I said OK. Just then, I would have agreed to anything she wanted me to do. But before leaving I went back to the table for a few more minutes and I flipped the notebook to the page where I keep my "to-do" list. Edgar Institute, I wrote with a big question mark after it. I was still assigned to a desk job and I hoped I'd have time to look into it during the relatively peaceful hours of the afternoon lull. I found it a little strange that I'd never heard of the place.
CHAPTER 12
It's 4 p.m. Captain Ericsson stands at the window, pushing his forehead against the glass, like he used to do almost half a century ago. As a child he dreamed of adventures on the distant ocean. From the window of his boyhood home, he used to see sand blown lots, stunted withering trees. And if he stood on the left side of the window, he could see a gas station, and beyond that, a piece of the ocean. His father had told him that he must be mistaken—the ocean was twenty miles from their place and no one can see that far. The old man even showed his son encyclopedia articles and a telescope to prove his point. Ericsson was ten at the time. Now he's almost sixty, and has had enough adventure in his life—more than he had asked for, really. His health is gone, but it's a miracle he's still alive anyway—having had so many close encounters with death. Yet despite all he's seen, as he pushes his forehead against the window now, he can still daydream.
He hears the door open behind him, but he doesn't turn around right away. He throws a last glance at the garbage cans outside, and the sunshine dancing on the wall across the way.
"Is that you, Arany?" he asks.
"Yes, sir."
The captain turns around and sees Arany, wearing a pair of worn jeans and an old, faded T-shirt—not a very soldierly sight. Why does it have to be him? Ericsson wonders. Then he decides that no one can predict God's reasons.
"Congratulations," he says, as he walks toward Arany and offers his hand. The detective looks surprised and takes the captain's hand with an embarrassed smile. Ericsson feels the need to explain himself and it bothers him. "I didn't expect you to catch your attacker so soon. Nice job."
Arany says nothing. He bites his lip and tries to follow the advice he got from Celia: Always think nice thoughts. He mustn't worry about what people might think if he doesn't answer a question or just mutters something unintelligible. He should imagine a beautiful landscape, a sundown over the sea, the forest in autumn or anything else he likes. He has to think calm, happy thoughts. Arany imagines Celia. He sees her in his mind's eye the way she was the last time they met, in the Edgar Institute. She looked nervous and tired.
Ericsson steps behind his desk and sits down. As a short man he feels more selfconfident sitting. He leans his shovel-like palms on the table, but his bass voice lacks the usual threatening force.
"You got a tip, didn't you?" He winks. "OK son, you don't have to lie to me. I read your report. Well done. Everyone else will buy it: That you thought it was a good idea to walk up and down all those goddamned staircases. But I don't buy it, son. You're not the kind, who'd just wander around because he can't think of anything better to do. You were tipped-off, weren't you?"
He looks up at Arany with a hopeful expression. Arany feels like he's looking at a teenager who would like nothing better than to borrow his gun and play around with it. He has mercy on the captain.
"Yes sir," he answers in his soldierly voice.
Ericsson lets out a relieved sigh.
"You've got to catch the bastard who killed Carl." He glances at Arany again, but this time he receives no answer. Arany stands straight, as if at attention, and stares into the place over Ericsson's head. "Catch him," the captain repeats softly. "I want the bastard dead. I know you'll catch him, son. If you need any help, you'll get it. You aren't alone in this. If you need something you just tell me. You'll get men, cars, search warrants, whatever you need. But …" he looks into Arany's eyes "that son-of-a-bitch won't be found not guilty by some fool jury this time. He won't make bail with stolen money and disappear."
Arany wants to think of Celia. Or the sea, or a forest, or anything besides what the captain is saying. He looks at the small gallows standing on the desk. The little figure there swings slightly as it's hit by Ericsson's angry breath.
They're silent. Someone laughs outside. It sounds incredibly far away to Arany. He looks into Ericsson's eyes. Into those tired, brown eyes with a few yellowish glittering speckles in them. Arany had never seen those speckles until now.
"There is only one way to do it, Captain," he says at last. How could he say that? Why isn't he indignant?
"Yes." Ericsson bends forward, an artery bulges out on his neck. "Shoot the bastard as soon as you see him." He's panting, as if he'd just run a mile. The captain's face is so red, that Arany worries he might have a stroke. Ericsson loosens his tie and pulls at his collar. The top button of his shirt falls loose and drops softly into his lap. "It'll be self-defense," he continues. "This man killed a policeman already, and he'll have a gun on him this time. Self-defense, pure self-defense, son. Shoot him, without a second thought!" His eyes sparkle with fire, but his voice goes softer. "I don't want to take law into my hands. I respect order and democracy as much as anybody. You have to know your place. But there comes a time when you have to break the rules. I was a lieutenant in Korea, and my commander—" he stops his story and waves it away with his hand. "Do you have a gun?"
The question comes as a surprise to Arany.
"Of course."
Ericsson looks at him and shakes his head.
"I don't mean your service revolver, son. I mean another gun. One without connections to you or …anyone."
Arany understands clearly. A disposable gun, the kind he could plant on somebody. He could kill Frost, put the gun on him and claim the man was armed. Or he could just kill Frost, throw the gun out and slip away …
"I don't," he answers.
Ericsson stands up slowly, like an old man, and moves to the safe in the corner. Arany looks at his sparse hair, his coat, the dandruff on his shoulder as Ericsson fiddles with the lock. Impossible, he thinks. I'm dreaming. The captain turns around, holding out a small caliber pistol. He reaches again into the safe for a spare clip. He smiles at Arany with a childish face.
As if still dreaming, Arany watches the captain sit down, wipe the gun and the magazine, and use the cloth to push the gun toward him across the table. I'm not a killer, Arany wants to say. He knows he ought to report this. Ericsson must have gone mad, that's the only explanation. But his body ignores his will again. He bends over and picks up the weapon. It's light, but feels good in his hand. He checks the magazine and cocks the gun. He turns toward Ericsson. The captain's face is stone.
"Catch him, son!"
Arany nods, just barely. "I will, sir."
CHAPTER 13
This time I didn't pity the mouse. I just watched Martin as he calmly picked up the animal, caressed him, and reached for the syringe. There was a light colored liquid in it that didn't look like blood. Though basically it was blood. Arany's blood.
Martin gave the shot. He was fast, a few seconds and it's done. He put down the mouse and turned on the video camera, sighing. Usually he turned it on later. Next he reached for the chronometer. I almost hated him for being so calm and professional.
The mouse looked around calmly, his little nose twitching. Martin put on a glove and prodded him a little. The mouse moved away, offended. Martin and I both glanced at the chronometer. The seconds passed and I began to relax. Then the mouse started staggering and I turned away, not wanting to see the end.
I thought of John Arany. He had looked worn out this morning. He was silent while I took blood from him and Ellen performed some basic tests. He cast furtive, searching glances toward Martin as they shook hands. It had been strange to see them together.
I thought of yesterday, when I made love with Martin in this same place. My face was flaming, my hair was still disheveled when I left. Hatred blazed from Ellen's eyes.
I thought of the camera, whic
h recorded it in the same impersonal way that it records the demise of the mice.
I thought of the tapes on which John spoke about his sudden attacks, sickness and violent anger.
Then it was over. I heard Martin disposing of the mouse and clacking away at the computer. Next I glimpsed his shadow by the cages. He took out another mouse. I didn't pity this one either. I would have killed all of them with my own hands if it could help John.
"Why did you do it?"
It took a few seconds to realize Martin had broken the silence. It was strange. This was the first time he raised the question, and I was silent as I a thought about the answer. I'd been searching for that answer for days.
"I wanted to help," I whispered.
"Help whom?"
I turned toward Martin. He was standing with the mouse in his hand waiting for the answer. I realized with astonishment that he was jealous. He'd never been jealous. But then again, I never saw another man's face in my mind while we were making love. How could he know how I feel?
It flashed through my mind that I shouldn't underestimate him. I shouldn't underestimate either of these men.
"How do you mean?" I asked hoarsely. I wanted to buy a little time, but he didn't even deign to answer my question as he walked toward the next shot, already prepared and waiting on the table.
I worked myself into a rage. It was easy, I had so much tension bottled up and ready to explode.
"It was you who said this is the only missing link in your experiments, wasn't it? How many evenings have I sat and listened to you complaining that you can't make any progress?"
He gave the shot and put down the mouse, pretending he didn't hear me. His usual reaction when I'm angry. He never realized how hurtful that can be. He'd explain later: "But you're not yourself when you get upset. It just makes more sense to wait until you're yourself again and not argue with a stranger unnecessarily." I caught him by the shoulder and shook him.
"Answer me, for God's sake! You said that, didn't you?"
He glanced at the chronometer and gently pushed away my hands.
"I never told you to give 20 CCs to anybody without consulting me before-hand."
I forced myself to calm down. Controlling anger is a regular part of my job. I could even smile at him, but then I am also a woman, not just a psychologist. I moved closer to him and touched him again. Only this time in a gentle way. My hand rested softly, gently on his shoulder as I looked into his eyes. My voice was soft too, coy and girlish, ready to cry.
"I thought you'd be happy." I didn't need to force the teardrops. "That was my first thought when I read through Arany's file. I thought he's your man. I mean, a detective who let his partner be killed. Your chance of a lifetime."
I saw on his face that he was fighting with himself. He turned away, to look at the mouse, but he couldn't run away from my voice.
"Then I studied him. I learned he's an excellent shot. He's muscular, and was among the best in self-defense at the academy. I performed a few basic tests on him. His reflexes and capability for making decisions are much better than average. Good judgment and intelligence. Several years of experience. What causes a man like this to freeze up, and not shoot?"
Martin didn't answer this rhetorical question. He was looking at the mouse and I was looking at it, too. I hit the arm of the chair when I saw the mouse begin to stagger.
Martin looked calm as he mixed up a new dilution. He checked something on his computer. I couldn't believe, another overdose.
"You felt pity for him," my husband said in a small voice. "He was a young, goodlooking boy, but his life was a mess. He had lost his partner, he had lost his belief in himself. He had just lost all illusions about himself and discovered he was a failure. Something was missing, something you could give him. And only you could give it."
He injected the little animal without waiting for an answer. He watched the mouse and the second hand. After one minute, he reached in the cage and the mouse attacked his gloved hand. Martin pulled out his hand and looked at me questioningly.
"He looks like a nice guy," he said, as he prepared another dose at the same dilution. I watched him reach into the other cage absent-mindedly, take out a mouse and give it the shot. My eyes blurred in the lab's harsh light. I saw him wise and old. Wiser and older than had I thought he was.
CHAPTER 14
Arany splashes away the leftover bits of shaving cream with a handful of water and looks in the mirror. A stranger looks back, a stranger with cool, cruel eyes. He shudders and turns away. His suit lies over the back of an armchair in the living room. The last time he had worn it was at Carl's burial. But this time he chose a more colorful tie. He put on the shoulder holster, and after moment's hesitation he tucks the small pistol that Ericsson had given him into his pants. Maybe I should put a shotgun in my jacket too, he thinks, smiling. The stranger with the cruel eyes is armed.
He leaves his car in the garage and calls a taxi. The odor of his liberally applied after-shave mixes with the smell left here by earlier fares. The air conditioner is wrestling wearily with the heat, which had only abated slightly in the evening. He should have rolled down the window. He is bathed in sweat when he arrives.
He pays, gets out and slowly looks around. He sees bars, clubs, pubs, discreet and not so discreet massage parlors, stretching on for several blocks. And it is so crowded you'd think half the town had decided to have a drink today. But Arany knew there is a crowd like this here every evening. Half the town is always after a little fun, and you can find it here. You can have sex, quick and pleasure less in a dirty little room, you can drink yourself unconscious in a dark club, and if you're real lucky, you'll still have a little change in your pocket when you wake up. Or you can loose everything gambling on cards or dice. You can also be knocked down, knifed, shot dead. Life itself is a big gamble.
As a rookie, Arany spent almost a year in these streets. He watches the beautiful girls and the less beautiful ones, too. He watches the faces, red from drink, and hears the happy drunks shouting at each other. He sees the pimps taking their women to dinner. The big bull marches at the front of the procession, the women after. The guys are always in a hurry, like they have a lot to do. The whores lag behind and sometimes get a slap for it. They all have hamburgers on the next corner and then the women go out. The bull stays behind to drink a beer, but his eyes don't really leave them.
A woman steps in front of Arany. Her skin looks strange, as if her face had half melted.
"Do you want it?"
"Not with you," he answers. He sidesteps and checks in a shop window to make sure he isn't followed as he walks on.
He feels some remorse. I was crude, he thought. I should have just said no. I can't hate her for being ugly. The guilt is a good old, well-known feeling. Did it mean he's going to be himself again?
He turns into a doorway and is hit by the cool air. He just stands there, enjoying the quiet for a moment, but he gets the feeling he's being watched. He walks on. There is no doorman in this house. He follows a thick, dirty looking, blood-colored carpet to the elevator. A cleaner, greenish carpet covers the floor upstairs. Arany walks past doors with brass knockers and only first names on the plates: Sophia, Evelyn, Marianne …then toward the end of the corridor: Madame Stephanie.
He stops and takes a deep breath before ringing. The door is opened by a pretty young woman, around twenty, in conservative attire. She's the first woman who is not offering Arany a generous view of breast and legs since he stepped out of the cab. She had dark hair, impish eyes, a smiling face.
"Yes sir?" she asks sweetly.
Arany feels a little embarrassed. He didn't expect something like this. The whole set-up makes him think of the kind of brothel you see in Western movies. He feels like he's about to enter a friendly drawing room, filled with jolly gentlemen and a blind pianist.
"I'm John Arany," he stammers out at last. "I have an appointment."
She gives him a happy smile
"Of course. P
lease come in."
Arany smiles back. There is something in this young woman that reminds him of Celia. He suddenly feels desire, even though he had never considered buying love before. But why not? Celia can't be his. He remembers how she had looked at her husband, like the old man were at least half god.
He enters through the dark, ornamented door and finds no blind pianist, no jolly gentlemen carousing. The place looks like any office, kind of like Celia's, with its desk, settee and comfortable armchair. There is nobody in it. Arany hesitates, then sits in the armchair, crosses his legs and begins to drum his fingers on his knee. He would have bet that Madame Stephanie had some way to watch him while he waits for her.
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