Orville shook his head, frowning. He didn’t need any heat. “A couple of people mentioned it, but I ain’t heard a thing. I mean, I think I would’ve heard. I been scratching around for cash, trying to get back into business, and I been calling everybody I know. There’s not a fuckin’ thing, man.”
“Nobody got rich, nobody bought a car . . . ?”
Proud shook his head. “Not a fuckin’ thing. Terry Meller come into a whole load of Panasonic color TVs, fell off the train in St. Paul, but that’s about it.”
“You’re sure?”
“Man, I spent the last three weeks running all over the metro, talking to everybody. That’s all I’ve been doing. There’s nothing out there.”
“All right,” Lucas said, discouraged. “How was Arizona?”
Proud shook his head. “New Mexico. You don’t wanna do any time in New Mexico, man. That place is like . . . primitive.”
“Sorry to hear it . . .”
“Yeah, sure . . .”
“You check in with me, okay? You got my number?”
Proud nodded, dug in his pocket and came up with a business card printed with a nine-digit number, broken into groups of three, two and four digits, like a Social Security number. He handed the card to Lucas. “Call the last seven numbers, backward. That’s my beeper. You want to see me again, phone ahead, huh? Don’t come knocking on the fucking door.”
“Okay. And I’ll give you some free advice, Orville,” Lucas said as he stepped away. “Get rid of Ralph. Ralph’s a head case and he’s looking for somebody to kill. Get yourself a baseball bat or something. If you stay with Ralph, you’ll go to Stillwater with him on a murder rap. I guarantee it.”
“I hear you,” Proud said, but he didn’t.
Back in the parking lot, Lucas leaned against the car, thinking it over. They were at a dead end.
Daniel’d have to go for the TV.
CHAPTER
6
Beauty danced.
A jig, to music that played only in his brain.
He hopped from one foot to another, his penis bobbing like the head of a blind waxen cave worm, his arms, crooked at the elbow, flapping like chicken wings. He laughed with the pleasure of it, the feel of Persian wool carpet under the bare soles of his feet, the sight of himself in the freestanding mirrors.
He danced and he twirled and he hopped and he laughed . . . .
He felt a wetness on his chest and looked down. A crimson rain was falling on his chest. He touched his nose. His fingers came away sticky, red. Blood. Running across his lips, dripping from his chin, trickling down across his pale, hairless chest to the thatch of hair at his crotch. The music drained from his brain.
“Blood,” he moaned. “You’re bleeding . . . .”
His heart pounding, Bekker got on his knees, groped under the desk and pulled out his briefcase. Knowing that the police would be in his house, he had thought it prudent to move his medications to his office. He’d not yet returned them to the medicine chest. He fumbled at the tiny combination lock on the case and got it open. Dozens of medical vials were jammed inside, amber plastic with white caps and taped-on labels, mostly prescription, a few over-the-counter dietary supplements. He pawed through them, still dripping blood.
Amobarbital. Dextroamphetamine. Loxapine. Secobarbital. Ethotoin. Chlordiazepoxide. Amiloride. No, no, no, no . . . He should have a color-coding system, he thought; but once he had them back on the shelves, it would be easier. He could put the uppers on top, the downers at the bottom, the smoothers on the second shelf, the vitamins and supplements under that . . . . Haloperidol. Diazepam. Chlorpromazine. No. Where was it? Where? He was sure . . . Ah. Here. Vitamin K. How many? No problem with vitamin K, better safe than sorry. He tossed five caps in his mouth, grimaced and swallowed.
Better. The bleeding was slowing anyway, but the extra K couldn’t hurt. He pulled a wad of tissues from a Kleenex box on his desk, pressed it to his nose. He’d bled before. There was no pain, and the bleeding would soon stop. But, he thought, only two this time and I’m bleeding. He’d taken them, why had he taken them, the methamphetamines? There was a reason . . . .
He looked at the corner of his desk, at the brass cigarette case, the lid popped open, an invitation. Three black-coated methamphetamine tablets nestled in one quadrant of the box, sharing space with the phenobarbitals, the butalbitals and the criminals of the crew, all in a single, separate cell: the one remaining pale blue tab of acid, the four white innocuous-looking hits of phencyclidine and the three innocent Contac capsules.
Only three methamphetamines? But he usually kept seven in the box. Could he have taken four by mistake? He couldn’t remember, but he felt up, wired, he’d danced for . . . how long? A long time, he thought. Maybe he’d better . . .
He did a phenobarbital to level himself out. And it wouldn’t hurt the bleeding, either. Maybe . . . He did one more, then carried the cigarette case, the emergency kit, back to the briefcase, the mother ship, and carefully refilled it.
Still bleeding? Bekker took the Kleenex away from his face. The blood looked black against the blue tissue, but the flow had stopped. He stood and stepped carefully around the clothes he’d strewn on the floor when the amphetamines came on him. Why had he eaten them? Must think.
His study was neat, with wooden in boxes and out boxes on the antique desk, an IBM electric on an antique corner table, a wall of shelves filled with books, journals, magazines. On the wall next to the door was a photograph of himself, standing next to an E-type Jaguar. Not his, unfortunately, but a beautiful car. A silver frame around the photograph.
Stephanie smiled from a matching frame, on the other side of the door. She was wearing jodhpurs, why was she . . . ? Hard to think. Must. Stephanie? The lover. Who was the lover?
That was the critical question. He’d thought the amphetamines might help him with that . . . . If they had, he couldn’t remember.
He sat down in the middle of the floor, his legs spread. Must think . . .
Bekker sighed. His tongue slipped out, tasted salt. He looked down and found himself covered with a dark crust. Crust? He touched his chest with a fingertip. Blood. Drying blood . . .
He got to his feet, stiff, climbed the stairs, hunched over, touching each riser with his hands as he went up, and then went down the hall to the bathroom. He turned the tap handles, started the water running, ducked his head toward the sink, splashed cold water on his face, stood, looked into the mirror.
His face was pink, his chest still liver-red with the blood crust. He looked like the devil, he thought. The thought came naturally. Bekker knew all about the devil. His parents, immersed in the severities of their Christian faith, had hammered the devil into him, hammered in the old, dead words of Jonathan Edwards . . . .
There are in the souls of wicked men those hellish principles reigning, that would presently kindle and flame out into hell fire, were it not for God’s restraints.
He’d never seen God’s restraints, Bekker had told the preacher one Sunday night. For that he had gotten a beating that at the time he thought would kill him. Had, in fact, not been able to go to school for a week, and had seen not a gram of pity in his parents’ eyes.
Bekker, sopping up the blood, looked into the mirror and spoke the old words, still remembered: “God holds you over the pit of hell, much as one holds a spider or some loathsome insect over the fire, abhors you, and is dreadfully provoked. Bullshit.”
But was it? Did the consciousness go somewhere after death? Was there a pit? The children he’d seen die, that change of gaze at the last instant . . . was that ecstasy? Did they see something beyond?
Bekker had studied the films taken by the Nazis at the death camps, stared into the filmed faces of dying medical experiments, films considered collectible by certain influential Germans . . . . Was there something beyond?
Bekker’s rational scientist mind said no: We are no more than animated mud, a conscious piece of dirt, the consciousness no more than a chemical a
rtifact. Remember thou that thou art dust and to dust thou shalt return. Isn’t that what the Catholics professed? Odd candor, for a Church Political. Whatever his rational mind said, the other parts, the instinctive parts, couldn’t imagine a world without Beauty. He couldn’t simply vanish . . . could he?
He glanced at his watch. He had time. With the proper medication . . . He looked out of the bathroom at the brass box on the bureau.
Michael Bekker, very smooth, a little of the cocaine, just a lick of the phencyclidine, slipped through the halls of University Hospital.
“Dr. Bekker . . .” A nurse, passing, calling him “Doctor.” The word flushed him with power; or the lick of PCP did. Sometimes it was hard to tell.
The hallway lights were dimmed, for night. Three women in white sat under the brighter lights of the nursing station, thumbing through papers, checking medication requirements. Overhead, a half-dozen monitors, flickering like the components of a rich man’s stereo system, tracked the condition of the ICU patients.
Bekker checked his clipboard. Hart, Sybil. Room 565. He headed that way, taking his time, past a private room where a patient was snoring loudly. He looked around quickly: nobody watching. Stepped inside. The patient was sound asleep, her head back, her mouth hanging open. Sounded like a chainsaw, Bekker thought. He went to the bedside table, opened the drawer. Three brown vials of pills. He took them out, half turned to the dim light coming in from the hall. The first was penicillamine, used to prevent kidney stones. No need for that. He put it back. Paramethasone. More kidney stuff. The third vial said “Chlordiazepoxide hydrochloride 25mg.” He opened it, looked inside at the green-and-white caps. Ah. Librium. He could always use some Librium. He took half of the tablets, screwed the top back on the vial and put the vial in the drawer. The Librium caps he dropped into his pocket.
At the door, he stopped to listen. You had to be careful in this: nurses wore running shoes, and were silent as ghosts. But if you knew what to listen for, you could pick up the almost imperceptible squawk-squawk-squawk of the shoes on polished tile . . . .
The hall was silent and he stepped out, squinting at his clipboard, ready to look confused if a nurse was in the hall. There were none, and he went on toward Sybil Hart’s room.
Sybil Hart had raven hair and dark liquid eyes. She lay silently watching the screen of the television bolted into a corner of her room. An earplug was fitted in one ear, and although the inanities of late-night television sometimes made her want to scream . . . she didn’t.
Couldn’t.
Sybil Hart lay unmoving, propped semi-erect on her bed. She was not in the ICU proper, but was accessible, where the nurses could check her every half-hour or so. She’d be dead in three weeks, a month, killed by amyotrophic lateral sclerosis—ALS, Lou Gehrig’s disease.
The disease had started with a numbness in the legs, a tendency to stumble. She’d fought it, but it had taken her legs, her bowel control, her arms and, finally, her voice. Now, and most cruelly, it had taken her facial muscles, including her eyelids and eyebrows.
As the ALS had progressed and her voice had gone, she’d learned to communicate through an Apple computer equipped with special hardware and a custom word-processing program. When the disease had taken her voice, she’d still had some control of her fingers, and using two fingers and a special switch, she could write notes almost as effortlessly as if she were typing.
When her fingers had gone, the therapist had fitted her with a mouth switch, and still she could talk. When her mouth control had gone, another special switch had been fitted to her eyebrow. Now that was going, was almost gone. Sybil Hart began to sink into the final silence, waiting for the disease to take her diaphragm. When it did, she would smother . . . in another two or three weeks . . . .
In the meantime, there was nothing wrong with her brain and she could still move her eyes. The CNN commentator was babbling about a DEA raid on a drug laboratory at UCLA.
Bekker stepped inside her room and Sybil’s eyes shifted to him.
“Sybil,” he said, his voice quiet but pleasant. “How are you?”
He had visited her three times before, interested in the disease that incapacitated the body but left the brain alive. With each visit he’d seen further deterioration. The last time she had barely been able to respond with the word processor. A nurse had told him several days before that now even that was gone.
“Can we talk?” Bekker asked in the stillness. “Can you shift to your processor?”
He looked at the television in the corner of the room, but the screen stayed with CNN.
“Can you change it?” Bekker stepped closer to her bed, saw her eyes tracking him. He moved closer, peering into them. “If you can change it, make your eyes go up and down, like you’re nodding. If you can’t, make them go back and forth, like you’re shaking your head.”
Her eyes moved slowly back and forth.
“You’re telling me you can’t change it?”
Her eyes moved up and down.
“Excellent. We’re communicating. Now . . . just a moment.” Bekker stepped away from Sybil’s bed and looked down the corridor. He could see just the corner of the nurses’ station, a hundred feet away, and the cap on the head of a nurse, bowed over the desk, busy. Nobody else. He went back to the bed, pulled a chair up and sat where Sybil could see him. “I would like to explain my studies to you,” he said. “I’m studying death, and you’re going to be a wonderful participant.”
Sybil’s eyes were fixed on him as he began to talk.
And when he left, fifteen minutes later, she looked up at the CNN commentator and began to strain. If only . . . if only. It took twenty minutes, exhausting her, but suddenly there was a click and the word processor was up. Now. She needed a B.
When the nurse came by a half-hour later, Sybil was staring at the word processor. On the screen was a single B.
“Oh, what happened?” the nurse asked.
They all knew Sybil Hart could no longer operate the equipment. They’d left the switch attached because her husband had insisted. For morale. “You must’ve had a little twitch, there,” the nurse said, patting Sybil’s unfeeling leg. “Let me get the TV back for you.”
Sybil watched in despair as the B disappeared, replaced by the tanned face and stupid shining teeth of the CNN commentator.
Four floors below, Bekker wandered through the pathology lab, whistling tunelessly, lost in not-quite-thought. The lab was cool, familiar. He thought of Sybil, dying. If only he could have a patient just a little early, just five minutes. If he could take a dying patient apart, watch the mechanism . . .
Bekker popped two MDMAs. Beauty broke into his jig.
CHAPTER
7
Light.
Lucas moved his head and cracked an eye. Sunlight sliced between the slats in the blinds and cut across the bed. Daylight? He sat up, yawning, and looked at the clock. Two o’clock. Telephone ringing.
“Jesus . . .” He’d been in bed for nine hours: he hadn’t slept that long for months. He’d unplugged the bedroom phone, not wanting it to ring if he did manage to sleep. Now he rolled out, yawned and stretched as he walked into the kitchen and picked up the telephone.
“Yeah. Davenport.” He’d left the kitchen blinds up the night before and saw, up the block, a woman walking with an Irish setter on a leash.
“Lucas? Daniel . . .”
“Yeah.”
“I’ve been talking to people. We’re going with television.”
“Terrific. What time’s the press conference?” The woman was closer now, and Lucas was suddenly aware that he was standing naked in front of a window that was barely knee-high.
“Tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?” Lucas frowned at the phone. “You gotta do it today.”
“Can’t. No time. We didn’t decide until a half-hour ago—Homicide still doesn’t like it.”
“They think it makes them look bad . . . .” The woman was one lot away, and Lucas squatted, gettin
g down out of sight.
“Whatever. Anyway, it’ll take the rest of the day to get a package together. I’ve got to meet with the county attorney about the legal angles, figure out if we’re gonna try to pull full-time surveillance on Bekker, and all that. We’re sorting it out now. I left some messages at your office, but when you didn’t get back, I figured you were on the street.”
“Uh, yeah,” Lucas said. He looked around the kitchen. Unwashed dishes were stacked in the sink and microwave-dinner boxes were crushed into a plastic wastebasket. Bills were piled on the kitchen table with books, magazines, catalogues—two weeks’ worth of mail, unopened. He was living like a pig. “Just walked in the door.”
“Well, we’re gonna do the conference early tomorrow afternoon. Probably two o’clock. We’ll want you around. You know, for the PR. Wear the usual undercover rig, you know they like that, the TVs . . . .”
“All right. I’ll be down a little early tomorrow, talk it over. But today would be better.”
“Can’t do it,” Daniel said. “Too many details to smooth out. You coming in?”
“Maybe later. I’m trying to get an interview over at University Hospital with a guy who knows Bekker.”
When Daniel got off the phone, Lucas peeked over the windowsill and found a redheaded woman staring vacantly at the front of his house while pretending not to see her dog relieve itself in Lucas’ bushes.
“God damn it.” He crawled back to the bedroom, found his notebook, sat on his bed and called Webster Prentice at the University of Minnesota. He got a secretary and was switched to Prentice’s office.
“You think Bekker killed her?” Prentice asked, after Lucas introduced himself.
“Who mentioned Bekker?”
“Why else would a cop be calling me?” the psychologist said in a jovial fat-man’s voice. “Listen, I’d like to help, but you’re talking to the wrong guy. Let me suggest that you call Dr. Larry Merriam.”
Merriam’s office was in a building that from the outside looked like a machine, with awkward angles, unlikely joints. Inside, it was a maze, with tunnels and skyways linking it to adjoining buildings, ground-level exits on different floors. Entire floors were missing in some parts of the structure. Lucas wandered for ten minutes, and asked twice for directions, before he found a bank of elevators that would take him to the sixth floor of the right wing.