One thing at a time, she told herself sternly; the immediate goal was pregnancy, and to learn more about her power by exercising it. Imprisoning the man was the only way to be certain of complete privacy. Having a child was the only way to find out if her power could be passed on; her suspicions about her grandmother indicated that passing it on was possible. A pity not to try. Benek was reasonably attractive and seemed healthy. She knew that she could not have invited a complete stranger off the street, or risked a battery of questions from medical personnel that would leave a record of artificial insemination. She was being careful and selective, she told herself, even if she didn’t completely understand why she had chosen Benek. Maybe she even liked him. No matter. At worst, she would get rid of him and start over.
One thing at a time.
But she felt sorry for Benek as she pictured his dark wavy hair and puzzled expression. He was attractive in his blue suit, and she wondered if he had been a poor boy who had learned to dress well. She imagined his stocky body standing up naked before her and wondered how he might take her from behind; he had not been very pleasant when restrained on his back. Now his image stood transfixed, unable to reach out to her as she touched herself, hoping that if she had a child by him, her power might be passed on. Wind rattled the wooden fences below, and she felt a stab of fear mixed with pleasure. Cats screeched, and she opened her eyes. The sky flashed without thunder as her wrist twitched. Rain washed across the windows and she surrendered to her orgasm.
Later, she dialed Benek’s number, sure that he had gone home.
“There’s no one to help you now,” she said, disappointed that he had not come after her. “Gibney’s dead. No one knows. No one will care what you say.” She hung up before he could speak, wondering what kind of father he would make. The chassis was okay, but the brain was cowardly.
14
Benek hung up the phone and sank down into his dusty sofa, closed his eyes and pressed cold towels around his aching wrists.
He leaned forward and quickly dialed the coroner’s office.
The phone rang three times. “City morgue,” a voice said. “Frank Gibney, please. This is Detective Benek.”
There was a pause. “Doctor Gibney died this afternoon,” the voice said. “They think it was a brain hemorrhage of some kind.”
“Who’s this?” Benek asked.
“Johansen, his assistant.”
So it was true. He was alone. He sat back again and listened to the blood pumping in his ears, wondering how to surprise Dierdre from behind and kill her. She was a dangerous intruder in the human swarm, and had to be killed. She would not expect him to come after her right away, he told himself, and saw himself firing before she could turn around. It was up to him, because he was the only one who knew.
“Are you there?” Johansen’s voice shouted from the receiver.
“Yes, thank you,” he said and hung up.
There was a loud knock on his door. Had she found him already? Was she ready to core him when he opened the door? He got up and stood still, waiting, then approached the door.
Three rapid knocks followed, and a deep male voice said, “This is your upstairs neighbor, Mr. DeSapio, asking you nicely, in person, to turn the ringer down on that goddamned antique phone of yours! I know you’re there because I heard you come in. What about it, do I get a break?”
Benek took a deep breath and said, “Sure thing. I just bought a new one. It’ll go right in.”
“Thanks,” said the voice behind the door.
Benek went into the bathroom and looked in the mirror. There were dark circles under his eyes. He ran some hot water in the sink and washed his face, realizing that he would have to call the precinct and report in sick before he could do anything on his own.
The phone rang again. He rushed to it, hoping that DeSapio hadn’t heard it, and lifted the receiver.
“Hello,” he said.
“Benek? This is Reddy. Where in hell have you been?”
In hell, he wanted to say, but said, “I’ve been ill... high fever, trying to sleep it off.”
“Flu, huh?”
“Yes, sir. I couldn’t even answer the phone or call in.”
“So it seems. I sent a patrolman to knock on your door, but he got no answer.”
“Sorry.”
“Have you seen a doctor?”
“Yes, I have.”
“Get back as soon as you can.”
As he hung up, he heard a familiar rap on his door, but decided to ignore it as he went into the kitchen and poured himself a cup of cold leftover coffee.
“Come on!” DeSapio shouted like a rumbling mountain. “You’re a goddamned liar about that new phone of yours! I’m gonna stand here until you open this fucking door!”
Benek took a long sip, set the cup down, and went out to the door. He opened the locks and pulled back the sticky door with a jolt, startling DeSapio.
The tall, thin man with graying hair looked down at him with ratlike eyes and asked, “Geez, what’s happened to you, buddy?” His expression softened as he noticed Benek’s bruises and abrasions.
“Just a hard day’s law enforcement.”
The man took a few steps back. “Well... get that new phone in.”
Benek closed the door and stood there, telling himself that he had to go after Dierdre. She would be better off dead. There was no way anyone would be able to study her; they’d have to keep her sedated. She was just too dangerous to let go around conscious, too much of a threat to let live...
He went back into the kitchen, downed the rest of his coffee, then poured another cup, trying to control his feelings of outrage and humiliation as he remembered the fear he had felt as she rode him. The freakiness of it crossed with the pleasure he had felt, and his stomach knotted. He stumbled out into the living room, spilling coffee, and sat down on the sofa, embracing his rising conviction that he had to hunt her down and kill her before she came after him, then leaned back and closed his eyes, trying to ease the pressure that was building behind them.
He drifted into sleep, telling himself that he would be moving toward his own death if he went after her. She’ll scoop you out and your brains will steam on the street, he said. Protect yourself. Ignore her and you might never hear from her again. His dream-words grew weak. He floated free, blind and unfeeling, and saw himself lying on a street, decomposing. Rats came and ate pieces of him. He woke up in the dream and looked into the bathroom mirror. His eyes were gone, but somehow he saw that there was no brain in his skull. Frank Gibney came up behind him and said, “What could ever strike at a human being more completely, or with more contempt, than the loss of his most prideful organ? Power and uniqueness live there, striving to escape from the million-year-old labyrinth of instinct and survival. Even your dick is wired into its imagination, dreaming feverishly of offspring, of making another of itself.” Gibney smiled and put a hand on Benek’s shoulder. “I’m sorry you’ve lost your brains, son. They were your best weapon, the only hope you had, the only hope we’ll all ever have.” Gibney shook his head. “No, come to think of it, maybe not. Reason is only the obedient dog of the will, which says I want this or I want that and reason runs to fetch it, rationalizing all the way. No, reason won’t help you at all, or any of us. Nothing will, I guess. Sorry, kid, but that’s just the way things are.”
He awoke to a crashing sound, shivering on the sofa. His cup lay broken on the floor, coffee sinking into the floorboards, and for once he wished that he had put in rugs. He got up, aching again, and wandered into his bedroom, where he fell on the bed, covered himself to get warm, and began to drift again in limbo.
“I could have done some real thinking for you,” Gibney said, “been your friend, the father you never had, if you’d warned me in time to save my life—but you’re past needing anyone now. You’ve got to look out for yourself, raise yourself up again and do it right. I can’t help you, being dead and all.”
A knocking on his door woke him, stopping and s
tarting every few seconds, insistent but gentle. Someone really wanted to see him. Someone really cared. He struggled out of bed and staggered out through the living room to the door.
He saw Carla through the peephole, looking pretty despite the distortion of the lens.
“Hello,” he said through the door, trying to sound normal.
She said, “I just came by to tell you that a policeman was here earlier looking for you.”
Reddy had told him that he had sent someone over. “Yes, I know. Thanks. I got the message.”
“Is everything all right?”
“Just a little flu.”
“Can I get you anything?”
Her concern was welcome, but he realized at once that it would be dangerous for her to be seen anywhere near him. No telling what Dierdre would do after killing Gibney. She might think Carla was a girlfriend and start to worry about what he might have told her.
“No,” he said. “Don’t trouble yourself.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, thanks—”
“No trouble. What are neighbors for?”
Suddenly Benek knew that he would have to keep her out of danger. She had to stay away from him to be safe. “Go away and don’t worry about me!” he shouted, trying to sound rude.
“But—” she began, startled.
Good, he thought, then added to be certain, “Get lost, you stupid bitch!”
His father said, “Don’t worry, son, they’re all witches,” and Benek heard him as if he were alive.
He heard Carla gasp and move away down the hall. His chest knotted as he felt her hurt and retreated to the sofa, feeling twisted and lost, and started to shiver again.
“You’ll lose your mind,” his father whispered to him. “It’s what they all do. Kiss your brains goodbye, son.”
“Go away,” he whispered.
“They get you with their looks,” his father hissed, “for as long as they’re beautiful. Like poison flowers!”
There was no way to tell the dead drunk that it was only Dierdre who was guilty, that this was a case of strangeness and not his foolishness, maybe not anyone’s fault. There was no way to tell him because the dead man was laughing too loudly to hear.
15
He had lost his mind, but it was the right thing to do; to lose his mind and kill her before she took his brain. It all made perfect sense.
He approached the house cautiously the next morning, eyes fixed on the windows of her apartment, fearing that she might look out, see him, and empty him on the street. He had no idea at what distance her power fell off; maybe it didn’t diminish, and all she needed was a clear image of her victim’s location to core him halfway around the world, or even on the moon. Or did she need eye contact? Was it possible to struggle with her physically? Could she core during a hand to hand fight?
Maybe she was not here.
He was sure now that he would kill her, no matter how long it took and wherever he might have to hunt for her, even if it meant his own death. His own humiliation and Gibney’s murder were more than enough. He had lost not only an ally but someone who might have become a friend. He had never had any friends, only acquaintances, never anyone close at all. He saw himself and Gibney on his boat, sailing to some far-off island across a sunny sea as if they were both the father and son that each had been denied. Gibney would never have his dream of retirement.
But it was more than that. Having started with Gibney, she would eliminate her mistakes. She now understood that no one should ever find out about her, but an accident and pride in her power had exposed her to at least one person, because she had needed to show off. Whichever way he thought about it, Benek knew that she had to kill him, that she would have killed him if he had not escaped, and that he had no choice but to kill her. He was the only one who knew enough to do it. Trying to get anyone to help him would only get more people killed in a way that no one would understand. If by some chance she died, it would only conceal her ability forever, because she would not be present to demonstrate it, which was the only way to prove that it had existed in her, and might continue in others. Better for humankind to be rid of her and not look back...
Gripping the gun in the pocket of his long coat, he went up the stairs to the house and saw that the front door was slightly open. He paused and looked around the neighborhood of refurbished brownstones, breathing in the chill air, then turned and pushed the door open with his foot, stepped inside, and peered down the hall toward her apartment. That door was also ajar. Was she waiting for him just inside? It had to be a trap. Only a fool would leave an apartment unlocked in Manhattan. Her pride had told her that she could act faster than he could shoot, and maybe it was true.
Think, he said to himself, as she had when she came home to find him gone, and after his escape from the restaurant. What would she do? Could anyone arrest her successfully? Could she core a half-dozen cops at once? Would she have fled from panic, and then returned?
He pushed the door open and listened. The apartment was quiet. He went inside, closed the door behind him and checked the four rooms, glancing out the window at the backyard. Then he went out into the hall and crept down the stairs to the cellar.
The door to the dungeon was open. The overhead light was on. He took out his gun and pointed it into each corner, listening carefully. Finally, he went to the far room and peered into the darkened space at the grave she had been digging for him. It was still waiting for him, and he realized that most people had only one grave dug for them in their lifetimes; he would now have at least two, no matter what else happened. But with any luck he would bury Dierdre in the grave she had dug for him. He peered into the bottom and saw that it was not yet deep enough for a body.
He heard a familiar sound in the outer room and tensed, realizing that he would be trapped if she came down the stairs. He would have to shoot quickly.
He took out his gun, cocked it, and crept toward the door to the stairs. It might as well be now as later, he told himself. He would finish digging his own grave to put her in, and take the secret with him to another grave, or to cremation. It would be a cremation; one grave in a lifetime was enough for anyone.
The heater glowed at his feet, and he realized that he had only heard the click of the timer going on. He stood still, listening to the silence. Warm air rose from the glowing dish and caressed his face. Think, he told himself. How could she be found? Something in the apartment might give him a clue.
As he went up the stairs he saw himself in the years after he had killed her, and wondered how he would live with it; never kill anyone unless you can live with it, someone had once said, and he knew that he would be able to live with her death, with the image of the basement grave satisfyingly in his mind, where but for his own efforts he might already be rotting.
There was nothing about Dierdre to love.
He might have to be tested for years. Even if she wasn’t HIV positive, the uncertainty would be a burden. But distant threats could wait, he told himself.
What could have made her leave her door unlocked? Her mind might be on other things—his escape, Gibney’s death, the need to protect herself; she was forgetting simple things. Or maybe she was so confident now that she no longer bothered with precautions, believing that she could act faster than anyone who came against her. Fine, he told himself; arrogance and overconfidence might work in his favor.
Up in the house hallway, he made sure that the door to the street was closed, then went into her apartment and double locked the door behind him. If she returned suddenly, he would hear her in the hallway, and be able to shoot her through the door.
He went and sat down at her business desk and looked through the piles of papers. There was a lone photograph of her near the far right hand corner. At first he didn’t recognize the skinny teenager in the wooden frame, but when he did, a shudder went through him as his body remembered the fearfulness of her riding him, insectlike as she had drawn him into her as a bee would collect pollen. Th
e thought of her being pregnant with his son or daughter filled him with dread of the life that awaited the child that would be raised as a weapon. And what would she do to a child who disappointed her?
He opened a few drawers, looking for photos of parents, relatives, or friends, but there were none.
He noticed some tax papers, recently arrived, sitting on top of their envelope. He peered closer and saw that she owned some property in the Bronx. The address was up by Fordham Road. Her tax balance was current.
She seemed to have left quickly, taking nothing, as if expecting to be back soon. What was she planning? What could he do? If he caught up with her, he would have to risk being cored. If he came after her with other police, she would empty one or two and then be killed, or even escape. But who would believe him about her and shoot at an unarmed woman? Even Gibney had not gotten that far. He saw himself confronting her, arguing that she should restrain herself.
But it would be impossible. He would have to shoot her before she saw him, and get rid of the body, preferably downstairs, which meant he would have to wait for her to come home, or dispose of her body elsewhere if he could not bring it back. She was a menace, and he would be saving lives by killing her. The little places called police precincts, from which white blood cells made ready to destroy invading diseases, would not be enough to stop her, because he would not be able to convince anyone that she was dangerous. It was a case beyond police work, virtually unprovable, for him alone to resolve. Unless she revealed herself consistently, no one would be able even to guess at the truth, and maybe not even then, as she had shown him in the restaurant.
Empties Page 11