Cold Judgment

by Joanne Fluke

  Dr. Elias smiled. Immortality appealed to him lately. Jung raised the subject when he proposed archetypes, the unconscious inheritance from ancestors. Loosely interpreted, it was a form of reincarnation.

  Reincarnation had always amused Dr. Elias. A person’s soul, or psychic energy, was thought to recycle at death to live again in a new body. Supposedly this had been happening since the beginning of time. No one seemed capable of explaining the population increases. How could there be enough souls to go around? Were they divided, perhaps? Or were some people simply born without souls?

  His pipe was finished. Dr. Elias tapped it out and replaced it in its cushioned leather case. He was weary of thinking about death. It did not matter which theory was correct. Death would come, and recognizing its nature would not change its effect.

  The evening paper thumped against his door. Dr. Elias went to retrieve it. He had paid his subscription a year in advance. The irony made him smile. Would the paper still be delivered, even after his obituary was published in it? Or would a refund check be issued, one that would never be cashed?

  Dr. Elias poured himself a small snifter of Courvoisier and settled down in his favorite chair to read. The item was so small, he almost missed it. Firemen had been called to Greg’s apartment last night. It had been a small fire, easily contained. The item was of little interest to the average reader, but to Dr. Elias it was crucial. Greg was breaking down. His duty was clear.

  There was no one home at Greg’s apartment. Dr. Elias listened to the recording and hung up without leaving his name. There was no reason to leave a message. Greg would never hear it.

  Greg was working on a new song when he heard the noise. It was a small sound, no more than a slight scratching. It came from his music library, where he housed his collection of old published sheet music. It was the largest of its kind in the Midwest, over eighty thousand titles, indexed and numbered. Occasionally music historians from the university asked to use his library for reference work.

  He hated to stop in the middle of his work, but Greg knew he had to investigate. If there were rodents in the walls, a few weeks of chewing could ruin his entire inventory.

  Greg walked down the hall and listened at the doorway. The library was quiet. It must have been an animal outside, a rabbit or a dog scratching against the exterior wall. He’d order some traps tomorrow and set them behind the stacks, just to be on the safe side.

  He went back to the piano and tried to pick up the flow again, but it was no use. After ten minutes of frustration he closed the piano. His concentration was broken. It was impossible to compose with one ear while he listened for every little sound with the other.

  The wind had picked up and the old carriage house creaked and groaned. Windows rattled and snow pelted against the roof. Another winter storm was due to hit the Midwest before morning.

  Greg picked up his jacket and slipped it on. There was a draft in the studio. It was even colder in the narrow hallway, and he swore impatiently when he found the door ajar. The wind must have pushed it open.

  The lights dimmed briefly as he slammed it shut. Greg’s heart pounded in fear and then he recovered and laughed at himself. The howling wind outside would make anyone jumpy. Perhaps he should call that college girl and give her a tour of the studio. At least he’d have company if the power lines were down.

  Her card was in his wallet. Shelly Graham. He’d make a point of remembering her name this time.

  Greg dialed the number and waited five rings. She picked it up on the sixth. She was just going out the door, a family party for her mother’s birthday. It wouldn’t last long. She could meet him at his studio by eleven.

  It was amazing how much better he felt. Greg glanced at his watch. She would be here in less than two hours. That gave him time to write a little song for her, the real thing this time. He’d use her full name at least twice in the chorus. And he’d never play it for anyone else.

  He had just finished the first verse when he heard it again, the stealthy scratching in the library. Greg ignored the sound, working instead on completing Shelly’s song. He was in a generous mood. The mice could feast until tomorrow.

  The last note faded away and Greg grinned. It was perfect. Shelly Graham would like her song. He added a title and centered the sheets on the music rack.

  “Shelly?” Greg turned on the bench as he heard the outside door open and close. She was very early.

  “In here, Shelly!” he called out. There was no answer.

  Greg frowned and got to his feet. Had he imagined the sound of the door? Now the studio was perfectly quiet.

  He checked the control booth. No one was there. The hallway was deserted and the tiny bathroom, empty. Then he smelled the smoke. Greg raced to the library and pulled open the door.

  The room was in flames. Loose sheet music burned brightly, fanned by gusts of wind from the open window. Thick black smoke rolled up from the cataloged bundles, and one by one the smoldering piles burst into flaming torches. Bound stacks broke open and scattered in the wind, fluttering and rising like bright, searing bats.

  Greg coughed as the smoke filled his lungs. “Don’t Sit Under the Apple Tree” whipped past his face. The picture of the Andrews Sisters on the cover was blackened and charred. Lifetimes of words and music were annihilated as they fueled the insatiable flames.

  His shocked mind shouted out commands. Shut the door to the library! Run outside! Call the fire department! But his paralyzed body would not obey him. The fire held him captive, hypnotizing him with its destructive beauty.

  Now the flames reached out for him, demanding their sacrifice. The room was an inferno, a furnace of blazing orange and yellow. A mighty blast of heat seared his face and Greg crumpled to the floor. The very element he had loved and courted had betrayed him. His last thought was of the girl and how she would never hear her song.

  The fireplace was blazing cheerily in his living room when Dr. Elias came home. He rubbed his hands together to warm them and stood with his back to the flames. Gradually the heat took the stiffness from his body and he could move despite the pain. Fire was a comforting thing, a necessary element in the survival of the race. It was unfortunate that Greg had been forced to experience directly the destruction it could cause.

  After the task was done, he had lingered in the freezing storm until sirens wailed in the distance. It was his duty to stand guard until it was finished. When the first flashing red lights had appeared at the crest of the hill, he left. He did not remember the details of the ride home. His mind was fogged with cold and pain.

  Dr. Elias picked up the syringe he had prepared. The fact that he had proceeded without it was a testament to his courage. It would be so easy to increase the dosage, to ignore his final responsibilities and sink into the false security of a drug-induced euphoria. But he had resisted the easy way out. He had tested the strength of his convictions and he had triumphed. Dr. Elias smiled as he plunged the needle into his vein. His father would be proud of him.

  Now it was late and there was one more task to complete. Dr. Elias walked down the hallway, flexing his fingers until they were limber enough to hold the brush. He unlocked the door to his studio and faced the group portrait, smiling a little as he saw how well it was taking shape. Doug was finished. He had captured the radiant innocence in his eyes. And Jerry. There was a serenity about him now that he had not had in life.

  Dr. Elias picked up his brush. Greg had been haunted by the guilt he’d carried. He would not paint him that way. Now Greg was at peace and his face would reflect the calm acceptance of his fate.

  His brushstrokes were the only sounds in the room as he applied paint to the canvas. Greg’s lips seemed to whisper words of thanks as he painted them. His eyes were clear and unafraid. Dr. Elias smiled as he put down the brush.

  It was finished. Dr. Elias stood back and nodded. Three were terminated now, and the world was safe from them. Five more patients to cure and his work would be completed.

  CHAPTE
R 11

  “Move in with you?” Debra turned to look at him in amazement. “Mac! Is this a proposition?”

  Mac laughed. “In a way, I suppose it is. I just thought you might feel nervous staying all alone. My house is big and it’d be nice to share it with you. As far as the proposition goes, I solemnly promise not to attack you in the middle of the night.”

  Debra swallowed nervously. If Mac had been any other man, she would have refused immediately, but somehow Mac was different. It wasn’t just the sex thing, either. She felt safe with Mac and she hadn’t felt that way with any man since her husband.

  “I . . . well . . . yes!” Debra blushed to the roots of her hair. “I’d like to move in with you, just temporarily, of course, until things settle down. It’s really nice of you to ask me, Mac.”

  It took only fifteen minutes to drive to Debra’s apartment. Mac was grinning as he followed her up the stairs. The apartment building was old, but it was in good repair. Mac wandered through the apartment while she packed a couple of suitcases. Debra’s living room was tidy and bare of more than minimal decoration. There were no family photos, no pieces of memorabilia to clutter her bookshelves. Mac looked in vain for some evidence of her personality, but even the magazines on the end table were standard and unexciting.

  He poked his head in the small kitchen. There were no grocery bags or coupons lying about, no hastily written notes tacked to the refrigerator. The sink was clear of dishes and the porcelain was scrubbed to a dazzling white. All the pots and pans were highly polished, lined up on their shelves in precise geometric order. Even her Tupperware fit. Every lid sat on its matching container.

  The bathroom was perfectly nondescript. Matching towels hung on the rack. A bottle of shampoo and one of conditioner sat on the shelf over the sink. The level of liquid in both was the same. Mac shook his head. Such precision was almost frightening. Debra’s whole apartment looked like the models that builders showed to their clients. There was nothing personal anywhere.

  Suddenly Mac understood. Debra was hiding. If there was nothing of Debra on display, that meant there was nothing to criticize. She was too frightened to put the stamp of her personality on these rooms. Somehow he would have to change that.

  “Mac?” He heard her call out to him. He found her in the bedroom, trying to close the lid of the suitcase. “I can’t get it shut!”

  She looked endearingly untidy. Her hair was mussed and there was a smudge of dirt on her cheek.

  “Sit on it.” Mac grinned and lifted her up. “Just wiggle a little and I’ll do the rest.”

  Debra laughed as Mac snapped the suitcase shut. “Gary Cooper and Audrey Hepburn. Nineteen fifty-seven. Love in the Afternoon!”

  Mac loaded her suitcases in the trunk and dropped her at the paper. He had to spend a couple of hours at the station. They’d meet later for dinner and then go home. He found himself looking forward to the end of the day.

  Now it was evening and they were sitting in his living room watching television. Mac smiled. It was surprising how much more he enjoyed his movies when he shared them with Debbie. Just having her next to him on the couch was a pleasure. He had never realized how lonely he had been.

  “ ‘I suppose I was in your way going down the rapids. Then what you said to me back there on the river was a lie about how you never could have done it alone and how you lost your heart and everything. You liar! Oh, Charlie, we’re having our first quarrel!’”

  Mac grinned as Debra mouthed the words along with Katharine Hepburn. She was staring at the screen intently, her crocheting forgotten on her lap. They were watching The African Queen, but Mac found himself watching Debra instead of the movie. She was so beautiful sitting there with the brightly colored skeins of yarn stacked at her side.

  It was almost like being married. There had been only one awkward moment when they’d first gotten home. Debra had been standing in the doorway of the spare room, staring at the single bed.

  “It’s way down here at the end of the hall.” Her voice had quivered slightly.

  “Why don’t you sleep with me?” Mac had taken the suitcases from her and carried them into his room. “I got used to you last night. It’s nice to have someone to cuddle in the middle of the night.”

  She had blushed and nodded, not quite meeting his eyes. Her hands had trembled as she’d opened the suitcases and started to put away her things, but Mac had noticed her grateful smile.

  Bogie and Hepburn were going through the marriage ceremony now. Mac watched for a moment. This movie was one of his favorites. He knew every scene. Debra was so absorbed she didn’t even notice when her crochet hook slid off her lap and dropped to the rug.

  It was good, having Debbie here. Her clothes hung in his closet on the side that was empty after Mary had left. Now there were bright, feminine colors to balance his browns and grays. The scent of her perfume made the whole house smell wonderful. Her makeup sat on a tray in the bathroom, precisely arranged to take up the least amount of room. The bottles of shampoo and conditioner were in the shower, and Mac grinned. He had used the shampoo when he’d gotten home from work. Now the levels were no longer even.

  Mac hoped his untidy habits wouldn’t drive Debra up the wall. He was a notorious slob. Even though he tried, his clothes never seemed to wind up in the laundry basket. On wash day he had to check every room for forgotten items. And he wasn’t very good about doing the dishes. Mostly he made do with paper plates and TV dinners. He noticed that Debra had straightened up the refrigerator, and the bathroom sink was almost white again. Luckily Debra hadn’t found his beer can collection. He had 114 different labels on the top shelf in the spare room. They hadn’t been dusted in three years.

  The house was beginning to benefit from a woman’s touch. Pretty soon he wouldn’t be able to find anything without asking her. Mac was a little surprised to find it didn’t bother him a bit. He even promised himself that he’d try to be neater. Having Debra stay here was the best thing that had happened to him in a long time.

  Mac turned back to the movie in time to see the German gunboat blow up. Hepburn and Bogart were swimming to safety. There were tears in Debra’s eyes.

  “I just loved it!” She leaned back and sighed. “Our lives are so ordinary in comparison. There’s no romance anymore.”

  “Maybe there could be if two people were willing to take a chance.”

  Debra turned to look at him. She saw the warmth in his eyes. Mac wanted to make love to her.

  She knew she could put him off, misinterpret his meaning. It would be easy to pretend not to understand. But that would put a lie between them. She had to decide quickly before Mac noticed her fear.

  She wanted to make love with Mac. She felt a warm shudder of anticipation when she thought of it. But what if he couldn’t? What would happen then?

  “Let’s go to bed, Mac.” Debra tried to hide her nervousness as she smiled. She got up and a skein of yarn rolled to the floor. She left it there. Being neat and tidy wasn’t important right now.

  Debra’s hands were trembling as she went to the bathroom to put on her new nightgown. It was a thin silk negligee, totally unsuitable for winter. She had dashed into Dayton’s this afternoon to buy it, while Mac was down at the station. She had picked it on a whim, without even trying it on. It was totally unlike her to be so expensively spontaneous.

  Debra gasped as she faced her reflection in the mirror. The peach color made her skin seem rosy and enticing. Her breasts were barely covered by the lace of the neckline. Every curve of her body was revealed. The thin, clinging material was shamelessly transparent, falling over her hips in a sleek, unbroken line. She looked voluptuous and ripe, like an accomplished paramour.

  Suddenly Debra felt ridiculous. The negligee was so blatantly seductive that she was afraid to face Mac. How should she act? What would she say?

  Debra shivered in the cold bathroom. Perhaps she should have worn her old flannel pajamas like Doris Day in Pillow Talk. She looked too much like Maggie
the Cat in this ridiculous negligee.

  That was it! Debra practiced a pose with her hand on her hip. She’d be Elizabeth Taylor tonight. She’d pretend to be wise and experienced, a professional courtesan. She would take the initiative and be sexy and enticing. Mac would be unable to resist her.

  Mac tried to calm down as he waited for her. He was more than a little nervous. In a way, he almost wished that she hadn’t caught his meaning out there in the living room. What if he failed?

  He heard the bathroom door open. She was coming. Mac looked up as she walked to the bed and his heart pounded loudly in his chest. She was gorgeous! That negligee was the sexiest thing he’d ever seen.

  Debra looked so different, he barely knew her. She moved like a practiced seductress as she snapped off the light and slid into bed. She reached out for him and folded her arms around his neck, kissing him deeply. She was ripe and beautifully wanton as she pressed her body against his. The heat of her came through the thin silk and he could feel her need surround him, demanding and urgent.

  He wanted to, but nothing happened. Mac kissed her back, but something was wrong. Then she reached out to fondle him and he shuddered at her touch. Her motions were calculated and cold. It felt almost as if she had memorized a sex manual and was flipping through the sections, trying one technique after another.

  “I need you, Mac.” Her voice was low and sexy. Mac frowned in the darkness. Everything she was doing was right, but he couldn’t respond. His frustration grew as she tried, again and again, rubbing against him, grasping with desperate fingers. There were long minutes of agony as she went through all the motions, trying to arouse something that was dead and useless.

  “Debbie, stop!”

  Finally he pushed her away. There was no life in him, nothing to satisfy her need. She was a woman and he was a eunuch. The farce was too painful to play out any further.