The Weird: A Compendium of Strange and Dark Stories

by Jeff Vandermeer; Ann Vandermeer

‘Finger,’ said Kline.

  ‘The whole finger?’

  ‘Just the first joint,’ said Kline.

  ‘That hardly counts as a thirteen,’ said Ramse, looking relieved.

  ‘You’re not eating,’ said Kline.

  ‘No,’ said Ramse.

  ‘You already ate?’

  ‘I don’t have any hands,’ said Ramse. ‘You’ll have to feed me when you’re done.’

  Kline nodded, began to eat more quickly. When he was done, he pulled Ramse’s plate closer, dipped his spoon in, lifted the spoon to Ramse’s mouth.

  ‘Do you have a picture of Aline?’ he asked.

  Ramse shook his head. ‘No pictures,’ he said. ‘The man’s a prophet.’

  ‘That doesn’t mean you can’t have a picture.’

  ‘We’re not Catholics,’ said Ramse between mouthfuls. ‘Or Mormons. Besides, we’re concentrating on his absence, not his presence, on what he’s severed rather than what remains.’

  Kline nodded. He kept shovelling food onto the spoon, lifting it into Ramse’s mouth. Not even the presence of an absence, he thought, but absence as absence proper. It shouldn’t be called a twelve, but a minus twelve.

  ‘Ramse,’ said Kline, once the food was gone. ‘How did you get involved?’

  ‘Involved,’ asked Ramse. ‘I’m an eight, aren’t I? They can’t withhold everything from me.’ ‘Not in the investigation,’ said Kline. ‘In the cult.’

  Ramse stared at him. ‘First of all, it’s not a cult,’ he said. ‘Second, I can’t tell you.’

  ‘That’s what Gous said.’

  Ramse smiled. ‘Why do you want to know?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Kline. ‘Curious, I suppose.’

  ‘Just curious?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Kline. He sat running the edge of his stump along the grain of the table.

  ‘What did Borchert have to say?’ Ramse asked.

  ‘A great guy, Borchert.’

  ‘You shouldn’t make fun.’

  ‘Who says I’m making fun? He told me not to talk about it.’

  ‘I’m an eight, aren’t I? You can talk to me. You don’t have to keep a secret from me.’

  Kline shook his head, smiled. ‘It’s not secret, it’s sacred,’ he said.

  ‘You shouldn’t make fun,’ Ramse said again. ‘You should tolerate other people’s religious beliefs. Besides, I already know a few things about it.’

  ‘Oh?’ said Kline. ‘Why don’t you tell me what you know?’

  ‘Tit for tat,’ said Ramse. He slashed his stump bluntly past his face. ‘My lips are sealed,’ he said. ‘Besides, I’ve come on an errand. I’m supposed to conduct you to the scene of the crime.’

  The crime scene was in the same building that Borchert had been in. Ramse tried to follow him up but the guard instead locked Ramse outside on the porch, led Kline up alone.

  ‘What do you know about this?’ Kline asked.

  ‘About what?’ the guard asked.

  ‘About the crime.’

  ‘What crime?’

  ‘The murder.’

  ‘What murder?’

  Kline stopped asking. On the third floor they passed the first and second doors, stopped at the third. The guard gestured to it.

  ‘I’ll wait here,’ he said.

  ‘You don’t care to come in?’ asked Kline.

  The guard said nothing. ‘Whose room is this?’ asked Kline. The guard said nothing. ‘Aline’s room?’ asked Kline. The guard still said nothing.

  ‘You’re not allowed to come in?’

  ‘I’ll be waiting,’ said the guard. ‘Right here.’

  Kline sighed. Opening the door, he went in.

  Inside, the room looked much like Borchert’s room: a simple bed, a chair, a bare floor, little more. On the floor near the bed was a large irregular bloodstain, perhaps three times the size of Kline’s head. The wall nearby was spattered with blood as well. Someone had drawn a figure in chalk on the floor, though it took Kline a moment to realize that was what it was. It looked like a simple blotch at first, but in a moment he realized what he was seeing was the outline of an armless and legless torso.

  ‘Good Christ,’ he said.

  He got down on his knees and looked more closely at the chalk figure. It must have been drawn wrong, for the head didn’t fit snugly into the pool of dried blood that had spread out of it. He got up, brushed off his knees, went over to look at the nearest wall. Blood was fanned all along it but in no regular pattern, as if spattered from eight or ten different blows. No blood on the other walls. It was as if the killer had struck the limbless torso once and then had hauled it a few feet away to strike it again, and so on. Surely a man missing his arms and legs wouldn’t be able to move far while being stabbed, no?

  He had stared at the wall for quite some time before it struck him that something else was wrong. He didn’t have to bend over to see the spatter. He knelt down again beside the chalk torso and measured it roughly with his arm. It was slightly shorter than the arm itself. The spatter should be quite a bit lower on the wall.

  Maybe, he thought, Aline had been in chair. But the only chair in the room had no bloodstains on it. Maybe, he thought, whoever killed Aline did so while holding him in their arms, perhaps dancing or spinning as he stabbed. He could imagine the limbless torso stiff, rigid, struggling.

  But that didn’t strike him as quite right either. True, he had been trained to infiltrate; true, his experience with crime scenes was far less than most of his former colleagues. Perhaps the killer had struck upward each time, as if carrying a golf swing through? Perhaps that would account for the odd spatter and the decreased amount of blood on the lower part of the wall?

  But why? he wondered. Why strike that way at all?

  And what was the instrument? From the way the spatter was slung he would have guessed a knife, some kind of blade. Without seeing a photograph of the body it was difficult to be sure. It hardly seemed likely that one would attempt to use a knife as if it were a golf club. Something was wrong.

  He regarded the chalk torso, the way the blood had pooled uncovincingly out of the chalk head. It had been drawn wrong somehow. He reached out to touch the surface of the pool of dried blood. It looked almost lacquered. It was slick in some places, cracking on the surface in others, darker and thicker in the center. The light from the ceiling shined off it in a kind of busted nimbus, the shape not unlike that of a broken jaw.

  What could blood tell? he wondered. Where blood was could tell a lot. Could blood itself tell nothing?

  He got out his keys and dug at the blood in the center of the stain. The top 1/4’ layer cracked away in bits, but underneath it merely separated. Right near the floor the blood was almost moist, like a dough.

  How long had it been? he wondered. They had started calling him several weeks ago. At least that; it could have been longer: he had been in no shape at the time to say how much time had passed. Aline, then, must have been dead for at least three weeks, perhaps more than a month. There was no way blood would stay moist for that long. It would either dry out completely or it would begin to rot and stink. And why were there no flies?

  He went out into the hall. The guard was waiting, standing as stiffly as he had been when Kline had gone into the room.

  ‘Nobody was killed in that room,’ said Kline

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ said the guard.

  ‘Whose room is it?’

  The guard just looked at him.

  ‘I need to see Borchert,’ said Kline. ‘Right now.’ ‘The room, Mr. Kline?’ said Borchert absently. ‘What room is that exactly?’ He held his mutilated finger between them and scrutinized it, his eyes flashing back and forth between it and Kline. ‘Nice work, don’t you think, Mr. Kline?’

  The fingertip was pale and puffy, streaked dark at the end, a sort of red collar just below the cut.

  ‘It’s infected,’ said Kline.

  ‘Nonsense,’ said Borchert. ‘Wha
t you see is simply the body sealing itself off.’

  ‘About the room –’

  ‘– I can see the appeal of self-cauterization, Mr. Kline,’ said Borchert. ‘Ugly, true, but you really do have something there. Less clinical. A return to natural religion, so to speak.’

  ‘I don’t have anything,’ said Kline. ‘This has nothing to do with me.’

  ‘Oh, but it does, Mr. Kline. You may be an unintentional avatar, but you are an avatar nonetheless.’

  ‘Look,’ said Kline. ‘I’m done with this. I’m leaving.’

  ‘So sorry, Mr. Kline,’ said Borchert. ‘But we’ve talked about this. If you try to leave, you’ll be killed. Now what was this about the room?’

  Kline shook his head. ‘Nobody was killed in that room.’

  ‘What room?’

  ‘The murder room.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Borchert. ‘I see.’ He used his arm to raise himself out of the chair and onto his remaining leg and then stood there, half gone. He stood tilted slightly in the direction of his absent limbs, as if crimped at the side, for balance. ‘How can you be so sure, Mr. Kline?’

  ‘Everything is wrong,’ said Kline. ‘The blood spatter pattern is irregular, the positioning of the body isn’t right in regard to blood flow –

  ‘– but surely, Mr. Kline, irregular doesn’t mean falsified. Perhaps it’s simply an unusual circumstance.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ said Kline. ‘But there’s something wrong with the blood.’

  ‘The blood?’

  ‘It isn’t completely dry.’

  ‘But surely –’

  ‘– It’s been artificially dried. A fan or a hair dryer or something. But it’s still damp underneath.

  It couldn’t possibly belong to the body of a man killed several weeks ago.’

  Borchert looked at him thoughtfully, a long moment, slowly hopped his way around so he could slide back into the chair.

  ‘Well?’ said Kline.

  ‘So it’s a reconstruction,’ said Borchert. ‘So what?’

  ‘So what?’ said Kline. ‘How can I be expected to solve a crime by looking at a reconstruction of it?’

  ‘Mr. Kline, surely you’re enough of an armchair philosopher to realize that everything is a reconstruction of something else? Reality is a desperate and evasive creature.’

  ‘Am I being asked to solve the crime or the reconstruction of the crime?’

  ‘The crime,’ said Borchert. ‘The reconstruction,’ he said, gesturing to himself with his thumb and his one and two thirds fingers, ‘c’est moi.’

  ‘I can’t get anywhere without real evidence.’

  ‘I have perfect faith in you, Mr. Kline.’

  ‘At least let me talk to a few people who might know something.’

  ‘Somewhat tricky,’ said Borchert, ‘but, ever the optimist, I’m convinced something can be arranged.’

  Shaking his head, Kline went toward the door. Once there he turned, saw Borchert smiling in his chair behind him. When he smiled, Kline realized that all his bottom teeth had been removed.

  ‘This is going well, don’t you think?’ said Borchert, speaking loudly, perhaps for the sake of the guard. ‘Thank you, dear friend, for stopping by.’

  V

  Ramse showed up a few days later with a tape recorder balanced on his forearms. He put it on the table near Kline.

  ‘What’s this for?’ asked Kline.

  ‘It’s a tape recorder,’ said Ramse. ‘For taping things. Borchert asked me to bring it.’

  ‘What does he want me to do with it?’

  ‘It’s for the interviews,’ said Ramse. ‘For the crime.’

  Kline nodded. He poured himself a glass of milk, drank it slowly as Ramse watched.

  ‘Anything else you need?’ Kline asked.

  ‘No,’ said Ramse. ‘Just that.’

  Kline nodded. ‘Right,’ he said. ‘Where’s Gous?’

  ‘He’s getting ready for the party.’

  ‘The party?’

  ‘Didn’t he send you an invitation?’

  ‘No.’

  Ramse furrowed his brow. ‘An oversight,’ he said. ‘He’d want you to come. I’m sure he wants you to come. Will you?’

  Kline shrugged. ‘Why not?’ he said.

  ‘It’s settled then,’ said Ramse. ‘I’ll pick you up at eight.’

  Kline nodded, looked absently at his watch. Until the accident, he had worn his watch on his right arm, but now if he wore it there it threatened to slide off the stump.

  Across the table, Ramse cleared his throat.

  ‘You’re still here?’ asked Kline.

  ‘Shall I wait outside or would you rather I came back later?’ asked Ramse.

  ‘For the party?’

  ‘You don’t understand,’ claimed Ramse. ‘I’m supposed to take the tape back.’

  ‘But I haven’t conducted any interviews yet.’

  ‘That’s what the tape’s for.’

  ‘Right,’ said Kline. ‘To tape the interviews.’

  ‘No,’ said Ramse. ‘To tape the questions.’

  ‘To tape the questions?’

  Ramse nodded. ‘These people,’ he said. ‘They’re all ten or above. You’re a one. You can’t see them in person.’

  ‘But I see Borchert.’

  ‘Borchert’s the exception,’ said Ramse. ‘You see him when someone above a ten has to be seen. If you were a three or a four some might condescend to see you, but they won’t see a one. Not even a self-cauterizer.’

  ‘Jesus,’ said Kline. ‘That’s ridiculous.’

  ‘I’ve been instructed by Borchert not to listen to the questions,’ said Ramse. ‘I’m only an eight. I don’t need to know everything. I’m to take the tape back to Borchert once you’ve finished recording. Would you like me to wait in the hall or would you prefer I come back later?’

  He sat staring at the tape recorder. It was ridiculous, he knew. Perhaps Ramse was right, it was only a question of proper behavior, no ones among the tens, but why in that case even bring him in at all? Why not solve their own murder?

  He went and opened the door. Ramse was there, waiting, leaning against the wall. Kline closed the door again.

  What were his options? One, he could refuse to send the tape back. Borchert would hardly allow that. He would be punished in some way, he was certain. And it would only prolong the amount of time he would have to spend in the compound. Two, he could send back a blank tape. Same problem: it bought him a little time, but time for what? Three, he could send back a series of questions. That had the advantage of moving things forward, or at least of moving them in some direction.

  He sighed. He went to the table and pressed the record button:

  One, State your name and your relation to the deceased.

  Two, Where were you on the night Aline was murdered?

  Three, Do you know of anyone who might want Aline dead for any reason?

  Four, Did you see the body? If so, please describe in detail what you saw.

  Five, Are you absolutely certain that Aline’s death wasn’t a suicide?

  Six, Did you kill Aline?

  It was ridiculous, but at least it was a start. They would tell him nothing, he was almost sure. He turned the tape off.

  Ramse showed up at eight o’clock sharp, wearing a tuxedo that had been modified to better reveal his amputations, no shoes, no socks. He had, slung over one arm, a plastic dry cleaner’s bag containing another tuxedo, which he handed to Kline.

  ‘Try this on,’ he said.

  Kline did. It was a little loose but generally fit quite well, the right sleeve cut back slightly to reveal his stump.

  They walked across the gravel lot before the house, following the road towards the gate, turning down a footpath after about a hundred meters. At the end was a gravel circle, a bar to the left, a neon one-legged woman on the sign. A well-lit lodge structure was to the right, which was where they went.

  A one-handed man was standing at the open door, smi
ling. Kline could hear music blaring from the door behind him.

  ‘Hello, Ramse,’ the man said affably. ‘This the guy?’

  ‘This is him, John,’ said Ramse. ‘In the flesh.’

  They both laughed at that for some reason. The man held out his remaining hand, his right. ‘Put it there,’ he said, which Kline tried, left-handed, very awkwardly, to do.

  ‘Self-cauterizer, huh?’ asked John. ‘People have been talking. There’s a buzz going.’

  ‘Don’t embarrass him, John,’ said Ramse. Ushering Kline before him, he made his way in.

  Inside, the room was filled with several dozen men in tuxedos, all amputees. Streamers descended without pattern from the ceiling, brushing against men’s shoulders, dipping into their drinks. Ramse took him to the bar and Kline got a drink and stood next to Ramse nursing it, giving Ramse sips of it from time to time. The men were mostly ones or twos as far as Kline could tell in the dim light, though there were fours and fives as well and one person that Kline thought might be a seven or eight – the room was dark and in motion so it was hard to tell how many toes the man was actually missing. Then suddenly Gous was beside him, rubbing his shoulder with his stump.

  ‘How nice of you to come,’ he said to Kline, smiling. He was dressed different than the others. He was wearing a tuxedo, but one sleeve of it had been wrapped in plastic, and a line had been drawn in permanent marker between his middle and fourth finger, angling across his palm to terminate at the palm’s edge just before the wrist. ‘Ramse didn’t know if you’d come,’ he said, ‘but I was sure you would.’ He turned to Ramse. ‘Stretter didn’t come, the bastard.’

  ‘I’m sure he meant to,’ said Ramse. ‘Something must have come up.’

  ‘No,’ said Gous. ‘He never meant to. I came for him three times, but now that he’s a five, he’s too good for me.’

  ‘Surely he can’t mean it personally,’ said Ramse. ‘It’s just some sort of mistake.’

  But Gous was already turning away, shaking his head. Kline watched Ramse go after him. He took a sip of his drink, looked around, then began to walk slowly around the room. There were no women, he quickly realized, nothing but men, everyone in their thirties and forties, nobody either very young or very old.