Poisonous Kiss

by Andras Totisz

  He forgets everything. He doesn't care. He doesn't find out until later that he pushed Celia out of the way, dashed across the room and out the door.

  He sprints. He couldn't say what makes him run, he simply has the feeling that he's being chased, driven by something. He has to get there. Period. He doesn't feel pain anymore, he forgets Baruch and his murderous rage. He has to concentrate on this narrow stairway. He slips on the worn-out steps and stumbles forward. He tries to avoid falling by jumping four, five steps at a time.

  He probably looks around when he gets down to the street—or is it providence that keeps him from being run over by cars? The door of the house across the street is open. No need to buzz anyone. Maybe it was Frost, who left it open Arany thinks. Great. How kind of him.

  He jumps into the elevator and pushes the button. It rises too damn slow. He's at the third floor when he reaches for his gun.

  He freezes in shock. He's left it across the street. The other gun, too. Both of them, the service gun and the secret pistol were still lying next to his bed in the house across the street. Wasn't this ridiculous? It's even funnier than the idea of Frost leaving the door open for him.

  Something drives him on. Was Q-virus pushing him, or was it his accumulated anger, helplessness, longing for revenge and self-assertion? He doesn't have time to figure it out. The elevator is moving faster now, too fast for him to get ready. By the time he hastily pulls his belt off of his pants, the elevator has stopped and the doors have opened. He steps out.

  The door of Beidecker's apartment is closed. Arany pauses in front of it and listens intently. Everything is quiet, he doesn't hear any noise, no sign that there is a fight going on inside. Even if the pimp had tried to fight with his broken knee, it must be over by now. What Arany doesn't know is whether the pimp is dead or the interrogation is still going on.

  He takes a deep breath and swings his leg. The image of poor Carl flashes through his mind, then it vanishes immediately, and what remains is the cracking sound the door makes. The way it pops open and the force with which he barrels in.

  The pimp is still alive. He sits in a chair, his face bloody, his fist clenched. He whimpers softly. He doesn't look up when Arany breaks the door down. There's a narrow ribbon of blood running down his wrist. He presses a palm against the wound.

  Frost stands next to him. The handle of the knife is almost lost in his enormous paw. He's wearing dark trousers and a dark, short-sleeved T-shirt that covers the wound on his arm. His dark eyes are menacing and confused at the same time. A beast, a predator surprised while starting on its victim. This is Arany's last conscious thought for a moment. The next part happens without him thinking. Frost's hand flies. Arany ducks instinctively, and the knife flashes past his head. It smashes into the wall and falls to the floor, harmless.

  They eye each other silently for a second. Would I shoot now if I had my gun, Arany wonders. Would I give the captain the murder he wanted, or would it be too hard for me to shoot someone who hasn't got a gun? He's breathing heavily. He doesn't ook back at the knife, which missed his neck by inches. He looks straight into Frost's eyes. He sees unfeeling darkness, deep and inscrutable like a bottomless lake. The lake of his nightmares. The lake of his fears. Did you really want this? he asks himself.

  Yes. Comes his answer. He looks into Frost's eyes and doesn't feel fear. He isn't numbed by hatred or memories. He feels elated, liberated. His lips curl slowly and unexpectedly into a smile.

  Frost's eyes, surprised, scan the dark oblong of the door behind Arany, looking instinctively for a backup, looking for armed police officers. Then he starts to laugh. No one else, nothing else, just two old buddies…

  Arany would reach into his pocket but he hasn't got any identification on him. His fingers only hold his belt. When he threw on his shirt he left it unbuttoned and untucked. Another knife appears in Frost's hand. It's bigger than the one he threw at Arany a minute ago. The handle is black, the slivery blade is long and narrow. It's a switchblade. Frost balances it delicately in the palm of his hand.

  Arany's body tightens instinctively. Will he throw it now? Frost comes closer with short, dancing steps. The blade flashes as he tries to find a better hold on it. He seems to be enjoying himself thoroughly.

  Relax, Arany keeps telling himself as he is backing away. He stumbles into a chair, kicks it aside. He could use it as some kind of a weapon or a shield even…but only if it's already at hand. He doesn't have time to pick it up. Relax! He starts hearing voices: Celia, telling him about the mental state required for the fight. His coach at the Academy, scolding him because his body is too tense again. Relax! Don't look at the knife! Don't look in his eyes! Don't worry about anything! Your body knows the answers, let it take over! Don't overburden it with superfluous thoughts! Breathe!

  He exhales slowly and feels his muscles go slacker in his neck, in his whole body. He moves softly, almost sliding sideways. His back is straight, his legs flex. All of his muscles move easily, there isn't any sign of the previous cramp, they don't move convulsively. It's as if they're floating with the wind, rocking with the waves.

  Frost doesn't notice the difference. He's absorbed in his own movements. He makes an evasive motion, the knife slashes the air in front of Arany's face, then goes toward his neck from the side, in a flat curve. The belt comes up and fends the blow off. Frost jumps back, he dances in one spot, trying to make Arany move, commit himself. Arany holds the belt in both his hands and stands quietly. He is filled with calm. Frost would win the fight if he could stick it out for a while. Arany knows that sooner or later his own muscles would let him down, his thoughts would intrude again, calculation would dominate his mind, and then nothing but fear and defeat.

  But Frost can't wait. He doesn't know if Arany has a backup team or not.

  The beast wants to escape and enjoy his glory at the same time.

  Frost charges again. The blade spins and flashes, but Arany isn't fooled. He doesn't follow the blade, he concentrates on the big, muscular body instead. He slides aside and kicks at Frost's knee. The kick just grazes Frost, but it hits him hard enough to make him spin a little. He has to swing backhanded to keep Arany away. Arany fends the blow off with the belt again, then his right hand catches Frost's wrist. His left hand reaches over his enemy's head from behind and his fingers start to press into his eyes. He forces Frost's head backwards and from that moment he is on home ground. He feels like he's in the gym. But he is not there. He lifts his right knee up fast and hard, hitting Frost in the back. Then he stomps his right foot down again, kicking into the back of Frost's knee. He still doesn't feel assured of victory, so he kicks the collapsing body twice then goes down on his knees, grabs the man's hair and pulls the heavy head up.

  "You're under arrest." He's panting hard. "You are entitled to call a lawyer. You have the right to remain silent…" he pauses and looks into the dark eyes, full of hatred and pain. " You have the right to rot in hell."

  CHAPTER 45

  I took a shower at the precinct. I put on clean clothes, a freshly pressed shirt and light trousers. I put on the holster, too. I left the disposable gun on Ericsson's desk. He can use it for whatever he wants to.

  The last, wave of exhaustion had passed an hour ago. Now, after freshening up, I felt my head was cool and sober. I saw everything in a clear light. I knew exactly what I had to do. But I had to act quickly. Who knew how long the effects of caffeine and will power could sustain my tired mind and body—how long the tension of unfinished work would keep me going.

  I couldn't go to bed peacefully, knowing that Celia's mad husband was still at large, still hunting me. A man who wants to die. He will stop at nothing and my hands are bound, I can't hurt him.

  I had to talk to him! Celia might be mistaken, there might be a chance to get a message through to the remaining sane part of his mind. And if I couldn't, at least I could choose the time and venue of our encounter. I could control him, arrest him maybe, but not hurt him. He was Celia's husband and sh
e was the woman I loved. I had to spare her at all costs.

  I wondered what kind of life he would have in a mental asylum? It was better not to think about it. Would doctors there believe that he is mad or does Q-virus leave all his other reactions untouched, so he gives the impression of being normal? I had forgotten to ask Celia about that. Had there ever been a general, a bloody-handed butcher, a terrorist, who the world looked upon as completely insane? I didn't think so. I was confused. There was only one clear thought in the jumble I called my mind, and that thought told me to talk to Baruch.

  I'd left my car in front of Beidecker's house. Ericsson loaned me an unmarked police car. He didn't ask where I was going. I drove slowly, the windows rolled down to air the car out and get rid of the stink of cigarettes, sweat and French fries from surveillance teams that normally used it.

  Celia had said that, if Baruch went on injecting himself with the vaccine, he would have only a couple of weeks left. It made me ashamed to realize that this thought was an immense relief. Just a couple of weeks and there would be no menacing presence in my life, no one would stand between Celia and me. Should we move in together? Should I marry her? A few weeks back I wouldn't have believed there was a woman I'd want to marry. A few weeks back there were quite a few things I wouldn't have believed.

  The main thing was to decide what I'll do with myself during these few weeks. I could disappear without any difficulty. I could go someplace and have some rest. But then I wouldn't know what was going on here. What point would Baruch's madness reach in the meantime? Could I leave Celia here? Would she be safe? Baruch had slapped her once. How could I know if he wouldn't try to beat her to death or shoot her with that small-caliber gun? He wouldn't miss her if he was close enough. And I knew Celia wouldn't leave him. The sicker he was the more she clung to him.

  The only answer: Baruch had to be locked up somewhere!

  He came to the door clad in an old-fashioned, shabby dressing gown, with a velvet collar. His graying, sparse hair was tousled. He seemed relaxed and friendly. It was hard to believe all the strange things I knew about him. It was hard for me to look him in the eyes. His face was sad, his eyes were sad. Here was the horrible moment of sobriety.

  "Come in." He waved languidly toward the living room. "I've been expecting you."

  Of course, Baruch, the genius knew I'd come see him. But he did know, somehow. He really had been expecting me. Over on the coffee table was cognac in a decanter, two balloon glasses and crackers, their package still intact.

  I looked around discretely, but Baruch saw me.

  "She isn't here," he smiled wearily. "I wanted to talk to you in private."

  And I'd thought it was me who wanted this meeting! Oh, no. This man was expecting me. He'd calculated on my coming here, or maybe he'd hypnotized me. He might have simply commandeered me here by the force of his personality. I felt like a child compared to him and it embarrassed me. I was beginning to see what Celia was talking about. Baruch acted modestly. He didn't hint at the difference in our social standing: He's a famous scientist and I…well, I'm just some cop. Damn it, he didn't need to point out the difference. I was quite aware of it. I don't know what made me feel so inferior. Somehow he just radiated superiority. His genius emanated from him, the way strength and cruelty emanated from Frost.

  I tried to imagine what he would be like if he wasn't inoculated with Q-virus. I tried to picture him as someone, who wasn't about to explode at any minute, who wasn't subject to sudden fits and unexpected illness. Illness which could be followed by violence. I didn't want to picture him this way. I preferred to see him as a dangerous madman.

  We sat down and reached for our glasses. I don't really like cognac but I didn't want to offend. He filled our glasses from the same decanter. I tried to look through his long dressing gown to see if he had a gun concealed in the folds. I couldn't see anything. I kept thinking of what Celia told me. Q-virus doesn't cause schizophrenia. There are no clearly alternating periods of madness and sanity. Someone infected with Q-virus experiences temporary sickness followed by fits of aggressiveness. I had ample experience with the symptoms. And I was aware of the way the virus reshapes the victim's personality. I was no longer the person I used to be, not even in my most timid moments. Even so, the change that has occurred in my personality wasn't significant. I knew that Baruch wanted to deceive me. He was playing a role, and that bothered me. I didn't know why he was acting out this part, and I hadn't a clue about what I was supposed to do. How could I defend myself if I'm not allowed to hurt him?

  I was sure Baruch read my thoughts again and enjoyed my embarrassment. I put the glass down.

  "Can I ask you something?"

  "Of course, go ahead," he smiled at me. "That's why you came, isn't it? You wanted to ask questions."

  A simple yes would have been sufficient, but instead he babbled, nervously. In spite of his appearance, Martin was definitely not at ease.

  "How long do you have?"

  A smirk appeared on his lips. The look didn't suit this face. The look made me uncomfortable. It suggested something I didn't expected and couldn't defend against.

  "So Celia told you the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth?" he started laughing. "More like the truth as she knew it! Poor little Celia! She's convinced she knows all and is entitled to tell you all."

  I couldn't stand his tone. Baruch might be superior to me in lots of things, but not in this. I'd been a cop too long to be taken in by this tone. I'm used to people trying to give me a song and dance, trying to avoid a straightforward answer to the question. What's more, I was extremely bored by this attitude and I knew how to deal with it.

  "So how long do you have?" I repeated the question. My voice was even, cold and detached.

  He looked at me, smiling and nodding wordlessly. I began to get nervous.

  "You wanted to talk with me about this, did you? You can't wait to hear my answer, can you?"

  I shrugged.

  Baruch was in need of a refill, he downed this second glass of cognac in one gulp. He deposited his glass on the table with deliberation and slowly wiped his lips with his sleeve.

  "I won't die," he said softly. "Or at least I won't die soon…unless I meet with an accident, of course."

  I stared at him foolishly. The cognac didn't seem to be doctored, so I helped myself to a taste of it.

  "Celia told you I wanted to commit suicide, right?" he looked at me and I nodded automatically, though he would go on without this reinforcing gesture anyway. "Well, I was planning to do so. If you were in my shoes you would shoot yourself, maybe. There are people, who'd prefer to be hit by a train or open their veins in the bathtub. Samurais would opt for hara-kiri. I wanted to act in style, too. Only I didn't count on the Q-virus's efficiency. It's changing my personality slowly and carefully."

  A shot with a hammer would have hit me softer than this news. I sat in my chair, paralyzed. The richly furnished living room suddenly looked like an inanimate, rigid backdrop to some drawing-room comedy. The cuckoo clock started chiming behind me. Even this sound ridiculed me. Baruch reached into his pocket and I didn't have the presence of mind to budge! I'd lost!

  But all he took out of his pocket was a cigarette. He lit it, then looked at me again, smiling. It was obvious I was safe for the moment. He wouldn't kill me in his own home. If he is bent on living, surviving, he didn't need the police breathing down his neck.

  "Did you find those fits unbearable, too?" he asked in a light, bantering manner. "How one's body tries to put up resistance!" He shrugged and continued, undisturbed. "It's so good that this stage doesn't take long. Have you noticed what a help it is if you don't restrain yourself? Before beating those miserable mice to death I thought I would die then and there. I felt like fainting, I was dizzy, I saw everything through a gray-blue haze. I felt sick and I threw up, too." He shook his head slowly, disapprovingly. "I felt some enormous hatred accumulating inside of me. I didn't know who I wanted to hurt or what for. I ha
d always been a restrained person. Everything kept me back, my upbringing, my whole life, my nature. And there were the practical considerations, too. Who should I clobber to death? Should I go out to the outer room and beat my secretary up? Chances are that she would win, and there is the possibility of a scandal, too. I'm not a physical type. And then I looked up and through the mist of nausea I suddenly saw the mice. First I was beating them wildly with my hands, then I smashed them to the floor and crunched them under my heel. Later, I realized how I enjoyed my power, and started to kill them one by one slowly and with pleasure. And you know what? After that I felt much, much better. Still, I knew that mice just provided brief relief, and there'd be a time when I would have to hurt something else, someone else. Someone, I hate so much, that the mere idea of kicking him, shooting him brings me relief. I pictured myself pushing him off a cliff ." He refilled his glass. He seemed to be trying to get himself drunk. "I was in luck. It wasn't so hard to find someone to hate. Someone on whom I could take out my rage."

  "You never wanted to kill yourself," I said. "You played the role of the genius turned hero only because you wanted to impress Celia, to make her admire you more."