Robin picked up on her tone. “Sure.”
Once in the kitchen, Winona said, in her best sotto voce, “Precious, we have a problem with your commanding officer.”
“You think!”
“He's suffering a breakdown.” Winona sounded strangely level-headed considering the subject matter.
“I told him to get some rest!” Robin blurted, his voice carrying. “But oh no, Mr. All Work and No Play!” Robin checked his emotions, wondered what was driving them. And it was suddenly all so obvious. Manny was his rock. He was supposed to anchor Robin to sanity through the turbulent seas of his wife’s, and now his, sex change. He couldn’t have him falling apart on him. Winona had been right all along; he couldn’t blame his over-excited state on the female hormone pills. This was sheer panic that had been building for a while, day in and day out. He’d watched Manny getting more and more wound up, not knowing what was behind it until Hartman found the cause, and sent cracks through the dam holding everything back.
Fretting over Robin’s inability to keep his voice down, Winona closed the access point to the kitchen the rest of the way. She stood by the door as if to use her body as extra sound insulation.
Robin paced. “I just don't know what to do!”
He grabbed a bottle of orange juice out of the fridge and drank straight out of it, sloshed it around as he talked. “The man won't listen! He doesn't get that all work and no play makes Jack a very interesting boy if it goes on long enough!”
He spied the wet splotches from the spilled orange juice on his shirt. “Oh shit, I think I'm lactating.”
“We're going to have to play our cards very carefully if we expect both of our men to pull out of this.”
“Do I look calculated and composed to you!” Robin blurted. Then, much calmer, he said, “Oh wait, I think I know how to play him.”
“Just in case you were wondering, those are the female hormones kicking in.”
Robin put on a plastic smile, and grabbed the hors d'oeuvres tray with the caviar. “Let’s dial back on the sugar in the vain hope it’s causing the mood swings, shall we?”
“I don’t want you in a servile role out of some stereotypical sense of femininity,” Winona said, and grabbed the tray.
“Perish the thought. This is a passive-aggressive come-on before the vengeful stab in the back. How does that play with your sense of femininity?”
“Remarkably well, actually,” she said, and handed him back the tray.
Robin set the tray down in the main festivities room, obscuring the TV in the process. “Chief, you see what's wrong here?”
“Yeah, you're blocking my favorite reality TV show.”
“We gotta get you in the game. You can't learn by watching. That's like becoming a cop by devouring detective shows.”
From the vacant look in his eyes Robin could tell the carousel was twirling in Manny's head. After getting off the ride, he said, “You're thinking smart these days, Robin. It's like you're a whole other person.”
Robin coughed. “I'm sure you know the feeling.”
Manny jumped off the sofa. “All right, let's do this.” He clapped his hands together. “Where's he headed to next?”
“There's only Jeannie and Adam left,” Winona said. “Unless he circles back on Murray.”
“Whatever happened to Fiona?” Robin asked.
“God, who cares?” Manny asked. “She's not with the program.”
“She's probably wandering about lost, darling,” Winona said. “Not an easy house to find your way around in.” Robin could tell she was dissembling. He didn’t know why she lied to them, unless she didn’t want them getting fixated on Fiona, bumping her to the top of their priority list out of fear of what Hartman would do to her. Maybe she had sufficient faith in Fiona pulling out of this on her own, and she just didn’t think she could convince the two police officers.
Robin picked up a video camera that was left sitting around the festivities room, one of several. “Are these set to activate automatically when in proximity of Hartman?”
“Yes,” Winona said. “That’s one of the spares. We couldn’t be certain who would show up. They were meant to be mounted in the private suites later, if need be.”
Robin turned the camera on so he’d know what to look for, what LED lights would flick on when they were close to Hartman. “This beats the hell out of playing ‘Guess Whose Number is Up?’” Robin said, before taking the lead.
FORTY-THREE
Hartman walked in on Fiona, who was calm as the waters off a coral reef, shaving her legs. She’d transformed her hair from blond to basic black. He spied the hair-coloring box on the bathroom counter along with the straightening device she’d used to take the waves out of her hair.
“You weren't frightened, being locked in here all this time?”
“I don't do frightened. Gives you wrinkle lines. Get my toes, will ya?” Something about her tone indicated that phrase wasn’t as airheaded as it sounded.
She handed him the bottle of nail polish. Playing along, he painted the big toe first. “You've been in here hours. What's been going through your mind?”
“Absolutely nothing.” There was a sense of triumph accompanying Fiona’s declaration.
Hartman tensed, then moved on to another toenail. “That's actually quite impressive. Most people can't settle down their minds for five minutes.”
“Please, my mind is nothing but a lot of silliness. I'd drive myself crazy if I didn't tune it out.” Remarkably, her tone communicated less Valley girl, more Zen-like self-control.
“Really?” Hartman wondered, Just what was going on with this woman?
“Don’t let the blond bimbo act fool you. I admit I live the part so well, at times, I get lost in it myself. But I want someone who can see past the pretense just like I want them to see past the beauty. If they don’t have eyes that can see into my soul, my flawlessness will forever keep them hypnotized to the point of becoming blubbering buffoons.”
Hartman contained his excitement as best he could. Reminded himself the finest jewelry often came unannounced in the most unassuming boxes. “Surrounded by condescending prigs, you wonder after a while if the act is just an act.”
It was the first time she allowed her eyes to meet his. She looked pleasantly surprised to find genuine warmth and understanding there. “You’re baiting them to see if they want to use that extra IQ to manipulate you into doing what they want,” he said, “versus what’s best for you. It’s more a test of their character, than it is of yours.” She smiled broadly.
“You don’t mind turning away the ones who’re looking for brains and beauty,” he said, dipping the brush in the polish, “because conditional love you don’t need.” Judging by her latest expression, they were bonding. But he wasn’t about to let himself be so easily taken in. Just because she’d managed to spin an intricate web, didn’t mean she was any more human than the rest of them.
Painting another nail with the undeserved attention Leonardo da Vinci gave the Mona Lisa, he asked, “Tell me, what do you think of Obama as President?”
“The False Hope Presidency? At least that's what I call it. False hope that if a black man can win the White House, then maybe a woman can, too.” She moved on to filing her fingernails. “Maybe anybody can do anything. This is still the America we all know and love. Only, when was the last time anyone saw any upward mobility? I think Nixon was in office.”
“You're right, of course. You figured this all out on your own?”
“You would be surprised how mind expanding spending half your life in a hair-salon can be. You meet all kinds. A real cross-roads of culture.”
“So you just picked up these ideas from other people?” Hartman asked cautiously.
“Please. Never found anything in anyone's head worth holding on to. Mine included. Careful with that red, or you'll have me looking like an axe murderer beat you to it.”
Hartman handed her back the bottle. “I'm sorry, but I have places t
o go, people to kill. You're off the list.”
“I'm sorry, did I hear you right?” She acted as if confident he was speaking metaphorically, but she still wasn’t standing for it. “We go out of our way to throw this shindig for you, a last desperate attempt to help you get over yourself, figuring if we were more open to constructive feedback ourselves, you could take the hint... And this is how you repay us? With the same condescending intolerance you despise in your students? Because unlike the rest of us, you’ve earned the right to feel superior? As if only you could avoid blackening your soul with such sentiments.”
And then, as she scrutinized his face, it dawned on her: He hadn’t just used an unfortunate turn of phrase. “You mean literally kill them, don’t you?”
“I have to separate the devils in disguise from the true angels of the Lord.”
“That makes sense,” she said, sounding truly daft for the first time.
Fiona waited for him to turn his back on her, and then scuttled into the kitchenette. She rifled through the drawers for a knife. There, that should do it!
Back inside the room with Hartman, she screamed jujitsu style as she lunged at him, carving knife in hand.
He whirled around and caught her wrist in mid swing before the knife connected with his back.
“I'm sorry; I thought we understood one another.”
“We do. You're a complete psycho!”
“It's your job to go out there and change the world for the better.”
Fighting for the knife, she said, “One psycho at a time, buddy!”
“No, no, no. Show them they can't keep us down. The more pressure they apply, the more enlightened people get, like forging a samurai sword from base metals with repeated hammering. They're their own worst enemies.” He wrenched the knife out of her hand. “We're just here today to celebrate the metamorphosis.”
Bandying the knife about, he said, “You lash out, it means you’re feebly resisting a superior opponent when you should be using his strength against him. Use your martial arts tactics the way they were meant to be used, as a way of unifying with life’s energy.”
She sighed surrender, tired of struggling. He let her go. “You know what? When you're right, you're right,” she said. “I'm not going out like this. Go do your thing.”
Hartman escaped through the hidden panel, which snapped shut behind him.
“What a whack job!” She slid her hands over the slat, determined to figure out the tripping mechanism. Come on, Fiona… Go find yourself some cops who don't mind doing their jobs.
FORTY-FOUR
The threesome inched along on all fours, shuffling cautiously inside the crawl space between the walls. Out front with the camera, using it as a tracking device, Robin set the pace.
“Anything?” Manny asked.
“A lot of backache,” Robin said.
Then he spied the drops of blood beneath him.
Robin’s eyes went wide; the splotch was larger this time. He looked over his head, and saw the source of the dripping. The blood was coming from the floor above them, trickling from between the floorboards. They’d meandered under one of Hartman’s victims. It didn’t really matter; they had their hands full with the living. But it made him feel bad about complaining of backache. He picked up the pace.
***
Jeannie and Adam’s suite in Hartman’s old house was laid out like their home in Berkeley, making it strangely soothing.
Yawning, Jeannie fixed coffee for herself, fully aware she was availing herself of the calming aspects of ritual.
“I can't believe you slept through half of this,” Adam said.
“Psycho on the loose. We can't escape. Just a matter of time 'til our number's up. What did I miss?”
“Not much, apparently.” Adam figured, if he sounded dejected, at least that was a rational response.
“Control what you can control, and leave the rest to God.” She puckered his lips with her hand and kissed them.
“What if there is no God?”
Jeannie took a second to think about it. “Strangely, the sentiment doesn’t lose a bit of its shine.”
“And when Hartman comes in here?”
“Just like any of our other guests,” she said, “half of whom have probably done worse things, for all we know. You take people as they are, not as they were five minutes ago.”
“I guess you learned that working as a nurse in a psych ward for so long.”
Jeannie grunted. “One thing with these people, they know they have baggage, and if you wave it in front of their faces, it just makes it worse. Trust me, non-judgmental is the way to go.”
She padded out to the dining table with her coffee, as he fetched cereal for them.
Adam no sooner flopped himself down at the dining table with the cereal box, the bowls, the milk and utensils, than Hartman made his appearance, breaching the wall closest to them.
Not missing a beat, Jeannie said, “Hi, Clay! Join us for breakfast?”
“Don't mind if I do,” Hartman said.
Adam poured the cereal bowls for them, his jittery hands making a mess of things. Both Hartman and Jeannie picked up on the cereal spilling out of the bowls. But, ironically, it helped relax the atmosphere, making the couple seem less uptight about the little things.
Hartman noticed the TV monitor was off. “So what are you kids about, exactly?”
“Life as a Japanese tea ceremony,” Jeannie said. “We practice the same old same old, infused with an artful blend of humor and sagely wisdom.”
“Sounds divine.” Hartman coaxed some of the Froot Loops back into his bowl. “And how is life mimicking art as opposed to art mimicking life?”
“We're just ordinary people, Clay.” Jeannie lifted a spoon of her cereal. “But when things get a little too bland, we know we're no longer in the zone. It's not as hard as all that.”
“Can I entice you to play a round or two for me?” Hartman said.
Jeannie covered up the flash of terror sweeping over her—and proving once and for all the living were also prone to rigor mortis—as best she could with the coffee mug. After taking a sip, she intoned warmly, “Sounds inviting.”
***
The light on the camera in Robin’s hands blinked on. Thank God, he thought. He was feeling the pain in his knees, his lower back, his elbows, rediscovering one long forgotten patch of his body after another. “I think we got a lock on him.”
“Sweetheart,” Winona said, “I've been meaning to tell you... That just tells us we're close. Doesn't mean the path we're taking is going to lead us to where he is. We don't know how these passageways connect.”
“You couldn't tell me sooner?” Robin groaned.
“You're just coming into your own as a woman. I didn't want to steal your thunder. I love the whole take charge thing, by the way.”
“So do I,” Manny said.
“Speaking of taking charge…” Robin craned his neck to get a better look at Winona. “I should probably have you on point. You're the master of spatial relations.”
“Probably a good idea, sweetheart,” Winona said, before taking the lead.
She took the map in her hands and stretched it out in front of her, surveyed it. “We’re still operating on a hope and a prayer. But maybe with the map, we can get away with offering alms to one of the demi-gods. We take a left here.”
She folded the map up and handed it to Robin. “In case we get separated. I committed it to memory.”
Renaissance 2.0: The Entire Series (books 1 thru 5) Page 31