by Greg Iles
I stood up blinking and went into the bathroom, thinking I would take a hot shower. Then, remembering Brahma, I decided I didn’t want to put myself in quite so vulnerable a position. Instead I threaded my belt through the slits in the holster pouch of my.38, put on the gun, and shaved at the bathroom sink like a cowboy. I washed my face and neck with a steaming rag, then sat on the commode with the pistol in my hand.
I put down the gun to use the toilet paper. At the fourth pull, a flash of color caught my eye. Blinking with fatigue, I unfolded the wad of tissue in my hand. There was something pink on the paper, something other than pale flowered print. When I turned the tissue over, I saw letters. Written with a light touch in pink highlighter were the words:
SORRY
I MISSED
YOU.
LEFT A
PRESENT
IN THE
FRIDGE
;)
CHECK
THE
LETTUCE
B.
My mouth went dry as sawdust. I snatched up the.38 but fell over as I tried to jerk up my pants. Finally zipped up, I eased through the bathroom door holding the pistol in front of me. Then I realized how stupid it was to be frightened. Brahma- Berkmann-had written that message sometime yesterday. That was why he left it where he did, in a place where police would be unlikely to search but where I was sure to find it eventually.
Still, I kept the.38 in my right hand while I opened the refrigerator and lifted the head of lettuce out of the vegetable drawer. Turning it over, I saw a knife-thin seam of dark green running around the white stem in a diamond shape. I set down the pistol and twisted the stem out of the cold leafy head.
Inside a hollowed-out space in the lettuce was something that looked like a gray strip of plastic. For a second I worried that it might be a bomb. Then I realized I was looking side-on at an eight-millimeter videotape cartridge.
CHAPTER 43
I attached my video camera to my office television with a coaxial patch cable, then inserted the tape. It had been rewound and was ready to be viewed. I scrambled through my camera bag for the remote control, then sat down in my swivel chair about six feet from the screen and hit PLAY.
The first image on the tape was identical to what I’d seen when Sheriff Buckner opened my office door last night, except that Erin was lying faceup in the center of the floor rather than behind the headboard of the bed. She was nude, and her eyes were closed. As I focused on her face, a man stepped into the frame as silently as a deer.
He had the physical symmetry of a gymnast. Beneath a tan jacket that looked like Egyptian cotton, he wore black clothes that fit tight against him. But it was his face that arrested my attention. The skin was unnaturally pale, the hair deep black with a few fine strands of silver. It fell in ringlets around his high forehead. His brow lines looked cut from marble but met and descended to a surprisingly gentle and well-formed nose. The lips were full and might have looked too feminine were they not balanced by a prominent chin. From the point of the chin his jaw swept back and upward in a V, giving him an almost avian aspect. But what anchored the remarkable face, what unified its disparate features, was the eyes. Pure cobalt blue, they pierced the camera lens with unnerving power.
“Did I not tell you I was beautiful?” he said.
His voice was low and resonant, his cadence almost archaic. Only when he moved did I realize how profound was his stillness. He cocked his head to one side, as if waiting for an answer. Then he resumed his former attitude, standing centered in the frame as immutably as a marble David.
“Since this must needs be a one-sided conversation,” he said, “I shall begin. Isn’t this a fine kettle of fish, as the common folk used to say? I don’t think either of us expected to find ourselves in this situation, did we, Mr. Cole? Mr. Harper Cole?”
I squeezed the arms of my chair, unreasonably shocked by his knowledge of my real identity.
“And who am I, you wonder?” His eyebrows went up inquisitively. “You’ve known me by many names. But perhaps you know even my legal name by now. Thanks to this.”
Reaching into his coat pocket, he brought out a flat piece of black plastic. It was a 3.5-inch floppy disk. He held it up to the lens so I could read the label:
TROJAN HORSE
“I think we both know who designed this,” he said. Then he tossed the disk across the room. “I am Rudolf Edward Berkmann. Of course I didn’t know your real name until a few minutes ago. But now that I do, everything is painfully clear.
“You must be dying to know what happened. I certainly was. At first I feared the whole thing had been a trap laid on by Daniel Baxter. That he would begin braying at me through a bullhorn any minute. But it was something altogether different, wasn’t it? You’re smarter than Baxter and poor Doctor Lenz put together, aren’t you? Yet you produced the same result they did. A woman you loved is dead.”
Berkmann gave a tight smile. “I know the feeling, Harper.”
He licked his red lips and glided forward, out of the frame. I heard a soft groan; then he was back in front of the camera, holding up one hand, which I saw to my horror had been dipped in blood. He flourished the hand before the lens like a magician, then with a bloody forefinger daubed a scarlet spot on his forehead, like a caste mark.
“Kali was the vessel of my corrupt longings,” he said. “My faithful concubine for twenty years. She was also my slave. Both are lost arts, requiring dedication and love. You attacked that love, Harper. With lies. And now she is dead.”
Turning his profile to the camera, he threw back his head, flicked out his tongue, and brought his bloody palm down across the tip, tasting Kali’s blood. He shivered, then dropped the hand and turned back to face the camera, his cerulean eyes wide.
“You tell slippery lies. Lies that are true. Poor Erin had no idea she was starring in an exclusive production put on by you and your friend Miles, did she?”
I wanted to shut off the tape then, to spare myself. But I couldn’t. Berkmann made a quick turn away from the camera and gave a wistful wave to the center of the floor, where Erin’s naked body lay. “Such a waste,” he said with what sounded like genuine regret. “Are you wondering whether I’ve fucked her yet? Whether she’s really even dead?” He nodded. “Rest assured that she is. And no, I haven’t given myself that pleasure. For one simple reason. Erin is your victim, Harper.”
He smiled again, his eyes communicating almost paternal sadness. “I’ve learned a lot today. It’s a strange experience for me. I’m accustomed to being the teacher. And to be made a fool of twice in one day… it’s really too embarrassing.
“You don’t know what I’m talking about, do you? Of course not. Let me explain. As ‘Erin,’ you approached me at a vulnerable time. I’d been experiencing difficulties with my work. I was considering a sabbatical. And we seemed to have much in common. I saw through Lenz’s clumsy ruse from the start, of course, but yours… you were quite convincing. A gift, I suppose.
“As our relationship deepened, Kali began to take an interest. She was quick as mercury at reading emotion, and she saw the effect ‘Erin’ was having on me. Her feelings for me had always run much deeper than I suspected. I realize that now. Her first response was to demand that I use Erin as the next pineal donor. Obviously, if I refused, I would betray my true interest. I had to proceed carefully. Kali could be very dangerous, as you know. I agreed that Erin would be our next donor.
“Then came the resolution of the Lenz problem. On the night Kali killed the good doctor’s wife, she searched his study. She found certain things… which she kept to herself. She learned, for example, that ‘Erin’ was another trap, just like ‘Lilith.’ But she chose not to tell me this. She was wise, in principle. I was losing my perspective. Kali understood my vulnerability. But she also knew the futility of trying to convince a man that his affections are misplaced. How many wives have convinced husbands that they really don’t love the voluptuous secretary? Quite futile. Kali decided to let realit
y teach me the required lesson. A touch of Zen for the master, you see?
“She obviously felt she could handle whatever violence was required when we arrived here. I had no idea what was happening. My plan was to spirit Erin away under the pretense that she was a donor, and then-if she proved to be the woman I hoped she was-find a way to separate her from Kali later.
“Surveillance proved to be impossible, with your house so isolated. A blitz attack was the only option. I entered alone, meaning to tranquilize Erin immediately, to eliminate any chance of problems. But when I saw how beautiful she was in the flesh-the real Erin-I had to speak. I felt that after our conversations, she would have no trouble recognizing me for what I was. Her Dark Prince. But it was Karin Wheat all over again. Erin was terrified, of course. She had no idea what I was talking about, but her terror masked that fact. I still don’t know what she was doing here. Fate sometimes takes a hand in these things. I tried to calm her, but it did no good. Then….”
Suddenly Berkmann began to move about the office, like a film director blocking out scenes. “Rather than wait outside as instructed, Kali had listened through the door. She burst in with her knife and began to shout at me. Didn’t I see what a fool I had been? Like that. But when she saw Erin-a real woman who matched the JPEG photograph you’d sent me-she stopped shouting. I think she was as confused as I. I placed myself between them, tried to calm Kali. I said we should take Erin with us. Kali temporized. Then she told me to shoot Erin with a dart. I pointed the gun as instructed, but for some reason I couldn’t fire. That was the end. Kali shrieked and flew at Erin. Erin lunged for the sword on the wall. I fired then, believing that if Erin went down that way I could keep Kali from killing her. But by then she was a moving target. The dart only struck her shoulder.”
Berkmann moved faster, whirling like a choreographer, feinting and lunging with natural grace. “Kali tried to go around me, but I blocked her path. She slashed me with her knife and I went down.” He rolled on the floor and came up into a half crouch. “Both women were screaming. Erin had already struck Kali twice with the sword.” Berkmann leaped to the center of the office, where the bloody circus of footprints had been the night before. “They fought here. It was magnificent! A scene worthy of Michelangelo. The Western woman untrained but genetically superior, armed with a sword. The Eastern woman a perfect killing machine, armed only with a knife. It happened in the time it took me to load a second dart from the case in my pocket. Kali struck again and again, but Erin repelled every blow, parrying like a fencer. As soon as I had a steady shot, I fired into Kali’s neck.” Berkmann made a pffft sound with his lips and teeth. “It was a mistake. The shot stunned both women. Then Kali lunged for the kill and Erin ran her through. They stood locked together like embracing lovers, and I thought the battle done. Then Kali buried her knife in Erin’s back. Erin managed to shove her away, then collapsed herself.”
Twisting to imitate the climax of the duel, Berkmann ceased motion with his knees slightly bent, like a crazed Fred Astaire looking into the camera while dipping an invisible partner. “She died in my arms, Harper. Sorrow and pity.”
As if someone had yelled “Cut!” he rose casually and stood centered in the frame again. “I tried to save her. But Kali had hit the heart. It was hopeless.”
I looked at my watch then. The tape had been running for more than three minutes. I couldn’t believe Berkmann had the nerve to stand there making this documentary of depravity, knowing that someone could walk in on him at any moment. Buckner’s men, the FBI, me, Drewe-
A wave of sweat suffused my skin as I realized just how narrowly Drewe must have missed him.
“Once I saw how things stood,” Berkmann said, “I took a little stroll round the place. I had the run of it, after all. And such an interesting time I had, going through this peculiar little house. So many mementos. This, for example.”
From his inside coat pocket, he brought out a folded eight-by-ten photograph, which he opened. Bob Anderson had shot the picture about four months ago at one of the family barbecues. In it, Drewe and I stand beside Bob’s mammoth grill, a little apart, while Patrick rests a proprietary arm on Erin’s shoulder. Erin is wearing a yellow sundress and sitting in a white lawn chair. Holly, dressed in a matching sundress, stands with Victorian gravity, resting an arm across Erin’s tanned knees.
“I feel like part of the family, ” Berkmann crooned, leaving the photo suspended from one hand and walking around to study it with the physical genius of a mime. “Hmmm… let’s see.” His finger danced along the paper until it stopped at my face. “Here you are, yes? Handsome enough chap, I suppose, though a little doughy for my taste. Not at all like your friend Miles.”
While I squeezed my knees in fury, the finger moved again and lighted on Erin’s face. “And here we have the sublime earth goddess I so foolishly believed I was communing with via EROS. So much darker than you led me to believe. She could almost be Kali at twenty-five.
“And behind her-can it be? The cuckolded husband? How could Erin ever have convinced herself that this mooncalf would be enough for her? Of course, she might have been a perfect match for him. I’ve given a lot of thought to that these past few minutes. Was Erin the woman you played her as? Or did you inject some of yourself into her-pardon the pun-as writers are wont to do in novels? How thrilling it must have been, playing both roles as you doled out your naughty little secret. You gave Erin a voice, didn’t you? One she never had in real life, I’ll wager.”
Berkmann’s finger slid down Erin’s chest to Holly. “And here, the little love child. But a daughter, not a son. Our own little Pearl. Any fool can see you’re her father.”
As he spoke, Berkmann moved his head upon his neck with serpentine suppleness, as if to hypnotize me by motion alone. “But I’m leaving someone out, aren’t I? The alpha female of the family. As I teased at my meager facts, it came to me that there was someone else in this house far superior to both you and your earthy paramour. You painted her as the perfect sister, the ideal wife, but she’s much more than that, I think. I’m speaking of this woman, Harper. This woman here.”
The finger lighted on Drewe’s chest.
“This is beauty, my duplicitous friend. What a fortunate boy you are. What a delicious arrangement. You had the carnal Erin for sex, and this noble lady for a wife. More than any man deserves, I should think. Oh, yes.”
Berkmann refolded the photo and slipped it back into his inside pocket. “But your day is coming, Harper. Be assured of it. I’m going to disappear for a while. Not my first choice, but then I don’t have a choice, do I? Please tell Daniel Baxter not to waste any more public funds searching for me. I’ve been planning for this day a long time. Even had my work succeeded, I could not have remained in America. Appreciation of genius takes time. But… there’s a wide world out there, and I know it well.”
Without warning or explanation, Berkmann suddenly slipped off his jacket and began unbuttoning his shirt. “I’m a free agent now,” he said, almost to himself. “So liberating.”
Both jacket and shirt fell to the floor.
While I stared, looking for the huge scar Miles had mentioned, he raised both arms high above his head, like a gull spreading its wings. If he had risen two feet into the air, I would not have been surprised. As his right arm lifted, I saw a dark line transecting the ribs, maybe five inches long. It took a moment to realize I was looking at sutures. They were weeping blood. Kali had stabbed him. And the son of a bitch had stitched himself up.
“I appear to be leaking,” he said in an almost embarrassed voice. “Notice the Christlike position of the wound?”
He laughed, then dropped one arm and traced a line beneath his sternum and along his ribs, and I finally saw it. A massive chevron-shaped scar, probably twenty inches long, with its midpoint beneath his breastbone and extending outward in both directions. It was an old scar, faded white, with the dotted pattern of staples rather than the hash marks of sutures. It looked as though someone had opene
d Berkmann’s entire abdomen for some reason.
“You see this one?” he asked. “This is where it all began.”
In that moment all the levity went out of him. He stared into the lens with mesmerizing power, his latissimus dorsi muscles flaring beneath his armpits like the hood of a cobra.
“There are two kinds of people in the world, Harper. The healthy and the sick. Actually, they inhabit two different worlds. The world of shadow and the world of light. The door between those worlds opens only in one direction. And I was born on the wrong side of the door.
“I did all I could to remain strong, as you know. But when AIDS entered the blood supply, my hemophilia became a potential death sentence. Then it was discovered that hemophiliacs who received liver transplants for viral hepatitis miraculously regained their clotting ability. For me it was a revelation. The door could open in the other direction. Hemophiliacs as a class weren’t given transplants, of course. Not enough livers to go around. And their symptoms could be controlled with clotting factor. But clotting factor carried AIDS, didn’t it? I wasn’t about to die for the willful ignorance of my government. I never even hesitated. Kali helped me find the surgeons I needed, she bargained with them. They could barely speak English, after all. It caused them no end of difficulty obtaining American credentials. But they had good hands, and they liked money. The only problem was convincing someone to make the required donation.” Berkmann’s lips flattened into something like a smile. “But Kali helped me there too. She was quite indispensable.”
He tapped the transplant scar lightly. “It was a traumatic experience. Suppressing my immune system to accept the organ, all the rest. But I survived. And I was cured. Once we’d accomplished the liver transplant, well… you can see what a natural progression it was to further research.”
He looked down at the scar again, then raised his right hand and pointed at the camera. I felt he was pointing through the lens, right at my heart. “But now Kali is dead. My best assisting surgeon is dead. Erin is dead. Yet you are alive.”
