“Stabbing is fucking by other means. I digress. Only Dr. Loomis and the Final Girl have power over the demonic figure. Whether the Shape is an agent of Satan or a similarly aligned god of darkness makes no difference. Loomis/Van Helsing is an emissary of the Church and thus God’s chosen warrior; Laurie Strode/Mina Harker is pure, virginal, and protected by the mantle of divinity. Only these two can effectively thwart or harm the Shape because both are instruments of God. The end.”

“Damn, girl,” Lionel said. He was pretty far into the bag. “I didn’t know you got religion. That’s weirdly hot.”

“I didn’t get religion. I know why it’s catching, though.” She winked. “On a related topic, I find it interesting that nuns are obsessed with, yet highly resistant to, phallic imagery.”

“I hope we can give that subject the attention it deserves next Christmas,” I said.

Later, Meg and I were in bed. Since phallic nuns and serial killers were on my mind, I told her Bellow’s story about the orchard owner who murdered itinerants and how the creep grinned as the cops carted him to prison. Told her that the killer had been genial and well-spoken. I explained the horror of his capriciousness, his convivial affect.

“It means nothing when a predatory sociopath speaks.” Meg knelt on my thighs as she slipped off her nightgown. She was a silhouette, except for where the nightlight hit the wing of hair breaking over the curve of her shoulder. “What you have is a non-reciprocal pattern of noise designed solely to lull or deceive. Mimicry is the whole deal. A predatory sociopath’s mouth is emitting sounds about the weather, the stock market, a bad day at the job. It’s asking questions designed to disarm, to cultivate a bond: Can you help me? Do you have the time? I seem to be lost. We’re the same. Trust me.”

She slid her body along mine. It was slightly disconcerting because I couldn’t see her face, but felt the heat of her breath, tasted its liquor sweetness when she kissed my lips.

“They aren’t thinking of those questions, not even as the necessary mental articulations of a ruse. Their minds are compartmentalized; there’s minimal overlap between thoughts and words. What they’re thinking is how to sell you that junk car, screw you out of your life savings, or how to kill you and taxidermy the corpse.”

“Let me repeat the immortal words of Lionel Robard: Damn, girl. This isn’t the sexy talk a man expects on Christmas Eve.”

She stroked my hair. Her hands were strong, like the rest of her.

“Do you want to come with me to the Rail Trail tomorrow?” I said.

“Tomorrow’s Christmas. You haven’t a snowball’s chance in hell of setting foot outside.”

“The day after?”

“How about I come with you right now?” she said. “The future will take care of itself.”

■■■

The dreaded wake-up call didn’t sound until six-thirty A.M. Devlin was just old enough to think diving onto the bed (like he’d done last year) was babyish. He yelled into the bedroom on his way to the tree. I expressed surprise we’d gotten the extra time. Meg whispered in my ear that the cough syrup had done its job well. From the living room, Lionel’s snores were cut short by his moan of anguish. Minerva barked her throaty bark, caught up in the excitement that visits a household but once per year.