Cat in a Jeweled Jumpsuit

The part of himself he could never escape, because it had somehow become Other.

Matt pushed the Vampire, pressed it into higher speed. It grew throaty, as if growling protest, then it leaped forward.

Still. A light in the mirror.

A pursuer.

A Hound of Heaven.

Or Hell.

Well.

He knew how to ride this thing at last.

He wasn't afraid to tilt almost horizontal.

He didn't fear the noise and the speed.

Speed King.

He wasn't going to get caught.

Not here.

Like this.

By ... whom? An anonymous splinter of himself. The eternal judge. The Wild Card Incarnate. Elvis on the half shell? No.

Sometimes you move and it's zen. The hand, the eye, the soul in mindless syncopation. Maybe it's rock. Maybe it's roll. Maybe it's delusion.

Matt was in that state. The machine moved with him. He moved the machine. The needle said they did ninety. The moon and the asphalt said they were waltzing in three-four time.

But finally the whirr and the scream behind them caught up. The light in the mirror was a star gone nova. Some hounds you can't outrun.

Matt slowed, breathed, pulled over.

In the mirror, the single light focused, stopped, hung there like a spotlight.

The sound of silence was deafening after the rush.

He waited, balancing the weight of the Vampire on the balls of his boots.

Leather creaked in the dry desert air.

Black leather.

A motorcycle policeman advanced in Matt's left side mirror.

A mythic figure, really. Boots, pants, jacket creaking. Hips expanded with a holster of accessories: gun, gloves, baton, walkie-talkie, whatever.

Paper in a notepad shifted like dry bones. "Whoa, son. You were goin' pretty fast."

“Sorry. My shift is over. I'm anxious to get home." "Home's not worth rushin' to so fast. Let's see here. Ninety miles an hour."

“Guess I didn't look. I'm sorry."

“What this thing do?"

“The bike?"

“Never seen one like it." Boots creaking at each step around the Hesketh.

“It's English."

“English bike? Usually they're those real light bicycles. This is a heavy machine."

“Custom."

“Custom. I like custom. Got to give you a ticket, though."

“I understand, officer. I'm a little nervous. Been working late a lot. And, I thought, someone was following me—"

“Someone following you. That's a nasty feeling." "Yeah. You get it sometimes?"

“All the time, son. All the time. Comes with the territory." He walked around the Vampire again. "Nice bike. So what'll it do?"

“I don't know."

“Don't know?"

“Never took it up to maximum. It's ... well, against the law."

“Against the law. We don't wanta be against the law."The cop leaned close, peered at the dash. "What does it say it'll do?"

“Uh, the speedometer goes to one-twenty."

“You tried it?"

“No."

“Maybe you should."

“I can't. It's against the law."

“Against the law. See this?"

“It's a badge."

“Yes, sir. Now that's not against the law."

“I guess not."

“So I'm not going to give you a ticket tonight, son, on one condition."

“Yes?"

“That you take this thing to the maximum."

“But—"

“Now, go on. I don't want to have to get mean, but if I can catch your taillight, you're not doing as I say." "No, sir. I mean, yes, sir."

“Go on, then. I want to see you flying.”

Matt went.

Into the desert on empty roads, timeless flight. The moon couldn't keep up.

The motorcycle policeman couldn't keep up.

Finally, finally, the voices in his head couldn't keep up.

He got a ticket anyway. A ticket to ride.

Temple turned the key in her door, then tiptoed into her own place like a thief. It felt so great to have the weight of Priscilla, actual and metaphorical, off her.

“Meroww," said Midnight Louie, writhing against her ankles and stalking over to his bowl to stand and stare resentfully.

She had thought ... who knew what she had thought tonight?

“We had some monkey business at the Kingdome to- night, Louie. Good thing you weren't there." "Merrrr0000w!" said Louie. He almost sounded like he was scolding her.

“I know I've been gone a lot lately," she said meekly. "Got caught up in Elvis fever. This whole town did. But it's all over now. Here, have some ocean flounder on your Free-to-Be-Feline.”

Louie dug in and Temple tiptoed away before he could scold her further, to the bedroom.

“Meow," said Midnight Max, who was reclining on the comforter, sans Elvis accoutrements.

The stereo was softly playing something Elvis, though.

“You would have won if you'd stuck around," Temple said.

“Couldn't afford to.”

She sat at the foot of the bed. "Okay. How? Why? When?”

Max smiled. "I got back in town and couldn't reach you at home, so I finally appealed to Electra for news. She informed me you'd become Elvis's greatest fan and told me all about the dirty tricks going on at the King-dome. I figured you couldn't resist the greatest mystery of the twentieth century, so I slipped over there to sniff around—apparently Midnight Louie had similar notions, because I kept seeing him around—"

“I didn't."

“He's like me: hard to spot unless he wants you to." "Hmmmph," Temple said.

“Anyway, I decided that being in the thick of things was the best way to give you backup."