So tired and weak…
Breathing was laborious. The air felt charred and burned with each inhalation. Sweat dripped from her body. Every inch of her was feverish. (Was she in hell or was it just Las Vegas heat?) Her limbs ached, her stomach groaned as waves of acid spewed up through her esophagus. She hadn't bathed or washed in twenty-four hours, and she felt as sullied as muck.
Steve would bring the kids home soon. She'd have to look presentable. Otherwise he'd think it had something to do with her illness rather than a simple virus. The virus ruse could only last so long. It wasn't a virus. It was the voices. But she couldn't let on.
All that eating and gorging. (What exactly had she eaten?) She was retching…coughing up wisps of fur like a cat with a hairball problem. She hated herself.
Maybe that's why Mother had done what she had done. Had she felt like Alison did now…despising every inch of her wretched body?
She checked the clock. Steve would be home soon.
A week ago, time raced like a firestorm. Now it dragged as if weighted with chains.
Slowly, she inched out of bed, crawling on all fours to the bathroom. Reaching up to run the water. Hot water. Anything to remove the stench and dirt and grime and filth.
Couldn't let the kids see her like this. Steve would protect her for only so long. Then he'd get angry.
She lay prostrate on the floor as the water ran. When the tub seemed as if it should be filled, she stretched her arm, groping for the taps. She felt the familiar grip and turned them off. Hoisting herself onto the ledge, she tumbled into the basin, her body still wrapped in a terry robe, hugging her like a needed second skin.
Soaking away the pain.
Why was this happening to her? Was there some genetic program she was missing? If she could just find the time and energy to do her research.
All her papers, clippings, files, the answers were there. She was positive. Because the green book had told her so. But the work needed organization, meticulous planning and filing, not loosely meshed thoughts of an insane woman.
Last week she had been on top of the world. Now she felt as lifeless as her yellow patch of lawn. Maybe it was the weather, the sudden heat that brought out the predators. She was acutely sensitive to changes in the atmosphere.
Soaking.
Had to take off the robe. Steve would know there was something wrong if she continued to bathe in her robe. She couldn't show him how much she needed the skin. Had to keep it a secret. All her life…a series of secrets. So many secrets…so many secrets.
TWENTY-ONE
RUKI WAS clearly sitting on something, waiting for the right moment. So wrapped up in her excitement she hadn't noticed his misery. Or maybe Poe hid it well. Mom certainly hadn't let on, leaving him to wonder about the gravity of her condition. But then every so often she'd stop eating, lift vacant eyes, and stare out the picture windows.
At the apex of the city, the Needle's view was a panorama of hotels bathed in a sea of coruscating lights. Beyond the glitter was a sprawl of low-rise housing bleeding into mile-long flats of pink clay. At this hour, the desert was a black hole of nothingness; the majestic purple mountains became looming shadows that reminded Poe of his insignificance.
He tried to pay attention to the conversation, but he had little to contribute. The women did most of the yakking, talking about food—growing food, buying food, preparing food, and cooking food. They swapped dozens of ethnic recipes. Ma had stopped cooking years ago, since before he left Reno. The last time he had seen her anywhere near a stove had been the day her apartment kitchen had almost blown up from a grease fire. Mom had been sacked out on the living-room couch.
But Poe could remember a time—the Sunday dinners with Grandma. His mother's family had moved to St. George, Utah, when she was twelve, but her Paiute heritage remained a staple in her life. Grandma's menus had always been simple but delicious. Roasted birds served with cakes made from ground pine nuts and white mesquite beans. A salad of Indian spinach, bitter greens, and mixed roasted seeds. Cholla fruit and berries sweetened with sugar. Poe had adored his grandmother's traditional cooking up until he had started school. Mingling with kids whose ideas of fancy cuisine had meant mustard with their salami sandwiches.
His first day of kindergarten…pulling his lunch out of his greasy brown paper sack. Licking his fingers as tots stared contemptuously at his food. They had never seen a whole roasted pigeon complete with head.
Eeeuuuu! That looks gross!
From that day on, he and Remus had opted for peanut butter sandwiches on white bread.
A hand on his shoulder. Poe looked up. Somehow, Patricia had materialized. She was with a date—some big Polynesian guy wearing harem pants, a white linen shirt, and a purple stonestudded vest. Aladdin on steroids.
Patricia was talking to him. "…is Nate Malealani."
"Ah," Poe said, shaking a very big hand. "Our eyewitness link to our mystery man."
"Find him yet, Sergeant?"
Found him and lost him. "Not yet," Poe said. "But we will."
Malealani felt as if everyone was staring at him. "Sorry about the dress. I just got off work at Casablanca."
Emma said, "I think you look cute!"
Poe smiled. "Detective, this is my mother, Emma Poe. Dr. Kalil, you know—"
"Rukmani, please." She smiled warmly. "Come join us. Eating is always more fun in groups."
Patricia and Nate looked at each other. He said, "We're not interrupting?"
"Not at all."
Chewing a morsel of Chinese chicken salad, Emma tried to muster enthusiasm for her food. "Buffet's great here!"
"Probably the best in the city," Malealani said. "But if you really want some great eating, you gotta drive a little."
Emma wiped her face. "Where?"
"These little out-of-the-way places," Patricia answered. "Nate knows them all." She turned to her date. "Being as your time is more limited than mine, I suggest you brave the lines. I'll be with you in a minute."
He scowled. "I hate to go up alone in these duds. I feel like a freak."
"I'll be there in a minute." Patricia patted his weighty shoulder. "Go on. I know you're hungry." As soon as Nate left, Patricia rolled her eyes and added, "He's always hungry."
"Honeymoon's over?" Poe teased.
Patricia shrugged. "Actually, Nate's a good guy." Her eyes darted between Rukmani and Emma. Poe knew a hint when it bit him in the ass. He said, "Ma, why don't you go keep Nate company. Help him out with the buffet."
Again, Emma looked up, a forkful of moo goo gai pan halfway between her plate and her mouth. "The boy looks like he knows his way around food."
"Ma—"
"All right, all right." She peered at her son. "You're trying to get rid of me."
Poe smiled, said nothing.
She stood slowly, then walked reluctantly toward the groaning tables of food. Poe thought he detected a slight limp. His imagination?
To Rukmani, he said, "So what have you to tell us?"
Rukmani said, "It's that obvious?"
Patricia said, "You ain't much of a poker player, Dr. Kalil. What's up?"
"I got the bloods back on Sarah Yarlborough. Her body had been loaded with crack, but nothing else separated out on the gas chromatography chart. Unlike Newel, she hadn't been heavily sedated with barbiturates."
"In the killer's mind, crack could have taken the place of barbs," Poe told her. "Why ply her with drugs when she did the job herself?"
"A good point," Rukmani admitted. "Still, the deaths were significantly different. Brittany was drugged, then tortured to death. She probably died of voluminous shock and profuse bleeding, as she had very little liquid left in her body. Sarah, on the other hand, died of asphyxiation, with the throat cutting done postmortem. She was very well hydrated compared to Newel."
"The throat was cut after she died?" Patricia asked.
"Most definitely."
"How can you tell?"
"By blood loss," Rukmani s
aid. "The jugular had been severed. If that had been done premortem, her heart would have still been beating, draining the body of fluid with each pulse. When the throat is cut after death, there is some direct vesicular drainage, but nowhere near the serum loss that one gets with a pumping heart."
"So you don't think the deaths are related?" Patricia asked.
"I'm not saying the same person couldn't have done both," Rukmani said. "But the deaths are different forensically." She suddenly smiled. "Look at your mother, Rom. She's holding court around the Szechuan veal."
Poe regarded the buffet. Indeed, Mom seemed to be lecturing not only Nate, but a group of tall, towheaded tourists speaking some esoteric, Scandinavian-sounding language. As Mom pointed to different dishes, her mouth worked a mile a minute. Nate stood next to her, rocking on his feet, watching Emma explain the nuances of Las Vegas cuisine.
"Your boyfriend looks lost," Poe said.
"I'll go rescue him," Patricia said.
After she had left, Rukmani turned to Poe. "Are you all right? You're snapping your fingers, albeit silently."
Poe clasped his hands as he stole a glance his mother's way. She was filibustering around the pork spare ribs. He whispered, "Act casual, okay?"
Rukmani smiled with concern. "What is it?"
"My mother has cancer…. Casual, Ruki."
Quickly, she laughed to hide her shock. Under her breath, she muttered, "Oh my God!"
"Also, I got a page from Steve about twenty minutes ago. Alison's been sick for the past couple of days. He's worried about her."
"So tell him to call a doctor."
Poe kept his patience. "He had to go out tonight with the kids—an open house at their school. He didn't want to leave Alison unattended, but he had no choice. He asked me to stop by just for a short time. I think I should."
Rukmani fought anger. "Considering what you just told me about your mother, I think Alison should wait."
"If Alison had called, I would have said no. But being as Steve called…" Poe forced a smile. "It must be bad."
"Not as bad as your mother." Her voice rose. "I think you've got your priorities mixed up, Sergeant."
"Shhhh," Poe whispered. "My mother is my first priority. But she's going to need a lot of my time. Alison I could probably polish off in an hour. If you wouldn't mind, I'd like to take the car. Could you take my mom back home in a cab? I'll be there as fast as I can. Then, with my mind clear, we can deal with the greater issue."
Rukmani boiled with rage. But she knew better than to start up. No matter how many certificates and degrees she had amassed, she never quite felt peerage with men. Too many years of subservience at too young an age. She took a deep yoga breath, let it out in measured seconds. "Do what you have to do. I'll take care of your mother."
"Don't mention anything—"
"Rom, I'm not stupid."
"I didn't mean to…" Poe looked over his shoulder, at his mother, who was rapturing over the wontons. He met Rukmani's eyes. "If you weren't in my life, I'd be going nuts. Your help is not only appreciated, but invaluable. Thank you."
Rukmani nodded, continued to yoga-breathe. After a minute, she was able to shunt away the fury. She peered into Rom's eyes—incredibly stressed. Why hadn't she noticed it before? She was a doctor, for God's sake. He needed her professionally as well as emotionally.
"I'm very sorry," she said softly. "What kind of cancer does she have?"
Poe sighed, then remembered to smile. "Leukemia. Isn't that usually a kids' disease?"
"Yes, but adults get it as well. Do you know what kind?"
"She told me, but I wasn't processing the information too well."
"Lymphocytic? Myelogenous?"
"You're looking a bit intense for lighthearted conversation, Ruki."
She laughed. "Better?"
"Much." Poe took her hand. "I think she said something about lymph nodes. I have some of her medical records that she brought with her from Reno. She stole them from the offices, hid them in her mahjong set."
"I can see that your mother's a fighter."
"Absolutely." But Poe had seen despair in Emma's eyes. "I skimmed some of the papers, but was lost. Doctors have their own jargon. They're back at the house."
"Has she undergone any treatment?"
"Not yet."
"Oh boy." Rukmani kissed his hand and grinned. "The hordes are returning, piled platters of food in hand."
Poe raised his wineglass. "A toast to Emma. For a long, healthy life."
Ruki clinked his glass. "Amen, brother, amen."
In the most cheerful voice she could muster, Alison called out, "I'm in the bedroom, guys."
Poe said, "It's me, Alison. Can I come in?"
She became cross. "You're already in."
"Can I come in the bedroom?"
Quickly, Alison pulled out a compact from her nightstand. She dabbed on blush, smoothing it over her pale cheeks with the tips of her fingers. A smattering of lipstick. Nothing else. That would be overdoing it. She brushed her silken hair, straightened her slinky robe, the hem falling a couple of inches above her ankles. After plumping up her pillows, she sat up straight.
"Come in."
Poe opened the door. "Steve asked me to check in on you. He said you weren't feeling well."
"Steve?" She made a face.
"He said you had a nasty case of the flu." He regarded her face. "You look pretty good, actually."
"Pretty good?"
"Very good," Poe amended. He sat down on the corner of her bed. "How do you feel?"
She sighed. "Comes and goes. I'll live. What's wrong with you?"
"Nothing."
Alison's eyes bored into his. "You're lying."
"Can I get you something to drink?"
She continued to study him. "You're acting distant."
"It's fatigue. Can I get you something to drink?"
"How about some wine?"
"How about some orange juice?"
She shrugged. "You're no fun."
"I know." Poe felt his patience ebb. "You've told me that many times in the past." He left the room, then returned a moment later holding a glass of juice. "Here. Drink."
Alison took the glass and sipped, eyeing him over the rim of the glass. "You're supposed to be cheering me up, not weighing me down."
Poe was quiet. Alison leaned over, patted his hand, then sat back up. "You're looking rather buff, Rommie. Have you been working out?"
"A weight here and there. Nothing that should make a difference. But thanks for the compliment."
She drank her juice and waited for him to carry his fair share of the conversation. When he didn't, she said,
"You're acting very stiff. Is your girlfriend giving you problems?"
"Not at all." Poe paused. "My mother's in town."
"Aha!" Alison said triumphantly. "I knew it was something."
"She's going to be staying here for a while. Remus has a big project. I told him I'd take her off his hands."
"Do-gooders never prosper."
"You're right about that."
"Why don't you bring her by? She always liked me. I think she was always hoping that…you know…you and I would…"
Wasn't my fault that we didn't. Poe said, "Maybe after she gets settled into her apartment, I'll bring her by."
"I always thought your mother was real cute."
"Cute?"
"Well, maybe I mean…attentive."
"When she wasn't drunk, she was very attentive."
"You're so hard on people, Romulus. Why do you always look at life in a negative fashion? It's your downfall. No one wants to be around a sourpuss."
"I'm not being negative, I'm being truthful. I love my mother dearly, but she was a drunk. Still is, for that matter." He stood. "Can I get some juice? I'm very thirsty."
"Be my guest."
He left for her kitchen, poured himself a tall glass of OJ, then laced it with Stoly. He guzzled half the tumbler, then came back into the bedroom. "Much
better."
"So…how is she?"
"Mom's been better, but she's still alive and kicking."
Alison licked her lips, hiked up her robe an inch or so. "I meant your doctor girlfriend."
Moon Music Page 19