Prayer for the Dead

Chapter 10

Eric had never seen so many cops in one room before. He felt like he’d been put in a closet with the entire police academy, and every one of them wanted a piece of him. They were breathing in his face, pushing and shoving each other just to get a look at him. Even his first FBI man was here, or maybe his second, depending on what the guy who nearly killed him was. The cops acted as if he was FBI, too, but the other FBI man, the one who had identified himself as Hatcher and flashed his badge as if he were showing off, acted funny toward him. Eric couldn’t quite figure out the relationship, but it sure wasn’t a happy one.

Eric knew Tee, of course, even kind of liked him in a strange way. Tee had kicked him around a few times during questioning, nothing serious, nothing Eric couldn’t take and laugh at. There was never anything mean about Tee’s rough stuff. Eric understood that it was just to get his attention-or out of frustration when Eric was too smart for him.

Drooden, the brown-shirted state cop who acted as if he was in charge of the questioning, was a different kind of rough. One look at him and Eric could tell the bastard was just plain mean. He looked like the kind of man who believed law enforcement was a sacred duty and he was one of God’s chosen enforcers. The kind of man who would lecture you as he beat you and then add a few more licks, not because he wanted to, but because God would like it that way.

The FBI man. Hatcher, looked like a bookkeeper: constipated, prissy almost. One good dump might make him a new man, Eric thought. But he was certainly proud of that badge.

There were a couple of other brownshirts in the room and one or two local cops around the edges, but the only one who bothered Eric was the one who had played a drumroll on his forehead with the. 38 barrel. They called him Becker and he stood in the back of the room, watching everything but saving his best looks for Eric.

“Deep shit, boy, you understand?” It was Drooden. “You are in it up to your eyeballs and sinking.”

“For what? B and E? I’ve been clean for five years, I’ll probably get probation.”

“I thought you gave it up,” said Tee.

Eric shrugged and grinned at Tee. “You give up chasing pussy, Tee?”

Oh, they hated it when he grinned at them. Drooden looked like he was going to swallow his tongue.

“Homicide, boy, murder one!” Drooden was leaning in close, spitting in Eric’s face as he talked. “There are eight skeletons in that house. You seem awfully familiar with the place. How do we know you didn’t put them there?”

“Is that what this is all about? You guys don’t just love me for my own sake?”

“We’re fond of you, Eric.” Tee grinned back at him. “Don’t underestimate your appeal. Captain Drooden is so happy to see you he might decide to keep you.”

“Like a pet, you mean?”

“Like a love slave. Chain you down and have his wicked way with you for about five years.”

“Ooooeee, sounds fun.”

“Terhune,” said Drooden, aghast. He looked at Tee as if the chief had just cut a horrible fart.

The cops were getting in each other’s way, which was all to the good, as Eric saw it. Let them fight with each other; they might have less juice when they concentrated on him.

“What made you choose that particular house tonight, Mr. Brandauer?” This was Hatcher, the fed.

“What house is that?”

“The one you broke into.”

“I don’t think we agreed I broke into any house. I was talking theoretically about B and E.”

“Why that particular house, Mr. Brandauer?”

Becker was moving forward from the back of the room. Eric watched him closely. He stopped just behind Hatcher and studied Eric from over Hatcher’s shoulder.

“No reason. I didn’t see any lights. Did my man really do eight people?”

“We think you may have done eight people, wise guy.” Drooden was back in his face.

“If we really think that, then we better call my lawyer, shouldn’t we?”

“How did he get you into the car?” Becker asked.

This time Hatcher was annoyed by the interference, but he didn’t say anything.

“What car? Who?” Eric looked to Tee; he didn’t want to face Becker directly. “How many people do I have to talk to all at once? I’d like to help you people. I understand you got a problem here. You know me, Tee. I’ve never been a hard ass. Get me clean and I plead and fair’s fair. Now all of a sudden I got to face the nation here. Give me someone to talk to, you know what I mean, we can work something out.”

“Oh, now he’s shy,” said Drooden.

“It’s not really up to you to set the conditions of this interview, Mr. Brandauer,” said Hatcher.

“Better get used to gang bangs, Eric.” Tee’s grin was fading around the edges.

“He’s right,” said Becker. “Why not let me talk to him in private for ten minutes?”

Eric felt his stomach sink. Becker was the last man in the world he wanted to be alone with. But they were considering it; he saw the glances run from Drooden to Hatcher and back. Tee was not consulted.

“This guy tried to kill me! You can’t leave me alone with him! That’s not what I meant. He tried to kill me.”

Hatcher leaned close to Eric and patted his shoulder. The lesser cops were already drifting out the door.

“You’re wrong, Mr. Brandauer. If he had tried to kill you, you would be dead.”

“We are taking a coffee break. We’ll leave you alone for a few minutes to sit calmly by yourself and consider your story and its consequences, son,” said Drooden.

Becker pulled a chair to face Eric. When he sat, their knees touched. “Tee, this guy’s a maniac!”

“What guy?”

“Don’t leave me with him.”

“We’re leaving you alone in a locked room,” said Tee.

Hatcher paused by the door. “Becker.”

“I know,” said Becker. He didn’t look at Hatcher.

“I mean it.”

“Take a look at him,” said Becker. He lifted Eric’s hand. “A pre-existing condition.” He pointed at the purplish, swollen knuckle. “Otherwise not a mark on him.”

“I want him back that way.”

“I said so,” said Becker.

Hatcher pulled the door closed behind him. Becker scooted his chair closer so that his legs slipped between Eric’s. He continued to hold Eric’s hand in his.

“What are you going to do?” said Eric.

“What are you going to do?”

Eric tried to retrieve his hand, but Becker held on, gently but firmly.

“You wanted to kill me before, didn’t you?”

“How did he get you into the car?”

“I could see the look in your eyes. You wanted to pull the trigger.”

“Did you recognize the look?”

“What do you mean?”

“He got you into the car some way. He tried to stick you with the syringe, but you saw it and hit him. You beat him badly. He might have died.”

“He didn’t. I checked.”

“You checked before you came over to rob his house. That was good, that was smart. It’s not your fault the guy’s got bodies under the floorboards.”

“Is that for real?”

“He didn’t seem the type, did he?”

Eric shook his head. The man had been a weakling; he’d taken his beating like he deserved it.

“They never do,” said Becker.

“Is that why you wanted to kill me? You thought I was him?”

“I knew you weren’t him. Did he offer you money? Did he say anything about your mother?”

“My mother?”

“What was your mother’s maiden name?”

“What’s that got to do with anything?”

“Any reason not to tell me?”

“Margaret.”

“Her last name.”

“Evinrude.”

“Did you ever see him before?”

“See who?”

Becker spoke evenly, reasonably. “I’m tired of your horseshit, Eric. Did you know him? Had you ever seen him before? Tell me how he got you into the car.”

“Are you trying to get me on some kind of accessory-to-murder rap? Because honest to God, I don’t know a thing.”

“How did he get you into the car?”

“I never got into any car. I don’t know anything about a mugging.”

“The mugging’s a freebie, Eric. We don’t want you for it. He’s not going to testify about it. Just tell me.”

“Sure, just tell you. How about if I tell my attorney now?”

“You don’t need an attorney to talk to me. I’m a private citizen.”

“You’re not a fed? Why am I talking to you in the first place?”

“You’re not. I’m not here. You heard Tee. You’re alone in a locked room.”

Becker placed his thumb atop Eric’s knuckle and slowly squeezed. Eric was not prepared for the pain and gasped. Becker released the pressure but held on to the hand. His voice was still sweet and reasonable.

“Did you ever talk to anybody about insurance, Eric?”

“I suppose so. They call me up. Don’t they call everybody?”

“Did you ever meet anybody to talk about it?”

“Ever? Maybe, sometime. I don’t know.”

“Did you ever see him before you beat him up?” Becker touched the knuckle again and watched Eric’s eyes widen.

“Never. Are they going to let you do this to me?”

“Do what, Eric?”

“You’re torturing me, man. I’m going to scream brutality to the papers.”

“There’s not a mark on you-except the one you put there yourself.” Becker tapped the knuckle again.

Eric moaned. “You got no idea what that feels like.”

“Of course I do. Listen to me, Eric. Nobody wants you here, you’re not important in this one. We want him, the guy you mugged, the guy whose house you broke into. We want him very, very badly and we don’t have time to waste with you, so just answer the questions and get it over with.”

“And cop to all kinds of shit? How do I know what I’m involved in here? I want my lawyer.”

“That’s what we don’t have time for. We can’t wait a week to cut a deal before you answer a few simple questions. You are not going to incriminate yourself with me. Do you believe me?”

Becker pressed the knuckle and held it. Eric moaned.

“Do you believe me?”

“I believe you!”

Becker released the knuckle but continued to hold Eric’s hand in his.

“How did he get you into the car?”

“He was parked right next to my wagon. He had the passenger door open so I couldn’t get past him. He said he needed my help in starting the car without his key. Some bullshit. I don’t think he knew how to hot-wire.”

“The syringe?”

“He must have had it down on the seat. It fell on the floor when I dragged him across the seat. I didn’t know about it till then.”

“You were too busy hitting him.”

“Yeah.”

“That’s the busted knuckle. Ironic, don’t you think? You use it on him, I use it on you, it gets you coming and going.”

Becker released Eric’s hand.

“You did want to kill me in that house, didn’t you?”

Becker smiled at him.

“I still do.”

The snails were doing their usual thorough job. After five hours of labor, there was not a square inch of Dyce’s house that Drooden’s forensic team hadn’t scrutinized, dusted, scraped, probed, or photographed. Becker could read their trails everywhere, like the rivulets of slime left behind by garden slugs. As Becker had known it would, the house had given up its ghosts, and they had been replaced by tape measures, grid lines marked with string, smudges of fingerprint powder. The house was no longer a place where a man had dreamed his nightmares and made them come true-it was now an archaeological dig. All that remained undisturbed were the bones.

“I thought it might be helpful for you to see this in situ before we take the bones for analysis,” Hatcher said.

Drooden leaned against the refrigerator, watching like a protective parent. He had resented the Bureau involvement from the beginning and was barely able to tolerate Becker’s unorthodox presence. A member of his forensic team stood in the doorway, tapping the ashes from his cigarette into an evidence bag.

“If he didn’t see it last night,” said Drooden.

Hatcher ignored the state cop. He had seldom met one who liked being outranked.

“I was struck by the stones,” said Hatcher. He pointed with the toe of his shoe as Becker squatted next to the makeshift graveyard. The state police had removed enough floorboards to reveal all of the skeletons, which lay atop each other like the tossed shafts of a game of pick-up-sticks. Only the skulls were kept separate. They were sitting side by side in a row eight long. Next to each skull, like a hyphen separating it from its neighbor, was a small stone.

The snails had covered the area with a grid of string bisected into three-foot squares and then photographed it from several angles so that exact measurements could be reproduced later. A twelve-inch ruler included in the photos to give perspective still lay between a pair of thigh bones.

“I assume he kept the skulls separate as some sort of burial notion. Given the cramped circumstances, it was probably the best he could do.” Hatcher stepped back and watched Becker.

“You call that a burial?” Drooden asked.

“Well, he didn’t just throw the skulls in there with the rest. What would you call it?”

“You cut somebody up in your bathtub, flush his hair down the drain, and boil his bones-I doubt that you care enough about him to give him a burial,” said Drooden.

Becker spoke for the first time. “He cared about these men very much. They were very important to him.” Becker looked at the forensic man, who was watching his smoke rise to the ceiling. “They were all men?”

The forensic man nodded. “Pelvic bones look like it. We’ll know for sure later.”

“He cared enough about them to keep them alive for a while,” said Becker. “He might very well care enough to give them the best kind of burial he could manage.”

“Kept them alive while he did what to them?”

“Watched them, for one thing.”

“How do you know that?” Drooden demanded. Becker moved a hand toward one of the stones. “May I?”

The forensic man removed a pair of disposable plastic gloves from his pocket and handed them to Becker.

“Wait a minute,” said Drooden. He rounded on the forensic man. “Did I say anything could be disturbed yet?”

“No, sir.”

“You wait until I do, damn it.”

The forensic man was standing at attention in the doorway, trying to figure how to get rid of the cigarette without leaving and without giving Drooden another chance to yell at him;

“What have you found out about him from the neighbors?” Hatcher asked evenly. He moved slightly to screen Becker who was already holding one of the stones between his gloved fingers.

“They liked him,” said Drooden. “Nice man, quiet, minded his own business. He distributed fruit cakes at Christmas, attended the annual Fourth of July barbecue one of them gives in his backyard. On Halloween the kids said he usually gave candy and acted like he was scared by every ghost and ballerina that showed up. The first year here he gave them fruit, but apparently someone set him straight and after that it was always candy. The kids think he’s fine. The adults don’t pretend to know him, but think he’s fine, too. Can you imagine Halloween at this house?”

“Did they say anything about his girl?” Becker asked, straightening. He had replaced the stone.

“No one knew about her. If she came here, they never saw her.”

Hatcher looked at Becker, who nodded. The two men walked toward the door.

“Finished, are we?” Drooden asked. He turned on the forensic man, who was snuffing out the cigarette between moistened fingers. “Clean it,” he said. “And Wilkins…”

“Yes, sir.”

“You people better find out something we don’t already know.”

Hatcher walked Becker to his car. Some of the neighbor-children were still gathered on a lawn outside the barricade, making a picnic of watching the police come and go.

“What about the stones? Anything?” Hatcher asked.

“Just gravel, I think. But fresh; it still had a dusting of pumice on it. Either it came right out of the rock crusher or else he got it somewhere before it got rained on and was washed clean. You might check on the local source for gravel, see where they’ve delivered in the last four years, cross-check that with precipitation reports, find out when and where he might have got it before it got wet.”

“Are you kidding?”

“I think the stones were markers. Tombstones. His way of paying his respects. He might come back for more.”

“More?”

“You don’t think he’s through killing people, do you? He’s just warming up.”

“But he must know we’re on to him by now. That’s why he walked out of the hospital.”

“He’s not a criminal. Hatcher. He can’t just decide to lie low for a while. He doesn’t kill for profit.”

“Why does he do it? Do you have any theories yet?”

Becker hesitated.

“Why not ask an alcoholic why he drinks? Because by the time he knows he has a problem, the problem is already most of his life. It would be easier if you find him and we’ll ask.”

“We’ll find him. He’s got no credit cards, no money, thanks to our friend Eric. Who’s he going to turn to for help? We’re covering his girlfriend, the people he worked with. If he has any family, we’ll find them, too. We should have him in custody within forty-eight hours.”

“Save that for the press release. This guy is not stupid. He only got caught this time because of the girl. He won’t make that mistake again.”

“What tipped him off that we were on to him?”

“Have you been to his office?”

“The insurance company in Hartford? Not personally. Milch has talked to his employer.”

“And?”

“Good worker, low profile, not much snap to him, but he does his work on time and accurately. He was passed up for a promotion recently and they assume there was a natural resentment, but he didn’t show much.”

“I want to go there. Can you arrange it?”

“You can’t stay on this as a civilian. You know that, don’t you? Drooden snarls every time you show up as it is. It took me the better part of an hour just to talk him out of arresting you for entering the scene of a police investigation last night.”

“So I won’t stay on it. How’s that?”

“Who are you kidding? You’re already on it; you’ve swallowed the hook. You couldn’t leave now without ripping out your guts.”

“Shall we see?”

“Why else were you in there last night? For your own entertainment?”

“I was helping Tee. Now he’s got you.”

“I can get you back on temporary assignment. They’d love to have you.”

“How about you. Hatcher? Would you love to have me?”

“You’re good at it. I can live with you.”

“Get me in to see the actuaries at Dyce’s insurance company.”

“I’ll have to go with you unless you take temporary assignment.”

Becker watched Drooden exit the house and speak into the radio in his car. The electric crackle of the response could be heard, loud but unintelligible, across the road.

“We’d need a clear understanding,” Becker said.

“Name it.”

“I’ll work on it from this end, but I won’t go near him. I don’t want to be within miles of him.”

“Fine by me.”

“I mean it. Hatcher. I will not go down the hole for this one. You’ll have to find another ferret.”

“I didn’t send you in after Bahoud. It just happened.”

“I’m not going to debate history with you. All I do on this one is think, or I don’t have any part of it.”

“Agreed. We love you for your mind alone.”

“And try to stay away from me as much as you can, too.”

“Finding Bahoud was little short of a miracle, I’ve told you that. I admired your work greatly. Nobody expected you to take him on yourself”

“I was made certain promises then, too.”

“We tried to keep them. It just happened.”

“Well it won’t happen this time. You find another ferret. Because I’ll make you a promise, Hatcher. If I have to go down the hole, I’ll tie your arms and send you in in front of me.”

“Or we could try something novel for one of your cases,” Hatcher said. “We could make an actual arrest and bring him back alive to stand trial.”

Becker breathed with exaggerated calm and Hatcher feared he had gone too far. Hatcher did not fear most men, but he was afraid of Becker-he had seen him work.

“What have you found out from the girl?” Becker said at last.

“Very little of real use. We went at her nonstop for a couple of hours, but didn’t get much. The report’s being typed up now. She’s a weird one.”

“I’m going to see her.”

“What do you hope to learn we haven’t already got?” That was one of the qualities Hatcher disliked most about the man: He had no respect for the work of others but seemed to have to do everything himself, and in his own way. “She really doesn’t know much of anything about him. We will know more about him than she does by tomorrow.”

“We’ll know more facts,” Becker said.

“As opposed to what, guesses?”

“Feelings, intuitions.”

“Feelings? She thinks he’s a creep.”

“She thinks so now. What else could she say after she discovered the bodies? It makes her look like a fool to have had anything to do with him. I want to know what she felt about him then, before, when she was sleeping with him.”

“Good God, Becker. You want to know what he was like in bed? Is that it?”

“Something like that.”

“You can’t learn anything by that. I mean, you can’t judge a person by his bedroom skill, if that’s what you want to call it.”

“You stick to fingerprints and blood samples,” Becker said. “We’ve got all we’re going to get out of that. We know who he is already. I need to know why he is.”

“We have psychologists to give us a personality profile.”

Hatcher hated it when Becker grinned at him; he always felt he was being mocked.

“I supply them with their raw data,” Becker said.

Becker put the car in gear and drove away. Hatcher watched him go, knowing how close he had come to losing him. Hatcher hoped he still had the nerves for it.

Helen knew all about this man before he even spoke to her.

“It’s in your eyes,” she told Becker. “You have very kind eyes.”

“Do I?”

“They’re the mirror to your soul, you know.”

“Window,” said Becker. “The eyes are the window to the soul. I think that’s how it goes.”

“You know what I’m talking about, then,” Helen said. “I knew you would.”

“It’s not a theory I put much store in,” Becker said. “Soulful looks are pretty easy to fake.”

“But you’re not faking, are you? No. You see. I knew that. As soon as I opened my door and saw you standing there, I knew. I’m very good at that. I can take one look at someone and tell what they’re really like. It’s just a power I have.”

Becker restrained himself from asking her where her power was when she sized up Dyce. It seemed an unnecessary cruelty.

“What else do you see?” he asked. Becker wondered at the lack of information Hatcher had gotten out of Helen. She was primed and ready to talk. indeed he could see she was desperate to do so, the kind of woman who probably collared strangers in her need to unload her feelings. Hatcher would not have the skill or sense to play along with her and let her get there in her own time. She didn’t need a list of questions to get her going; all she needed was an ear and a stillness that could pass for compassion.

“Strength,” said Helen. “You’re strong, aren’t you, very strong, but sensitive, too. Women must just love you.”

Becker grinned boyishly.

“But you’re shy, too, aren’t you?” she continued. “I can see that, yes you are, you’re shy. Do you know how I know? Because I’m shy, too, although you wouldn’t think so to hear me rattling on sometimes.”

“Dyce was shy, too, wasn’t he?” Becker asked.

“Oh, my, yes. Shy-and private? My goodness. I never knew anything about him, really, not really. Only what I knew by my intuition, you see. He never told me anything.”

“That must have been very hard for you. You cared for him so much, but he just wouldn’t open up”

“Did I say I cared for him so much? We were friends.”

“I know you cared for him,” said Becker, smiling. “You’re not the kind of woman who would sleep with a man she didn’t truly care for.”

“Well, no, I’m not, I certainly am not, you’re right.”

“Although sometimes your emotions just get the best of you. I know what that’s like.”

“Do you?” Helen stopped pacing and sat next to Becker on the love seat. Her knee touched his thigh as she turned toward him. “I thought you would.”

“I’m not made of ice.” Becker looked her squarely in the eyes, holding her gaze. “Neither are you.”

Helen exhaled quickly, as if she’d been punched. She was melting. She hoped he couldn’t see it, but he was so perfect, so much the man she needed right now, someone strong, someone who could understand.

“Sometimes these things are too strong,” she said, casting her eyes down. “Sometimes they just overwhelm you.”

“And no one’s to blame for that,” said Becker.

“But I didn’t say I slept with Roger.”

“You didn’t say you didn’t,” said Becker.

She laughed and wagged a finger at him, allowing her knee to press firmly against his leg. She was being flirtatious, she knew that, perhaps even naughty, but sometimes a woman had to take a chance. He was so right for her.

“Oh, I have to watch you,” she said. “You’re the sneaky kind.” She laid her arm on the back of the sofa so that it nearly made contact with his back. She wondered if he noticed. Some men would notice immediately, and others, like Roger, would be oblivious. It was hard to tell with this one. He was so contained. But so cute-and she knew he liked her. The other agents had not seemed to like her; she didn’t know why. They had acted as if her relationship with Roger was something dirty, something she should be blamed for, for heaven’s sake. She certainly hadn’t told them anything they didn’t need to know.

“You’re a very attractive young woman,” Becker said.

She swatted his shoulder lightly, remonstrating with him for such a bold remark.

“You know that,” Becker said, tilting his head. “You probably hear it all the time.”

“You,” she said, pushing his shoulder with one finger this time. She left the finger there,

“It’s only natural that if a pretty woman and a healthy man get together…” He let it trail off, grinning at her. There was nothing lewd about the grin, she decided. He just liked to tease. She liked it, too.

Helen smiled back at him, then demurely looked away. She wondered if he could feel her finger on his shoulder.

“And Dyce was young and virile. Only natural.”

“You mustn’t judge every man by yourself,” she said.

“Oooo-oooh,” said Becker. “Something a little unnatural? Tell me.”

“I can’t tell you that. What are you thinking of?” But she wanted to tell him very much. She had wanted to tell someone ever since it happened, but she could hardly bare her soul to the people at work. She would never hear the last of it.

“Did he dress up?” Becker asked. He was chuckling, enjoying the idea. He wasn’t censorious at all; he could understand, even savor the oddness. It was kind of fun if you had some distance on it.

“Worse than that,” she said.

“Whips and chains? Boots?”

“You’ll never guess.”

“I’ll bet I can. I’ve heard of everything.”

“You haven’t heard of this one,” said Helen. “I don’t think this has ever been done before.”

“In the bathroom. In a tree. Hanging from the rafters.”

“From the rafters?”

“It’s been done,” he said. “You’d be surprised.”

“I’d certainly be surprised by that.”

“He bent over the sink and had you throw oranges at him.”

Helen laughed and put her hand on his thigh for a moment before removing it.

“People don’t do that,” she said.

“I swear to you. I’ll bet Roger didn’t come up with anything new. Fun, maybe, but not new.”

“I don’t know about fun,” she said.

“Well, fun for him, anyway.”

“Fun is not a word I’d use for Roger,” she said. “He didn’t seem to enjoy it so much as-oh, I can’t tell you.”

“Not fun exactly. I’ll bet it was more of a serious thing with him.”

“How did you know that?”

She leaned forward again as if amazed at his brilliance and touched his thigh once more. Helen did not know what was making her so bold, except that if he left now she didn’t think she would ever see him again.

“I didn’t know Roger, but from what I’ve heard, I’d have to guess it wasn’t as if he really liked sex for its own sake. More like it was a kind of ritual. Something like that.”

This time she really was amazed. It was as if he could see right into her mind. Could he see into her heart as well?

“That’s true,” she said. “I never thought of it quite that way, but that’s true, it was like a ritual. Or a ceremony.”

“I’ll bet he wore something special,” Becker said.

“Talcum powder,” she said, surprised at herself.

“Talcum powder?”

“And I mean that’s all.”

With a giggle she got to her feet and waggled her fingers in front of him. Becker took her hand and she led him to the bathroom.

“Come on, I’ll show you,” she said, clasping his palm tightly. When she described Dyce’s appearance, nude and covered in white powder, she clung to Becker’s hand the whole time, squeezing for emphasis and finally, when speaking of her fear and astonishment, putting both of their still-clasped hands on her chest.

“I just didn’t know what to do,” she said, collapsing her head helplessly against him, leaning there for a second, then turning her head up to his, like a cat waiting to be stroked. She was pressing the back of his hand firmly into her breast.

“What should I have done?” she asked.

“Sometimes you just have to go along with things,” Becker said.

“I knew you would understand.”

“Did he do it again, or just that once?”

“It was the only way he really could do it,” she said. “Is it wicked of me to tell you that?”

Becker looked into her eyes and brushed his free hand against her cheek. For a moment he thought she was going to swoon.

“You should tell me everything you need to,” said Becker.

“I thought there was something wrong with me. Wasn’t I attractive enough by myself? Do you think there’s anything wrong with me?”

She moved his hand up and down so that it rubbed against her nipple, which was hard under the blouse. This was not the recommended investigation technique, he thought, suppressing a laugh.

She had her head tilted back, her mouth partly open, her eyes half closed. Becker wondered if she had learned her methods from 1940's movies.

“If there’s anything wrong with you, I haven’t found it yet,” he said.

“There’s one other thing I could tell you, but you’ll hate me if I do.”

“Nothing you could say would make me do that,” said Becker.

“Oh, I shouldn’t.”

Becker tipped her chin up with his finger and looked in her eyes. I’ve seen the same movies, he thought.

“Yes, you should,” he said.

“When I saw him standing here, all covered in white like a ghost he was-you know.”

“What?”

“You know.” She rolled her eyes to avoid contact with his, acutely embarrassed-or her feigned version of embarrassment, Becker thought.

“I don’t know. You have to tell me, Helen. What was he?”

She closed her eyes. “He was as hard as I’ve ever seen a man,” she said. Becker felt her hand slipping between his legs. “Until now,” she added.

Becker carefully bent his knees and lifted her into his arms, hoping his back wouldn’t go out on him and then realizing it would be a good way out of this, if it did.

She sighed as he carried her to her bedroom and gasped with false surprise as he eased her down on the bed. But then he pulled away from her and stood.

“I can’t,” he said.

She stopped brushing a profusion of pillows off the bed and looked at him in confusion.

“I’m on a case. You know what that means.” He bit his lip in a display of sorrowful regret, then sighed. “Much as I’d like to.”

Helen thought of saying that it wouldn’t take long, but feared he might misinterpret the remark. She could see he was already upset and it would be cruel of her to make it any more difficult for him.

“Oh. A case. Of course.”

“Regulations,” he said.

He clenched his fists and shuddered in frustration, then shrugged, his face a study in sorrow and resignation.

Helen could not help but admire his dedication. “You wouldn’t want me if it meant betraying my duty,” he said.

“I understand,” she said.

Becker kissed her forehead and eased toward the door.

“Will I see you again?” she asked.

“Call me,” Becker said. “Anytime. Anytime.” He grinned at her. “I think we need to investigate this matter further.”

“Oh, Agent…?”

“Hatcher,” he said. “Agent Neal Hatcher. Just call.”

Helen knew the agent would be back. She had sensed his longing and the urgency with which he had wanted her. It had been very hard for him to leave, and in a way she respected his sense of integrity. Yes, she did, she admired him for it… but she knew he would have to come back, and when she heard his tentative knock on the door she could not resist smiling triumphantly. He had had just time enough to walk to his car, think about the heaven that was waiting for him with her, and return. There were some powers that transcended duty, and she had sensed correctly that Agent Hatcher was more susceptible to them than most men, despite his protestations of obligation.

She waited for him to knock again, not wishing to appear too eager. It came quietly, almost as a scratch. Timid, like a schoolboy, not certain of the reception he would get. It made her feel even more powerful. She would not toy with him any longer. She would welcome him with all her warmth, and his timidity would melt and he would be as strong and vigorous a lover as she knew he could be.

Helen opened the door with just a hint of a knowing smile on her lips. Dyce grabbed her by the throat and propelled her backward, squeezing hard on her neck so she could not cry out. She hit her legs against the bed and tumbled down and Dyce was on her, his weight pinning her down, his fingers pressing into the flesh of her windpipe.

With his free hand Dyce scrambled across the floor, wincing with the pain in his injured arm, searching for one of the pillows that Helen had not yet replaced in anticipation of the agent’s return. He came up with the red and white checked cat with the whiskers and stuffed it into Helen’s mouth.

He sat on her chest, holding her down, and pressed his knees against her arms. She tried to roll her head from side to side, desperately seeking relief from the suffocation on her throat and in her mouth, but he put his free hand on her forehead and pushed her head down onto the bed.

He was saying something, but Helen could not hear it over the pounding of blood in her ears, the strangled sounds entrapped in the back of her throat.

“Calm down, Helen,” Dyce said. “I don’t want to hurt you, I just want you to be quiet.”

He eased the pressure on her throat and Helen gasped, then sucked greedily for air through her nose.

“Just hold still,” he said. He held his finger to his lips, shushing her. “Everything’s all right, you’re all right. I just wanted to keep you from yelling. You understand that, don’t you? Of course you do. You understand. There now, there now, just calm down. I’m going to remove the pillow, all right? I’m going to let you talk, but you mustn’t raise your voice, do you understand? Of course you do, of course you do. There now, calm down, Helen. That’s a girl, that’s a good girl.”

He smiled at her; his voice was oddly soothing and Helen felt herself relaxing. Again shushing her, he removed the pillow from her mouth, but held it close to her face. His eyebrows arched up in question, waiting for her reaction.

Helen wanted to speak but could only cough at first.

“I hope I didn’t scare you,” he said. “You know I’d never hurt you, Helen.”

She wanted to tell him that he was hurting her now, sitting on her chest, but something in his face told her he would do much worse if she complained.

“Are we all right now?” he asked. “Are we settled down? No need to talk yet. Just nod. That’s right, we’re fine. Now when you do talk, I want you to do it quietly, and when I tell you to do something, I want you to do it immediately and without question. Do you understand? Just nod. Good, Helen.”

Dyce leaned his weight back slightly and eased the pressure of his knees on her arms.

“Now tell me, why are there policemen at my house? Why was that man just here? I know that man. He knows me. Why was he visiting you, Helen?”

Dyce looked at her calmly, quizzically, a slight smile of encouragement on his lips. Helen stared at the blood stains on his shirt, trying to think what to say.

“I don’t know,” she said at last.

Dyce looked at her sadly. “That’s no good, Helen. That’s not a good answer. Do you know why?”

Helen shook her head no.

“Because it assumes I’m an idiot.” He smiled broadly, as if appreciating the joke. “We both know I’m not an idiot, don’t we?”

Helen nodded agreement.

Dyce moved his hand and Helen winced, but he reached past her and switched on the lamp on her night table.

“Now, I want to try this again. I’ll ask you why the police are at my house, and you’ll tell me the truth this time, all right? But I want you to think about something else first.”

Dyce unscrewed the shade from the lamp and dropped it onto the floor. He held the naked bulb next to her cheek. She could feel the heat. From several inches it was no more than a comforting warmth.

“Have you ever burned your fingers on a light bulb? Of course you have. Do you remember how much that hurt? And that was when you could pull your fingers away immediately. Now suppose you couldn’t pull away and that pain just grew and grew and spread all over your face. Just think about that for a moment, Helen, and then tell me what’s going on.”

Dyce moved the lighted bulb closer to her face.

“Shhh. Not yet. Just think about this first.”

He moved the bulb closer still. She could hear a faint humming sound from the electrical element in the bulb.

When she began to tremble and tears welled in her eyes, Dyce spoke again in the same soothing tone.

“Tell me now, Helen. We’ll start with the police. Why are they at my house?”

After she told him everything she knew, he led her to the kitchen and selected her best knife. Dyce was disappointed in the selection.

“A good knife is an absolute essential for a good cook,” he said. He had placed her on a stool in the corner of the kitchen so she could not leave without passing him. As he rummaged through the knife drawer, Helen glanced out the window. If necessary she would throw the stool through the window to get attention, but there was nobody out there.

“What do you cut things with, for heaven’s sake? Do you do all your work with a paring knife?” He held one up contemptuously, then tossed it back in the drawer. “You couldn’t bone a chicken with that,” he said.

He settled at last on an old and long-neglected carving knife with a handle formed of antler. The blade was dull and specked with corrosion.

“You don’t even have a proper whetstone,” he complained.

“Please,” said Helen in a voice so low she could barely hear it herself.

“This is not the way to live. You’ve got to have more pride in yourself This lack of self-esteem…” He waved his arm to encompass the whole room. “Well, it’s pretty sadly reflected in this kitchen.”

“Please, don’t,” she said, louder this time.

Dyce was sharpening the knife on an emery wheel that was part of the electric can opener, shaking his head at the neglect of good steel. The grinding drowned Helen’s voice.

“If you ever lived on a farm you’d learn something about keeping your tools in good shape,” he said, testing the knife edge with his thumb.

“I’ll do anything, anything,” Helen said.

“Get me a paper towel,” he said. He put the can opener back in its place, handling it with some difficulty because of his injured arm.

She looked at him, not comprehending.

“A paper towel, Helen.”

She tore one from the roll and held it toward him. With startling suddenness and violence, Dyce slashed at it with the knife. The lower half of the towel drifted to the floor.

“Now that’s good steel,” he said.

Helen held both hands over her face, and the upper half of the paper towel protruded as if she were a toddler grasping her favorite blanket.

“Please, what?” he asked, annoyed.

“Don’t kill me.”

He seemed genuinely surprised. “I’m not going to kill you, Helen. Why on earth would I do that? I thought we’d take a ride to Bridgeport together.”

“Why?”

“Because we’re going to take your car and because I would have trouble driving with my arm like this.”

Helen nodded, understanding nothing.

“And Bridgeport because I understand there are people there who can provide me with documents. It’s awfully hard to get by in America without documents. Bridgeport has neighborhoods where people are not very particular. Do you see?”

Helen nodded again. “I see.”

“Shall we go?”

Helen moved slowly past him until he caught her arm. He held it gently, almost courtly as they walked onto the street. He did not explain the knife and Helen did not ask. She knew she would not like the answer.

He sat with the knife resting on the front seat by his left hand while she drove. Whenever they slowed down for traffic, he grasped the knife and held it close to her ribs, though when he spoke there was nothing in his voice to indicate the slightest concern, or, indeed, any change in their relationship. If anything, he was more talkative and friendlier than he had been before Helen discovered the skulls under his floorboards.

When they reached the thruway and headed toward Bridgeport, Dyce fell silent for a long while. Helen tried to think of nothing but the traffic and after a time the flow of the road lulled her into a form of forgetfulness. When he spoke again he startled her.

“You mustn’t be afraid of me,” he said. “You must obey me, but don’t be afraid.”

“All right,” said Helen, trying to control her breathing, which had started out of control at the sound of his voice.

“I didn’t put those bones under the floor,” he said, as if an afterthought. “You know that, don’t you?”

Helen swallowed. She did not know how to speak to him.

“I didn’t know,” she said.

“Oh, no,” he said. A huge transport truck roared past them on the left, causing their car to shudder in its wake. “Someone else did that. The previous owner, probably.”

He glanced at Helen to see how the statement was taken. She nodded, fighting back tears. He returned to his study of the traffic in front of them. Dyce regarded the role of passenger as one of codriver.

“What did he say when you told him about the talcum powder?” Dyce asked. “I wonder what he thinks of me.”

He turned to face her on the seat, like a girlfriend settling in for a cozy chat.

“Did he think that was strange?”