It took fifteen minutes to go down the list of stored items. No projector, no camera, no film.
Graham leaned back in his chair and stared at the Jacobis smiling from the picture propped before him.
What the hell did you do with it?
Was it stolen?
Did the killer steal it?
If the killer stole it, did he fence it?
Dear God, give me a traceable fence.
Graham wasn’t tired anymore. He wanted to know if anything else was missing. He looked for an hour, comparing the warehouse storage inventory with the insurance declarations. Everything was accounted for except the small precious items. They should all be on Byron Metcalf’s own lockbox list of things he had put in the bank vault inBirmingham.
All of them were on the list. Except two.
“Crystaloddment box, 4” X 3”, sterling silver lid” appeared on the insurance declaration, but was not in the lockbox. “Sterling picture frame, 9 x 11 inches, worked with vines and flowers” wasn’t in the vault either.
Stolen? Mislaid? They were small items, easily concealed. Usually fenced silver is melted down immediately. It would be hard to trace. But movie equipment had serial numbers inside and out. It could be traced.
Was the killer the thief?
As he stared at his stained photograph of the Jacobis, Graham felt the sweet jolt of a new connection. But when he saw the answer whole it was seedy and disappointing and small.
There was a telephone in the jury room. Graham called Birmingham Homicide. He got the three-to-eleven watch commander.
“In the Jacobi case I noticed you kept an in-and-out log at the house after it was sealed off, right?”
“Let me get somebody to look,” the watch commander said.
Graham knew they kept one. It was good procedure to record every person entering or leaving a murder scene, and Graham had been pleased to see thatBirminghamdid it. He waited five minutes before a clerk picked up the telephone.
“Okay, in-and-out, what do you want to know?”
“Is Niles Jacobi, son of the deceased—is he on it?”
“Umm-hmmm, yep. July 2, seven P.M. He had permission to get personal items.”
“Did he have a suitcase, does it say?”
“Nope. Sorry.”
Byron Metcalf’s voice was husky and his breathing heavy when he answered the telephone. Graham wondered what he was doing.
“Hope I didn’t disturb you.”
“What can I do for you, Will?”
“I need a little help with Niles Jacobi.”
“What’s he done now?”
“I think he lifted a few things out of the Jacobi house after they were killed.”
“Urnmm.”
“There’s a sterling picture frame missing from your lockbox inventory. When I was inBirminghamI picked up a loose photograph of the family inNiles’s dormitory room. It used to be in a frame—I can see the impression the mat left on it.”
“The little bastard. I gave permission for him to get his clothes and some books he needed,” Metcalf said.
“Nileshas expensive friendships. This is mainly what I’m after, though—a movie projector and a movie camera are missing too. I want to know if he got them. Probably he did, but if he didn’t, maybe the killer got them. In that case we need to get the serial numbers out to the hock shops. We need to put ‘em on the national hot sheet. The frame’s probably melted down by now.”
“He’ll think ‘frame’ when I get through with him.”
“One thing—ifNilestook the projector, he might have kept the film. He couldn’t get anything for it. I want the film. I need to see it. If you come at him from the front, he’ll deny everything and flush the film if he has any.”
“Okay,” Metcalf said. “His car title reverted to the estate. I’m executor, so I can search it without a warrant. My friend the judge won’t mind papering his room for me. I’ll call you.”
Graham went back to work.
Affluence. Put affluence in the profile the police would use.
Graham wondered if Mrs. Leeds and Mrs. Jacobi ever did their marketing in tennis clothes. That was a fashionable thing to do in some areas. It was a dumb thing to do in some areas because it was doubly provocative—arousing class resentment and lust at the same time.
Graham imagined them pushing grocery carts, short pleated skirts brushing the brown thighs, the little balls on their sweat socks winking—passing the husky man with the barracuda eyes who was buying cold lunch meat to gnaw in his car.
How many families were there with three children and a pet, and only common locks between them and the Dragon as they slept?
When Graham pictured possible victims, he saw clever, successful people in graceful houses.
But the next person to confront the Dragon did not have children or a pet, and there was no grace in his house. The next person to confront the Dragon was Francis Dolarhyde.
Chapter 37
The thump of weights on the attic floor carried through the old house.
Dolarhyde was lifting, straining, pumping more weight than he had ever lifted. His costume was different; sweatpants covered his tattoo. The sweatshirt hung over The Great Red Dragon and the Woman Clothed with the Sun . The kimono hung on the wall like the shed skin of a tree snake. It covered the mirror.
Dolarhyde wore no mask,
Up. Two hundred and eighty pounds from the floor to his chest in one heave. Now over his head.
“WHOM ARE YOU THINKING ABOUT?”
Startled by the voice, he nearly dropped the weight, swayed beneath it. Down. The plates thudded and clanked on the floor.
He turned, his great arms hanging, and stared in the direction of the voice.
“WHOM ARE YOU THINKING ABOUT?”
It seemed to come from behind the sweatshirt, but its rasp and volume hurt his throat.
“WHOM ARE YOU THINKING ABOUT?”
He knew who spoke and he was frightened. From the beginning, he and the Dragon had been one. He was Becoming and the Dragon was his higher self. Their bodies, voices, wills were one,
Not now. Not since Reba. Don’t think Reba.
“WHO IS ACCEPTABLE?” the Dragon asked.
“Mrs… erhman—Sherman.” It was hard for Dolarhyde to say.
“SPEAK UP. I CAN’T UNDERSTAND YOU. WHOM ARE YOU THINKING ABOUT?”
Dolarhyde, his face set, turned to the barbell. Up. Over his head. Much harder this time.
“Mrs… erhman wet in the water.”
“YOU THINK ABOUT YOUR LITTLE BUDDY, DON’T YOU? YOU WANT HER TO BE YOUR LITTLE BUDDY, DON’T YOU?”
The weight came down with a thud.
“I on’t have a li’l… buddy.” With the fear his speech was failing. He had to occlude his nostrils with his upper lip.
“A STUPID LIE.” The Dragon’s voice was strong and clear. He said the /s/ without effort. “YOU FORGET THE BECOMING. PREPARE FOR THESHERMANS. LIFT THE WEIGHT.”
Dolarhyde seized the barbell and strained. His mind strained with his body. Desperately he tried to think of theShermans. He forced himself to think of the weight of Mrs. Sherman in his arms. Mrs. Sherman was next. It was Mrs. Sherman. He was fighting Mr. Sherman in the dark. Holding him down until loss of blood madeSherman’s heart quiver like a bird. It was the only heart he heard. He didn’t hear Reba’s heart. He didn’t.
Fear leeched his strength. He got the weight up to his thighs, could not make the turn up to his chest. He thought of theShermansranged around him, eyes wide, as he took the Dragon’s due. It was no good. It was hollow, empty. The weight thudded down.
“NOT ACCEPTABLE.”
“Mrs…”
“YOU CAN’T EVEN SAY ‘MRS. SHERMAN.’ YOU NEVER INTEND TO TAKE THESHERMANS. YOU WANT REBA MCCLANE. YOU WANT HER TO BE YOUR LITTLE BUDDY, DON’T YOU? YOU WANT TO BE ‘FRIENDS’.”
“No.”
“LIE!”
“Nyus mhor a niddow wyow.”
“JUST FOR A LITTLE WHILE? YO
U SNIVELING HARELIP, WHO WOULD BE FRIENDS WITH YOU? COME HERE. I’LL SHOW YOU WHAT YOU ARE.”
Dolarhyde did not move.
“I’VE NEVER SEEN A CHILD AS DISGUSTING AND DIRTY AS YOU. COME HERE.”
He went.
“TAKE DOWN THE SWEATSHIRT.”
He took it down.
“LOOK AT ME.”
The Dragon glowed from the wall.
“TAKE DOWN THE KIMONO. LOOK IN THE MIRROR.”
He looked. He could not help himself or turn his face from the scalding light. He saw himself drool.
“LOOK AT YOURSELF. I’M GOING TO GIVE YOU A SURPRISE FOR YOUR LITTLE BUDDY. TAKE OFF THAT RAG.”
Dolarhyde’s hands fought each other at the waistband of the sweatpants. The sweatpants tore. He stripped them away from him with his right hand, held the rags to him with his left.
His right hand snatched the rags away from his trembling, failing left. He threw them into the corner and fell back on the mat, curling on himself like a lobster split live. He hugged himself and groaned, breathing hard, his tattoo brilliant in the harsh gym lights.
“I’VE NEVER SEEN A CHILD AS DISGUSTING AND DIRTY AS YOU. GO GET THEM.”
“aaaymah.”
“GET THEM.”
He padded from the room and returned with the Dragon’s teeth.
“PUT THEM IN YOUR PALMS. LOCK YOUR FINGERS AND SQUEEZE MY TEETH TOGETHER.”
Dolarhyde’s pectoral muscles bunched.
“YOU KNOW HOW THEY CAN SNAP. NOW HOLD THEM UNDER YOUR BELLY. HOLD YOURSELF BETWEEN THE TEETH.”
“no.”
“DO IT…NOW LOOK.”
The teeth were beginning to hurt him. Spit and tears fell on his chest.
“mleadse.”
“YOU ARE OFFAL LEFT BEHIND IN THE BECOMING. YOU ARE OFFAL AND I WILL NAME YOU. YOU ARE CUNT FACE. SAY IT.”
“i am cunt face.” He occluded his nostrils with his lip to say the words.
“SOON I WILL BE CLEANSED OF YOU,” the Dragon said effortlessly. “WILL THAT BE GOOD?”
“good.”
“WHO WILL BE NEXT WHEN IT IS TIME?”
“mrs… ehrman…”
Sharp pain shot through Dolarhyde, pain and terrible fear.
“I’LL TEAR IT OFF.”
“reba. reba. i’ll give you reba.” Already his speech was improving.
“YOU’LL GIVE ME NOTHING. SHE IS MINE. THEY ARE ALL MINE. REBA MCCLANE AND THEN THE SHERMANS.”
“reba and then the shermans. the law will know.”
“I HAVE PROVIDED FOR THAT DAY. DO YOU DOUBT IT?”
“no.”
“WHO ARE YOU?”
“cunt face.”
“YOU MAY PUT AWAY MY TEETH. YOU PITIFUL WEAK HARELIP, YOU’D KEEP YOUR LITTLE BUDDY FROM ME, WOULD YOU? I’LL TEAR HER APART AND RUB THE PIECES IN YOUR UGLY FACE. I’LL HANG YOU WITH HER LARGE INTESTINE IF YOU OPPOSE ME. YOU KNOW I CAN. PUT THREE HUNDRED POUNDS ON THE BAR.”
Dolarhyde added the plates to the bar. He had never lifted as much as 280 until today.
“LIFT IT.”
If he were not as strong as the Dragon, Reba would die. He knew it. He strained until the room turned red before his bulging eyes.
“i can’t.”
“NO YOU CAN’T. BUT I CAN.”
Dolarhyde gripped the bar. It bowed as the weight rose to his shoulders. UP. Above his head easily. “GOOD-BYE, CUNT FACE,” he said, proud Dragon, quivering in the light.
Chapter 38
Francis Dolarhyde never got to work on Monday morning.
He started from his house exactly on time, as he always did. His appearance was impeccable, his driving precise. He put on his dark glasses when he made the turn at theMissouri Riverbridge and drove into the morning sun.
His Styrofoam cooler squeaked as it jiggled against the passenger seat He leaned across and set it on the floor, remembering that he must pick up the dry ice and get the film from…
Crossing theMissourichannel now, moving water under him. He looked at the whitecaps on the sliding river and suddenly felt that he was sliding and the river was still. A strange, disjointed, collapsing feeling flooded him. He let up on the accelerator.
The van slowed in the outside lane and stopped. Traffic behind him was stacking up, honking. He didn’t hear it.
He sat, sliding slowly northward over the still river, facing the morning sun. Tears leaked from beneath his sunglasses and fell hot on his forearms.
Someone was pecking on the window. A driver, face early-morning pale and puffed with sleep, had gotten out of a car behind him. The driver was yelling something through the window.
Dolarhyde looked at the man. Flashing blue lights were coming from the other end of the bridge. He knew he should drive. He asked his body to step on the gas, and it did. The man beside the van skipped backward to save his feet.
Dolarhyde pulled into the parking lot of a big motel near the U.S. 270 interchange. A school bus was parked in the lot, the bell of a tuba leaning against its back window.
Dolarhyde wondered if he was supposed to get on the bus with the old people.
No, that wasn’t it, He looked around for his mother’s Packard.
“Get in. Don’t put your feet on the seat,” his mother said.
That wasn’t it either.
He was in a motel parking lot on the west side ofSt. Louisand he wanted to be able to Choose and he couldn’t.
In six days, if he could wait that long, he would kill Reba McClane. He made a sudden high sound through his nose.
Maybe the Dragon would be willing to take theShermansfirst and wait another moon.
No. He wouldn’t.
Reba McClane didn’t know about the Dragon. She thought she was with Francis Dolarhyde. She wanted to put her body on Francis Dolarhyde. She welcomed Francis Dolarhyde in Grandmother’s bed.
“I’ve had a really terrific time, D.,” Reba McClane said in the yard.
Maybe she liked Francis Dolarhyde. That was a perverted, despicable thing for a woman to do. He understood that he should despise her for it, but oh God it was good.
Reba McClane was guilty of liking Francis Dolarhyde. Demonstrably guilty.
If it weren’t for the power of his Becoming, if it weren’t for the Dragon, he could never have taken her to his house. He would not have been capable of sex. Or would he?
“My God, man. That’s so sweeeet.”
That’s what she said. She said “man.”
The breakfast crowd was coming out of the motel, passing his van. Their idle glances walked on him with many tiny feet.
He needed to think. He couldn’t go home. He checked into the motel, called his office and reported himself sick. The room he got was bland and quiet. The only decorations were bad steamboat prints. Nothing glowed from the walls.
Dolarhyde lay down in his clothes. The ceiling had sparkling flecks in the plaster. Every few minutes he had to get up and urinate. He shivered, then he sweated. An hour passed.
He did not want to give Reba McClane to the Dragon. He thought about what the Dragon would do to him if he didn’t serve her up.
Intense fear comes in waves; the body can’t stand it for long at a time. In the heavy calm between the waves, Dolarhyde could think. How could he keep from giving her to the Dragon? One way kept nudging him. He got up. The light switch clacked loud in the tiled bathroom. Dolarhyde looked at the shower-curtain rod, a solid piece of one-inch pipe bolted to the bathroom walls. He took down the shower curtain and hung it over the mirror.
Grasping the pipe, he chinned himself with one arm, his toes dragging up the side of the bathtub. It was stout enough. His belt was stout enough too. He could make himself do it. He wasn’t afraid of that.
He tied the end of his belt around the pipe in a bowline knot. The buckle end formed a noose. The thick belt didn’t swing, it hung down in a stiff noose.
He sat on the toilet lid and looked at it. He wouldn’t get any drop, but he could stand it. He could keep his hands off the noose un
til he was too weak to raise his arms.
But how could he be positive that his death would affect the Dragon, now that he and the Dragon were Two? Maybe it wouldn’t. How could he be sure the Dragon then would leave her alone?
It might be days before they found his body. She would wonder where he was. In that time would she go to his house and feel around for him? Go upstairs and feel around for him and get a surprise?
The Great Red Dragon would take an hour spitting her down the stairs.
Should he call her and warn her? What could she do against Him, even warned? Nothing. She could hope to die quickly, hope that in His rage He would quickly bite deep enough.
Upstairs in Dolarhyde’s house, the Dragon waited in pictures he had framed with his own hands. The Dragon waited in art books and magazines beyond number, rebom every time a photographer… did what?
Dolarhyde could hear in his mind the Dragon’s powerful voice cursing Reba. He would curse her first, before he bit. He would curse Dolarhyde too—tell her he was nothing.
“Don’t do that. Don’t… do that,” Dolarhyde said to the echoing tile. He listened to his voice, the voice of Francis Dolarhyde, the voice that Reba McClane understood easily, his own voice. He had been ashamed of it all his life, had said bitter and vicious things to others with it.
But he had never heard the voice of Francis Dolarhyde curse him.
“Don’t do that.”
The voice he heard now had never, ever cursed him. It had repeated the Dragon’s abuse. The memory shamed him.
He probably was not much of a man, he thought. It occurred to him that he had never really found out about that, and now he was curious.
He had one rag of pride that Reba McClane had given him. It told him dying in a bathroom was a sorry end.
What else? What other way was there?
There was a way and when it came to him it was blasphemy, he knew. But it was a way.
He paced the motel room, paced between the beds and from the door to the windows. As he walked he practiced speaking. The words came out all right if he breathed deep between the sentences and didn’t hurry.
He could talk very well between the rushes of fear. Now he had a bad one, he had one that made him retch. A calm was coming after. He waited for it and when it came he hurried to the telephone and placed a call toBrooklyn.
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