comfortable new delusion—and I say ‘comfortable’ only in comparison to the nightmares with which she had lived before.”
Hilary’s mind was racing faster than the airplane engine. She grew excited as she saw where Tony’s speculations were leading. She said, “So Katherine took the twins home, to that clifftop house, but she still had to keep the Mary Gunther lie in the air, didn’t she? Sure. For one thing, she wanted to protect her reputation. But there was another reason, much more important than just her good name. A psychosis is rooted in the subconscious mind, but, as I understand it, the fantasies a psychotic uses to cope with his inner turmoil are more the product of the conscious mind. So . . . while Katherine believed in the demon on a conscious level . . . at the same time, deep down, subconsciously, she knew that if she went back to St. Helena with twins and let the Mary Gunther story collapse, her neighbors would eventually realize that Leo was the father. If she had to deal with that disgrace, she wouldn’t have been able to support the demon fantasy that her conscious mind had fabricated. Her new, more comfortable delusions would be replaced by the old, hard, sharp-edged ones. So to maintain the demon fantasy in her own mind, she had to present only one child to the public. So she gave the two boys just one name. She allowed only one of them to go out in public at any one time. She forced them to live one life.”
“And eventually,” Tony said, “the two boys actually came to think of themselves as one and the same person.”
“Hold it, hold it,” Joshua said. “Maybe they were able to double for each other and live under only one name, one identity, in public. Even that’s asking me to believe a lot, but I’ll try. But for sure, in private they still would have been two distinct individuals.”
“Maybe not,” Tony said. “We’ve come across proof that they thought of themselves as . . . sort of one person in two bodies.”
“Proof? What proof?” Joshua demanded.
“The letter you found in the safe-deposit box in that San Francisco bank. In it, Bruno wrote that he had been killed in Los Angeles. He didn’t say his brother had been killed. He said he, himself, was dead.”
“You can’t prove anything by that letter,” Joshua said. “It was all mumbo-jumbo. It didn’t make any sense.”
“In a way it does make sense,” Tony said. “It makes sense from Bruno’s point of view—if he didn’t think of his brother as another human being. If he thought of his twin as part of himself, as just an extension of himself, and not as a separate person at all, then the letter makes a lot of sense.”
Joshua shook his head. “But I still don’t see how two people could possibly ever be made to believe they were only one person.”
“You’re accustomed to hearing about split personalities,” Tony said. “Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. The woman whose true story was told in The Three Faces of Eve. And there was a book about another woman like that. It was a best-seller several years ago. Sybil. Sybil had sixteen distinct, separate personalities. Well, if I’m right about what became of the Frye twins, then they developed a psychosis that’s just the reverse of split personality. These two people didn’t split into four or six or eight or eighty; instead, under tremendous pressure from their mother, they . . . melted together psychologically, melted into one. Two individuals with one personality, one self-awareness, one self-image, all shared. It’s probably never happened before and might never happen again, but that doesn’t mean it can’t have happened here.”
“The two would have found it virtually essential to develop identical personalities in order to take turns living in the world beyond their mother’s house,” Hilary said. “Even small differences between them would ruin the charade.”
“But how?” Joshua demanded. “What did Katherine do to them? How did she make it happen to them?”
“We’ll probably never know for certain,” Hilary said. “But I’ve got a few ideas about what she might have done.”
“So do I,” Tony said. “But you go first.”
By mid-afternoon, the amount of light coming through the east-facing attic windows grew steadily less. The quality of the light began to decrease as well; it no longer radiated out from the shaft form that the shape of the window imparted to it. Darkness slowly claimed the corners of the room.
As shadows crept across the floor, Bruno began to worry about being caught in the dark. He couldn’t simply snap on a lamp because the lamps weren’t in working order. There hadn’t been any electric service to the house for five years, since his mother’s first death. His flashlight was useless; the batteries were drained.
For a while, as he watched the room sink into purple-gray gloom, Bruno fought panic. He didn’t mind being outdoors in the dark, for there was almost always some light spilling from houses, streetlamps, light from passing cars, the stars, the moon. But in a totally lightless room, the whispers and the crawling things returned, and that was a double plague he must prevent somehow.
Candles.
His mother had always kept a couple of boxes of tall candles in the pantry, off the kitchen. They were for use in the event of a power failure. He was pretty sure there would also be matches in the pantry, a hundred or more of them in a round tin with a tight-fitting lid. He hadn’t touched any of those things when he had moved out; he had taken nothing but a few personal possessions and some of the collections of artwork that he had acquired himself.
He leaned over to peer into the face of the other Bruno, and he said, “I’m going downstairs for a minute.”
The cloudy, blood-muddied eyes stared up at him.
“I won’t be gone long,” Bruno said.
Himself said nothing.
“I’m going to get some candles so I won’t be caught in the dark,” Bruno said. “Will I be all right alone here for a few minutes while I’m gone?”
His other self was silent.
Bruno went to the set of steps in one corner of the room. They led down into a second-floor bedroom. The stairwell was not totally dark, for some light from the attic window fell into it. But when Bruno pushed open the door at the bottom, he was shocked to find that the bedroom below was black.
The shutters.
He had opened the shutters in the attic when he’d awakened in the dark this morning, but the windows were still sealed elsewhere in the house. He hadn’t dared open them. It wasn’t likely that Hilary-Katherine’s spies would look up and notice just one pair of opened attic shutters; but if he were to let light into the entire house, they would certainly spot the change and come running. Now the place was like a sepulcher, shrouded in eternal night.
He stood in the stairwell and peered into the lightless bedroom, afraid to advance, listening for whispers.
Not a sound.
No movement either.
He thought of going back to the attic. But that was no solution to his problem. In a few hours, night would have come, and he would be without a protective light. He must forge on to the pantry and find those candles.
Reluctantly, he moved into the second-floor bedroom, holding open the stairwell door to take advantage of the meager, smoky light that lay behind and above him. Two steps. Then he stopped.
Waited.
Listened.
No whispers.
He let go of the door and hurriedly crossed the bedroom, feeling his way between pieces of furniture.
No whispers.
He reached another door and then stepped into the second-floor hallway.
No whispers.
For a moment, enveloped in seamless velvety blackness, he could not remember whether to turn left or right to reach the stairs that led to the ground floor. Then he regained his bearings, and he went to the right, arms extended in front of him and hands opened with fingers spread in blindman fashion.
No whispers.
He almost fell down the stairs when he came to them. The floor suddenly opened under him, and he saved himself by reeling to the left and clutching the unseen bannister.
Whispers.
Cli
nging to the bannister, unable to see anything at all, he held his breath, cocked his head.
Whispers.
Coming after him.
He cried out and lumbered drunkenly down the steps, lost touch with the railing, then with his balance, windmilled his arms, tripped, sprawled on the landing, face down in the musty carpet, pain shooting through his left leg, just a flash of pain and then the dull echo of it in his flesh, and he lifted his head, and he heard the whispers getting closer, closer, and he got up, whimpering in fear, limped rapidly down the next flight, stumbled when he abruptly reached the ground floor, and looked back, stared up into darkness, heard the whispers rushing toward him, building to a roaring hiss, and he shouted—“No! No!”—and started toward the rear of the house, along the first-floor corridor, toward the kitchen, and then the whispers were all around him, rolling over him, coming from above and below and every side, and the things were there, too, the horrible crawling things—or thing; one or many; he didn’t know which—and as he careened toward the kitchen, bouncing from wall to wall in his terror, he brushed and slapped at himself, desperately trying to keep the crawling things off him, and then he crashed into the kitchen door, which was a swinging door, which swung open to admit him, and he felt along the perimeter of the room, felt over the stove and the refrigerator and the cupboards and the sink until he came to the pantry door, and the things slithered over him all this time, and the whispers continued, and he screamed and screamed at the top of his raspy voice, and he pulled open the pantry door, was assaulted by a nauseating stench, stepped into the pantry in spite of the overpowering odor that wafted from it, then realized he couldn’t see and wouldn’t be able to find the candles or the matches by touch among all the other jars and cans, whirled around, into the kitchen again, screaming, flailing at himself, wiping the wriggling things off his face as they tried to scurry into his mouth and nose, found the outside door that connected the kitchen to the back porch, fumbled with the stiff latches, finally freed them, and threw the door open.
Light.
Gray afternoon light, slanting down the Mayacamas Mountains from the west, rained through the open door and illuminated the kitchen.
Light.
For a while, he stood in the doorway, letting the wonderful light wash over him. He was sheathed in perspiration. His breath came hard and ragged.
When he finally calmed down, he returned to the pantry. The sickening stench came from old cans and jars of food that had swelled and exploded, spraying spoiled goods and giving rise to green-black-yellow molds and fungi. Trying to avoid the mess as best he could, he located the candles and the can of matches.
The matches were still dry and useful. He struck one to be sure. The spurting flame was a sight that lifted his heart.
To the west of the northward-streaking Cessna, a couple of thousand feet below the aircraft, at the seven- or eight-thousand-foot level, storm clouds steadily approached from the Pacific.
“How?” Joshua asked again. “How did Katherine make the twins think and act and be one person?”
“As I said,” Hilary told him, “we’ll probably never know for certain. But for one thing, it seems to me that she must have shared her delusions with the twins almost from the day she brought them home, long before they were old enough even to understand what she was saying. Hundreds and hundreds of times, perhaps thousands upon thousands of times over the years, she told them that they were the sons of a demon. She told them they’d been born with cauls, and she explained what that meant. She told them their sex organs weren’t like those of other boys. She probably told them that they would be killed if other people found out what they were. By the time they were old enough to question all those things, they would have been so thoroughly brainwashed that they wouldn’t have been able to doubt her. They’d have shared her psychosis and her delusions. They’d have been two extremely tense little boys, afraid of being found out, afraid of being killed. Fear is stress. And a lot of stress would make their psyches highly malleable. It seems to me that tremendous, unrelenting, extraordinary stress over a long period of time would provide exactly the right atmosphere for the melting together of personalities in the way that Tony has suggested. Massive, prolonged stress wouldn’t, by itself, cause that melting together, but it would sort of set the stage for it.”
Tony said, “From the tapes we heard in Dr. Rudge’s office this morning, we know Bruno was aware that he and his brother were born with cauls. We know that he was familiar with the superstition connected with that rare phenomenon. From the way he sounded on the tape, I think we can safely assume he believed, as his mother did, that he was marked by a demon. And there’s other evidence that points to the same conclusion. The letter in the safe-deposit box, for instance. Bruno wrote that he couldn’t ask for police protection against his mother because the police would discover what he was and what he’d been hiding all these years. In the letter, he said that if people found out what he was, they would stone him to death. He thought he was the son of a demon. I’m sure of it. He had absorbed Katherine’s psychotic delusions.”
“All right,” Joshua said. “Maybe both twins believed the demon bunk because they’d never had a chance not to believe it. But that still doesn’t explain how or why Katherine shaped the two of them into one person, how she got them to . . . melt together psychologically, as you put it.”
“The why part of your question is the easiest to answer,” Hilary said. “As long as the twins thought of themselves as individuals, there would be differences between them, even if only very minor differences. And the more differences, the more likely it was that one of them would unintentionally blow the entire masquerade someday. The more she could force them to act and think and talk and move and respond alike, the safer she was.”
“As for the how of it,” Tony said, “you shouldn’t forget that Katherine knew the ways and means to break and shape a mind. After all, she had been broken and shaped by a master. Leo. He had used every trick in the book to make her what he wanted her to be, and she couldn’t have helped but learn something from all of that. Techniques of physical and psychological torture. She could probably have written a textbook on the subject.”
“And to make the twins think like one person,” Hilary said, “she’d have to treat them like one person. She’d have to set the tone, in other words. She’d have to offer them the exact same degrees of love, if any. She’d have to punish both for the actions of one, reward both for the actions of one, treat the two bodies as if they were in possession of the same mind. She had to talk to them as if they were only one person, not two.”
“And every time she caught a glimpse of individuality, she’d either have to make them both do it, or she’d have to eradicate the mannerism in the one who displayed it. And pronoun usage would be very important,” Tony said.
“Pronoun usage?” Joshua asked, perplexed.
“Yes,” Tony said. “This is going to sound pretty damned far-out. Maybe even meaningless. But more than anything else, our understanding and use of language shapes us. Language is the way we express every idea, every thought. Sloppy thinking leads to a sloppy use of language. But the opposite is also true: Imprecise language causes imprecise thinking. That’s a basic tenet of semantics. So it seems logical to theorize that the selectively-twisted usage of pronouns would aid in the establishment of the kind of selectively-twisted self-image that Katherine wanted to see the twins adopt. For example, when the twins spoke to each other, they could never be allowed to use the pronoun ‘you.’ Because ‘you’ embodies the concept of another person other than one’s self. If the twins were forced to think of themselves as one creature, then the pronoun ‘you’ would have no place between them. One Bruno could never say to the other, ‘Why don’t you and I play a game of Monopoly?’ He’d have to say, instead, something like this: ‘Why don’t me and I play a game of Monopoly?’ He couldn’t use the pronouns ‘we’ and ‘us’ when talking about himself and his brother, for those pronouns indica
te at least two people. Instead, he’d have to say ‘me and myself’ when he meant ‘we.’ Furthermore, when one of the twins was talking to Katherine about his brother, he couldn’t be permitted to use the pronouns ‘he’ and ‘him.’ Again, they embody the concept of another individual in addition to the speaker. Complicated?”
“Insane,” Joshua said.
“That’s the point,” Tony said.
“But it’s too much. It’s too crazy.”
“Of course, it’s crazy,” Tony said. “It was Katherine’s scheme, and Katherine was out of her mind.”
“But how could she possibly enforce all of those bizarre rules about habits and mannerisms and attitudes and pronouns and whatever the hell else?”
“The same way you’d enforce an ordinary set of rules with ordinary children,” Hilary said. “If they do the right thing, you reward them. If they do the wrong thing, however, you punish them.”
“But to make children behave as unnaturally as Katherine wanted the twins to behave, to make them totally surrender their individuality, the punishment would have to be something truly monstrous,” Joshua said.
“And we know it was something monstrous,” Tony said. “We all heard Dr. Rudge’s tape of that last session with Bruno, when hypnosis was used. If you remember, Bruno said that she put him into some dark hole in the ground as punishment—and I quote—‘for not thinking and acting like one.’ I believe he meant she put both him and his brother in that dark place when they refused to think and act like a single person.
She locked them in a dark place for long periods of time, and there was something alive in there, something that crawled all over them. Whatever happened to them in that room or hole . . . it was so terrible that they had bad dreams about it every night for decades. If it could leave that strong an impression so many years afterwards, I’d say it was enough of a punishment to be a good brainwashing tool. I’d say Katherine did exactly what she set out to do with the twins: melted them into one.”
Joshua stared at the sky ahead.
At last, he said, “When she came back from Mrs. Yancy’s whorehouse, her problem was to pass off the twins as the one child she’d talked about, thereby salvaging the Mary Gunther lie. But she could have accomplished that by locking up one of the brothers, making him a house son, while the other twin was the only one allowed to go out of the house. That would have been quicker, easier, simpler, safer.”
“But we all know Clemenza’s Law,” Hilary said.
“Right,” Joshua said. “Clemenza’s Law: Damned few people ever do anything the quickest, easiest, simplest, and safest way.”
“Besides,” Hilary said, “Maybe Katherine just didn’t have the heart to keep one of the boys locked up forever while the other one was permitted to lead at least a little bit of a normal life. After all the suffering she’d been through, maybe there was a limit to the amount of suffering she could force her children to endure.”
“It seems to me she made them endure a whole hell of a lot!” Joshua said. “She drove them mad!”
“Inadvertently, yes,” Hilary said. “She didn’t intend to drive them mad. She thought she was doing what was best for them, but her own state of mind didn’t make it possible for her to know what was best.”
Joshua sighed wearily. “It’s a wild theory you’ve got.”
“Not so wild,” Tony said. “It fits the known facts.”
Joshua nodded. “And I guess I believe it, too. At least most of it. I just wish all of the villains in this piece were thoroughly vile and despicable. It seems wrong, somehow, to feel so much sympathy for them.”
After they landed in Napa, under rapidly graying skies, they went straight to the county sheriff’s office and told Peter Laurenski everything. At first, he gaped at them as if they had lost their minds, but gradually his disbelief turned into reluctant, astonished acceptance. That was a pattern of reactions, a transformation of emotions that Hilary expected they would all witness a few hundred times in the days ahead.
Laurenski telephoned the Los Angeles Police Department. He discovered that the FBI already had contacted the LAPD in regard to the San Francisco bank fraud case involving a look-alike for Bruno Frye, now believed at large in the LAPD’s jurisdiction. Laurenski’s news, of course, was that the suspect was not merely a look-alike, but the genuine article—even though another genuine article was dead and buried in the Napa County Memorial Park. He informed the LAPD that he had reason to believe the two Brunos had taken turns killing women and had been involved in a series of murders in the northern half of the state over the past five years, although he could not yet provide hard evidence or name specific homicides. The evidence was thus far circumstantial: a grisly but logical interpretation of the safe-deposit box letter in light of recent discoveries about Leo and Katherine and the twins; the fact that both of the twins had made attempts on Hilary’s life; the fact that one of the twins had covered for the other last week when Hilary had first been attacked, which indicated complicity in at least attempted murder; and finally the conviction, shared by Hilary and Tony and Joshua, that Bruno’s hatred for his mother was so powerful and maniacal that he would not hesitate to slaughter any woman who he imagined was his mother come back to life in a new body.
While Hilary and Joshua shared the railback bench that served as an office couch, and while they drank coffee provided by Laurenski’s secretary, Tony took the phone at Laurenski’s request and spoke with two of his own superiors in L.A. His support for Laurenski and the corroboration of facts that he provided were apparently effective, for the call concluded with a promise that L.A. authorities would take immediate action at their end. Operating under the assumption that the psychopath would be keeping a watch on Hilary’s home, the LAPD agreed to establish around-the-clock surveillance on the Westwood house.
With the cooperation of the Los Angeles police assured, the sheriff quickly composed a bulletin, outlining the basic facts of the case, for distribution to all law enforcement agencies in Northern California. The bulletin doubled as an official request for information on any unsolved murders of young, attractive, brown-eyed brunettes, in jurisdictions beyond Laurenski’s, during the past five years—and especially any murders involving decapitation, mutilation, or evidence of blood fetishism.
As Hilary watched the sheriff issuing orders to clerks and deputies, and as she thought about the events of the past twenty-four hours, she had the feeling that everything was moving too fast, like a whirlwind, and that this wind—filled with surprises and ugly secrets, just as a tornado is filled with swirling clods of uprooted earth and chunks of debris—was carrying her toward a precipice that she could not yet see, but over which she might be flung. She wished she could reach out with both hands and seize control of time itself, hold it back, slow it down, take a few days out to rest and to consider what she had learned, so that she would be able to follow the final few twists and turns of the Frye mystery with a clear head. She felt sure that continued haste was foolish, even deadly. But the wheels of the law, now engaged and rolling, could not be blocked. And time could not be reined in as if it were a runaway stallion.
She hoped there was no precipice ahead.