Anderson, Poul - Novel 17
Page 19
That was collecting tape sculptures. Very respectable. Originals only. He experienced duplicates but would not collect them. No other form of art interested him in the least. He had never read a novel, studied a painting, heard a symphony, or seen a film. The hobby was his only eccentricity and as much as ninety percent of his salary was given over to new purchases. In fact, if it hadn't been for the hobby, he would gladly have been willing to work for board and room alone. But Karlton Ford paid splendid wages, and McCoy's collection grew to enormous proportions, threatening to spill both him and his small bed out into the corridor.
His favorite artist was a woman: Anna Richmond. Her work moved him in a way far deeper than mere words. She gave whatever meaning to his life that it possessed; and in return, well before he ever met her, Henry McCoy knew he must love her.
When she arrived at the ranchhouse, nothing about her changed his attitude. He liked to look at her—talking seemed less important—and so, though never neglecting his assigned duties, he often crept to some place where he might observe her without being seen in return. A dirty window. An untrimmed hedge. A broken fence. A stray hole in a wall. He felt a need to reconcile the mortal, flesh and blood visage of Anna with the divine inspiration that flowed through her work. McCoy acted no differently than any small boy suddenly confronted by the image of his ideal hero.
Then one night Anna went away on a plane programmed to carry her to San Francisco. McCoy placed her on board himself but she wouldn't answer the frantic questions he put to her.
Late the following day, Karlton Ford called McCoy to the sunporch on the roof and told him to take a letter. McCoy was so worried about Anna that it wasn't until the third paragraph that he realized what the letter was about.
"No!" McCoy cried, dropping pen and paper. "What are you talking about? Anna? Dead? No!"
Ford glared angrily. "She tried to murder her husband. The police shot her down."
"But she loved him."
"Her husband? Don't be—"
"I know she did. She told me—told him. I heard her talking to herself."
"Well, next time—" Ford showed his impatience "—don't listen."
McCoy sprang to his feet and pointed an accusatory finger: "You—you killed her!"
Ford blinked, astonished. "What did you say to me?"
McCoy waved the finger. "I know you, Mr. Ford. You think you can make anyone do whatever you want. Anna was your daughter but you treated her like dirt—you never loved her. I could tell. You did things to her mind. You made her into a zombie. You're a monster! Monster! Monster! You killed her and now—!"
Ford's face flushed with anger. As he spoke, McCoy felt the first tentative hints of some painful presence encroaching on his mind. But he went on, rushing desperately to finish, wanting to say what he had to say before he was struck down.
Then Ford fell back. His face lost its angry expression. The painful presence disappeared from McCoy's mind.
"McCoy," said Ford, very softly, as if from far away. "You may go away. I won't need you here any more." His eyes dropped shut; he seemed to drift away.
McCoy had seen this happen often enough before. Standing, he left Ford as he lay. He went to the elevator and rode it down into the house. He passed through the kitchen.
Here, without intending to, he stopped. He leaned against a wall, clenched his fists tightly, and began to weep and wail. It wasn't the Anna Richmond he had known here for whom he cried; it was the work. He remembered all the titles and each one meant something deep and warm and significant. There was Last Woman and Passion, Tomorrow's Children, Tenderness, Crime and Punishment, Gloria. Only three days before, he had managed to acquire the original copy of her latest piece, New Messiah, the one about the android. Now none would follow. Anna Richmond was dead and that meant her work must be buried with her.
"You!" he cried, slamming his fists against the wall like a man deprived of the one firm, meaningful aspect of his entire existence. "You! You! You!"
On the kitchen table, something caught the light and glinted. He went over and raised the butcher knife in his hands. The blade was long, bright, and silver.
He rushed back to the sunporch.
Ford was lying on his back. His eyes were open but unseeing. His face and forehead were wrinkled, and his body was covered with a coating of sweat. The muscles in his legs and arms and neck were tensed and rigid as though engaged in some mighty, internal struggle.
McCoy noticed none of this. All he saw was Karlton Ford—Ford, the murderer—open and vulnerable.
McCoy raised the glinting knife and brought it straight down. The blade plunged through Ford's bare chest and penetrated his heart.
He died at once.
McCoy then left the blade where it was and hurried downstairs. He called the local police and explained what had happened but they were late in coming and when they did arrive refused to believe his story until he took them up on the roof and showed them the body.
"Good Lord, why?" asked one of the detectives. "Didn't you have a reason?"
McCoy made one attempt to express his feelings, but there was simply no way of communicating such intricate and sensitive motives. He fell into a sullen silence.
The detective shook his head wearily. "I'm so sick of this. I've never seen a murder that made any sense at all. What's supposed to be gained? What's ever changed or made over or made better or made right? It's not just stupid—it's pointless."
Overhead, a rocketplane blasted the silence of late afternoon and McCoy could not reply.