Then the thought and the alarm were gone.
He remembered vaguely an orgasm that seemed to go on forever, like the thousand-year orgasm promised the faithful of Islam in heaven when they are enfolded by a houri. There were blanks thereafter. He could remember, as if he were seeing himself in a fog, getting his car and driving off while the road wiggled like a snake and the trees bent over and made passes at him with their branches. Some of the trees seemed to have big knotty eyes and mouths like barky cunts. The eyes became nipples; sap oozed out of them. A tree gave him the finger with the end of a branch.
"Up yours, too," he remembered yelling, and then he was on a broad road with many lights around him and horns blaring and then there was the same tree again and this time it beckoned at him and as he got closer he could see that its mouth was a barky cunt and that it was promising him something he had never had before.
And so it was. Death.
* * *
CHAPTER 11
He awoke in the emergency room of the Doctors Hospital in Beverly Hills. His only complaint was sluggishness. He was unconscious when he had been pulled out of the car by a good Samaritan. The Beverly Hills officer told him that his car had run into a tree off the side of the road, but the collision was so light that the only damage was a slightly bent-in bumper and a broken headlamp.
The officer evidently suspected first, drunkenness, and second, drugs. Childe told him that he had been forced off the road and had been knocked out when the car hit the tree. That he had no visible injury on his head meant nothing.
Fortunately, there were no witnesses to the crash. The man who had pulled him from the car had come around the curve just in time to see the impact. Another car was going the opposite direction; it was not driving eratically, as Childe had reported, but this meant nothing because the car could have straightened out. Childe gave Bruin and several others as references. Fifteen minutes later, he was discharged, although the doctors warned him that he should take it easy even if there was no evidence of concussion.
His car was still on the roadside. The police had not had it towed in because the trucks were too busy, but the officer had removed the key from the ignition. Unfortunately, the officer had also forgotten to give it back to Childe, and Childe then had to walk to the Beverly Hills Police Department to retrieve it. The officer was on duty. A radio call resulted in the information that he was tied up and would not be able to drop by the department for at least an hour. Childe made sure that the key would be given to the officer in charge of the desk, and he walked home through the night. He cursed himself for having buried the extra key under the bush outside Igescu's.
He had tried to get a taxi to take him home, but these were too busy. It seemed that everybody thought that the smog was over for good and was celebrating. Or perhaps everybody wanted to have some fun before the air became too poisoned again.
There were three parties going on in his building. He put ear plugs in as soon as he had showered, and he went to bed. The plugs kept most of the noise out but did not bar his thoughts.
He had been drugged and sent out with the hope that he would kill himself in a car accident. Why the drug had affected him and not Magda was an interesting question but one that did not have to be considered at this time. She could have taken an antidote or relied on someone else to take care of her after Childe was gone. Or it was possible--he remembered what he had thought during the time--that the liquid contained something which did not become a drug unless it contacted human epidermis?
He sat up in bed then. Sergeant Mustanojal He should have been worrying about Childe's failure to call in. What had he done--if anything?
He phoned the LAPD and got Mustanoja. Yeah, he had the note but Bruin didn't seem to think it was important and, anyway, what with being so busy-what a night!--he had forgotten it. That is, until this Beverly Hills officer called in about him and then Mustanoja had found out what happened and knew he was not at Igescu's so what was there to worry about, huh? How was Childe?
Childe said he was home and OK. He hung up with some anger at Bruin for making light of his concern. However, he had to admit that there was no reason for Bruin to do otherwise. He would change his opinion after he found out what had happened last night. Perhaps, Bruin could arrange with the Beverly Hills Police Department...No, that wasn't going to work. The BHPD had far more immediate duties than investigating what was, objectively speaking, a very hazy lead. And there were certain things, important things, about the events that Childe was not going to tell them. He could skip the summerhouse activities and just say that he had been drugged with the brandy in the drawing room, but the officers were shrewd, they had heard so many false tales and part-true tales, so many omissions and hesitations, that they picked up untruths and distortions as easily as radar distinguished an eagle from an airliner.
Besides, he had the feeling that Magda would not hesitate to claim that Childe had raped her and forced "perversions" upon her.
He had gotten into bed again but now he climbed out swiftly once more. He felt ashamed and sick. That drug had overcome his normal fastidiousness and caution. He would never have gone down on a woman he just met. He always reserved this act--even if he were strongly tempted to do so--for women whom he knew well, liked or loved, and was reasonably sure were free of syphilis or gonorrhea.
Although he had brushed his teeth, he went into the bathroom and brushed again and then gargled deeply ten times with a burning mouthwash. From the kitchen cabinet he took a bottle of bourbon, which he kept for guests, and drank it straight. It was a dumb act, because he doubted that the alcohol would kill any germs he had swallowed so many hours ago, but it, like many purely ritual acts, made him feel better and cleaner.
He started for bed again and then stopped. He had been so upset that he had forgotten to check in with the exchange or turn on the recorder. He tried the exchange and hung up after the phone rang thirty times. Apparently, the exchange was not yet operating again or had lost its third-shift operator. The recorder yielded one call. It was from Sybil, at nine o'clock. She asked him to please call her as soon as he came in, no matter what time it was.
It was now three-ten in the morning.
Her phone rang uninterruptedly. The ring seemed to him like the tolling of a faraway bell. He envisioned her lying on the bed, one hand drooping over the edge of the bed, her mouth open, the eyes opened and glazed. On the little table by the bed was an empty bottle of phenobarbital.
If she had tried to kill herself again, she would be dead by now. That is, if she had taken the same amount as the last time.
He had sworn that if she tried again, she would have to go through with it, at least as far as he was concerned.
Nevertheless, he dressed and was out on the street and walking within a minute. He arrived at her apartment panting, his eyes burning, his lungs doubly burned from exertion and smog. The poison was accumulating swiftly, so swiftly that by tomorrow evening it would be as thick as before--unless the winds came.
Her apartment was silent. His heart was beating and his stomach clenching as he entered her bedroom and switched on the light. Her bed was not only empty, it had not been slept in. And her suitcases were gone.
He went over the apartment carefully but could find nothing to indicate "foul play." Either she had gone on a trip or someone had taken the suitcases so that that impression would be given.
If she had wanted him to know that she was leaving, why hadn't she left the message?
Perhaps her call and her sudden departure were unrelated.
There was the possibility that they were directly related but that she had told him only enough to get him over here so that he would worry about her. She could be angry enough to want to punish him. She had been mean enough to do similar things. But she had always quickly relented and tearfully and shamefully called him.
He sat down in an easy chair, then got up again and went into the kitchen and opened the secret compartment in the wall of the cabinet r
ear, second shelf up. The little round candy cup and its contents of white-paper-wrapped marijuana sticks--fifteen in all--were still there.
If she had left willingly, she would have disposed of this first.
Unless she were very upset.
He had not found her address book in any of the drawers when he had searched, but he looked again to make sure. The book was not there, and he doubted that any of the friends she had when they were married would know her whereabouts. She had been dropped by them or she had dropped them after the divorce. There was one, a life-long friend, whom she still wrote to now and then, but she had moved from California over a year ago.
Perhaps her mother was ill, and Sybil had left in a hurry. But she wouldn't be in such a hurry that she wouldn't have left the message with the recorder.
He did not remember her mother's number but he knew her address. He got the information from the operator and put a call through to the San Francisco address. The phone rang for a long time. Finally, he hung up and then thought of what he should have immediately checked. He was deeply upset to have overlooked that.
He went into the basement garage. Her car was still there.
By then he was considering the fantastic--or was it fantastic?--possibility that Igescu had taken her.
Why would Igescu do this?
If Igescu was responsible for Colben's death and Budler's disappearance, then he might have designs on the detective investigating the case. Childe had pretended to be Wellston, the magazine reporter, but he had been forced to give his own phone number. And Igescu may have checked out the so-called Wellston. Certainly, Igescu had the money to do this.
What if Igescu knew that Wellston was really Childe? And, having found out that Childe had not gotten into the serious car accident he had hoped for, he had taken Sybil away. Perhaps Igescu planned to let Childe know that he had better drop the investigation...no, it would be more probable that Igescu wanted to force him to break into the estate, to trespass. For reasons of his own, of course.
Childe shook his head. If Igescu were guilty, if he, say, had been guilty of other crimes, why was he suddenly letting the police know that these crimes had been committed?
This question was not one to be answered immediately. The only thing as of this moment was whether or not Sybil had gone voluntarily and, if she had not, with whom had she gone?
He had not checked the airports. He sat down and began dialing. The phones of every airline were busy, but he hung on until he got through to each and then went through more exasperating waits while the passenger lists were checked. At the end of two hours, he knew that she had not taken a plane out. She might have intended to, but the airlines had been overburdened ever since the smog had become serious. The waiting lists were staggeringly long, and the facilities at the ports, the restaurants and toilets, had long queues. Parking facilities no longer existed for newcomers. Too many people had simply left their cars and taken off with no intention of returning immediately. The authorities had imposed an emergency time limitation, but the process of towing away cars to make room for others was tedious, involved, and slow. The traffic jam-up around International Airport demanded more police officers than were available.
He ate some cereal and milk and then, though it hurt him to think of all the money wasted, he flushed the marijuana down the toilet. If she continued to be missing and he had to notify the police, her apartment would be searched. On the other hand, if she were to return soon and find her supply gone, she would be in a rage. But surely she would understand why he had had to get rid of the stuff.
Dawn had arrived by then. The sun was a twisted pale-yellow thing in a white sky. Visibility was limited to a hundred feet. The eye-burning and the nostril-scorching and the lung-searing were back.
He decided to call Bruin and to tell him about Sybil. Bruin would, of course, think that he was being unduly concerned and would think, even if he didn't say so, that she had simply left for an extended shacking-up with some man. Or, possibly, Bruin being the cynic he was, she was shacking up with some woman.
Bruin called him as he stood before the phone.
"We got a package in the late mail yesterday afternoon but it wasn't opened until a little while ago. You better get down here, Childe. Can you make it in half an hour?"
"What's it about? Budler?" And then, "Never mind. But how did you know I was here?"
"I tried your place and you didn't answer, so I thought I'd try your ex-wife's. I knew you was still friendly with her."
"Yeah," Childe said, realizing that it was too early to report her missing. "I'll be down in time. See you. Unh-unh! Maybe I can't! I have to get my car first and that may take some time."
He told Bruin what had happened but censored the summerhouse activities. Bruin was silent for a long time and then said, "You realize, Childe, that we're all doing a juggling act now, keeping three balls or more in the air at the same time? I'd investigate Igescu even if you don't have anything provable, because they sure sound like a fishy lot, but I doubt we could get into that place without a court order and we don't have any evidence to get an order. You know that. So it's up to you. Those wolf hairs in Budler's car and now this film--well, I ain't going to tell you about it, you got to see it to believe it--but if you can't get down here on time...listen, I could have a squad car pick you up. I would if this was ordinary times, but there's none available. Tell you what, if I'm out, you can get the film run off again, I'll leave word it's OK. Anyway, it might be shown again for the Commissioner. He's up to his ass in work, but he's taking a special interest in this case, and no wonder."
Childe drank some orange juice, shaved (Sybil kept a man's razor and shaving cream for him and--he suspected--for other men) and then walked to the Beverly Hills Police Department. He got his key from the desk sergeant and asked if it were possible to get a ride with a squad car out to his car. He was told it was not. He tried to get a taxi, could not, and decided to hitchhike out. After fifteen minutes, he gave up. There were not many autos on Santa Monica Boulevard and Rexford, and the few that did go by ignored him. He did not blame them. Picking up hitchhikers at any time was potentially dangerous, but in this eery white-lighted smog anybody would have looked sinister. Moreover, the radio, TV, and newspapers were advising caution because of the number of crimes in the streets.
His eyes teary and the interior of his nostrils and throat feeling as if he were sniffing in fumes from boiling metal, he stood upon the corner. He could see the house across the street and make out the city hall and the public library across the street from it as dim bulks, motionless icebergs in a fog. Far down, or seemingly far down, Rexford Avenue, a pair of headlights appeared and then swung out of sight.
Presently a black-and-white squad car passed him. When it was almost out of sight up Rexford, it stopped and then backed up until it was by him. The officer on the right, without getting out of the car, asked him what he was doing there. Childe told him. Fortunately, the officer had heard about him. He invited Childe to get in and ride with them. They had no definite goal at that moment; they were cruising around the area (the wealthy residential district, of course) but there was nothing to stop them from going that far out. Childe had to understand that if they got a call, they might have to dump him out on the spot, and he would be stranded again. Childe said that he would take a chance.
It took fifteen minutes to get to his car. Only an emergency would have forced them to speed through this thick milky stuff. He thanked them and then started the car without any trouble, backed up, and swung toward town. Forty minutes later, he was parked in the LAPD visitors lot.
* * *
CHAPTER 12
Budler was in the same room in which Colben had been killed. The first scenes had shown Budler being conditioned, going through fear and impotence at first and then confidence and active eager participation. In the beginning, he had been strapped to the same table but later the table was gone and a bed took its place.
Budler was a little ma
n with narrow shoulders and skinny hips and legs, but he had a tremendous penis. He was pale-skinned and had light blue eyes and straw-colored hair. His pubic hairs were a light-brown. His penis, however, was dark, as if blood always filled it. He had an unusual capacity for sustaining erections after orgasms and an unusual supply of seminal fluid.
(Both victims had been men with hyper sex drives, or, at least, men whose lives seemed to be dominated by sex. Both were promiscuous, both had made a number of girls pregnant, been arrested or suspected of statutory rape, and were known as loudmouths about their conquests. Both were what his wife described as "creeps." There was something nasty about them. Childe thought that the victims had possibly been selected with poetic justice in mind.)
The woman with the garish makeup, and the creature?--machine?--organ?--concealed behind her G-string, was an actor; she specialized in sucking cock and she took out her teeth several times but she did not use the iron teeth. Every time he saw her remove the false teeth, Childe tensed and felt sick but he was spared the mutilation.
There were other actors, also. One was an enormously fat woman with beautiful white skin. Her face never appeared. There was another woman, whose figure was superb, whose face was always hidden, usually by a mask. Both of these used their mouths and cunts, and once Budler buggered the fat woman.
There were also two men, their faces masked. Childe studied their bodies carefully, but he could not say that either was Igescu or Glam or the youth who had been playing billiards. One of the men had a build similar to Igescu's and another was a very big and muscular man. But he could not identify them as anyone he had seen at Igescu's.