Agyar

by Steven Brust

  “His son was engaged to Terri Kowalczek.”

  Oh, Kellem, good work. “What is known about the killing?”

  “Some sort of love triangle. This Agyar was involved with one or the other of them, either Kowalczek or Baldwin, we don’t know which.”

  Probably pretty accurate, if one were to substitute Kellem for Agyar. “Hasn’t someone—umm. What is Baldwin’s first name?”

  “Brian.”

  “Hasn’t someone asked Brian Baldwin?”

  “He isn’t saying anything, and he’s been sick.”

  “Sick how?”

  “I don’t know; that’s what we’ve heard.”

  “Is he in the hospital?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Unfortunately, it all made sense. “When did the investigation break?”

  “When Donald Swaggart was killed the same way, and we got a witness.”

  “What is known about this Agyar?”

  “Nothing, except that he’s been seen in this neighborhood, both before and after the bodies were found in the house.”

  I wondered how my dear neighbor Bill would feel if he were to wake up one morning and find his wife dead. My musings were interrupted by the radio, which had being going pretty continuously, starting to sound urgent. It occurred to me that my friends had been out of touch for a while, and it was always possible that someone would call or drive by to check on them, if they hadn’t done so already.

  Robert Duvall was still looking at me, waiting. He would continue to do so for some time, unless he was told to do something different.

  “Now listen to me,” I said.

  “Yes.”

  “There must be something wrong with the exhaust system in this car.”

  “Yes.”

  “You have had the engine running, and you both fell asleep.”

  “Yes.”

  “In a moment, you will spill your coffee on your lap, and that will wake you up.”

  “Yes.”

  “You will know at once that you have passed out from carbon monoxide poisoning, and you will roll down the window, turn the car off, and wake up your partner.”

  “Yes.”

  “First you will roll up the window, and you will forget doing so, and you will forget this conversation entirely, then you will spill your coffee.”

  “Yes.”

  “Do so now.”

  He rolled up his window and I got out of there.

  I returned to the house, came up to my typing room, and dug through the sheaf of papers that my friend from the newspaper had given me, and it was all there, between the lines; hints of a love triangle, hints of a gruesome death, if you were looking for them. The whole thing was there. The trouble was, I’d been looking for the gruesome death part, rather than trying to spot a murder that made so much noise Kellem would know it couldn’t be hushed up.

  Yes, indeed, the fool had fallen for the mayor’s son, and, when his fiancée had refused to back out quietly, Kellem had gone off her head and killed her. Idiot. And, on top of it all, Kellem wouldn’t leave. Why? I suppose because she was in love with him. Double idiot.

  Hmmm. Of course, if Kellem is in love, that might explain why I

  Never mind. My own feelings require no explanation. Nor do my actions.

  But it all makes sense, I think. I now know the situation, and how I’ve been put into the middle of it. The police are watching the house, they will probably search it again, and eventually some fine morning someone will notice something funny about the bookcase or the dimensions of the basement, and then they will either locate the catch or simply bash down the wall, and then they will find me, and then—

  And I’m stuck here, because that stupid bitch Kellem won’t let me leave.

  Now, at any rate, I know the cure for that. I must take it soon.

  FOURTEEN

  i-de-al n. 1. A conception of something in its absolute perfection. 2. One regarded as a standard or model of perfection. 3. An ultimate object of endeavor; a goal. 4. An honorable or worthy principle or aim. 5. That which exists only in the mind.

  AMERICAN HERITAGE DICTIONARY

  Maybe I will make a good detective after all; I seem to have developed the knack of finding what I want through sheer, boring drudgework, which, as I understand it, is most of what detectives do. In this case, I called every hospital in the area asking to speak with Brian Baldwin. The first one I tried was University Hospital on Jefferson, where Jill was staying, because that would have made things sweet and easy, but I had no such luck. In any case, it wouldn’t have mattered, because I learned that she had been discharged that morning. So I got a telephone directory and started making calls. Eighteen times I asked to speak with Brian Baldwin; eighteen times I was asked if he was an inpatient; eighteen times I said yes; eighteen times I was told, very apologetically, that he didn’t seem to be listed and was I certain of the spelling of his name; the nineteenth I was told that it was too late to ring the patient rooms.

  The hospital is called Saint Matthew’s, and it is located outside of town in one of the high-class suburbs. Now, I must tackle the problem of gaining entry. I don’t—yes, in fact, I do know how to go about it. More later.

  Some time ago I dated an Emergency Room nurse, and I learned about some of the odder things that happen in hospital emergency rooms.

  For example, once a patient had, somehow, gotten a lightbulb stuck in his, um, rectal passage, without breaking it, and to remove it the crew found a lamp, screwed the lamp into the lightbulb, and pulled it out. In another case, someone managed to get himself stuck in a stairwell, drunk, and wearing almost nothing. Since this was in a warm climate, no one thought of hypothermia, so when CPR failed he was pronounced dead, and the intern was breaking the news to the family when his heart started beating again. There was another case where a man had gotten a four-inch-thick piece of steel tubing driven through his chest—a piece that was too long to fit into the elevator, so they had to walk him up the stairway to surgery. He lived.

  And here’s another example, from right here in Lakota, that happened just a few hours ago.

  A man was found lying flat on his back outside of the Emergency Room entrance. A quick check indicated no pulse and no respiration. He was brought in and CPR was administered, as well as adrenaline injections (they will never know how much he enjoyed that), but, after twenty minutes, there was no response. They disconnected him, covered him over, and wheeled him out into the hall. Eventually, when those who come for bodies came for him he was gone. While they were trying to track him down, they found an ER admissions nurse who said that he had walked by her, winked, and disappeared down the hall toward the administrative section.

  Some time later, an ob-gyn nurse was found, dazed and pale, slumped against her desk. Maybe someone thought to ask her if she’d seen the fellow, and maybe she looked puzzled, nodded, and passed out. More likely, the incidents were never connected. And maybe someone gave his description to the police and then identified him from a sketch. More likely, they just shrugged the whole thing off and never bothered reporting it to anyone for fear of getting into trouble. That’s what things are like in your favorite hospital.

  The place smelled of disinfectant, the walls were white, the corridors wide, the doctors and nurses very intent on what they were doing. Brian Baldwin was in a private room on the third floor, sleeping. Someone had brought roses. Laura was always fond of roses, though I never knew if it was the flower or the thorns that appealed to her. Baldwin, even sleeping, had a strong and not unattractive face, with the exception of his hair, which was entirely missing. His breathing was deep but not terribly so. I hid myself and waited.

  After a while, when nothing happened, I slipped outside the door and read his chart. He was, it seems, twenty-five years old and a graduate student at St. Bartholomew’s College. The chart contained such gems of information as: “Weak, rapid, thready pulse.” What in the world is a thr
eady pulse? It also mentioned, among the little bit I could understand, dehydration, increased heart rate, severe anemia with several question marks after it, “HIV neg” followed by three dates, the first being last September, the most recent being last month. It also contained the notes “questionably compliant,” and “2-3 day cycle.”

  I wondered what “questionably compliant” meant. It sounded like blaming the victim for the failure of the treatment, but I don’t know hospital jargon.

  The most interesting one, however, was from late last September, where it said several things about “chemo,” followed by indecipherable codes, and ending with, “Leukemia negative, discontinuing chemo.”

  Now, I don’t know a great deal about chemotherapy, but I think I have a better idea of why so much of Kellem’s hair is gone—they looked at his symptoms and decided he had leukemia, and treated it with chemotherapy, and Kellem got to share in the side effects. Didn’t she know it would happen? Or didn’t she care? Could she really be in love?

  Poor Laura.

  And, while we’re at it, poor doctors; they haven’t a clue. Or, rather, they have every clue, but there is no chance they’ll believe them.

  I waited for several hours more, hiding from the nurses and watching, but nothing happened. I wasn’t surprised; if he’d been my victim, I’d have waited another day or two until he recovered. And besides, why should she come so late? If I were here, I’d arrive in the early evening, like any other visitor after work. I’d probably pretend to be visiting someone else entirely, on a different floor, so that no one would connect me with the patient’s relapses, and I would take advantage of the private room for a tête-à-tête with my lover, or victim, or what-have-you.

  I smelled the roses once, then left via the window and came back home and put my piece of petrified wood back on, because I’m used to it. I wish those damned cops hadn’t spotted it.

  I do not yet know how, but I am going to kill Laura Kellem.

  When I was young, I used to travel around the public houses in the evening with a friend named Robert or Richard or something. One evening I happened to finish off a glass of ale into which he had, I think by accident though I could be wrong, dropped some ash from his cigar. I can still remember spitting it out, and how disgusted I felt. That is how I feel now, although I am using the allusion to taste more in a metaphorical than a literal sense. Still, one could look at it either way, I suppose.

  My hands are still shaking, and, as I typed the above paragraph, I have twice had to leave three times now I have had to run to the toilet.

  But let me describe it all; perhaps that will exorcise it somewhat. I returned to the hospital and hid myself in the bathroom in Brian Baldwin’s private room. Sure enough, Kellem arrived within minutes. He was awake, and they spoke together in tones too low for me to hear most of the words. But I’m certain that I heard Kellem say, “Little one.”

  She used to call me “Little one.”

  No, I’m not jealous (this time); but I understood things better now. Baldwin wouldn’t or couldn’t leave town, Kellem was unwilling to make him, and the bitch had fallen in love. As new for her, I think, as for me—which is hardly coincidence. So, I guess, I have something to thank her for as well.

  I’ve been shying away from asking myself this, but I wonder if my feelings for Susan will change once I am free of Laura. I can’t help wondering, but I don’t believe they will. If one can ever trust one’s own instincts, there is no chance that I am wrong about this.

  But let me return to the story.

  I continued listening, and presently the conversation stopped. I waited for a moment, then emerged from hiding. They were holding each other close, and his head was thrown back with an expression of rapture while her head was buried against his shoulder.

  She looked up as I entered, and her expression underwent a series of changes impossible to describe. At last she said, “What are you doing here? How did you find me?”

  Brian sighed and settled back against his pillow, calling her name softly; his breathing was fast and deep. Kellem rose from the bed and faced me.

  I said, “I thought we should have a talk, dearest Laura. Have you a few moments? I hate to interrupt such a tender scene, but—”

  “Keep still.”

  “Your hair seems to be starting to grow back. Congratu—”

  “Silence.”

  “Heh. Try it on someone else; I know better now.”

  “You know what better, fool?”

  “Many things. I know why you brought me here. I know what sort of idiocy you’ve been involved in. I know that you lied to me. Most important, I know why you lied to me. You cannot control me any longer, Kellem.”

  “Oh?” she said. “I cannot?”

  “That is correct.”

  She smirked at me.

  I shrugged. “I’m offering you a deal, Kellem. My life for yours. You leave me in peace, and allow me to depart, and I’ll take no action against you.”

  “Indeed?” she said, smiling with fake sweetness. “But if I cannot control you, how can I stop you from leaving? Why don’t you just do it?”

  “It isn’t quite that simple,” I said. “But I can—”

  “Silence,” she repeated, snapping out the word, and I found myself unable to speak; it was as if something had reached past my consciousness to wherever my motor skills are controlled, and pushed the off button for speech. All I could do was glare, which I did.

  “You think you can defy me? You think you can resist my will? You think you can set your powers against mine?”

  I still could not speak, so I continued to glare; flying in the face of reason, I must admit, but I wasn’t feeling reasonable.

  “Then I must teach you better.”

  She looked around, and I saw her eyes come to rest on the tray of half-eaten food on the cart next to Brian’s bed. I suddenly knew what she was going to do, and I tried to ask her not to but I still couldn’t speak. She pointed to it and said, “Eat.”

  I shook my head.

  “Eat,” she said again, and I couldn’t even fight it. I walked over to the tray, and picked up the spoon. There was some sort of noodle dish with hamburger and tomato sauce. I don’t even think I would have been able to eat such a thing when

  Four times now. I hope that was the last.

  I picked up a spoon and put a little on it. “More,” she said. I complied. I brought it to my mouth and stopped. “Do it,” she said.

  I did. I chewed it. I would have chewed it for a long, long time, but she caught me and said “Swallow,” so I did. I felt it slide down my throat and travel all the way into my stomach.

  She said, “Again.”

  Her control over my voice had stopped, so I said, “Laura, please—”

  “Another one! Now!”

  I repeated the process. And again. It was about then that the cramps hit and I doubled over, retching.

  “Again,” said Laura, at which point the door opened. The cramp ended as this occurred, so I was able to watch as a nurse entered. She stared at me, then gave me a disapproving frown.

  “The food,” she said, “is for—”

  “Kill her,” said Laura Kellem, and I could feel her smile as she pronounced the words.

  I had no will, no choice.

  The nurse screamed and backed out of the door. I was on her before she got much farther, but that was enough. I was aware that there were many people around me as my hands fastened on her throat, crushed, and twisted. At the same moment, I felt that I was free again, but it was just exactly too late.

  I was back in the room before the nurse’s body hit the ground. I was not surprised to find that Kellem was nowhere to be seen. Another cramp hit just as the screams started, giving me the absurd impression that everyone in the hospital had been hit with stomach cramps at the same time I was.

  There were footsteps behind me, but I couldn’t move. There were hands on my shoulders as the pain stopped. I stood and twisted free. Someone tried to
grab me and I tossed him or her away like an insect one finds crawling on one’s shirt. I crashed through the window, taking cuts on my face and hands.

  I made it back home in time for my stomach to empty itself. Five times, so far.

  Somehow I am going to kill Laura Kellem.

  Today I went on what can only be called a scavenger hunt. I had to start early so I could reach places before they closed, but I made it. I purchased one black candle, some dark blue wool and matching thread, a needle, ten yards of blue yarn, one yard of white. Then I found an all-night grocery store and picked up some fresh basil.

  So much for the purchases. The other stuff was harder, it still being winter, but I took a shaving from the stem of a wild rose, and bits of some mountain ash and even a few nettles, although it took me nearly all night and I came back cold and irritated.

  When I returned, Jim said, “What’s in the bag?”

  “I’m going to sacrifice a child,” I snapped. “Gotta problem with that?”

  He looked troubled until he realized that I was jesting, which hurt my feelings a little.

  For all that it has taken me, maybe ten minutes to write this down, getting it done was very lengthy and irritating. But at least I’m done, and as ready as I’m likely to be.

  The moon will be new in five days.

  Winter is holding on with great determination this year, which annoys me even though I know what is causing it. In New York, spring is meaningless as far as I’m concerned, and in many places I have been it never actually seems to happen, but Ohio, I’m told, usually has one, and this year we are being cheated out of it. It snowed again today, then the snow turned to rain which froze on the sidewalks after making a halfhearted effort at melting some of the snow it had just deposited on us. It had stopped raining by the time I arrived at Susan’s door. The smells of spring, which are how I identify the condition, have not yet occurred, and for all I can tell will not at all this year.

  We walked to the Tunnel and strolled along the Ave; one of a number of couples fighting the weather, hand in hand or arms about each other. Susan had her black-gloved hands on my arm; I had eschewed my ugly coat entirely, but wore a thick gray sweater. There is something about this particular pose—her hands on my arm—that makes me feel tall, proud, masculine, and extraordinarily tender.