"So I didn't have much Q-virus." I shook my head. I knew my voice was sarcastic.
"You didn't have enough to be able to go on as a cop." Celia didn't seem to notice my sarcasm. "And you didn't have enough of it in you to be the way you'd always wanted to be. If you had accepted the fact that you were a nice, sensitive and considerate man, you wouldn't have had any conflicts. But you had different ideas, different expectations of yourself. It was within my power to help you." She raised her voice slightly, imploringly. "That was what you'd wanted all your life, wasn't it? You'd wanted to be a tough, self-confident man." She forgot about my injuries, grabbed my shoulders and shook me. "That was what you'd wanted, wasn't it?"
I clenched my teeth to keep from screaming out loud.
"Yeah," I finally said in a bleak, tired voice. "You're right." That's what I wanted. I wasn't quite sure whether I still wanted it, but I had wanted it once. I felt an unpleasant and frightening presence inside of me.
Celia didn't listen. She was talking fast, she wanted to get her confession over with quickly.
"The higher the level of empathy a person has, the more sensitive he is, and the more likely it is that his constitution will resist Q-virus."
"The strange fits," I murmured, "sweating, nausea, sickness. After the fits I felt a desire to kill."
"I gave you a big dose. A very big one. I kept checking, we met daily, and I couldn't see any signs of its taking effect. As if you'd been immune to that damned vaccine. I should have quit after the second or third injection but I didn't see any reaction so I decided to go on with them. Meanwhile, the virus was accumulating inside you. And then the symptoms appeared." She started to cry. "It was terrible. I was scared, I thought you'd die. I was scared you'd change completely."
"I have changed. Completely," I interrupted coldly. There was hatred in my voice and in my eyes. Celia shivered with the coldness of my glance.
"It's not true," she implored. "You didn't change. Your body won the fight. You didn't die. You didn't go crazy. You had so much love and empathy in you that even that damned virus couldn't undo it."
I didn't believe her. Why should I have believed her? I was watching her suffer without a trace of compassion. I knew she was scared of me, she was scared of losing me, she was scared of me hating her. I knew she wanted to cuddle up to me, she needed my love. And I knew I was unsympathetic only because I enjoyed it. I enjoyed the new sensation of having power over her. I enjoyed the sight of her tearful eyes, her humiliation.
"It's not true," Celia suddenly repeated her former sentence. Her voice was soft, very soft—as if the sound floated out of the silence enveloping us. "You were a perfect subject for the experiment. It was incredible luck. You were too good of an opportunity to pass up. A strong cop, a good fighter, a sharpshooter, who happened to have less of the Q-virus than his normal share—and who couldn't live up to the expectations because of it. On top of that you trusted me, you trusted me blindly. I could have done anything to you…do you see now, you crazy—"
She sobbed so hard it shook her whole body. If she had cried before it was only warm-ups for this. The tears were trickling down her face, her slim body was racked with convulsive sobs. First I reached toward her hesitatingly, but then suddenly she was on my lap. I embraced her, caressed her, rocking her without thinking about the pain in my ribs, my burning eyes and tortured hands. The only thing I could feel was her pain. It closed around my heart like a vice, and I knew I'd never forget this sight, this moment. I didn't know which of my selves was thinking this, the old one, the new one or both.
"I love you," I told her over and over again. And then I said something that shocked even me, as soon as it came out: "Thank you."
And I meant it.
CHAPTER 40
I knew Martin would be awake when I got home. He'd wait until dawn if he had to, he'd wait until his not-so-young body dropped with fatigue. Poor, dear Martin! I shouldn't have left him. I didn't drive the car into the garage. I stopped the engine, switched off the lights and let the car roll, silently on its own, until it stopped in front of the house. I looked up at the only lit-up window: The study.
Why couldn't John call someone else instead of me? I saw him sitting slumped against the phone booth. I saw his bruised face, his purplish eyes. He won't be able to see a thing through that eye tomorrow.
Who else could he have called? An ambulance, maybe? The police…
I was angry when I got out of the car. I slammed the door hard. I looked up at the window again and saw a shadow move behind the curtain.
Martin was still standing at the window when I entered the room. He turned slowly towards me. He was still dressed in his old, baggy suit, the one I had wanted to throw out several times. He still had on a colored shirt and a tie. The colors clashed. His eyes were red, his hair tousled.
"Hi," I said.
He didn't greet me, just kept staring at me with an odd look in his eyes. I stepped closer to kiss him but he pushed me away. I lowered my head.
"Are you all right?"
"Do you really care?"
I dropped my bag and kicked off my shoes. I felt as if life was draining out of me. A refreshing, hot bath, my comfortable bed…to lie in it alone and the sleep, sleep a lot and never once dream.
"So your lover whistles and you run off to be with him. You wouldn't have cared if I died."
He left the window, came a few steps closer, then stopped short and was looking at me as if I were a stranger. His eyes were surprised and hostile at the same time.
"You felt much better when I left," I whispered. "He needed help more than you did just then. But I came back. I'm here…"
"How did you know he needed you more than I did?" Martin turned away again.
I stepped closer, hugged him and laid my head on his shoulder. I needed his caresses, his soothing words. I needed the calmness and wisdom that he was always willing to share with me. Martin. Dear, timid, congenial Martin.
"He was beaten half to death," I tried to explain. He had to understand why I needed to see John. If there was one person in the world who could see reason, it was Martin. And he knew the situation. He knew that John, the John who got beaten up today, was my creature. He wouldn't have existed without me. Maybe that's why I loved John, and not only his childish smile, his amiability, his wiry, well-built body.
The blow came without warning. It didn't hurt as much as it shocked me. It was a clumsy slap in the face driven by anger. It came from a man, who never used to fight, not even as a child. A man who never felt like working out and didn't have the time for things like. A man, who shouldn't have hit me.
"Half dead?" Martin sneered. "Only half-dead? Well, don't worry, someone will kill off the other half. If it doesn't happen next time, it'll happen the time after that. He has no fear. He's going to get himself killed."
I knew he wanted to hurt me with these words. He wanted to torture me, but I didn't believe him. I knew I hadn't deprived John of his healthy sense of danger. I had only freed him from his numbing sense of fear instead. Still, I had a strange premonition.
Everything seemed like a bad play. The study looked like a shabby backdrop. When Martin tried to be angry he was like a bad actor. Where had reality gone? Where were the pieces of my life?
Martin hit me again. I didn't raise my hand to protect my face, but I closed my eyes. I squeezed them shut because I couldn't bear the sight of him: the naked fury in his face, the clenched fist, which he raised to hit again. This time it hurt.
"What did you expect me to do, you bitch? Did you think I'd go on overlooking everything? Did you think I'd put up with you cheating whenever you felt like it?"
I saw his lips move but the words didn't reach me. A bad actor, I kept thinking. He doesn't know how to be angry, or jealous. A bad actor dressed up to look like Martin. There is an uncanny resemblance between them, but this isn't Martin. He is a stranger.
The stranger stepped closer. I realized that I was scared of him. Martin wouldn't hurt
me but I didn't know what this stranger could do. I backed away from him, whimpering. I raised my hands to protect my face but I felt the futility of the gesture. This man could kill me. I couldn't defend myself if he pounced on me. I was suddenly filled with cold and numbing terror. I wanted to flee but my legs didn't obey me…
And then the stranger looked me in the eyes. Very slowly he lowered his raised hand. He started to howl with impotent rage, but he couldn't hit me any more. Martin Baruch hadn't disappeared completely, he was still able to control the hand of the stranger, the hand that was about to hit me. Then he turned. He ran toward the door and out into the night. I collapsed on the floor. I couldn't move, I couldn't stand up and drag myself to the window, but I could hear the sound of the car, the screeching tires. I lay on the floor, next to the old-fashioned, spindly legs of the table. I lay still, staring at the lonely star I could see through the upper pane of the window.
CHAPTER 41
Sleep! It would have been so good. To get rid of the pain for a few hours. The pain that seemed multiplied by the silence of the night. To get rid of the throbbing in my temples. The burning pain around my eyes. The pain between my ribs at every inhalation. The dizziness, this impossible dizziness. I longed to be unconscious.
But in vain. Dreams were chased away by horrible thoughts. When you have a concussion you mustn't try to think too hard, it might hurt you. I can't remember who told me this. Probably some old cop who thought he was an expert in treating broken noses and other minor injuries. Whether or not this cop was telling the truth, I don't know, but I didn't want to think.
Of course I had to think about Celia, and the things she told me. Questions that I couldn't answer kept torturing me. I had to think about them, even if my brain wanted to rest. Who was I? An artificially created man, Celia's little Golem? Did she love me because she created me? Only because of that? Shit! Jealousy washed over me. What I would wanted to do most was kill Professor Baruch, the genius who can be the husband of this woman without having to torture himself with similar thoughts. I remembered a science-fiction story from a long time ago where a man's body parts were replaced by plastic and metal pieces until all the original body parts were gone. They changed my soul. My character. Was I still myself?
I felt that I should sit up, turn the light on and note down everything that comes to mind. There's always a notebook and a pen on the bedside table. I'd learned that my best ideas were usually born late at night, when everyone else is asleep. Maybe silence inspires me.
I didn't have the strength to sit up. I didn't even have the strength to reach out for the light switch. I lay on my back, feeling like I was on a boat, the dark outline of the objects in my room became a cabin. The sea was stormy.
I knew I should have someone watch the punk whose knee I broke. I wanted to put a tap on his phone line. Ericsson had promised to take care of everything.
I was sweating all over, the dizziness increased. I felt like I should drink something. My lips were chapped. I didn't move. I lay the way Celia left me. She had woke me up, gently undressed me, and sat by my bed for a minute. It reminded me of the first time I saw her, and I knew she was remembering the same thing. Desire came over me, somehow my sore, beaten up body found enough energy for it. Celia put her hand on my forehead, and I slowly and gently pushed it lower. She smiled at me, tired. Perhaps I even moved her. Oh God, female vanity! I closed my eyes, and her warm, soft kisses slowly went down my chest following her hand. It was good, very good. The pain was gone and so were my doubts. I was lying there, dazed, and Celia carefully tucked me in. "Sleep well, my dear!"
But I couldn't sleep. I kept thinking that I want to tap the punk's telephone. He was the next thread in my fine spider web of suspicions. He could lead me to Frost. Ericsson could surely get a permit. I smiled vaguely in the darkness. I knew I could get the equipment. Enough friends and colleagues of mine have turned into private detectives in the last few years.
The other thread in the web is Delacroix. I wanted to read through his notebook. I knew a whole group of detectives were working on it. They'd check on each name, phone number and address. They're pros, they knew what they were doing, just like me, or maybe even better. What did I know that they didn't? But somehow, something connected me with Delacroix, perhaps it's that I killed him, and he nearly killed me. That's an intimate enough relationship.
I needed to go see a real doctor. My calendar was on my desk. It was out of reach.
I heard noises outside. I lay still, I didn't even turn my head to look at the door, but all my senses paid attention. Quiet rustling, the clicking of the lock. Had Celia come back? The thought made me very happy for a second. The door opened quietly. I couldn't hear it close. Steps approached. Celia? I wasn't sure. I felt I should move. The bedside table. The gun was next to my notebook. I had gotten used to putting it there before going to bed when I was a beginner. They burned it into our consciousness that it always had to be within easy reach.
I can't move, I just lie there, numb. I was afraid. "Celia?" I wanted to say, but no sound came out of my throat. Someone was moving around in the other room, and I was scared in the dark, like when I was a just a boy, left alone in my room. Why didn't Celia's shot have an effect now? There was a narrow ray of light moving by the slit below the door. A flashlight. My heart beat fast, my blood throbbed in my veins. The gun was on the bedside table. I couldn't turn the lights on. The streetlights and the moon were bright enough anyway. I thought I should drop behind the bed and wait for the intruder there. Hide under the bed out of fear?
I sat up slowly, without making a noise. Everything got quiet. Maybe I was noisier than I thought. You bastard, I said to myself. I'll kill you, you bastard. I felt rage, hatred. I didn't want to hide under the bed anymore. I reached out for the gun, and it softly fit into my hand. I stood up. What was this smell? God! I look at the puddle that appeared in the slit under the door. I couldn't shoot…
And then it flared up in the other room, running steps, a slammed door. The gasoline was burning, the living room was on fire. Fear is the best painkiller. I jumped to the window. Instinct. I wasn't going to jump out of the fifth floor. I threw the window open, leaned out. A dark figure ran out of the house. The person disappeared into a car. The engine started, the car left. Its headlights weren't turned on, it sped towards the corner like a ghost car. I forgot about the fire. I stood there numb, my shaking. I knew this car. It turned at the corner. Could it have been an optical illusion! It was impossible!
I couldn't think about it any longer. The survival instinct suppressed all else. I fired the gun into the night air. The shot sounded frighteningly loud in the silence of the night. But no lights turned on, no curious heads appear anywhere. I shot again, aiming at the cars parked in the street, hoping to make at least the owners act less indifferent. I shot until the gun was empty, then I tore off the drapes and ran into the bathroom with them. I was trying to stuff the heavy wet fabric around the door when I heard the sirens wailing. It approached quickly, but it was only a patrol car, with two scared young cops who were called to catch a shooting madman. How long would it take them to realize that there is a fire and they should call the fire department? I continued doing what I could. The drapes were followed by the blanket, the sheets. There was a wet pile by the door. I opened the bathroom faucet all the way, emptied out the little trash can in the bathroom and began to fill it with water. I splashed the door and then began to refill the bucket. The siren stopped. Hurry up, boys! For Christ's sake, hurry up!
CHAPTER 42
The trial begins to drag. Most of the spectators leave. The family members stay, and so do some journalists and young lawyers. On the last day, the courtroom will fill up again. Photographers will invade the entrance and the papers will send in the sketch artists. But until then, it's a boring show for the layperson. A long process of producing evidence. An arms specialist, a pathologist, lines of witnesses. What for? The eccentric couple isn't denying anything. And they aren't trying to ex
plain anything either. Only the prosecutor's attempts at discrediting the accused make the process less boring.
A sour-looking woman, about sixty, sits in the witnesses stand. She wears slightly worn Sunday best, an old-fashioned hair-do, permed into snail-like curls. She squints suspiciously at the judge. The prosecutor asks her questions, but she just keeps looking at the judge. After all, he's the one sitting on the highest bench.
"Do you know Mr. Arany, ma'am?"
The woman watches the judge as if she was expecting the answer from him.
"Excuse me, ma'am, could you turn towards the accused? Do you know this man?"
The judge nods paternally. The woman turns her head, her glance sweeps over Arany.
"Do you know this man?"
"I do."
Arany fights a yawn. The inaction and the tension wear him out. He has to behave the whole time. He can't even yawn. The jurors might think he isn't really interested. The trial has gotten so wearing that he's reached a point where he prefers the privacy of his cell. He's in solitary, not in population with all the killers. It looks like he has friends somewhere in the system.
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