Arany stands under the second floor landing, only three feet from the subject of his nightmares. The man sleeps with his mouth open. He doesn't look like a corpse this time. His chest lifts and sinks regularly. He puffs loudly and snorts once in a while as he moves in his dreams. Arany feels sick from a nauseous mixture of hatred and compassion. He's afraid. Afraid of himself. The narrow, dark staircase feels like a tomb around him. As if he's buried alive, and must stay here forever. His attacks follow each other at shorter and shorter intervals, and the dizziness and anger seem to become more violent each time. He worries about what will happen next. He could kill. He could murder a sleeping man who was unable to defend himself. He wants to shout. He wants to be out in the open air before he goes insane.
With a sudden move he pulls out his gun.
CHAPTER 10
The white mouse staggered pitifully, his little whiskers twitching in a strange, spastic way. He looked up at us and I couldn't decide what I saw in his eyes: reproach or a plea for help.
I looked at Martin. He was staring at the stopwatch in his hand and only occasionally glancing at the mouse.
"One minute," he reported. I turned away without answering and studied the wall of the lab, the shelves full of glassware and instruments. The mouse was dying behind my back. A poor defenseless animal.
I never liked animal experiments and could never understand how Martin was capable of doing them.
"It's a necessary evil," he had explained when I first became his assistant. Neither of us would have guessed then that he'd lead me to the altar in a year, and I was still in awe of the famous researcher. It was a necessary evil in which I didn't want to take part. I expected him to fire me when I told him that much. But he only smiled and later hired somebody to take care of the animals.
He needed a good psychologist of course …and he liked me.
The mouse had no chance at all. If it survived the next four minutes, Martin would put a cat into the cage. It's a special cage, with a winding maze in it. The mouse could try to negotiate the maze—under the dispassionate eye of a video camera—and it could reach a hole leading it to safety.
The maze had ten sections, and a regular mouse could run through all of them. But Martin's mice eventually stopped. This one would probably go down fighting. It would furiously attack the cat as soon as soon as the bigger animal was placed in the cage—unless of course the injection killed the mouse first.
What had John told me about bluffing?
It was a mistake to think of him, with his dizzy spells followed by aggressive behavior. To think of him almost shooting a kid just because the boy played with his windshield wipers. I chose to distract myself by turning back toward the experiment. I looked just in time to see the white mouse convulse a final time before lying rigid.
"Too bad," said Martin, sighing. I hated him just then, for his lack of compassion. He turned off the video, bent over the cage and took the little corpse out. He placed it in a small plastic box and attached a label to it. Then he glanced at the chronometer again and wrote something on the label. When he was finished, he moved to another cage. There was no maze in this one, only wood shavings and pieces of lettuce and turnip—and living, healthy animals.
Martin reached in, took one mouse out and caressed it absent-mindedly. I felt like I was going to explode. He always caressed the mice softly, almost fondly, in the exact same way that he touched me when we made love. Then he put the poor little thing down in the test cage, to let it get used to the place. The mouse sniffed suspiciously while Martin pumped up the shot. Martin looked at me smiling, then wrote something in a notebook. This should be my work, but I was there as his wife, not a colleague. A wife wearing a dark blue linen skirt and a light, polka-dotted blouse—and obviously disturbing him. He gave the shot, put the mouse back to the opening of the maze, mechanically turned on the video and pushed the button of his old-fashioned chronometer.
I couldn't bear any more of this, even though I had lost my right to be repelled. What I did was …unavoidable evil.
"Please," I said softly.
He looked at me. He already had another mouse in his hand. I couldn't see his eyes because his glasses reflected the light. He wore a white smock with pens and pencils in the pocket. He was my husband and I wanted to feel his embrace, to nestle against his chest and let him caress me the way he caressed this mouse a few minutes ago. But he would never hurt me the way he hurt the mice. I could tell him what I had done …I had to tell him.
He looked at me as if he hadn't the slightest idea of who I could be. I knew this look. God, I knew it well enough. I'd never let his distraction annoy me, but this time I'd like to choke him.
"It's urgent," I groaned. He should have heard the pleading tone in my voice. I knew I could hear it. Why didn't he put down that damn mouse and come to me? Couldn't he see how badly I need him?
He glanced at his watch. It was a slim golden watch I bought him last year, for our anniversary.
"Just a few more minutes," he tried. I bet he almost hated me now. He told me at least thousand times he couldn't live with the kind of woman who doesn't let him work, always disturbing him with her small problems. I never tried to explain why that's wrong.
But this time I erupted, shouting at him for the first time in my life—and probably the last time, too. I had to shout. I couldn't stand the tension, the sorrow. Then I broke down, crying. I didn't see him coming to me, but I felt him by my side, I felt his gentle hands on my head, on my neck, on my shoulder. He whispered something to calm me down but I didn't understand it. I was listening to another whispering voice in my head.
"I gave him the shot," I whispered. I cried and my shoulder shuddered under Martin's warm palm. "I gave it to him."
"How much?"
"Twenty CCs," I answered mechanically. Everything would be all right from now on. Martin would know what to do. There'll be no problem.
Martin's fingers ran through my hair. He caressed my head with one hand while the other slid down my shoulder and along my arm, coming to rest on my breast.
"Easy honey," he whispered. Martin was always aroused when I cry. Maybe crying made me more beautiful. Maybe he felt like a strong man when he could console me. He cupped my breast and gently moved his fingers in a way that made my nipple harden. "Don't cry," he said hoarsely.
We were alone in the room. Ellen the lab assistant, a young, cow-eyed girl with stout legs, was out in the lounge. She was around twenty, and beginning to put on weight, but she still had that natural blush that comes from being young, something I couldn't compete with. And I could see how she stared at Martin all the time.
I let out a moan. I didn't want to. I didn't want to be intimate in front of these mice that were condemned to die. I didn't want to make love while, on the other side of the door, Ellen was probably fantasizing about Martin. My mind protested in vain as my body yielded in the familiar way to the familiar treatment. I felt humiliated. But I was so afraid and confused, and I felt helpless to fight against Martin and his experienced hands. Maybe it was only a dream. No, it wasn't: I made a young man stagger around in his own, personal maze. He would either collapse or turn to fight and go down fighting. I only wanted to help him.
And now I was making love.
I couldn't stop Martin and I didn't want to, either. He undressed me with confidence, leaving my skirt on. Only my panties lay shamelessly beside the deadly maze.
Ha made me lean against the table and, as usual, I became flexible, like wax in his hands, his tongue, his fingers made my whole body shudder.
I thought of Arany. That was my revenge. I imagined that he was the one doing all these things to me. I let out a long, uncontrolled groan. I let my body fall, and the edge of the cage slammed into my shoulder. I didn't feel the pain, but I'd bear its mark on my skin for days. I looked up again. No baroque ornaments this time, not a cool hospital ceiling either, and not a man's eyes filled with love and passion. I saw the lens of the video camera, mounted on the ce
iling. Martin didn't turn it off. The realization filled me with sensual and shameless excitement.
Where are you John? Do you think of me?
CHAPTER 11
Morning, blessed morning. I looked out the window to where the pale sun was burning through the smoky haze over the rooftops. I wondered if I could survive another night like this.
The attacks came in waves—dizziness, sickness, weakness and anger, following one after the other, not letting me sleep. I paced my bedroom, fighting the urge to go downstairs and stroll around. I just wanted to walk the streets, to sit in a club for a beer or maybe drive around, to nowhere.
But now these innocent pastimes frightened me. I stayed inside, I lay down and closed my eyes, waiting to sleep. Instead, images of violence filled my mind.
I turned my thoughts to Celia. It seemed more and more that she remained my only link to the normal world. Her sessions gave me the courage to go on. I tried to imagine what it would be like when I entered her office that afternoon: She'd sit behind the modern looking, slim desk, she'd look up at me, smiling. Her dark hair would fall on her shoulders. She'd stand up and walk around the table, the perfect lines of her hips showing through her skirt. Always those conservative, businesswoman's suits, dark skirts, virginal blouses. I'd give anything to see her wearing tight jeans, a short little skirt that shows her long thighs. To see her naked.
This morning my thoughts went back to her again. Her eyes grew enormous in my mind. They filled it up, making me forget fear, pain, murderous instincts. I could almost taste her soft lips. I saw her naked, her breasts firm, her legs stretched out, long, perfect.
That afternoon we would shake hands and she'd go behind her desk. My desire would slowly subside as I watched her fiddle with a pen, embarrassed. I'd begin to speak, the words would pour out uncontrollably. I had never thought I could be like this. I always sneered at those suckers who'd shell out piles of cash to whine to a shrink. But she was different. What was her secret?
The pulsing night was gone and I watched with tired eyes as the sun rose higher and dawn spread around the city. I glanced at my watch. She must have been sleeping still, I couldn't call her yet. The last time I had checked my watch was five minutes ago. I had made coffee since then and was drinking it with small sips while I made plans. You can call a doctor any time if it's an emergency. She's not that kind of doctor, but it felt like an emergency to me. I wondered how she would react if I called her. I could see her sitting on her bed, though I had no reason to suppose there was a phone by the bed. Her hair would be unruly and her face free from the modest make up she generally wears. The short nightgown would slip around her thighs as she listened to my embarrassed explanations. Then she would come to me. She would say a few words to her husband, of course. That's the only detail I couldn't see clearly. I'd never seen Dr Martin Baruch and I couldn't imagine what he looked like. The only things I knew about him were that he was a genius and Celia loved him. I didn't know how a genius looks. Einstein's likeness flashed into my mind, but I couldn't picture him lying beside Celia, rubbing his tired eyes and listening to her hasty, whispered explanation about a patient of hers, a young detective she must see urgently. I wondered if he would be jealous.
One more sip of coffee. The darkness was gone, a sad morning light bathed the books covering one wall of my room, the disorder on my small desk and my service revolver in the middle of that mess.
I knew I mustn't call her. I knew I shouldn't think about her. She loved her husband, and she was ten years my senior.
I felt like I'd go crazy by myself. I left my unfinished coffee on the table and went downstairs, to the basement. A spartan little room with whitewashed walls. A bench for sit-ups, a few old fashioned weights, and the sandbags: the heavy bag, the light one and the third, lying on the green plastic matt by the door, filled with sand and gravel.
A quick warm-up and I attacked the bags. I thrashed at the big one. I hit and kicked it like an angry child—as hard as I could, without any grace or technique. I murdered the bag over and over again, driven by that terrible tension. The feeling passed slowly, as I began to tire myself. After fifteen minutes, soaking in sweat and panting I worked on combinations, using all three bags. A punch to the small one, a knee-high kick to the gravel bag, simultaneously ducking, so the small bag can't hit me as it swings back. I pummeled the heavy bag while I tried to kick backward and catch the small one, which was flapping around. It took a bit of coordination.
I felt much better, at least half human, when I finally left the bags alone. I sat in the kitchen, showered and dressed in jeans and T-shirt, facing my breakfast. I was better, but I still wondered how long I could live like this.
I took out my small notebook and opened it without looking at the pages. I already knew what they said by heart. They told me Paul Hogarthy's life. He was fiftyfive, an ex-car mechanic. Divorced with two children, who lived God knows where. His decline in life was classic, with a little jazzing up it could make a nice tragic novel. But I doubt anybody would want to read the true story. Paul Hogarthy was boring. A fat, lazy, alcohol-and-drug-dependent loser who slept in stairways and could fit almost all his possessions in a plastic bag—including his gun. It was an old Luger, almost fifty years old, a little rusty, but still a working piece.
Paul Hogarthy was probably sleeping the sleep of the stupid as a sat in my kitchen. Later they would go back to interrogating him, but it was useless, depressing. Eventually he'd be let out. He wasn't guilty. The miserable son-of-a-bitch didn't kill anybody. He was just shocked to see us; he thought we wanted to hurt him. So he pulled out the old gun. He has no gun license, but that's hardly what you call a capital crime. He hadn't hit Carl, his bullet missed by three feet.
Or maybe those were all lies. He knew we were cops, he saw the handcuffs or he knew it instinctively somehow, and he wanted to help Frost. Even if he's none too bright, he's street-wise enough to make up a story.
I almost regretted that I didn't blow him away when I caught him in that stinking staircase. Maybe I had done it the wrong way around, pulling my gun before I woke him up. He had glared at me without understanding. He didn't recognize me, but he didn't move this time. The only miserable satisfaction I got was seeing him numb with dread. If I had stood over him empty handed, maybe he would have reached into the bag again …he would have come out with the ancient Luger. I wouldn't have been paralyzed this time. I would have been able to move with deadly force, thanks to these strange feelings of anger. And Captain Ericsson would never interrogate Paul Hogarthy. The man would remain Frost's accomplice forever in our files because the dead keep their secrets. And the truth, that an old bum caused Carl's death, would never come to light. And no one would ever have to wonder whether I was reluctant to shoot.
Frost didn't have anyone waiting in the staircase for us.
I looked at my notes anyway. Names, some of them without faces, but there are a few I could attach to somebody. The bouncer of the Rumball. The club's owner, a few regulars, courtesy of the computer. Another name, that of a well-known madam, given to me by a friend. I wanted a lead on Frost's women, the ones Gladys mentioned, and I was sure they must be pros. My logic urged a simple course of investigation. I could make progress and remain discreet. But the violent anger inside, the feeling just under the surface that torments me more and more frequently, wanted to follow quite another tactic. I wanted to find one of the people belonging to these names, I wanted to grab the son-of-a-bitch and beat the truth out of him.
Should I tell this to Celia?
I'd asked her to explain these attacks to me. She had looked embarrassed, like she wanted to give me some bad news but she couldn't quite make herself do it. Then she composed herself. It's a normal reaction to the shock, she had explained. Remorse had been torturing me after Carl's death and I was reacting with anger. This explanation sounded comforting and I bought it. For a while anyway. But this morning I was attacked by doubts and not satisfied with easy explanations. I took a bite from my b
agel, and chewed it while I walked over to the bookshelf.
On the other side of the novels are my old textbooks: criminology, anatomy, psychology …I took down a few volumes and put them on the table, next to my breakfast and the notebook. I opened one and ran my eyes down the table of contents. Then a thought occurred to me and I flipped to the back, to the bibliography.
In the second volume I tried, Criminal Psychology, I found Celia's name. There's a reference to her study called, "The Psychology of Violence," which was published in the American Journal of Psychology. But what I found really surprising was that I came across Martin Baruch's name twice. The first time because of some animal experiments, the second mention referred to a study called "The Theory of Natural Cycles."
I chewed the bagel mechanically, without really tasting it. I made notes while I ate, like I did in college a few years ago. The phone brought me back to reality. I glanced at my watch. It was almost ten already. Names flashed across my mind as I started toward the phone mounted on the wall. Ericsson, a few friends, some girl …
It was Celia. I recognized her voice before she introduced herself. There was a knot in my stomach and my heart was pounding like it did before in the basement, after workout with the bags. Her voice was apologetic. If I didn't mind, she didn't want to hold today's session at her office. She wanted me to meet her at the Edgar Institute, where her husband works. She wanted to make a few tests, blood and so on …she didn't like those attacks of mine. What if I dropped in before my shift?
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