“He was starting around with Barbara when I left. Not that he needs us anyway. He’s doing fine.”
“Good. I hope we won’t have to do this often.” She tucked in her shirt and found her bag. “See you later, Les. Sleep well. Shall I come out and wake you in a couple of hours?”
“Your hair needs brushing.”
“Oh.’’ Her hand went in reflex to her head. She had taken the pins from her hair to sleep, and now the rubber band that held her hair back from her face had slipped down too. She pulled it off and reached into her bag for her brush, then paused. “Well, I’ll do it inside, the light is better.”
“Let me. Please.”
So that’s where he was headed. Grooming behavior first. A male rat, attracted by a female, begins exploratory sniffing. If she is receptive—if she does not fight, claw, scratch at him—the rest follows in its proper order. Sniffing. Grooming. Mounting. Intromission. Ejaculation. And, after a few minutes, the same steps all over again.
Humans, of course, were different. The most basic question for animals was never in question for humans—no human male had to worry about whether a female was in heat. Like males, human females were always physically ready for sexual arousal. Like males, they were creatures whose hesitations and disinclinations came from other sources—pair-bonding to another, fatigue, depression, fear of parenthood, lack of attraction for obscure cortical reasons. Like males, they could, in the right circumstances, achieve the intense neurological pleasure of orgasm, something that females of other species did not seem to do, or not in the same way. Human females had trouble too unless the male was patient and skilled. Unless they felt the strong attraction that seems physical but is really yet another activity of the cerebral cortex. Because sex for humans too is largely cortical, is not a simple reflex act. The neural pathways might originate in the genitals, but they are elaborated by the involvement of millions of cortical cells that link each person’s history, sensations, beliefs, affections, fantasies in unfathomable complexity, orchestrating the whole body and brain for sexual pleasure.
Les ground out his cigarette. He was still waiting. They were humans; to show that she was nonreceptive, she did not have to bite and scratch. She would simply say, “Thanks, Les, I’ll do it myself; see you later,” and everything would be as before. They would pretend that his carefully disguised invitation had not happened, continue being friends and colleagues, go on ignoring the desires of a man whose partner was tired, pregnant and cowlike, of a woman whose mouth and breasts and vulva—okay, and cortex too—thirsted to respond to a loving male touch.
“Thanks, Les,” Monica began; but then she stopped, and slowly, wordlessly, handed him her brush.
He handled her thick dark hair gently, almost reverently, as though it were costly silk, and moved up to sit very close behind her so that his strong male thighs flanked hers, his hardening crotch pressed against her buttocks. Finally he put down the brush and almost timidly mouthed her earlobe. Monica was suddenly impatient and undid the top button of her shirt. His hands joined hers eagerly, unbuttoning, and his lips moved down her neck and shoulders as he uncovered her. He was gentle and knowledgeable, letting his enthusiasm for her body show in the way he cradled and stroked her, in the thorough circling of lips and soft bristly mustache on her responsive breasts and flanks. But despite the growing urgency that he built in her so skillfully, her perverse cortex would not grant her body release and pleasure, until at last she closed her eyes and pretended he was Ted.
VII
Halfway up the forested ridge that rose between the lab and the highway, an outthrusting of striated rock formed a natural protected hollow, shielded from view on three sides by the ridge and rock, on the fourth by determined bushes that had clawed their way into the stone to spread a leafy screen across the gap. Nick sat there now, waiting. She’d be here soon. It was nine- thirty already, the twilight fading rapidly from the flushed sky.
He’d been on the job a week now, and had evolved an uneasy working relationship with Maggie. Last week, as he emptied wastebaskets at the start of his second day’s shift, she had come striding down the hall from Dr. Weisen’s office, given him a blank smile and a “Hi, Rick” for all to hear, followed by a muttered “Sundance eleven tomorrow” as she passed.
“Hello, Miz Ryan,” he had answered politely, and gone on with his job. The next day, after a hurried search through the telephone book, he found Sundance, a crowded variety store near the university. Its narrow aisles were packed with cards, paperbacks, mugs, small appliances, plants, and a thousand other items; and its air was filled with the throb of rock music. Nick, browsing through a magazine—Rick, he had decided regretfully, would buy few books—had not been aware of her until she spoke almost in his ear, under cover of the music.
“You know this doesn’t change anything, Nick.”
She was standing with her back to him, studying a display of best-sellers on the other side of the aisle. He hadn’t turned his head, just flipped the page of his magazine casually as he replied, “Okay. But I want to help, if you want me to.”
“I want you to leave me alone.” She grabbed one of the books at random. “And yes, damn it, I want your help. For Norman’s sake.”
“Okay, then. For Norman’s sake we’re a team again.” He thought he’d better change the subject. “How’s Zelle?”
“Fine. I put one of your shirts in the corner of my room. She sleeps on it.”
“Good.” It was a comfortable thought, somehow.
“She’s admired by all. Except our landlord, who luckily hasn’t noticed her yet.”
“And the car?”
“Parked a block south of the Y. The keys are in Rick’s name at the desk there.”
“Fine. Okay, let’s go to work. Can you tell me exactly what all those different sets of rats are for?”
“You mean logically, in Weisen’s experiment?”
“Yes.”
“Okay. It’ll take a while, not here. Can you find out how many people have access to them?”
“Yes. Gib’s pretty talkative.”
“Good. Tomorrow, then, at the fire lookout tower. Same time.” She focused at last on the book in her hand. Slaughterhouse Five. “Damn, I’ve read this.”
“So it goes,” said Nick.
She glared at him, grabbed The Naked Ape instead, and hurried to the checkout. A little later Rick bought his magazine, had a lonely lunch, checked his car, and made his way back to the lab.
In the last six days they had met four times. She was wary, yet hungry for what he could tell her about the lab routine. She listened, grave and intent, as he described the physical arrangement of the clean areas of the lab; outsiders, even project statisticians, were seldom invited through the shower locks, and casual visits were impossible. He explained the ear-notch identification system, the way the animals were moved to clean cages and the way the dirty cages were cleaned and sanitized, all the myriad details of the job Norman had held.
In turn she described to him the logic of the various experiments that were going on. She explained what each study was attempting to show in terms of major experimental problem and side effects, and how it fit into the overall research plan. Between Gib and Maggie, Nick was getting a Berlitz course in brain research, a vast new ocean of knowledge about a field that, from a distance, had seemed important but arcane, its secrets known to only a few. Now, though he still had no grasp of the biochemical and structural details involved, he felt he understood both ends of the research process—the urgent problems and unyieldingly strict logic of the experimental design on the one hand, and on the other, the grubby, all too physical reality of the individual living animals as they ate, slept, defecated, mated, and died in the service of that logic.
Together, they tried to discover the meaning of the items Norman had wanted Maggie to see—the mangled rat and the mysteriously numbered squares on the paper. But insight had not come.
Where was she now?
With Gib, he
had inspected the ditch near the lab driveway where Norman had died. There was a slight curve at that point, but the main difference between this section and the others was that it was unusually deep, an area where the roadbed had been filled in to cross a dip in the terrain. The rock that had broken Norman’s skull still sat near the bottom: a jutting chunk of shale the size of a large book, wicked but, Nick noted, easy to heft. But Gib asserted again that it had to be an accident.
Was something wrong? Maggie had never been late before.
He saw her occasionally in the daytime, at the Y. Because he had to keep in shape for the upcoming summer stock job, and because it was convenient to park there and take the bus to the lab, he visited it daily for a workout, then went on to the Seville to study his scripts and check his skin color. Maggie, it turned out, was teaching beginning gymnastics to a class of little girls at the Y. But even there she acknowledged his presence distantly, a smile and a wave for Rick but nothing for Nick.
He could see the lab from where he sat behind his screen of leaves, the concrete stretch of the new building punctuated rhythmically by brightly lit vertical windows, and at right angles, the barracks-like old lab, clapboard with flaking paint. The woods ran close to both labs, cut only by the service drives behind them and by the parking lot in the ell formed by the two buildings. The lot contained only two cars now, Dr. Weisen’s black Buick and a biology professor’s big Ford. Not hers. She would park out of sight on the highway side of this ridge, on the old road that led to the fire lookout tower, or on the rutted lane that long ago had served a farmhouse.
At last she slipped around the big rock, sat down cross-legged across from him, and leaned back, tense, against the boulder.
“Problem?” he asked.
An instant’s hesitation. “Someone almost saw me. I had to come in the other way.”
“You were seen?”
“No, definitely not. It’s okay.” But he could tell that it wasn’t. He frowned, and she insisted irritably, “It’s okay!”
“Whatever you say, fretful porpentine. Want my report?”
“Yeah, without the editorial comments.”
“Yessum. Here are copies of all the stuff in the grad desks that I couldn’t account for. Tom’s desk was a nightmare, but everything was identifiable except for these six pages. He keeps a lot of anti-war stuff around. These three are from Les’s desk, maybe part of the studies he’s working on. These three from Barbara Burke’s, five from Martin’s. Only one from your well-organized roommate’s.” He handed her the paper, and she tilted it to catch the fading light.
“Oh, this is okay. Just the hours of that nursing home she visits.”
“And these last three are orphans. They were squeezed between two lockers and I almost missed them. I copied them and put them back, and when I checked after everyone went home, they were gone.”
“Hmm.” She inspected the papers. “Dates and measures. Doesn’t mean anything to me. What’s Brighton?”
“I don’t know. But asking around doesn’t seem wise.”
“I’ll check some phone books.”
“Good. What do you want me to do next?”
Businesslike blue eyes met his. “Might as well run Operation Mike. And there’s the old lab.”
“The old lab?”
“Yes. What’s in it? You said that only Dr. Weisen has a key.”
“That’s what Gib said. I’ve only seen it opened once since I’ve been here. He sent Gib over to bring out some animal bedding.”
“Can you get in?”
“Can I get in? Mademoiselle, don’t underestimate your partner in crime, mild-mannered Rick Donner! Who escaped from the cell that held Garfield’s assassin? Who passed through the walls of a padlocked trunk?”
She was grinning her sunlit grin. “Who?”
“Harry Houdini, actually. But I’ll try.”
“Okay.” The smile faded and she stood up. “Well, then. See you here tomorrow at ten.”
He didn’t move. “I’m not finished.”
Her glance flicked at him again, warily. “What else?”
“The incinerator.”
She sat down, long legs folding neat as bird’s wings. “What about it?”
“I’m not sure, except that it’s slower than Gib says. I can generally see the smoke from my bedroom window, and nights that I’ve put in a full load it’s often still going near dawn. The cycle is supposed to be much shorter.”
“That’s odd. Some sort of malfunction?”
“Probably. But I thought I’d watch it a little longer before asking Gib about it.”
“Good idea. Just in case.” She understood the implications. “Is that it?”
“Yes. Except I love you.”
She was on her feet again. “Jesus, Nick! What do I have to do? What’s your game? Look, I’ll be a sport. If I sleep with you tonight, will you leave me alone?” At the look in his eyes she turned away and punched her fist against the boulder.
“Golly, ma’am, that’s a mighty handsome offer. Sure hate to turn it down. But y’see, I’m interested in more than your pussy. And more than one night.”
She didn’t turn around. “Okay, so you think I’m being unfair. Maybe I am. But I’ve become addicted to independence, Nick. Because I’ve heard all that stuff before. Promises of eternal love. Pair-bonding, Monica calls it. She’s quite an advocate of it too.”
“I see.” Nick was suddenly depressed. “Maggie, of course it doesn’t always work out. But don’t judge me by other people with other problems. I’m not Rob. Not Les or Monica.”
The hand on the boulder tensed suddenly. “You know about Monica?”
“Just following instructions, chief. Keeping track of people.”
“And not telling me!” She turned back accusingly.
“Maybe I was wrong. But I couldn’t see any relevance. I thought you’d have trouble believing it. And I’m not so depraved as to go looking for proof.”
“Jesus.”
“You believe it now.”
“Yes,” she admitted. “And you’re right, I wouldn’t have said anything either. But I told you I was almost seen a few minutes ago. Because his van was already in the place I was going to park. He was helping her in. Hands all over each other.”
“I see.”
“So. Take a lesson from these biologists. Professional pair-bonders.” Her hand waved airily. “You’ve got dozens of gorgeous volunteers in every show you work, right? Just choose one. Or five or six. It’ll be easy to switch.”
“Maggie.” Nick was on his feet now too. “That’s not true. Not for me. Because I’ve tried everything, including that, and nothing works. Damn it, that’s why I’m here! I have no choice!”
In the twilight her eyes were beautiful, deep cloudless blue, full of despair. She said, “An hour ago, maybe I would have tried to believe you.” Then she dodged around the boulder and was gone. Nick cursed Les and Monica and Rob, kicked the long-suffering boulder himself, and wondered what dark god had enslaved him to this exciting unattainable woman. He had known Rob. Lean, laughing, magnetically handsome Rob, a creature worthy of a woman’s dreams. Unlike homely, bulky, balding Nick. A ridiculous middle-aged suitor to her bright youth. What half-witted obstinacy made him persist?
He pushed through the bushes and hiked down the hill to finish his shift. By the time he reached the lab he had worked himself, gratefully, back into Rick’s character. Thank God Rick was not in love. The lucky dog.
Rick had other problems, though. As he arrived at the front door, Dr. Weisen hailed him. “Oh, Rick, there you are!”
“Yes, sir. Been on my break.”
Weisen looked tired, his rotund form sagging. He was under a lot of strain these days; the high point of a distinguished career looming just ahead, and the necessity of making an attractive technical presentation to benefit from it, while he still had to deal with the needs of students, and with the problems presented by the cruel vandalism and by Norman’s death.
; “I wanted to take some records home with me tonight to look at. Could you give me a hand?” he said.
“Yes, sir, of course. Just let me wash my hands.” Nick dodged into his room for supplies, then out to scrub the dust of the ridge from his hands. He followed Weisen into his office and picked up the box he indicated, waiting deferentially until Weisen collected his other things and started out. Following, Nick paused at the door, balancing the box on one hip with one hand, and checked the latch behind him. Then he followed Dr. Weisen to the car. “You have a lot of work to do, sir,” he observed, setting the box onto the passenger seat.
“Yes, there’s much too much to do these days. My wife is beginning to complain, and she’s usually a good sport about my hours. That’s why I’m taking this home. But this phase will be over by Thursday. For better or for worse.”
“The students tell me things are going well.”
“Oh, they are.” The weary eyes smiled. “Perhaps I’m just getting old and tired. Not as able to take the strain. But it is a worry.”
“The drug company representatives will be here Thursday afternoon, Gib said.”
“Yes.” Weisen leaned against his car, friendly and unexpectedly garrulous. “But that’s only part of the worry, Rick. The students are working very hard. We should have this set of experiments ready to report. But there’s also the problem of that vandalism. If I had time, I’d follow that up more. It’s a terrible thing, something that should never be allowed.”
“Yes, sir, of course.”
“And I don’t know if you understand this, but there’s another problem. You see, the questions we deal with here are life-and- death questions, but more than that. They have to do with who people are. A human brain is a miracle, Rick. A person whose brain is damaged has usually suffered a far greater loss than that of an arm or leg.”
“Yes, sir. My father had a stroke.” It had left him speechless, vegetable-like, for several weeks before the final fatal attack. The teenaged Nick and his sister and mother had clung to each other and screamed at each other and wept with each other in terrified reaction to the half-familiar living vacant hull that had been father and husband.
Murder Is Pathological Page 10
