She kissed him.
The burnt strip of skin on his lips came alive and for one delicious instant her humid floral breath flowed into him; then it curdled and became mud, and he struggled against its bitterness until it turned sweet once more, rolling slickly across his tongue with the taste of sex, and he gave himself to her. The mud coursed through him, transfusing, replenishing. Reviving his limbs and streaming into the chambers of his heart, which began again to churn.
He could not breathe. He did not need to. Everything he needed, she gave him. He strained to open his mouth wider, greedy for whatever she desired.
He grabbed for her perfect body, certain she wanted him as much as he wanted her, past and present and forever.
But she broke away, and he surfaced, gasping and sucking newborn air.
She said, “I’ve missed you.”
Varying strains of color wove through her hair to create a troubling, unstable melange. Her eyes were green tonight, mirroring his own.
He said, “I’ve missed you, too.”
As he said it he realized how true it was. He felt her fingers stroking his forearm and he looked down at the wound—a hardened scab, rust brown.
Mai smiled. “I’m part of you, now.”
She raised his face and kissed him again, softly on the lips.
From behind her came the sound of a great rumbling, and they turned to see three tall shapes looming at the collapsed entrance to the greenhouse.
Mike Mallick said, “We’re here, Jacob Lev.”
Jacob felt Mai’s hand tighten in his.
Mallick and his companions began to glide across the grass toward them, heralded by a frigid wind.
He said, “This is good. Stay right where you are. Do not let her go.”
There was trepidation, too, in the way they moved, although whether they were afraid of Jacob or Mai or the both of them together was not clear.
“We’re almost there,” Mallick said.
He held up a calming hand, and Jacob could see that his other hand held something.
From far to Jacob’s right came a very human groan: Richard Pernath was limping across the lawn, headed for the orchard.
“Don’t worry about him,” Subach said.
“Stay right where you are,” Schott said.
Mallick drew close enough for Jacob to see the object in his hand.
It was a knife.
“You’re doing the right thing, Jacob Lev,” Mallick said.
“The balance of justice demands it,” Schott said.
“It’ll be quick,” Subach said.
“Merciful.”
“Necessary.”
“Correct.”
They kept coming closer, speaking in turn, mesmerizing him, and Jacob watched the glint of the knife, a brand-new blade fitted onto an old wooden handle. He knew how it would feel when they put it into his hands—how comfortable. He looked at Mai and at the tall men and over the lawn.
Pernath slipped into the trees.
“Jacob Lev,” Mallick said. “Look at me.”
Jacob released Mai’s hands.
The tall men cried out, helpless.
Her smile was a sweet and sour mix of gratitude and disappointment, and she said, “Forever,” and sprang up into the air.
The three tall men howled their displeasure and rushed forth.
It was useless: she had already changed, a black buzzing dot that slipped through their large, clumsy fingers, spiraling up to freedom. Jacob watched her ascend.
Silence.
The three tall men turned on him, showing new and terrifying aspects, and Jacob was afraid, drawing his merits around him like a coat of armor to protect himself from their wrath.
Paul Schott rolled his boulder shoulders contemptuously. Mel Subach pursed his wet thick lips. Mike Mallick snorted gales and said, “You have done a great wrong.”
“We needed you,” Subach said.
“You failed us.”
“A great wrong.”
“He’s like her,” Schott said. “He’s just like her.”
They crowded him, drawing in on him, teeth gnashing, eyes burning like coals as they expanded to a furious chorus: three to forty-five to seventy-one, two hundred thirty-one, six hundred thirteen, eighteen thousand, a thousand by a thousand, swelling to twelve by thirty by thirty by thirty by thirty by thirty by thirty by three hundred sixty-five thousand myriads.
And Jacob seized the halves of his mind and forced them back together, rising up under his own strength.
The hordes shrank back, leaving a trio of middle-aged cops in bad suits and cheap ties.
Mallick’s white hair in frizzy tufts. Subach’s gut straining his shirt. Schott holding his hands up as though Jacob in his righteous indignation would annihilate all of them.
And Jacob spoke, and he said, “Please get the hell out of my way.”
He pushed through their ranks and ran to collect the abandoned shotgun.
“You don’t know what you’ve done,” Mallick called. “You don’t know.”
Jacob picked up the gun and pumped a shell. He said, “I know what I’m doing.”
—
IN THE ORCHARD it was windless, gloomy, and still. He could not see well, but his mind spread wide to welcome new sensations: the strivings of insects in the ground below, fearful prey taking refuge in the underbrush, the collective spirit of all living things.
Jacob stalked the soldierly rows, fixed on the sound of labored breathing coming from a stand of fig trees.
A watery gray light in the shape of a man slumped on the ground, propped against a tree trunk.
Jacob raised the gun. “Lie down on the ground and don’t move.”
Pernath didn’t respond. For a moment, Jacob thought he was dead. But as he drew near, he saw the architect’s chest fluttering, the gray outline moving with it.
“Down on the ground,” Jacob said. “Now.”
Pernath’s head rolled toward Jacob and he sighed. His arm whipped over, taking his torso with it, and his body elongated and he sank a shard of glass into Jacob’s thigh.
Jacob stumbled back, a groan swelling in his throat as he tripped over a fig root and the shotgun flew from his hands. He hit the ground and pain ballooned through his lower body and he began kicking at the dirt, scrabbling in the direction of the gun.
He reached it and saw that Pernath was making no effort to come after him.
The architect simply sat there, his head lolling, a contented smile on his lips.
Jacob looked down at the shard. At least eight inches long, half of that buried in his quadriceps. Blood dyeing the fabric of his jeans. Shivering, nauseated, he stripped off his shirt and tied his leg off at the groin. He slid a broken branch between the shirt and his leg, and twisted as hard as he could to cut off the flow of blood. Another wave of nausea coursed through him. He tamped it down and picked up the shotgun, approaching Pernath in a wide circle.
Pernath’s hands were loose and open in his lap. His eyes were half shut.
Jacob said, “Reggie Heap. Terrence Florack. Claire Mason. Anyone else I need to know about?”
Pernath smiled wider, baring blood-rimmed teeth. Blood bubbled from his nostrils. The mucoid gray light surrounding him flickered. He was dying without regrets. Jacob thought about what he could say to take that away from him.
In the end he said nothing. There was nothing to say. His tourniquet had soaked through and he was starting to feel faint again.
He pressed the end of the barrel against Pernath’s throat and leaned down with all his weight. Pernath’s Adam’s apple imploded. It sounded like a wet cardboard box getting stomped on. His eyes bugged and he suffocated and fought.
Jacob counted to ten and released the pressure, allowed Pernath a few thin breaths. Then he bore down again fo
r another ten count.
He repeated the process eleven more times, once for each of the victims he knew about. He could hear the voices of the tall men coming through the trees, calling his name. Jacob. He placed the end of the shotgun on Pernath’s throat. Jacob, where are you. He pressed down one last time for good luck.
Jacob. Jacob.
He pulled the trigger, severing Pernath’s head from his body.
The recoil kicked Jacob back. He was falling as he answered them. Here I am.
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
The nurse came into his room to announce a visitor. Assuming it was his father, Jacob waved permission and continued spooning oatmeal. The curtain shuffled aside and Divya Das stepped in.
He sat up, wiping his mouth. “Hey.”
She looked around for a place to sit, did not approach the unmade cot next to Jacob’s bed.
“My dad’s been sleeping here. Go ahead. He won’t mind.”
Sam’s copy of the Zohar lay on the pillow. She moved it to the nightstand and sat down, setting her orange bowling ball bag on her knees.
Jacob said, “I take it we’re going dancing.”
She smiled. “How are you feeling?”
Jacob had no memory of his first night in the hospital. He’d sneaked a look at his chart and learned he’d walked into the emergency room on his own, ranting and raving. He assumed that Mallick, Subach, and Schott had dropped him off and left. The clinical notes said it had taken two doctors and three orderlies to wrestle him down. Now they had him on an array of barbiturates, along with B vitamins to ease his detox and IV fluids to counteract blood loss. The wound in his leg had been sutured neatly.
He was no longer having green dreams, which offered relief but also pangs of melancholy. His world appeared astringent and flat. Institutional linoleum, smudged bumper rails, oppressive overlighting. No matter how much he slept, he felt tired. He was relaxed and bored and doped up, unable to care very much about anything.
He felt better and worse, trapped and free, blessed and punished in equal measure.
He said, “Sore.”
“May I?”
He nodded.
She lifted a corner of the thin hospital blanket, revealing his bandaged thigh.
“Missed the femoral artery by a quarter of an inch,” he said.
She tucked the blanket back in and reached for the chart, paged through it. “They gave you six units of blood.”
“Is that a lot?”
“You oughtn’t to be alive.”
He spread his arms: here I am.
She lingered on the page a bit longer, replaced the chart. “I’m glad you’re coping so well.”
“Thanks. I thought you’d left town.”
“I was going to.” She dug in her bag and came out with a folder. “I wanted to deliver the results of your request personally.”
He chose not to question the about-face. He thanked her and accepted the folder.
DNA recovered from Reggie Heap’s bloodstained shoes matched the profile of the second Creeper offender—a perfect nine for nine.
He closed the file. “So that’s that.”
“So it would seem.”
“I’ll have to get in touch with the other Ds,” he said. “They’ll want to know.”
“I’m sure they will.” Long black eyelashes fluttered. “I have a message from Commander Mallick. He congratulates you for your fine work in stopping two dangerous and violent individuals, and he wishes you a speedy recovery. He said not to worry about the paperwork. They’ve got it covered.”
“I can handle it myself.”
“The Commander feels that you could use a break, after the ordeal you’ve been through.”
“Does he.”
“He—the detail as a whole—feels it wouldn’t be appropriate to keep you in a high-stress position.”
“Why are you talking to me like that?”
“Like what.”
“Like a suit.”
“You’ll have a month, paid.”
“And then?”
Her mouth bunched. “You’re being transferred back to Traffic.”
Jacob stared at her.
She looked at the floor. “I’m sorry, Jacob. It wasn’t my decision.”
“I’d sure hope not,” he said. “You’re not my superior.”
She did not reply.
“He couldn’t tell me face-to-face?”
“Mike Mallick is a very dedicated individual,” she said. “But he’s stubborn, and his way of thinking isn’t necessarily the most people-friendly.”
“No shit,” he said.
“We’re not all the same, Jacob.”
“Whatever.”
“He’s entitled to his opinion,” she said. “And I’m entitled to mine.”
“And what’s your opinion?”
“As I said, the Commander can have trouble when it comes to predicting how a person might behave in the moment. Given what you’ve seen, it’s hard for me to find fault with your actions.”
Jacob said, “Who is she?”
Silence.
Divya Das said, “The Commander congratulates you for your fine work in stopping two dangerous and violent individuals.”
“Seriously?” he said. “This is what we’re doing? Do you have any idea what this feels like?” He tapped the center of his forehead. “What it’s like in here?”
On the other side of the curtain, his roommate, a ninety-year-old man, gargled and snored.
“Please keep your voice down,” Divya said.
“Is someone going to show up with a machine that erases my memory? Do I get a complimentary lobotomy?”
His heart rate monitor was chirping aggressively. She waited for it to slow, leaned in to speak. “It seems to me that you have a choice. You can live inside your experiences or outside of them.”
“And so? What now?” he said. “I wait for her to come back?”
“She certainly seems attracted to you.”
“I can’t imagine why,” Jacob said.
She smiled crookedly. “Don’t sell yourself short, Jacob Lev.”
Silence.
“It had to be Traffic,” he said.
She tried a smile. “Consider it a vacation.”
A soft knock at the door. The curtain swished aside, and Sam appeared with a grease-blotched bag.
“Whoops,” he said. “I didn’t realize you had company. I can come back.”
Divya Das stood up. “I was just on my way out. You must be Jacob’s father.”
“Sam Lev.”
“Divya Das.”
“Good to see you,” he said. “How’s the patient?”
“Better than most of the ones I deal with,” she said.
She turned to Jacob, laid a warm hand on his shoulder. “Be well.”
Jacob nodded.
After she’d gone, his father said, “She seems nice.”
“She came by to tell me I’m being demoted.”
Sam’s eyes creased behind his sunglasses. “Really.”
“Back to pushing paper.”
“Mm,” Sam said. “I can’t say I’m disappointed.”
“I didn’t think you would be.”
“You’re my son. You think it’s easy for me to see you like this?”
“I don’t think it’s easy for you to see anything,” Jacob said.
“Touché.” Sam reached in the bag and unpacked a breakfast croissant. “I had Nigel stop off,” he said, putting the food on Jacob’s tray. “Hospital food is dreck.”
“Thanks.”
“So? How’s the leg? You want to take a rest? I can be quiet.”
“I’d rather talk,” Jacob said. He took a bite of the sandwich. It was pure artery-clogging pleasure. “You remembe
r to put my tzedakah money in?”
“I did. I kept you in mind the whole time. I hope you felt it.”
“Oh, absolutely. An angel came down and touched me and now I’m all better.”
Sam smiled. “Lucky you.”
—
A NEW RESIDENT CAME BY to inspect Jacob’s wounds and declared the leg to be healing “okay.” He probed the scab on Jacob’s arm, reviewed the chart, and offered the umpteenth lecture on the need for Jacob to cut back on his drinking.
“The good news is we’re not seeing signs of infection.”
“What’s the bad news?” Sam asked.
“There has to be bad news?” Jacob said.
“It’s not bad, per se,” the resident said. “But everyone’s puzzled by your bloodwork. Your iron is still pretty elevated, as are your magnesium and potassium, although not to the same degree. Iron overload can be a risk factor for liver disease. Do you eat a lot of meat?”
“Do hot dogs qualify?”
The resident frowned. Young and cranky. He’d age badly. “I can’t recommend that one bit. Anyhow, we reran your blood twice more, looking for other anomalies. A few other things popped up that I’m having trouble interpreting.”
“What’s that mean?” Sam said.
“Do you take a silica supplement?” the resident asked Jacob. “Some people use it because they think it prevents hair loss.”
Jacob ran his hand over his thick, dark waves.
“Uh-huh. Other supplements? Anything homeopathic?”
“Nothing.”
“Hunh. Okay. Well. I asked some colleagues for their opinion, and Dr. Rosen in psychiatry had a thought.”
Jacob stiffened. “What’s that?”
“There’s a condition called pica, where a person gets cravings to eat inedible things, like hair or dirt or plaster. It mostly happens in pregnant women, or sometimes in individuals with severe anemia. In very extreme cases, you can get unusual trace minerals showing up in the blood. What I’m seeing from you isn’t exactly consistent—you’d expect lower than average iron, not higher—but I’m having trouble coming up with a better explanation for why you have so much silicon in your system.”
Jacob said nothing.
“Aluminum, also,” the resident said. “Unless you’re bathing yourself in antiperspirant.” He paused again, glanced at Sam, back at Jacob. “Is that something you’ve, uh, done?”
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