Shattered by Jay Bonansinga Page A

Testament passages about evil recurring down through the centuries, in the Kabbalah’s discussions of shattered psyches and violent internal schisms, and even in Islam, in the jahannam, with its complex political view of evil incarnate.
    Simply put, it seemed to Grove there existed a monolithic-antagonist—an alter ego that resurfaced down through the ages and hijacked the weak—that ultimately focused its bloody exploits toward some esoteric, cosmic purpose. Grove could even see evidence of this in the feverish paintings of Hieronymus Bosch and William Blake, the flayed bodies of the damned and the contorted expression on the faces of the fallen angels. The demon face was so familiar to Grove. It was the face of utter bloodlust—cruel, cold, impassive—possessing an insatiable hunger. He had seen it on the face of more than one killer in his day, and he believed he might have once even worn the expression himself.
    In Alaska, when Grove had managed to become infected by this powerful force—or at least that was the consensus of those who had been present—he had ended up in the mental ward. That was another occasion during which Grove had lost track of time. He had floated in a dark abyss inside himself for nearly a week, until his mother and a small team of clergy and spiritualists had exorcised this new personality— or whatever it was —out of Grove. But the experience had changed Grove, galvanized him, made him realize his true nature: he was the polar opposite of Factor X.
    He was Factor Y .
    And now it felt as though another battle between the two polarities seemed to be brewing. It felt as though a horrible, inexorable dance was about to begin. Grove felt it in the pulse of his blood, the quickening beat of his heart, the humming in his bones.
    And right now, an invitation to that very dance was out in the woods behind his home, coming this way, coming toward his house.
    The noise had returned. Closer. This time it was unmistakable: the snapping of a twig. Footsteps. Grove stiffened, and felt the skin of his neck prickle. He peered out the window and saw what was making the noise.
    A man with a gun emerging from the woods.
    Coming this way.
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    Maura stirred. Still half asleep, still in the throes of that weird dream of her husband vanishing down the black void of an empty coffin, she turned onto her side. The blurry, glowing numerals of a digital clock appeared in the gloom. They seemed to float in the void: 3:13 A.M .
    She swallowed an acrid taste in her mouth, and rubbed her eyes. She looked at the clock again. 3:13? Had she only been asleep for a couple of hours? She felt as though she had been sleeping all night. Had she heard a noise? Was Aaron crying? She had no idea what had awakened her.
    She rolled onto her back and stared at the ceiling, trying to gather her bleary equilibrium. The room was bathed in shadow, almost completely dark except for the dull red glow of the digital clock and a strand of moonlight adhering to the ceiling like a brushstroke.
    Gradually the events of that evening returned to her in stages. She remembered making love to Ulysses in the basement, and she remembered putting the quilt on Vida and kissing the slumbering Aaron good night. She looked at the other side of the bed. The huge queen-size comforter and sheet were still tucked neatly into the mattress.
    Where the hell was Ulysses?
    Maura remembered lying with him down there in the afterglow, softly talking, then telling him she was going to go check on Aaron. But then what? Didn’t he say he was going to make a few notes and then come up to bed? Or was she supposed to come back downstairs? She couldn’t remember. She supposed he was still down there; probably dozed off at the desk.
    Rolling back onto her side, she stared at the clock and considered getting up to pee. Her bladder was full, but she was so exhausted she could barely move. Ever since she had given birth to Aaron—a