"You don’t much like the thought of it either, do you?" Nick asked, alert once again, hunching forward, his hands on his knees. He was very calm, inscrutable. "You think I like what I did? You think I don’t have nightmares? You think I don’t need a few pills?"
Rubens adjusted his glasses warily. He sat forward and crushed the cigar into the tin ashtray. The squeaking sound from the chair seemed very loud. He pulled open the middle drawer and removed a prescription pad.
As he wrote he said, "Be back here next week, same time."
"You’ll only give me enough for one week?" Nick sounded like a disappointed ten-year-old.
Rubens looked up. "That’s right. Enough for a week. You want them, I’m willing to prescribe for you, but the deal includes your visit every week on Monday at eleven."
"I have to work," Nick protested weakly.
"Make it your lunch break."
Nick took the white slip of paper. “Okay,” he said reluctantly.
Rubens saw hunger in the blue eyes, hunger for peace. He stood up and offered Nick his hand. "Good-bye, Nick. I hope you sleep tonight without nightmares."
"Eat shit," Nick said amiably as he walked away, ignoring the psychiatrist’s hand.
Miss Boyd closed the door with another little wave of her hand.
Rubens brushed down his jacket, then opened his bottom desk drawer, took out the bottle of bourbon, and settled into his chair with a sigh. He uncapped the bottle and took four rapid gulps.
An hour later the psychiatrist weighed himself on an old-fashioned penny scale in the entrance way just inside the doors of Woolworth’s in downtown Houston. Two pounds. The spaghetti dinner he had just consumed at the counter had already made him gain two pounds. For a moment he was depressed. But maybe his scale at home would not register the weight gain in the evening. Somewhat cheered by that thought, he walked out into the crowded sidewalks. Rubens unwrapped his after-lunch cigar, chewed off the end, and spit it onto the sidewalk. He spied a newspaper vending machine and made for it. Inserting a quarter, he withdrew one of the papers and opened it with a snap of his wrists. A black headline, front and center, caught his attention. Wireman, was it? What was a wireman? Dreadful abuse of the language. The child’s rhyme came to mind and he changed it around a little. Richman, poorman, beggerman, thief. Wireman, lawyer, merchant, and chief.
Rubens leaned against the side of a store and began to read the article.
At first he was intrigued by the unfolding of the gruesome story. As a psychiatrist he was interested in the speculations being made about the Wireman’s identity and personality. Rubens read on, his cigar chewed to a juicy pulp, his appointments forgotten.
Then the gong began to sound. Far off at first, almost unnoticed, deep in the recesses of his mind. It was the word "garrote" that struck the first quivering note. Rubens’s gaze locked on the word until it blurred. He began making the connection. A man sitting in his office, looking so young.
"I don’t know why I used that garrote," Nick Ringer had said.
Then had come the sudden laughter and the word "beheading." What else was it he had said? Oh yes, They didn’t go for the fact I took off their fucking heads.
Was it truly connected? It might he just a big coincidence. Sidney Rubens had never wanted to be wrong so badly.
If his suspicions were true, if Nick Ringer and the Wireman were the same… The thought refused to finish itself. He needed a drink--badly. Right now.
The distraught psychiatrist quickly returned to his office, poured three fingers of bourbon into a glass, and read the story over again. There was a policeman, a detective, the story said, well known but now retired, who was semi-officially involved in the case. He was quoted as saying the department had a lead on the killer, but as yet they had no suspect, and they needed all the help they could get.
Yeah, Rubens thought, you need a regular Noah’s ark of help, friend. But he was sealed by an oath of confidentiality. What would he do if Nick Ringer made further revelations that connected him even more to the murders? How could Rubens finger the suspect for the cops?
Rubens knew there were guidelines for professionals who found themselves in his predicament. Situations where their professional ethics of confidentiality conflicted with the safety of society at large. Possibly conflicted. It was just a word connection. Garrote.
The problem was that the guidelines themselves conflicted with each other. Federal agencies said one thing, state agencies said another. What one national organization advocated as a correct course of action was exactly what another national organization said should not be done.
Rubens emptied the glass and sloshed more bourbon into it. Whatever he decided to do, someone would say he was wrong. He gulped the whiskey. God, he hated making such decisions. Why was he getting all shook up? The whole thing was probably a big mistake. Nothing to worry about. Not really. Just a word connection.
But as he poured more bourbon into the glass, he knew better. Deep down inside Dr. Sidney Rubens agreed with Nick Ringer. It was a lousy life.
Chapter 19
THE MORNING BELONGED TO Daley Ringer. He felt as if he were sole proprietor of the world. The streets of the Montrose area of Houston were empty. The residents had gone to work for the day or to classes on the city’s campuses. Store windows reflected golden sunlight and the sidewalks gleamed with the fresh morning dew. If there was squalor on the side streets or black mud standing in the yards, Daley did not see it. His attention was on what was beautiful. He was going to see Madra, to surprise her and to convince her she had been wrong to leave.
Glancing up, Daley saw a man approaching along the sidewalk from the opposite direction. Daley smiled happily and nodded to him. The man was dressed in sloppy green fatigue pants and a black turtleneck sweater. The effeminate swing in the man’s walk suddenly registered on Daley. He had a brief mental image of Nick sprawled on his back beneath the willow tree so long ago. He could not tell why he had this particular impression, but he suddenly realized the approaching stranger was homosexual and cruising for companionship.
“Do you have a light?"
Daley was stopped by a small white hand on his arm. The man was much younger than Daley had originally thought. He was hardly out of his teens.
"No, I don’t," Daley replied, and tried to move on.
The cigarette wavered in the other man’s fingers. He stared sadly into Daley’s eyes, searching for kinship.
"Would you like to breakfast with me?" the young man asked. "My treat?"
Disgust filled Daley. He loathed the pale bony hand that clutched his arm. He hated the lonesome, lost look in the man’s stare. Most of all he hated that his morning was ruined, utterly destroyed. The sun had lost its splendor. The freshness of the day was gone. Now it was sordid and ugly and crawling with disgusting things that lay just below the pallor of the sunlight.
"Let me go," Daley growled, unconsciously showing his teeth in a grimace.
The man’s stare held, not picking up the clues. "Why don’t you spend the day with me? We’re both alone. I don’t live far from here. And I’m cheap, which is to say, I’m free of charge."
Daley wrenched his arm free and struck the stranger across the face, spinning him around into the gutter.
"How dare you assume!" Daley shouted.
The man cowered back, his hand protecting the cheek that took the blow. He looked betrayed.
"Don’t you dare!" Daley repeated, advancing on the now-frightened young man.
The man fled and Daley watched him go, feeling like a dullard. The day was tarnished. He realized the truth. He was on a doomed mission and this was a sign. Madra would not wish to see him. She would say unkind things. He was a fool who chased after rainbows. No woman had ever truly wanted him.
At Madra’s door he paused to listen but could hear nothing from inside. He knew she was home. He had made countless reconnaissance sorties and every Monday she was home alone. He knocked, softly at first, then with more force. When
Madra did not answer, he tried the door and found it unlocked. He stepped into the house and stood listening for some sound. In a few seconds he heard the musical splash and fall of water. Madra was in the shower.
Daley smiled, part of his earlier good humor returning. He would play a trick on her.
Cautiously he toured the house. In the roommate’s bedroom he found disarray; in Madra’s room, tidiness.
In the tiny kitchen he sampled a slice of stale German chocolate cake that sat uncovered on the counter. He licked his fingers as he plundered the drawers and cabinets. Had Madra discovered him then, he would not have been able to tell her what he was doing. He even was on the verge of forgetting why he had come to see her in the first place.
He left the kitchen and went to the partially opened door of the bathroom. On the lowered lid of the toilet was a folded towel. On the green carpet a pair of white slippers waited. He had seen Madra’s routine before. She showered, dried, and went to the bedroom to dress wearing only her slippers. He leaned against the sink edge to watch the shadow of her slight body behind the shower curtain. She was reciting a poem, her head beneath the streaming water of the shower. Daley cocked his head to listen. It had something to do with death. Madra was preoccupied with death. It was her favorite subject and ranked right up there with eighteenth-century history.
The shadow turned, the elbows at right angles. She performed a ballet with the water, lines of poetry trailing all around her. The shadow abruptly bent from the waist and twisted the faucets. The poem and her shower both ended. She drew back the curtain and faced Daley.
The startled, high-pitched scream wrenched Daley loose from his casual position against the sink. He saw her falling, crumpling as if in slow motion. He reached out for her and his hands slipped over wet rubbery skin. He heard her head thunk against the side of the tub and saw her eyes roll back into their sockets.
"Madra!"
In a panic Daley hauled her from the chilly tub and tried to stand her on her feet. Her head fell back limply.
He lifted her into his arms, her wetness soaking through his shirt. In her bedroom he put her on the bed and quickly felt for a pulse.
"Madra, I’m sorry. Oh God."
She was coming to, groaning, her hands doing little dances. As Daley watched apprehensively, she began to arch her back, and tremors ran down the full length of her body. At first the convulsions were strangely erotic. Damp breasts jiggled and slender pale legs stiffened with muscular tension. Daley leaned over her and called her name several times, his voice changing from a whisper to a shout. Finally he slapped her face, but then he felt bad about it. Violence couldn't be the right way to bring her out of a seizure.
"Madra" he shouted again. ·
The convulsive waves strengthened until finally her head was thrown back and buried in the pillow. All the muscles of her body stood out like taut wires and her toes turned under. She began to gasp and strangle on her own saliva and the thick coil of her tongue.
Daley wrenched open her mouth. It took all his strength to pry her tongue forward. Madra gulped air, her chest heaving. Her jaws locked around his fingers and her teeth bit down into his flesh.
Daley let out a yelp of pain. Frantically he looked around for something that he could put into her mouth to keep her from swallowing her tongue.
"Oh God, oh hell, oh goddamn sonovabitch! Madra!"
He was losing the battle. One of her teeth had already pierced the joint of his forefinger. Her jaw was closing down on his fingers with unbelievable power. Daley howled with pain now as he felt a tendon being sliced in two. He involuntarily jerked and his hand came free of the gnashing teeth. Madra gurgled and it reminded him--reminded him of...
He ran for the kitchen. He tore the silverware drawer from the lower cabinets and it fell against the stove, the contents showering the floor. He found a tablespoon and raced back into Madra’s bedroom. The sight of her naked and blue-faced on the bed made him scream.
He dropped the spoon on the bed and with both hands took a firm grip on her lower jaw and upper face. He grunted and pulled with all his strength. Finally he opened her mouth and saw the swollen red tongue clogging her air passage. Ignoring the renewed clamp on his fingers, he slid two fingers and his thumb around her tongue.
"Breathe, goddammit!" he prayed and ordered.
He got the spoon and forced its bowed metal into her mouth. Madra gagged and her body bumped toward the ceiling. The spoon slid to the side in her mouth; it looked as if her teeth would bite the spoon in two.
Daley was on his knees, his head slumped over her chest, breathing hard. Suddenly her iron body fell heavily to the bed and her chest stilled. Daley sat up, his hands already going for her face. Her head turned softly into the valley of the pillow and stayed there. The spoon fell to the floor with a clatter. Vomit spilled from her mouth and formed a pool on the bed.
Daley shook her by the shoulders.
"Madra!"
He grabbed her wrist and felt for a pulse. He sat her up and thumped her on the back. He wiped the fluid from her face and crooned into her deaf ear. He lay her out on the floor and did chest compressions for what seemed like forever.
For the next hour he sat in the gray nubby chair across the room watching her. When she paid no attention, he stood finally and caressed her naked, cold body. When he finally emerged from the house it was noon and clouds covered the sun. He told himself he was a man chasing rainbows. No woman had every truly wanted him.
#
Nick swallowed two Valium with a Miller High Life chaser and within minutes felt wonderfully wired. If anyone had tossed a coin at his feet, he would have gladly tipped his invisible hat and danced a jig. He was up for it. Tonight was the night. He was tired of his job, tired of Houston, tired of the endless lonely evenings with his brother. He was going down to Main to pick out a whore. Despite the six-pack of Miller and the twenty milligrams of Valium, he was up for action.
On the way out the door he met Daley on the steps.
"Hold on, Nick. I’ve got to talk to you."
“Hey, the party’s on the road. I’ve got to go." Nick grinned widely.
"No, don’t leave me. I want to tell you something. It's important."
At Daley’s words Nick felt his balloon being punctured. He switched into depression instantly. "What is it?" he asked, following his brother into the house.
"The police might come around asking some questions." Daley was upset, really upset.
"Why would they do that?"
"I was with Madra this morning..." Daley’s voice trailed away.
"That’s a police matter?" Nick dropped into a chair.
"Will you listen to me?" Daley hovered over Nick, who licked his lips nervously. "I was with her and she had a seizure. A bad one. She...she choked to death. I did everything I could to save her, everything!"
Nick suddenly felt very dizzy and had to cover his eyes with a hand. He did not like Madra, but choking to death was a gruesome way to go. "Why didn’t you get help for her?" he asked, trying to sober up.
"I was the help. There was no time to call anyone. I tried, I tried for so long, but..." Daley shook his head.
"Why will the police come?" Nick moved his hand and looked at his brother suspiciously. They did not need the cops, that was for sure.
"Hell, they can see someone was with her. I spilled silverware all over the kitchen floor. I had a spoon in her mouth. And look at this." He held out his hand for Nick’s inspection. It looked as if it had been caught in the gears of a machine.
"She bit you?" Nick could not imagine such a thing.
"Aren’t you listening, dammit? She had a grand mal seizure. She was an epileptic. I never told you that, even when you were being cruel to her. She was sick and you never even noticed."
"Epileptic? Why didn’t you, well, why didn’t you call someone then while she lived here?" Nick was having trouble keeping his thoughts in order. One second he was thinking about epileptics, the next he was rememberi
ng football practice in high school. His mind was all mixed up. It was all the chemicals flooding his brain.
Daley answered him, but Nick missed the point and wagged his head in some sort of agreement. Next he was on his feet following his brother out the door and down the steps.
"Where we going?" His words were slurred but recognizable. The Valium was taking a huge effect now and the booze was backing it up like a caboose on a freight train.
"I want to take a drive to Bloomington."
"B--o--o--m--ington, yeah..." Nick cheered.
"How many of those pills did you take, Nick?"
"Couple." He sounded petulant. "Five ’er six, whassa matter?"
"Have you eaten anything?" Daley got into the car.
"Eat a pussy if I had it!" Nick started laughing and could not stop. He was at the point where he knew he was stoned out of his skull and knew soon he wouldn't even know that.
Once they were rolling down the freeway Nick pressed himself into a corner, complaining, "Doan wanna go to… hey, yeah, I doan wanna go to Boom . . . Blooming-ton."
Daley’s reply was entirely lost to him. Nick thought he should make it clear he was totally against the trip.
"Fuck it, I tole you, I doan like it, I doan wanna go."
It seemed the next instant they were stopped and getting out of the car. Nick stumbled and lost his balance.
He felt Daley’s arms right him and lead him forward into the dark of a wooded area.
"Wha we doin’ here, Daley? I doan like it, tole ya and ya doan lissen."
"Take it easy, Nick," Daley said softly. "Sit down over there for a minute. Breathe the night air and get straight."
"Gonna get fuckin' straight, man, I tell you what."
Daley wandered away, and Nick tried to find a place to sit, but could not. It was all pine seedlings and rock and humps of dirt to him. He was not about to sit down in the dirt with his party clothes on. He was headed for Main and a night with a whore. What on earth was this delay about? Why in the fuck were they in Bloomington anyway, and where in Bloomington were they? Nick stumbled around trying to put his brain into some kind of order.
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