Half a nod.
“The Israelis actually grabbed you?”
Sturgis's lips pulled back, showing teeth— something out of a horror movie, and Gene was glad the guy was a cop.
Then the realization hit him.
“The department?” said Gene.
Sturgis didn't answer.
“Damn . . . and you escaped.”
“Yeah, I'm a fucking Houdini.”
“And now you're in deep manure.”
Sturgis shrugged and lowered the black gun to his side. “Keeps life interesting.” He guided Gene back behind the tree.
“How long you been up here?” said Gene.
“Got here right before you.”
“How far down did you park?”
Sturgis hooked a thumb. “The Porsche.”
Hill-house guy; so much for his powers of detection, thought Gene. It was good they were putting him out to pasture.
“You and Daniel had a two-man plan,” he said. “He was going behind the house. You figuring to do it now?”
Sturgis didn't answer.
Wasn't this a picture. Alone in this dark, quiet place with a gay guy and it didn't bother him a whit. Years ago . . .
“He was supposed to go back there with a microphone and a tape recorder,” said Milo. “I'll go back there but if the drapes are drawn, I won't be able to see anything. I don't like it, but Dr. Delaware's in there already.”
“See what you mean,” said Gene. “Daniel also said it would probably turn out to be nothing.”
“Hopefully. Dr. Delaware's putting himself on the line.”
“Dedicated, huh?”
“You have no idea.”
“You know,” he said, “I worked a case with Sharavi. Serial killer before they were calling them that. The guy's righteous as they come. Never met a better detective.”
Sturgis kept looking around, those wild eyes on full alert. As if he heard something that Gene wasn't hearing.
Gene said, “Now that I'm here, at least you have backup. Let's get some signals.”
“We were supposed to use cell phones but that's fucked, too. I had all the stuff at my house before they grabbed me at the station.”
“Except the gun.”
“Except that. Had it in a pants holster, the driver never searched me, they were trying to make it look like something positive, getting called downtown.”
“A driver,” said Gene. “You've got to worry when they escort you.”
Sturgis gave a weird half-laugh, half-grunt. Big lunk, you'd never know he was gay.
“Okay, signals,” he said.
Gene waited a long time for him to come up with something. Deferring, because Sturgis was still active-duty, knew more details than he did.
Finally, the guy said, “How about this: You stay here, keep a special lookout for cars—”
“Saab ragtop, Chevy van, Mercedes.”
“Good. Two could be in the garage, though I've been up here several times today, never saw them enter or exit. I go in back of the house, step out every half-hour, over there, in that space between the houses, and hold up my hand to let you know everything's okay. You'll be able to see me because of the lights shining from those houses in the distance. I'll only hold it up for a second, so we need to get our times straight. If I don't come out, wait another five minutes, then come checking. If you don't see me right away, pull some distraction—”
“Knock on the door?” said Gene. “Pizza man? Chinese-food delivery?”
Instead of answering, Sturgis looked around some more, though Gene still couldn't see any reason why.
“Yeah, fine, whatever works,” said Sturgis. “Okay, let's play bad spy movie and synchronize our goddamn watches.”
Both of them peeled back their cuffs. Gene was squinting at the dial of his Seiko Diver when sudden activity threw him off-balance. He had time to see a black-gloved hand chop down on Sturgis's gun arm, sending the Glock falling to the ground with a dull clunk.
As he watched Sturgis fall back into darkness, he was grabbed from behind, arms pinioned, yanked behind his back, and cuffed— Sturgis, too. Glove leather over both their mouths.
Black-garbed figures coming out of the shadows.
Out of nowhere— where the hell had they been—
At least three of them, armed for bear and more— Jesus, look at those machine pistols, Gene had seen them in gang roundups, never fired one because, unlike lots of other cops, he'd never been much of a gun freak.
Sturgis was dragged out of his vision and Gene felt himself pulled in the opposite direction.
Damned Keystone situation and now he was probably gonna die from something else, not the damned diabetes.
Fool, fool, fool— never underestimate the enemy— a cop like Baker would be a serious enemy— but, still, both he and Sturgis were pros, how could they have—
Hands guided him down the hill.
“Shhh,” a voice said into his ear, and he blotted out images of Luanne's reproving face.
Oh, honey.
Yeah, I screwed up, baby. Joining you soon.
59
My eyelids slammed as tight as metal shutters. My mouth tasted metallic. Breathing was difficult, each inhalation a rip in my lungs, and the pain in my head was a scarlet-orange-black thing.
Drowsy, but I hadn't lost consciousness. I tried to open my eyes. Too heavy. I could hear, smell— so much metal— feel, think— feel myself being lifted, pressure at wrists and ankles. Meaning at least two of them . . . bumpy ride.
Steps— the stairs down to the bedroom.
Lowered onto something soft. Perfumed.
Zena's perfume— Zena's bed.
New pressure bore down. Wrists, ankles, belly. Weight— dry, warm, crushing weight, like a big dog sitting on me.
The snap of clamps; now I couldn't move.
The back of my head was hot and caustic, as if something larval and fanged had hatched inside my skull and was chewing its way out . . . lesser pain in the crook of my right arm.
Cold sting— an injection.
I tried again to open my eyes. A sliver of light before they collapsed.
Everything okay, because Milo and Daniel knew. Daniel was listening.
Then I wondered: Not a sound had been made since I'd entered the house and said hi to Zena.
Were they assuming Zena'd made good on her promises, the lovemaking beginning spontaneously, silently?
Or were they unable to hear— an equipment malfunction? Those things happened. Space shuttles went down.
Waiting for some kind of signal from me?
My lips wouldn't function.
Rest up, stay calm, regain your strength.
The plan had been for me to open the living-room curtains. Did the fact that I hadn't alarm them?
Where were they?
I needed to say something for the parabolic mike.
Breathing was so hard, my throat a pinpoint— now I did black out.
Up again, no idea how long it had been. Eyes wide open, pupils aching as they expanded to take in the bright light of the bedroom.
The bedroom ceiling, I could see little else.
White ceiling, sparkle-sprayed.
The light from a cheap plastic fixture. White, circular, brass finial in the center, like the nipple of a big, white breast, Zena's breasts so small—
I pressed my head to my chest to see what was holding me down. Leather restraints. Thick, brown hospital restraints; as an intern on the psych wards, I'd wondered what they felt like. . . .
Flashes of color off to the left. I struggled to get a better look, my neck tremoloed with pain that traveled down my spine, as if someone had run a filleting knife down my center.
Say something for the damned mike.
My tongue was a soft, useless pillow, taking up space in the garbage can claiming to be my mouth.
I strained some more, studying the color to my left.
Eyes. White eyes with flat black irises.
Dead eyes— plast
ic.
Stuffed animals, what seemed to be a mountain of them stacked against the left-hand wall. Behind them, another curtain. Behind it, no doubt, another glass slider.
Teddy bears, a gigantic panda with a lolling head. Disney characters, a killer whale that was probably a souvenir from Sea World, more kapok and felt that I couldn't make out clearly.
Zena's collection . . . that surprised look. I'd taken it for wide-eyed arousal—
The wire around her neck, gritted with blood, just a twist away from decapitation.
I moved and the restraints compressed my chest and my forearms and my shins.
But I was breathing better.
“Good,” I said.
It came out “Guh.”
Loud enough for the mike to pick up?
I tried to relax. Pace myself. Save the energy for talking.
As I worked myself up for another syllable, a face blocked out the light.
Fingers pinched my left eyelid, lifted it, let it snap as something tickled my nose— bristly, the face so close I couldn't focus.
Then it drew back.
Dirty-blond beard-hairs raking my chin on the way up.
Smelly beard— fermented-food stink— over red skin, dandruff flakes.
A hair-framed mouth breathed on me, hot and sour. A pus pimple nested in the fold between nostril and cheek.
More distance and I saw Wilson Tenney, dressed again in a sweatshirt, this one green and reading ILLINOIS ARTS FESTIVAL.
“He's up.”
“Nice recovery,” said another voice.
“Must be in good shape. The rewards of a virtuous life,” said Tenney. Then his face shifted to the right and vanished, as if moving offstage, and another one, freshly shaved, ruddy, sun-burnished, took its place.
Wes Baker folded his arms across his chest and studied me with mild interest. His eyeglass lenses glinted. He wore a pink button-down shirt, beautifully laundered, sleeves folded up crisply on thick bronze forearms. I couldn't see past the third button.
His right arm held a small hypodermic syringe filled with something clear.
“Potassium chloride?” I said, for the mike, but it didn't come out right.
“Speech will return in a few minutes,” said Baker. “Give yourself a little more time for your central nervous system to bounce back.”
I heard Tenney's hoarse laugh from behind me.
“Potassium chloride,” I tried again. Clearer, I thought.
Baker said, “You just won't relax, will you? Obviously a striver. From what I've been able to gather, pretty bright, too. It's a shame we never got a chance to discuss issues of substance.”
How about right now? I thought.
I tried to say it. The result was a series of mouse squeaks. Where were Daniel and Milo?
Taping, wanting evidence? But . . . they'd never let me down . . .
Baker said, “See how peaceful he looks, Willy? We've created another masterpiece.”
Tenney joined him. He looked angry but Baker was smiling.
I said, “Zena was . . . artistic.” Almost perfectly clear. “Goya . . .”
“Someone who appreciates,” said Baker.
“Posed . . .” Like Irit and Latvinia and—
Tenney said, “Her life was one big pose.”
“No gentle . . . strangulation?”
Tenney frowned and glanced at Baker.
“Why kill her?” I said. Good, the words were out; my tongue had shrunk to normal size.
Baker rubbed his chin and bent closer. “Why not kill her?”
“She was . . . a believer—”
He held up a silencing finger. Professorial. I remembered what Milo had said about how he loved to lecture. Keep him talking, get it all on tape.
“She was,” he said, “a receptacle. A condom with limbs.”
Tenney laughed and I saw him pick something out of the corner of his eye and flick it away.
“Zena,” he said, “exited this mortal coil with a bang.” One hand touched his fly.
Baker's expression was that of a weary but tolerant parent. “That was terrible, Willy.” He smiled at me. “This may batter your self-esteem, but she was as sexually discriminating as a fruit fly. Our little barnyard gimcrack.”
He turned to Tenney. “Tell him Zena's motto.”
“Cock-a-doodle-do,” said the bearded man. “Any cock will do.”
“She was a lure,” I said. “For Ponsico, me— others?”
“A lure,” said Baker. “Have you ever gone fly-fishing?”
“No.”
“It's a marvelous pastime. Fresh air, clear water, tying the lures. Unfortunately even the best ones unravel after too many bites.”
“Malcolm Ponsico,” I said. “He lost enthu—”
“He lacked commitment,” said Tenney. “A weak trout, if you will. It soon became clear something smelled fishy.”
“Willy,” said Baker, reprovingly, “as Dr. Alex here can tell you, inveterate and inappropriate punning is a symptom of mood disorder. Isn't that so?”
“Yes.” The word sounded perfect. At least to my ears. My head was clearer— back to normal.
“Feeling better?” said Baker, somehow sensing it.
He flourished the hypodermic, then I heard a metallic clank as he put it down somewhere. The leather restraints were killing the blood flow to my limbs and my body seemed to be disappearing. Or maybe it was the remnants of the drug, pooling in low places.
“What axis?” Tenney asked me. “Depression or mania?”
“Mania,” I said. “And hypomania.”
“Hmm.” He stroked his beard. “I don't like to think of myself as hypo-anything.” Sudden smile. “Maybe hypo-dermic. Because I do have the capacity to get under people's skin.”
He laughed. Baker smiled.
“Perhaps that's why I've been feeling crabby. Or perhaps my moods just shift for the halibut.”
“What a wit,” I said. He reddened and I visualized Raymond Ortiz, snatched in the park bathroom, bloody shoes.
“I wouldn't irritate him,” Baker said, almost maternally. “He doesn't take well to irritation.”
“What did Raymond Ortiz do to irritate him?”
Tenney bared yellow teeth. Baker turned his back on me. “Want to tell him, Willy?”
“Why bother?” said Tenney. “I have no need to clear my sole— petrale, Dover, take your pick. To assuage my admittedly shrimpy conscience by confessing what I did to the stupid little squid. The scales of justice are in equilibrium. No pearls of wisdom. I prefer to clam up.”
Suddenly, his beard loomed above me and his hand was around my neck.
“All right,” he said, spraying spittle. “Since you insist. What the obese little degenerate did was destroy the quality of my life. How? By filthying the bathroom. Inevitably. Inexorably. Every single time he used it, he filthied it. Do you understand?”
He bore down, increasing the pressure on my neck, and I gagged, heard Baker say, “Willy.”
My field of vision grew black around the edges and now I knew something was wrong, Milo would never let it get this far— the fingers loosened. Tenney's eyes were moist, bloodshot.
“The stupid gobbet of scrambled DNA couldn't figure out how to use toilet paper,” he said. “He and all those other limpy, loopy defectoids, day after day.”
He turned to Baker. “It's a perfect metaphor for what's wrong with society, isn't it, Sarge? They shit on us, we clean up.”
“So you killed him in the bathroom,” I said.
“Where else?”
“And the bloody shoes—”
“Think!” said Tenney. “Think what he did to my shoes!”
I gave the closest thing to a shrug the bonds would allow. On my own— what to do—
“I got tired of stepping in it!” Tenney was shouting now, raining saliva. “They didn't pay me for that!”
His fingers touched my neck again, then he reversed himself suddenly and walked away and I heard footsteps, a d
oor opening and closing.
Survival of the Fittest Page 43