Erthmun said, to no one in particular, "She looks like a mime." He bent over the body again and stared into its open eyes, which were bright jade green. "Beautiful," he said. "I don't think I've ever seen eyes quite this color before."
"Those are contacts," Patricia told him.
He glanced quickly at her, then at the victim's eyes again. "Are they?" he said, but it was a rhetorical question, and Patricia thought for a moment that Erthmun was toying with her, though that, she knew, would have been out of character for him. She knew him as a man to whom humor was not a necessity.
He asked, "What do you think did this?" He was still looking at the body.
"You mean the murder weapon?" Patricia said, and gave the body a quick once-over. "It wasn't an ax, or a hatchet. That's obvious. The wounds are too narrow."
"Too narrow," Erthmun said, and asked, without looking at Patricia, "Some kind of sword, then?"
She shrugged, began to answer, and Erthmun cut in, "Do you want to leave the building again?" He glanced around at her. She thought he looked genuinely concerned. She shook her head quickly.
He said, "I think you do."
"No. You're wrong." She gestured at the body. "Let's concentrate on what we're doing here, okay?"
"You're angry," Erthmun said. "Why are you angry?"
"Jack, please—"
"It wasn't a sword," he interrupted. "The wounds are all of a uniform length. See here." He pointed at a bright red gash on the woman's left arm. "That's what? Six inches?" He pointed at a similar gash on her right arm. "Six inches here, too." He pointed at her belly. "And here." He pointed first at her right thigh, then her left, both of which bore similar gashes of similar lengths. "And they're all the same depth, too." He was smiling now, and this made Patricia uncomfortable because she wasn't sure why he was smiling, and because he so seldom smiled.
Erthmun declared, "This is a very ritualistic thing. Someone has made this woman up with her own blood!" He straightened suddenly. His smile became a flat grin.
"Look at her! Look at her! She's been made up with her own blood! It's a religious thing! Some religious person has done this!" He stared at Patricia. His eyes were wide, his grin still flat. He looked like a madman. "A priest or a rabbi has done this!" he declared. "Or a shaman!"
Patricia said, "Jack, if this is supposed to be funny . . ."
"Supposed to be funny . . ." he said, repeating her words. He stooped over again, so his face was very close to the dead woman's. He stared into her bright jade green eyes and whispered hoarsely, "What's going on here?" He grabbed her hard by the shoulders.
"Jack ?" Patricia shouted. "For Christ's sake . . ."
Erthmun whispered at the dead woman, "Tell me something, damnit!" He shook her by the shoulders. Her head flopped backward, forward, backward. Bits of chocolate flew from her mouth.
Patricia shouted, "Jack, are you nuts?"
Erthmun stood with the dead woman. He held her erect by the shoulders. Her arms were tight against her sides, because of his strong grip on her, and her knees were bent a little because her feet were touching the floor. Her head flopped left, right, backward.
Patricia shouted, "Put her down, Jack!"
". . . down, Jack!" Erthmun echoed. He shook the dead woman. "Talk to me!" he yelled. "Talk to me!" He was splattered with her coagulated blood, now, because her body had bumped against his chest. "Talk to me, talk to me, goddamnit, talk to me."
Patricia grabbed his arm. "Jack, put her down! What in the hell are you doing?"
"Talk to me!" Erthmun yelled into the dead woman's face. "Talk to me!"
Patricia pulled on his arm. It was no use. He was too strong. She glanced frantically at one of the uniformed cops, who was looking on open-mouthed. "Help me, for God's sake!" she shouted.
The uniformed cop nodded, came forward quickly, grabbed Erthmun's left wrist.
Erthmun continued shouting at the dead woman, "Talk to me, goddamnit! Why won't you talk to me?"
Chapter Six
In his dream, he was a clump of earth. He was moist, and dark, and he had no memory, no consciousness, no name, and no age. He could not see, or hear, taste, touch, love, or hate. He could not become angry, or confused, he could not feel pain, or joy, loneliness, or fear, because he wasn't yet a living thing. He was a clump of earth.
Then he awoke in a strange place, and remembered nothing of his dream.
Patricia said to him, "Jack, you did a weird thing." A man stood next to her. Erthmun didn't recognize him. He was tall, strongly built; he wore a gray suit, a thin, black mustache, and his eyes were small. "Detective," he said, "your partner's right." His voice was steady and his tone probing and judgmental. "You did a very weird thing."
Erthmun said, "I don't remember, I don't remember." It was the truth.
Patricia said, "This is Mark Smalley, from Internal Affairs, Jack."
"I guessed as much," Erthmun said. He didn't like looking at the man. Something in his small, dark eyes prompted Erthmun's urge to violence and he saw himself, in his mind's eye, springing from the bed and attacking him.
Smalley said, "Do you know where you are, Detective?"
Erthmun looked around. The walls were beige, the windows narrow—wire mesh covered them—and the floor was composed of black and white linoleum squares. "I'm at Bellevue."
Smalley nodded. "That's right, Detective. You're in the psych ward at Bellevue. Do you have any idea why you're here?"
"No," Jack said. "I told you, I don't remember, I don't remember."
Patricia asked, "Do you remember the woman in the stairway?"
"No."
Smalley grinned. It was humorless, flat, and cold, and Erthmun, looking at it, wanted to rip the man's lips from his face. Smalley said, "Of course you do, Detective. A naked woman with chocolate stuffed in her mouth. Who could forget something like that?"
Jack shook his head. "For Christ's sake, why don't you stop being coy and simply tell me what it is I'm supposed to have done."
Patricia told him. When she was finished, he said, "Why in the hell would I do something like that? I've never done anything like that before."
"Yes," Patricia said, "I know."
"It's a fucking strange thing to do," Smalley said. "And that's why you're here."
Jack said. "So what does any of this have to do with Internal Affairs?"
Smalley grinned again. "We think you knew her, Jack."
In another part of the city, a woman awoke from dreams she too could not remember. She was a stunning woman, with hip-length brown hair, sky-blue eyes, and a face as exquisitely and preternaturally beautiful as anything that lived.
Like Erthmun, she slept naked, under a cocoon of blankets and quilts, but when she woke, she did not come back from sleep haltingly, as Erthmun did—she came back all at once, as if she had been walking, and had simply changed direction.
Blood stained her body this evening, and when she looked at herself in her mirror, and saw the blood, she grinned as if at the memory of something pleasurable. Then she got into her shower, washed the blood off, and soon had forgotten the blood, and the pleasure.
"Knew her," Erthmun said. "Knew who?"
"The woman with chocolate stuffed in her mouth," Smalley said.
Patricia asked, "Did youknow her, Jack?"
Erthmun sighed. "Of course not. What in the hell makes you think I knew her?"
Smalley said, "Because you called her by name."
"By name," he echoed. "I did?"
Smalley nodded. "You called her Helen. That was her middle name. We think it's probably what her friends called her."
Erthmun shook his head in confusion. "I don't know anyone named Helen."
"We want to believe you, Detective," Smalley said. "And maybe we do, as far as it goes."
"Meaning?"
Smalley shook his head a little. "Shit, I don't know. Maybe I'm just trying to give you the benefit of the doubt. Maybe I'm trying to be magnanimous. They tell me I'm nothing if not magnanimous.
" He grinned, glanced quickly at Patricia, who was giving him a puzzled look, then looked at Erthmun again. "How in the hell can we believe you, Detective? You called the dead woman by name, for Christ's sake. You picked her up and shook her like a rag doll, and you called her 'Helen,' which was her name. And now you tell us that you don't remember doing it, and that you don't know anyone named Helen. Give me a break, man. I don't think you're stupid, and I know for a fact that I'm not."
Erthmun gave him a steady, unblinking gaze. "I didn't know her. If you claim that I said these things, then I must have said them. I have no reason to believe that either of you is lying. But I didn't know her."
"Noreen Helen Obermier," Smalley said.
After a moment's silence, Erthmun said, "Yes? And?"
"That was her name."
"I'll take your word for it."
"Why do I get the idea that you're not cooperating with this investigation, Detective?"
"Because it's in your nature to be suspicious," Erthmun answered.
"Damn right," Smalley shot back. "And I'm proud of it. It makes me good at what I do." He grinned again. Erthmun looked away. His fists were clenched; he closed his eyes. "Listen," he said, voice tight, "I'm tired. Why don't you both get out of here."
"For now," Smalley said, and left the room.
"Rest, Jack," Patricia said.
"Rest, Jack," Erthmun echoed her. He was released later that day.
When she had dressed herself, and had lingered at her mirror—because she was fascinated by what she saw reflected in it; she was a creature new to the earth, and most things fascinated her—she ate ravenously of fruit and meat and went out into the night.
She was a creature of the darkness. She loved darkness. She saw well in it; she saw, in fact, many things in darkness that were hidden to the eyes of others.
She walked with the grace, certainty, and stealth of a predator, which, to onlookers, was a sensual walk, alluring and fantastic. It was the walk of sex, which is the walk of power. Men turned to look at her, and women did, too, because she was unlike any human they had seen before.
Chapter Seven
When Mark Smalley interviewed Noreen Helen Obermier's friends and relatives, he could find no one who could connect her to Erthmun. This made Smalley confused and angry, because he was certain there was a connection. A man simply doesn't call a dead woman by name if he doesn't know her—Erthmun wasn't psychic, for Christ's sake!
And now he—Smalley—thought it would be smart to begin interviewing Erthmun's relatives. His sister, Sylvia Grant, lived on Staten Island, and though Smalley could telephone her, he decided it would be best to talk to her in person. He decided this because he was convinced that women could not easily lie to him face-to-face. It was clear that he intimidated them because he was tall, strong, and athletic-looking, quick with a one-liner, and not easily surprised. He thought that men often saw this winning combination as a challenge, but that women, even women cops, found his rock-hard sensuality, his probing intelligence, his wit, and his charm impossible to resist. And though they might try to lie to him, they always gave themselves away—a bat of the eye, a twitch of the hand, a blush, an awkward sideways glance. Sometimes they held his gaze too long, or not long enough. Sometimes, if they were dressed right, he could tell that they were lying because their nipples erected. He found this fascinating, and had wondered if it bore some parallel to lying and male erections. Perhaps all lying was somehow tied to sex. Perhaps all wrongdoing was tied to sex.
He did not telephone Sylvia Grant first. He had hoped to find her home, but if he didn't, then it was all right. He'd come back another day and catch her by surprise.
But she was home. She invited him into her house—after he told her who he was, and after she made him produce his badge to prove it—and led him into her spacious, well-appointed living room. He thought she didn't look at all like Erthmun—she was blonde, thin, very tall—and he wondered if they were really brother and sister.
She said, when he was seated in a Queen Anne love seat that was too small and straight-backed for anyone's comfort, "Could I offer you a refreshment of some kind, Detective? Some tea, perhaps a glass of lemonade?"
He shook his head, said, "No, thanks, I won't be long. I only have a question or two."
"As you wish," she said, smiled graciously, and sat across from him in another Queen Anne love seat. "Is Jack in trouble?" she said, still smiling.
"No. There are merely some questions we'd like answered."
"And that's why you're here, of course." She was still smiling. It pleased him. People who smiled too much were people who lied.
"Yes," he said, "that's why I'm here."
"You say you're with Internal Affairs, Mr. Smalley?"
"That's correct."
"And you're investigating Jack?"
He nodded. "Yes."
"Then he is in trouble." She was still smiling.
Smalley shook his head. Her continuous smiling was beginning to annoy him. "He's not in trouble, Mrs. Grant."
"But he may soon be in trouble, isn't that right?"
He ignored the question. "Could you tell me about Jack's friends? Particularly his girlfriends."
"He doesn't have any."
"He doesn't have any friends?"
"He doesn't have any girlfriends. Not at the moment anyway. Actually, I don't think he ever did."
Smalley cracked a quick smile. Her first lie. "That's a little hard to believe, Mrs. Grant. He's a grown man, after all—"
"I meant that he's never had any lasting relationships, Mr. Smalley. He's had one-night stands, of course. He isn't a choirboy."
"Of course he isn't. Who is?" said Smalley.
The phone rang. Sylvia Grant turned her body for a moment in its direction, and Smalley looked at her breasts. She was wearing a blue satin blouse, and her breasts were large, but she was clearly wearing a bra. He was disappointed. She turned back. He looked up quickly from her breasts to her face, and saw her smile go crooked for a moment because she had obviously caught him looking at her and had thought he was merely being lecherous.
"Excuse me, please," she said, and went to answer the telephone.
Erthmun could not remember the face of the dead woman. He could remember only the smell of the chocolate that filled her mouth. When he tried to remember her face, he saw the face of another woman instead—a face soexquisite it was nearly unreal, as if it were not a human face at all, but one that existed only in his imagination.
He was sitting on the edge of his bed. The day was nearly done, and he was ready for sleep. But he knew that he wouldn't sleep. He knew that he'd leave the apartment and that he would look for the woman his fantasies had shown him. Because he knew that, unlike him, her time was night.
Other than the hunter, that which moves at night is the prey of the hunter—the foolish and the unwary, who laugh and make noise to attract the hunter, who douse themselves with scent and powder so they can be easily discovered, who dress in clothes that reflect the light, and shoes that make them sway like worms, who drink themselves giddy, and so become defenseless.
These foolish and unwary were what the earth had given her. These prey were for her.
She shivered with excitement. She grew moist, flush, and warm, and she groaned deeply. Her voice was husky and sensual.
Around her in the cafe, people stared. Some were concerned because they thought she was in pain. Others knew well enough that she was not in pain, and they grinned.
One man said, "I didn't know there was a floor show," and his friend laughed.
But she heard no laughter, and saw no one staring, because the judgment of others had no meaning for her.
Erthmun's night vision was unusual. If an object were moving, then he saw it well, but if it were not, then it melted into the background of artificial light or shadow and he saw little except vague shapes in ill-defined shades of gray. Consequently, as he walked, cars moved past—against the backdrop of storefronts and apartment
buildings, street signs and garbage cans—as if against the backdrop of a fog. He had never questioned this way of seeing because he so seldom went out at night, and because he had always assumed that everybody saw the way he saw. It was, after all, the best way to experience the world after dark. What was more important at night than that which was moving?
He walked quickly because he was cold. It was not a particularly cold night—in a city where winter winds often moved with skin-numbing force through the corridors between buildings—but that didn't matter to Erthmun. He was cold because night, simply enough, was a time for sleep. Night was when the body shut down and sent its precious heat to the internal organs so the brain could rest.
Night was a time only for predators, and their prey.
He muttered to himself as he walked. He didn't know that he was muttering. He didn't hear himself muttering. Often, during daylight, he had seen others in this city muttering to themselves and he had thought they were pathetic.
He muttered about his childhood, which was a mystery to him. He had concocted many fantasies about his childhood, not so much to solve the mystery as to push it aside, so he wouldn't have to deal with it.
He did not mutter loudly, as some in this city did. His muttering was little more than a whisper, and because there was a good deal of traffic on the avenue, no one walking nearby could hear him.
"The pine needles make a soft bed," he muttered. "I run here, and here, so there will be no mistake," he muttered.
He had his hands deep in his coat pockets, and though he was wearing gloves, his fingers were numb, and he would have found that they were useless if he had tried to use them. But he was not aware that they were numb.
Laughing Man Page 3