about that stage voice."

She'd disarmed him with her directness, and Rodman said the first thing that came to mind: "Do you come here often?"

She idly twirled a finger in her drink, then licked it. "No. Only since I met Grady. You?"

"No. I'm in town on business. I'm staying at the hotel."

"And your girlfriend?" she said with mock innocence.

Rodman replied quickly, "That was no woman and you know it."

A mischievous smile formed on her lips. "Yes. . .." She stirred her drink. "I suppose the bartender is taking it to the hotel crematorium."

"Yes."

"I wonder how many real people are murdered in crematoriums every year."

Rodman shook his head. A strange question.

"Why didn't you kill it yourself?" the woman asked.

"I wanted to stay here."

"Is that really the reason?"

Rodman frowned. "Does it matter? I didn't want to kill it. I had better things to do. Frankly, I don't get any thrill out of killing them."

The woman seemed to smirk. "Are you squeamish?"

"No."

"Are you a sympathizer?"

Rodman squirmed in his chair. This wasn't going the way he'd expected. A conversation, yes. But an interrogation? He answered wearily, "I've killed two of them. Both earlier ones. Two is enough for me."

The woman twined a curl around her finger. "You should've brought it to me." She seemed to stare beyond the ceiling. "I could've killed it with this swizzle stick." She held up the reed-thin plastic stick. "The dumb ones. They must be migrating up from the border." She stared into her vodka, sharpening the curl of hair into a stiletto point. "But the newer ones . . . I like going after the newer ones." Her eyes glittered malevolently.

Rodman frowned. He'd met her type before. Repressed killers given free reign to their murderous instincts on the monsters. He sipped his drink and the 7-Up had gone flat, leaving a bitter taste in his mouth. He asked, "You like killing them?"

A look of amazement crept into her expression. "Of course I like killing them. They kill us; remember? I'm a human being. I kill them before they kill me. Every one I kill is one less I have to worry about before going to sleep at night."

"But you like killing them."

"Yes," she said in a near-whisper. Her hand slid across the bar and settled on his, her fingernails gouging his flesh. "I enjoy killing them. It gives me goosebumps." She squeezed his hand and then drew hers away. Little half-moon indentations encircled his wrist.

Was she smiling? Rodman couldn't tell. He said, "Then I guess you don't believe their side of the story."

She laughed and it was a sound without humor. She struggled to catch a breath. Her breasts slid against the fabric of her dress. Sparks glittered from her eyelashes. Though she was sitting in the chair, her body seemed constantly in motion.

"Christ, you're funny," she chuckled. And then her voice went flat. "I saw the monster's speech to the U.N., and the President, and the Pope, for God's sake. I saw all the frightened little men lining up to shake its hand. And I am not, as it suggested, prepared to forgive and forget. Millions of people have died. People are still dying. You can't toss that off as a simple misunderstanding—a biological function. I'll kill them wherever I find them, law or no law, treaty or not. This world was meant for people, not monsters. They're the invaders. They should be killed, and by God I'll kill them."