"You forget that two other murders have taken place here. I would think all of you justified in reacting less forcefully to this one."
"We reacted the same to the first," Tina said. "A bit of grief, a day or two of loss, then plunge back into the work at hand, create, form, build…" She looked at the paintings on the wall to her right, sighed audibly. ''What all of these hypno-keying experts seem not to understand is that you can't create classic art when you have no love life. If love of art is supreme, it's all masturbation. If life, people, places don't come first, there isn't anything for the talent to draw on, no stuffing for the sack."
Though he was not, as she had subtly observed, a man of any great sensitivity — give him bright colors, bold lines, pleasing shapes, loud and lively music any day; to hell with the proper, genteel criteria — he saw in her a deep and awful suffering that, even with the aid of her explanations, he could not clearly grasp. He supposed that, as the attainment of perfect understanding in her art would always elude her, an understanding of her pain would elude him. He had a feeling that she did not sleep well at night, any night but especially this night — and that she tore up more paintings than she kept. He said nothing, for he had nothing to say that would make her feel any better — or any differently, for that matter.
In a quieter voice, almost a whisper, she said, "How can I ever make anything lasting, get anything genuine down on paper or canvas, when I haven't any ability to care for people, for anyone?"
"You could care," he said.
"No."
"Look, you've spent most all your life among other hypno-keyed artists. But if you were living among other people, normal people, they would react strongly to you, form attachments to you and force you to react as strongly as they did. You could care."
"You really think so?"
"Yes."
Be careful.
Go to hell.
"I doubt it," she said.
The confusion of the real and the subvocal conversations forced him to say, "Doubt what?"
She looked at him curiously and said, "I doubt that I could care for anyone."
"You could," he repeated stupidly.
For a long, awkward moment, they stood facing each other. He did not know how she felt, but he seemed suddenly transformed into a blundering, heavy-handed, club-footed wonder. He could hear himself breathing, and he swore he was as loud as an air-conditioning intake fan. He waited for her to say something, for he was unable to initiate anything more on his own. Then, finally aware that she felt she had already said too much and that she wanted to be alone, he said, "Keep the pistol near you at all times."
"I will."
He said goodnight and left her there.
The elevator ride to the fifth level seemed to take forever.
In his room, he poured himself a healthy glassful of Scotch over a single ice cube — one cube so that there was more room in the tumbler for the liquor.
Liquor will dull your perceptions.
Go to hell.
He knew that he was finished for the day, that he could not go anywhere or do anything without a few hours sleep. He sat down in a chair near the patio doors and quickly worked toward the bottom of his golden drink.
In the last six hours the input of data had greatly increased. So many bits and pieces had been stored, now, that he knew the symbiote that was half him would soon begin to connect one datum with another. If the pace kept on like this, he would be able to slowly formulate a few theories in another day, maybe two days, then logically eliminate a number of the present suspects.
Then, perhaps, before too much longer, the case would be finished.
He realized as he swallowed the last of the Scotch that he did not want it to be finished.
That is an unhealthy attitude.
He wanted to apprehend the killer, of course, and before anyone else died. He wanted to pinpoint the man, get him running, corner him and break him down, thoroughly break him down. That was what he was all about, after all; that was what Baker St. Cyr did well. But once the killer was out of the way, he did not want to have to leave this house.
Get right down to it, then: He did not want to have to leave Tina Alderban.
Avoid emotional complications of this nature.
He got up and poured another glass of Scotch.
He sat down in the same chair and took a large swallow of the drink, stirred the ice with his finger.
Tina Alderban…
When he closed his eyes, he could see her on the insides of his lids, standing naked, wearing a cape of black hair, holding out her arms to him, with two shiny globes of light before her, one resting lightly on each of her flat palms…
He remembered the nightmare again: the cracked macadam roadway, the tumble-down buildings… Somehow, Tina Alderban seemed to be a part of it.
It is very late. Even if you sleep until noon, you will not get your proper rest.
To counter the stodgy half of his symbiote, he raised his glass and sipped more Scotch. Apparently, however, the bio-computer had gotten to him on a deep, motivational level, for he put the glass down when it was still half full, undressed and went to bed.
SIX: Nightmare and Paranoia
St. Cyr stepped quickly behind a huge slab of concrete pavement which some tremor of the earth had cracked, lifted, and jammed toward the dark sky. He pressed his back against it, making himself as small as he could, shivered as the dampness of the chilled stone seeped through his shirt.
He listened intently, but he could no longer hear the soft footsteps that had dogged him until this moment.
Stepping from behind the slab, he stared down the length of the avenue, saw that he was alone — unless, of course, someone was hiding behind one of the other tilted blocks of paving.
He did not have time to search them. He could only press forward. But when he did, the footsteps were behind him once more, close.
He ran.
As he increased his pace, the sky seemed to lower, the blackness sink until it lay just above his head, like a roof. The buildings on either side began to close in as well, until the street was barely wide enough to run through. He remembered that, when he had begun this journey, the street had appeared to dwindle toward the horizon until the buildings seemed to come together at a point no larger than the prick of a pin. He had thought that this was only a trick of perspective. Now he saw that the closing together was genuine. In a few minutes, in another couple of thousand yards, the buildings would touch, putting an end to the avenue, leaving him nowhere to run to avoid the stalker.
Behind him, the night suddenly sighed and, an instant later, exploded around him.
Turning, he saw the tottering buildings had collapsed in his wake, bricks tossed into the air like milkweed fluff, dust devils whirling gleefully towards him.
He turned and ran.
On both sides, the abandoned structures, broken windows like mouths full of transparent teeth, leered down at him, swayed in sympathy with his rapid footfalls.
Then the street ended.
The buildings fused into a smooth curve of stone, blocking exit. He stopped, felt the curve, seeking a lever or concealed device for opening a path, found none. Because he was no longer running, no dangerous vibrations were set up; silence was soon restored to the street. In the silence, as he stood bewildered before the fused stones, he heard the footsteps behind him again.
He turned.
The stalker was only a few yards away. The stalker was an old, old friend whose touch he could no longer tolerate, and the stalker walked straight for him, arms open to receive him in a cold embrace…
Baker St. Cyr sat straight up in bed, a scream caught in the back of his throat, his hands full of twisted sheets.
It was a nightmare, the bio-computer said.
He pushed up, felt the water mattress give considerably and attempt to suck him back down, crabbed to the edge of the bed and got quickly to his feet, though once standing he was not certain he could remain that way
for long. His legs felt weak, as if he had been running for a long, long time without rest, and his head ached from the top of his forehead backwards and down the length of his neck, as if his skull might be loose. For a moment he had an absurd vision: his head falling off his shoulders, bouncing twice on the thick carpet, rolling over and over until it came to rest against the rectangular window, staring out at the dawn that already filtered under the balcony roof.
The dawn. Suddenly it seemed to him that all of his problems were somehow tied to the rising of the sun, and that if he could force Nature to move backwards into darkness, everything would once more be all right. He stumbled to the floor-to-ceiling window, slapped the palm switch next to the panes, and watched them go abruptly opaque, then change in color until they looked as black as onyx and did not permit passage to a single thread of sunlight.
But that was not enough. He still felt weak, terribly weak, and — frightened.
It was only a nightmare.
Shut up.
He went into the bathroom and, without turning on any lights, found the cold water faucet, filled the sink, bent and splashed his face until he was shivering all over. He dried his face. He felt no better.
Standing before the mirror in the dark, he tried to see his face and could not, was glad that he could not.
Your dream contained a number of familiar symbols, including the broken road, which is, to you, THE PAST.
I don't want my dreams analyzed, St. Cyr told it.
The buildings equal old memories.
Stop it, damn you!
He went into the bedroom again, realized that he could not lie down and sleep, strode into the sitting room, where the patio doors let a wash of warm light into the room. He palmed the switch there and was rewarded with more darkness. After that, he stood in the center of the room, naked but for the shell clamped to his chest, wondering what he should do next.
Do you know whose footsteps you were hearing in the dream?
I don't want to hear about the fucking dream!
You are not well.
The old stand-by rejoinder: go to hell.
You actually should not be a practicing cyberdetective until you have had thorough psychological counseling. You have been hiding too many things from yourself, and you are no longer able to hold them all in. Thus the dream and the stalker in the dream. You have forgotten whom the stalker represents, who that was in real life, or have pretended to forget. I feel strongly that…
The bio-computer sensed the attack even as it began, and it did not complete the admonition.
St. Cyr screamed, though his throat was so constricted that no voice could come out, only a thin hiss like a prophesying snake.
He felt as if he had been invaded, violated.
There was something inside of him, something crawling so deep inside of him that if he did not cast it out immediately, it would draw even deeper and become inaccessible.
You are suffering from a form of paranoia common to all cyberdetectives…
He took a step.
He could feel the creature stirring within him.
He was certain it was creeping inexorably along his spine, anxious for a permanent seat in the center of his brain.
… who occasionally feel that the symbiote is not a symbiote at all, but that you are harboring a parasite.
The only thing he wanted was to cut it out of him, dig down into himself, find this creature and cast it away. He did not think he could manage this with a knife alone, but he decided that was his only hope.
Remove the shell. Rest. Relax. Remove the shell.
He had his fingers around the shell and was prying at it.
I am no parasite. Be calm. I only use the personal, first person pronouns because my thought pulses are transformed into words in your own brain, and you are the one who chooses the first person.
His whole chest ached.
He saw light behind his eyes, growing.
Be calm. I am not even a personality, only a source of data, a system of correlation, a machine for making linkages. Remove the shell. Throw the switch, remove the shell, rest.
While the light grew behind his eyes, he found the switch, turned it off.
He pulled the shell away from his chest.
He ripped loose the two male plugs.
Behind his eyes the light burst white, yellowed, turned orange, then settled into dark browns, in which he slept like a caterpillar nestled in a cocoon.
The sleep was fitful, but at least he did not dream. And though the paranoid siege had drained him, it had also served to make him forget all about the nightmare, the broken road, and the stalker…
* * *
He woke at eleven, took a long bath, dried himself, decided against breakfast, drank a glass of Scotch on an empty stomach. The liquor hit hard, but warmed him. At noon, he realized he could no longer postpone the inevitable, and he hooked up to the bio-computer once again.
It had nothing to say.
At the telephone, he found the number for the nearest Worldwide Communications office and sent off a light-telegram to his contact on Ionus, an industrial detective named Talmud. That done, he placed his second call to the Climicon data banks. When the taped voice requested his purpose, he spoke slowly and clearly, to properly key the machines: "Data requested. Why did Climicon issue directives for the extinction of the wolf once native to the Kline Range? Why did it not require the extinction of the wild boar native to the same region? Answer as one question."
Thirty seconds later, the Climicon computer said, "Heavy data. May we stat it, or do you require a vocalized report?"
"Stat it."
Another thirty seconds passed before the long yellow sheets of paper chattered out of the slot in the base of the telephone stand. There were six of them.
"Terminated."
"Thank you." He hung up.
He carried the papers to the easy chair by the opaqued patio doors, palmed the glass panels into transparency again, and sat down to read. The first sheet dealt with the wild boar: Climicon's study of its ferocity and the determination, after exhaustive research, that the species should be maintained, though in smaller herds than was natural for them. The boar, it turned out, was a coward as well, toothed and clawed to little purpose when it came to a confrontation with anything much larger than itself; it preferred to run away from men rather than fight them. The wolf, however, was something else altogether, a real gladiator. It not only seemed fanatically compelled to attack creatures larger than itself, men included, but it also transmitted a deadly bacterial infection. The Climicon report was either purposefully vague on this point or was based on insufficient evidence. It did little more than list the symptoms and the mortality rate among the victims of the disease. Symptoms: loss of weight; high fever; destruction of red blood cells by some unknown agent and a corresponding need for iron; an aversion to sunlight that, in the beginning, is neurotic but which soon becomes physical, as the victim is nearly totally blinded in all but the most dimly lighted rooms. Patients suffered extremely intense nightmares, too, the report said. And periods of insanity when they growled and groveled on the floor like animals, exhibiting an unnatural strength when provoked. One in three died during the second week of illness; two in three survived, after prolonged hospitalization, without injury. The last known case of the sickness had been reported eleven years ago. The report also listed a large number of laboratory studies of the disease, naming doctors and lab assistants. St. Cyr found nothing interesting in this and put the papers down.
Considering the symptoms of the disease — especially the aversion to light, the growling and groveling, the unnatural strength, the nightmares — it is easy to see how the legend of the du-aga-klava, wolf-in-man's-skin, was born.
Unless it's more than a simple disease.
Illogical.
St. Cyr picked the sheets up and read through them again. He could not find any mention of a cure for the disease or even whether the bacteria had been isolated and ide
ntified. He rather thought Climicon had not had any luck. If they had, the data would be there.
Many diseases are still incurable. The lack of this data does not have any bearing on the case at hand.
Perhaps not. Not unless there is more to Dane Alderban's notion than would at first seem likely.
Illogical.
St. Cyr sat in the chair by the door, in the gentle morning light, thinking about the report from Climicon, the murder of Betty Alderban, his conversation with Tina, Hirschel's resemblance to a wolf (Immaterial) — not thinking about the nightmare or the paranoid seizure of the night before. Soon it was time to join Dane in the garage for the trip into the mountains where they were to see Norya, the gypsy woman.
Unnecessary diversion.
He got up and went downstairs anyway.
SEVEN: The Gypsy Camp
The vehicle that Dane chose for the ride to the gypsy camp looked formidable enough to last through any natural catastrophe and still manage to forge ahead: a heavy-duty Rover with triple-axle, six-wheel drive; double-thick body sheeting; running boards; a reinforced roof; heavy, tempered plexiglass windscreen in two liquid-separated layers; an auxiliary fuel cell; and a spare, shielded pair of headlights. The family rarely used the car, Dane explained, except when one of them wanted to go into the mountains where the roads were in a particularly primitive condition. Now and again, Tina drove into the mountains to paint a landscape; Dane drove up the slopes to meet his Darmanian friends; and Hirschel, when he visited during the cooler months, liked to ride up to the ice plateaus, where he played little games of chance with snow-hidden crevasses.
At first, the trail was pleasant enough, a narrow gravel track that led into the foothills behind the mansion. Here the pines were scarce, but slowly thickened as they gained altitude, and came to stand near the roadway as if they were waiting for the Rover to pass. When the way angled to the left or right, and they momentarily paralleled the valley instead of climbing out of it, St. Cyr turned and enjoyed the panoramic view, saw sections of the Alderban house gleaming like milky jewels in the lush green land.
A Werewolf Among Us Page 6
