Prayer for the Dead

Chapter 11

“ I always knew there was something wrong with Dyce,” Chaney said with considerable pride.

“What did you think was wrong with him?”

“An excess of ordinary. There’s such a thing as too common, you know. Or maybe you don’t know; you’re not an actuary. That’s one thing we look for, something that occurs too often. You might think that if sixty-three percent of the workers in a certain industry retire at age sixty-five, the national average, and die at the age of seventy-five point seven years of heart failure, also the national average, then that sets your average for that industry, but me, I look at that and say, hold it, what’s going on here, that’s way too average. Who are these people, clones? You see what I mean?”

“No,” said Becker who understood but wanted to encourage the man to speak.

Chaney took an impatient breath. Laymen were slow, no two ways about it. He was leading Becker down a lengthy corridor toward the actuary pool.

“People are different,” said Chaney. “We aren’t Paramecium, we aren’t lab mice or fruit flies all grown from the same egg fertilized in a petri dish. We have to expect the random in all of us. An average is just what you get when you cut off the heads of the tallest and put the shortest on stools. It’s an arithmetic construct. You follow? No one is really average. Just as no one could really be as bland as Dyce seemed to be. No matter how vanilla pudding he was on the outside, I knew there had to be something going on inside, some quirk to make him human. What did he do, exactly?”

Becker looked down on Chaney’s shaven head. The stubble on the sides of his skull where he still had hair was growing dark. A five-o’clock-shadow on the head, Becker thought. The ridge atop the skull was pronounced, almost pointed.

“This is just a routine investigation, for background purposes primarily.”

“Sure,” said Chaney. “That’s why the boss is all over himself to get me to cooperate. Come on, you can tell me. What did the little bastard do?”

“We’re not sure he did anything,” said Becker. “That’s why we’re investigating.”

Chaney tilted his head and gave Becker a knowing smirk as they paused outside the actuarial office. Becker wondered if everyone else had the same urge to rap the man’s parietal bone with his knuckles.

“He hated me, of course,” said Chaney. “Might as well get that on the record in case he talks about me.”

“Why is that?”

“Jealousy. You probably don’t know this, but actuaries are actually a pretty unorthodox bunch. We’re the artists of the insurance business, you might say. Perhaps you didn’t know that, if you get your information from herd movies and the like, but we’re all rebels.”

“I’d heard that about actuaries.”

“You’re joking, of course, officer, but it’s true. Insurance people as a whole are not very colorful; that’s a demand of the business. People want to think they’re being insured by someone as sober and conservative as a U.S. President. Not overly bright, but foursquare, you know? But actuaries are a different breed.”

He plucked at the gray cardigan sweater he wore. It looked to Becker as if it had earned its grayness from incessant wear, but Chaney was clearly proud of it. It was an emblem of his independence.

“You don’t see executives in any other department out of suit and tie.”

“And this is why Dyce was jealous of you?”

“Not the sweater, the attitude. A little dash, a little style. He always wore a suit and tie. He was senior to me, you know. Oh, yeah. I went right over his head and he hated me for it, I’m sure. Not that he ever let on. He never let on to anything.”

Chaney pushed open the door as if it were the gates of a castle.

“Here’s the guts of the industry,” he said. “Or a better analogy would be the brains. Without us, the insurance industry would be working blind.”

“That would make you the eyes,” said Becker, but Chaney appeared not to hear.

The actuarial pool was a large room crowded with people at computer screens. Accordion piles of computer printouts sat by each desk, and everyone seemed to be either reading the printouts or tapping buttons on the consoles. At first glance there was nothing to distinguish it from the work warrens of many other industries, nor anything to verify Chaney’s claim of a wild and crazy breed of workers. Becker noted that it appeared to be a singularly male calling. There were only three women among the more than thirty employees.

“Dyce worked here,” said Chaney, switching on the computer at the empty desk. “He was doing some of the basic research on the Steinkraus file. Under my direction, of course.”

Becker went carefully through the desk drawers, searching without expectation. He was not disappointed to find nothing beyond the essentials of office work.

“You know Steinkraus Industries, of course. The holding company? It’s my baby.”

Chaney nodded toward the screen where columns of figures meaningless to Becker vibrated ever so slightly as if waiting their turn to dance.

“Quite a job,” said Becker. Chaney grinned proudly and nodded. “Was Dyce working on anything else?”

“Not at the moment. Not officially at any rate.”

“And unofficially?”

“I could look at his files,” Chaney said, pushing a key and summoning up the contents of Dyce’s computer.

“Treat me as a computer illiterate,” Becker said.

“Well… he was working on a lot of things, or had been in the past. It would take awhile to figure out just what. Some of it is here, and some of it-see that symbol there? — that means he was accessing other computers to get more data. It will take a little doing to find out what exactly is in there.”

“But you could do it?”

“Of course I could do it.”

“Sounds pretty complicated.”

“Oh, please. I could get this done in a couple of days.”

“How about by tonight?”

Chaney hesitated, his eyes scanning the busy room as if counting up the hours he would need.

“I can bring some agency experts in to help,” said Becker innocently.

“I doubt they’d really understand it all, don’t you? No offense.”

“You don’t offend me,” said Becker. “ I don’t understand any of it. Computers are a complete mystery to me, not to mention actuarial science. That’s why I rely on someone with your expertise. I suppose there is someone else around here I could ask if you’re too busy.”

“No one who can do it the way I can.”

“By tonight?”

Chaney sniffed and squared his shoulders under the cardigan.

“Check back by eight,” he said. “I’ll be able to tell you what Dyce ate for breakfast.”

“I know what he ate,” said Becker. “I want you to tell me why.”

They pulled off the thruway exit ramp as the sun was setting behind the snaggle-toothed silhouette of the Bridgeport skyline. Dyce talked calmly but incessantly as he directed Helen toward the water, seeking by instinct the poor and then poorer sections of the battered city. When he had her pull into the empty lot of a warehouse, the sun was creeping into the greasy waters of Long Island Sound.

Helen seemed to have slipped into a kind of trance induced by terror and Dyce’s chatter, and he continued to drone on to sustain it.

“That’s very good, Helen, very good. This is not a bad place, is it? A little paint, a little elbow grease, but you know what neighborhoods like this are like. It’s hard to find anyone who cares anymore; people will live just anywhere. Now, Helen, I have a plan. What we’re going to do is protect you from the police.”

He gripped her right arm and she jerked involuntarily, then calmed. Through the windshield she could count the windows on the warehouse. They were cast high up under the eaves, serving for light and ventilation, not vision. Helen counted the windows, then the number of panes in each window, then the number of panes on the whole building, then the number of broken panes. On the highway she had done it with cars, cars passed, cars passing. It seemed to stretch the time; with each car counted, she was alive that much longer.

Dyce ran his fingers up and down the underside of her exposed arm. “This is not my idea,” he said. “They’re making me do it. That man who was at your house, it’s his idea. I mean, he’s responsible for this. I want you to know this; this is definitely not my idea.” He sounded disgusted.

A pigeon fluttered through one of the broken panes and entered the warehouse, safely home for the evening. Helen wondered if the birds ever cut their wings on the broken glass. She felt the cold of Dyce’s knife against her arm; but she didn’t feel it. She saw him holding it there; but she didn’t see him. She heard him but only the tone, which was soft, almost a lullaby- the words made no sense. She clung to his voice, which had been nonstop for the last half hour. As long as she heard him, she was still alive.

“You might have certain legal problems, aiding and abetting, that sort of thing, I’m not sure what your legal position is, so this will help you. This will make it look as if you drove me here unwillingly, this will make it look as if I forced you to help me, it will look as if I tried to hurt you, but you know I would never hurt you. You know how I feel about you. I would never hurt you. This is just to help you, this will give you an alibi.”

He was pinching her arm slightly, gently, moving his fingers up and down the inside of her arm and pinching. It didn’t hurt, she didn’t mind it. She was alive after each pinch.

“It’s just a little sharpness, just momentary. You won’t even notice it. Do you see the sunset? Isn’t it beautiful, just look at that, Helen, so much beauty in such an ugly place.”

Helen felt the knife point as it entered her flesh, but the pinching had worked. It didn’t seem much worse than another squeeze, just another little stitch in the skin, and she didn’t feel the blade at all as it traveled down her arm from inside her elbow to her hand.

It was quite a good knife after all, Dyce thought. A bit unwieldy, but it took an edge like a fine razor. The blood welled up and oozed out of her arm. He held her hand down between the seats, slightly back so she couldn’t see it from the corner of her eye and pulled back on the skin so it would not close on itself.

“This part will be over in a second or two, Helen. Don’t even think about it, it will stop of its own accord. It’s not at all dangerous, but it will look good when they question you. You can tell them anything you want and they’ll believe you now. Do you see the swallows? That’s what they are. I love to watch them swooping along, don’t you? They’re so graceful and they only come out in the evening like this, did you know that?”

Helen watched the swallows darting after insects and remembered a score of a movie that set the motions of birds to music. The music sounded sweetly in her mind.

Dyce had trouble controlling his breath. He had not anticipated how good this would feel. He had never killed before, not really, not for its own sake. The death of the men had been necessary to achieve the desired effect, merely a consequence of their preparation. This was different. This was exciting in itself She looked so pretty now. He had never thought of her as pretty before, but now she was absolutely beautiful. Beautiful in death. Dyce thought maybe he loved her after all. Her fingers in his hand were growing cold, but he wished now that they wouldn’t go too fast; he wanted her dying to last.

His voice sounded harsh for the first time. “No, don’t move the arm, Helen, just let it hang down. If you move it now you’ll spoil everything.” She had only wanted to wipe away the tears that were running into the corner of her mouth. He gripped her fingers tightly and held her arm down and behind her. She heard the sound of something dripping into the back of the car. She knew what it was; she didn’t know what it was. As long as she heard the drips she was alive.

“That’s better, Helen. Now just relax. We’ve had a long drive, you’re probably feeling a little tired. If you feel drowsy, just shut your eyes. Go on, shut your eyes, Helen. Take a little nap if you want. Why don’t you take a little nap. I’ll be right here to watch over you. You know nothing can happen as long as I’m here. I’ll take good care of you.”

Her eyelids fluttered closed and she sighed as if grateful to give in to sleep at last.

“When we’ve finished here, I tell you what let’s do. Let’s find a nice hotel. I want to be with you, Helen. I want to spend the night with you. I want to make love with you. Do you remember that first night we were together? Do you have any money with you? I’ll have to borrow your money. You look so lovely now, Helen.” He wished she would turn toward him so she could see how he was smiling at her, how happy he was. She would want to know she had given him such happiness. She deserved to know that. She was his first. So much more important than sex; she had introduced him to a pleasure that touched his soul.

At the end, when Dyce thought she was gone and finally released her hand, she tried to fight, startling him with the suddenness and ferocity of her attack, flailing her arms, clawing at his face and hitting again and again at the knife that he held up to protect himself. She had little real strength left, of course, but he was surprised that she had managed any at all. Even in the ferocity of her struggle she didn’t cry out, as if she wanted to keep the matter between the two of them right to the end.

Ultimately she fell back, sobbing silently, covering her eyes with hands deeply gashed by their foolish onslaughts against the knife. She died that way, her face covered, the last of her blood accelerated out of her body by her own flailing efforts.

Dyce could not help getting some of the blood on his clothing as he tossed her into the trunk. The car would be stolen by morning, he reasoned, and whoever did it would not be quick to notify the police about a body found with the spare tire. He wished she hadn’t fought at the end. It ruined the glow he was feeling.

After cleaning himself as best he could, Dyce walked toward the lights of the city. He was grateful for the falling darkness as it would help disguise his clothes and general condition-not that anyone would care very much in the sections he was heading for. But he was also glad he had the knife tucked into his belt. There were many scary people in this part of town.

“I understand you’ve joined up again,” said Gold. He was playing with a three-colored pen, switching the nib from red to green to blue.

“Temporarily,” said Becker.

“That’s a start.”

“That’s all there is. It’s a convenience; the badge opens doors.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I hate when you do that,” Becker said.

“Do what?”

“Grunt knowingly. It sounds like a parody of a shrink. You might as well say, I zee, very interessting.”

“You’re in a good mood.”

“I was supposed to have a date tonight,” said Becker. “I came to see you instead. She’s going to be pissed and all I have is you for consolation.”

“How is that going? That relationship.”

“I don’t know. I haven’t seen her enough to find out.”

“Evasive.”

“It’s none of your business. Sex is not my problem.”

“Did I mention sex? I asked about your relationship. Does that just mean sex to you?”

“I want to ask you some questions today.”

“That’s not the way it works.”

“Nothing personal.”

“That’s the only kind of question worth asking. How is the relationship?”

“Yours and mine? Fragile, I’d say.”

“The girl.” Gold glanced at his notes. “Cindi.”

“I remember her name. It’s fine. She’s too young for me. She probably has an Oedipal attraction to me, I probably have a dirty-old-man attraction to her. That sounds unhealthy but binding, wouldn’t you say?” Becker paused. “I like her,” he said.

“And how does that make you feel?”

“It scares me a little,” said Becker.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“Maybe later. I have other questions first.”

“What kind of questions?”

“About sexual perversion.”

“Um.”

“I thought you’d like that. Don’t worry, it’s official business.”

“We don’t call it perversion anymore. It’s paraphilia now. Whose paraphilia are we interested m?”

“My man. His name is Dyce.”

“Your man?”

“The man I’m after. Yeah, he’s my man. Or he will be. I almost have him already, and if you give me the right information, he’ll be all mine.”

Gold placed the pen on his desk and looked squarely at Becker. There was an intensity in Becker’s tone he had not heard before. Gone, for the moment at least, was the caustic, bantering note that let Gold know he was being tolerated even when Becker was cooperating. Usually Gold felt as if he were a priest debating religion with an atheist who went along with the discussion purely for the sake of an argument. Gold was himself a doubting priest at best. The miracle of psychotherapy had long since been replaced by a form of utilitarian respect for the rituals. Now, however, he sensed an opening into Becker’s carefully constructed armament.

“You’ll have him in what sense? You mean you’ll catch him?”

Becker paused. He picked up the pen from Gold’s desk and stared at it blankly for a moment.

“I mean I’ll have his secrets. No. I mean his secrets will be my secrets.”

“Is that what it feels like? As if you’re sharing secrets with someone you’re after?”

“Not sharing. We both possess them.” Becker jabbed at the pen, changing the color back and forth as Gold had done.

“You empathize with him,” Gold prompted.

Becker dropped the pen on the desk.

“No,” he said impatiently. “I become him.”

Gold held his breath. He was afraid to speak at all for fear he would say the wrong thing. He stifled the urge to grunt and slowly nodded his head.

“I feel what he feels and think what he thinks. And that’s how I find him. It’s as simple as that.” Becker laughed at himself a brief snort. “As simple as that.”

“How can you do that?”

“I start with a lot in common.”

Gold felt the goose flesh on his arms.

“Will you help me?”

“I want to,” said Gold.

“I mean with Dyce. I need to know about paraphilia.”

“I’ll help you. Will you help me to understand you?”

“They may be the same thing,” said Becker.

Chaney glanced impatiently at his watch as Becker entered the actuarial room. The agent was half an hour late and Chaney had thought several times of leaving, just to show his independence, but his pride in his accomplishments had kept him there.

“Sorry I’m late,” Becker said. “I know how important your time is. I had to see a shrink.”

“You’re in analysis?”

“Group therapy,” Becker said. “Dyce and I are taking it together.”

“If you have Dyce…”

“Joke,” said Becker. “Inside joke. How did it go? Did you find out anything for me?”

“Certainly. I’ve printed it out for you, but you might want to take a look on the screen here. This is Dyce’s private log. He had it pretty well camouflaged with codes and countercodes, but I got it out.”

“Didn’t take you long.”

“Well, it wasn’t easy, but I didn’t have any great trouble with it.”

“That’s why I asked an expert,” said Becker, smiling.

“Well, it was only Dyce’s mind I was up against,” said Chaney. He ran a hand down the back of his shaven skull. “He was devious, but not terribly clever, if you follow.”

“I’m trying to,” said Becker. “What is it, exactly?”

“Names. He got them from the raw solicitations of field agents. These aren’t necessarily customers, you understand, just people who have filled out questionnaires, or that agents filled them out for.”

Becker looked at the screen. Some of the names he recognized immediately. Nordholm, Dahl, Hedstrom, Nilsson.

“Is there a pattern?” he asked innocently.

“Of course. Don’t you see it?” Chaney paused to punctuate his moment of superiority. “It’s fairly obvious. They all have mothers with Scandinavian names.”

“Why would that be?”

“Who knows?”

“Is there anything unique about Scandinavians as a group? Anything that sets them apart?” Becker asked.

“From an actuarial point of view, do you mean?”

“From any point of view. I need any ideas I can get.”

“Well, actually, I did think about that, I assumed you would want to know. There is one interesting thing-from an insurance perspective.” Again Chaney paused to feel his advantage. “Scandinavians tend to live longer than other ethnic groups. That’s mostly climate related, both in Scandinavia and here.”

“How do you mean?”

“People in Minnesota live the longest, on the average, of any state in the Union. Did you know that? Minnesota not only has the highest concentration of Scandinavians in the nation, it also has one of the coldest calumniates.”

“That’s important?”

“It seems to be. The same is true of Scandinavia, too, of course. Part of that might be the high level of social services in both countries, too. But people in cold climates tend to live longer anyway.”

“I would think Alaskans would live the longest in that case.”

Chaney shook his head dismissively. “Too cold. Too many people living high-risk lives. Too many indigenous peoples with a low standard of living, too many transients. No, your best bet, if you want to live a long time, is to have Norwegian parents and live in a cold state with good health care close by. Minnesota. We ought to charge less for a general life policy in the state, but it’s against federal regulations. Can’t discriminate.” Chaney said it as if it were an insult to the precision of his craft. “That pushes your premiums up, you know.”

“Why mine?”

“You’re a white Anglo-Saxon male. You’re going to live longer-on the average-than an Afro-American male. That’s just a statistical fact, not my opinion, but we can’t charge the Afro-American more for the same coverage just on the basis of his race. Or, put the other way around, we can’t charge you less. To the government, either way we do it, it’s discrimination. So we charge you the same as the other guy and you get cheated.” Chaney shrugged. “That’s democracy. Politicians aren’t interested in statistics.”

“Except voting patterns. How do you know I’m Anglo-Saxon?”

“Your name’s Becker? That’s English-or German. Northern European in any event. Basically the same stock. By the time you get to this country, the life expectancy is virtually the same. You’ve got a good year and a half better expectancy than somebody with Mediterranean heritage.”

“How do you know my mother’s not a Greek?”

Chaney laughed. “Looking at you. Your hair, your features, your skin color, your height, your body type. You look like your ancestors were roaming northern Europe since the last Ice Age… She’s not Greek, is she?”

“No.”

“What was her maiden name?”

“Kriek.”

“German. I knew it. Don’t misunderstand me. We’re all mongrels in this country. Do a few case studies, go back more than two generations on anybody in America, and you won’t find very many who aren’t as mixed genetically as an alleycat. All the gene pools bleed into each other here. I’ve got a grandmother from Turkey-although you’d never know it. Still, certain types hold true. Give me your genealogy and I can come up with a pretty accurate picture most of the time.”

“And most of the time is good enough for an actuary, right?”

Chaney paused, wondering if his profession were being insulted.

“We deal in large numbers, if that’s what you mean. We’re not supposed to be an exact science.”

“That’s what I meant.”

“So, is there anything else you need?”

“This information, Dyce’s list. Is there any way anyone else could have compiled it? I mean anyone with a computer and a modem?”

“Well-if he knew the codes. You can tap into the White House bathroom these days if you know the code.”

“But it would be difficult?”

“Sure it would-unless you were from another insurance company.”

“Insurance companies exchange information?”

“All the time. We have to cross-check to fight fraud, for one thing. If somebody insures his wife for fifty thousand and she dies, that’s not a big event, but if he took out a fifty-thousand-dollar policy with ten other companies-hello. Suddenly you’re looking at a significant event. But the main reason we exchange information is that actuaries need the largest database possible to do the best job. We transfer information every day.”

“To the same people. Or the same computers?”

“The same computers, basically, yes. Why?”

“Could you tell if another computer tried to get at this information?”

“The database or this list?”

“The list, I would think.”

“That would be easier than protecting the whole database. Yes, I could set up an alarm that would tell me if someone tried to get into Dyce’s file.”

“Good. Please do that and notify me immediately.”

“Want to tell me why?”

“Mr. Dyce is going to want to come back for his list. Maybe not right away, but sooner or later, he’s going to have to.”

“He’d be stupid if he does.”

“Not stupid. Not stupid at all. Helpless.”

Tee noticed certain things. One was the remarkable resilience of a town like Clamden. In the week following the news of Dyce’s crimes and his subsequent escape, the townspeople had reacted with the predictable outcry of disgust, horror, and outrage-much of the latter directed at the police in general and Tee in particular for not somehow magically foreseeing Dyce’s plans and providing adequate protection to the citizenry. There was talk of getting a new chief, discussion of citizen patrols, an increased sale of locks and safety devices, demands for a curfew to safeguard the children, all the expected flurry of alarm of a people who had suddenly been made to feel insecure in their own homes. What surprised Tee was how quickly things returned to normal. After two weeks, people still asked him about the case and the so-called manhunt, but by then only with the casual interest of someone massaging an old wound. It took longer for the macabre jokes to die down than for the concern to subside. The citizens ultimately reacted to Dyce’s murders with the statistical optimism of someone who has been struck by lightning and emerged to tell about it. The incident was over and so unlikely to ever happen again that its occurrence unparted a sort of immunity from future occurrence.

Another thing that Tee noticed was that not everything returned to normal. His friend Becker was changed in ways both obvious and subtle. He seemed distracted much of the time, which was understandable. He was conducting the real manhunt, after all, but there was something more fundamental: Becker had lost much of the air of unruffled calm that had always distinguished him. Minor irritants annoyed him openly, his posture and demeanor suggested a different person, a frailer, warier person than the man Tee had known since youth. It occasionally seemed to Tee as if his friend were not the hunter but the man being hunted.

Becker’s visits to Cindi’s house also became more frequent. That, at least. Tee could understand. His friend’s car was parked on Cindi’s street most nights, but the hours were getting later and later so that Tee wondered if Becker was having trouble sleeping.

“Is it any of your business?” Becker asked. They sat in the coffee shop, once again ignored by Janie, the waitress.

“What did I say? All I said was, how’s it going with Cindi?”

“And I asked if it was your business.”

“It was polite conversation. You’re losing your sense of humor lately.”

Becker stared at Tee. There was no malice in his look, but an unplacable, searching quality that demanded an answer and always made Tee uneasy.

“It’s my job,” Tee continued. “Especially now. What kind of cop would I be if I didn’t notice your car when I saw it?”

“What kind?”

“Especially now. It’s not that I’m keeping tabs on you. I cruise, that’s what I’m supposed to do. I cruise neighborhoods, I test shop doors at night, I investigate cars that are parked where they don’t belong, and cars that are abandoned. It’s what I do. Especially now.”

“Especially now.”

“Now more than ever. People like to see the police going through the motions; it makes them feel comfortable.”

“Little do they know,” said Becker.

Tee wasn’t sure whether to laugh.

“Or maybe you haven’t lost your sense of humor exactly,” Tee said. “Maybe it’s just got too subtle for me.”

“Didn’t mean to disparage your fine police work.”

“If I could just point out, I was the one who noticed something funny going on in the first place.”

“And I’m the first to give you credit,” said Becker.

“I stress your finely developed sense of paranoia in my report.”

“You might try to spread the word a little broader. People in town think we’re a bunch of half-wits.”

“We?”

“Like we should have known some insurance salesman was inviting the boys in for a while and then boiling them up?”

“Notice a certain lack of local respect, do you. Tee? A chief is not without honor except in his own community. They all see what a fine job you’re doing now, though. Cruising and noting my comings and goings. That should make them feel better.”

“I just asked how you were getting along… Look, are you pissed at me about something?”

“Pissed at you? Why would I be? You’re the one who gave me my current occupation.”

“You didn’t have to do it. How did I know what it would turn into?”

“You are the one who presented me with your nephew’s wife and baby, aren’t you?”

“Present you? What’s that? She happened to be around, I thought she could be helpful. Who twisted your arm to get into it? Did anybody pressure you in any way…”

“Forget it. Tee, it’s not your fault. I’m not in a very good mood, that’s all. I haven’t been sleeping much.”

“Because of this thing?”

“My dreams keep me awake.”

“You can’t dream if you’re not asleep in the first place.”

Becker gave him that questioning look again, almost as if he were hopeful of discovering a new troth.

“Are you sure of that?”

“Look… you don’t have to stay on it. If it’s getting to you, just quit. It’s not your job anymore, you gave it up once already.”

“Just give it up?” Becker grinned.

Tee shrugged. “Let Dyce go. They’ll find him or they won’t. In any case, he won’t come back here.”

“Won’t he?”

“Why would he?”

“ ‘Cause this is where he gets his kicks?”

“Come on, John. He can buy a cauldron anywhere. All this guy needs is a house and a stove.”

“Not quite. He needs his tranquilizer, PMBL. We don’t know what his source is, but it’s certainly not over the counter.”

“His source doesn’t have to be around here, does it? It could be any pharmacy outlet in the country.”

“Could be. Could be he drives halfway across the country to get his supply. Could be he gets it through the mail, but I doubt it. He’s been very careful. But even supposing he does get it from somewhere else, there’s still something else he needs from here.”

“I’ll bite. What does he need from here he can’t get anywhere else?”

“His victims. He’s got them selected already. He’s gone to a lot of trouble and time to locate them, and he’s used a lot of expensive hardware to do it.”

“Your famous list.”

“His list, not mine.”

“You know what I mean.”

“I don’t have a list.”

“Christ, I get the point. It’s just a manner of speaking.” Tee waved for Janie, then sighed.

“Why can’t he just make up a new list. All right, not just. I suppose it’s complicated, but still, why not do it the safe way? Why come back here? They sell insurance in Utah, don’t they?”

“He could make up another list. Maybe he’s doing it now, in which case we won’t catch him, not now, maybe not ever. But I don’t think he is. He doesn’t have the time.”

“Time? He’s got all the time in the world. What’s he got to do in such a hurry?”

“Kill.”

“Come on, John. What is he, Dracula? He’s got to hurry up to kill? If I was doing it, I’d take all the time I needed and set it up right.”

“That’s because you’d be doing it logically-but then you’re not doing it in the first place. And why aren’t you?”

“Why aren’t I what? Boiling bones?”

“It’s a real question.”

“Because why should I?”

“That’s the point. You’ve got no reason to. You have no need to. And I don’t mean killing, exactly. I think that’s incidental. That’s probably just a way of dealing with the disposal problem. When I say kill I mean a whole complex of emotional reactions involved with whatever it is he does to these men before he gets rid of them. Whatever that compulsion is, I don’t think it can wait. It has to be fed, and it has to be fed a very special diet. It happens the diet he knows about is around here. Which is why I think he’ll be back.”

Tee felt an inward shudder at the off-hand phrase “disposal problem.” There was something eerily detached, yet at the same time intensely personal about Becker’s manner when he discussed Dyce that made Tee increasingly uneasy.

The two men sat in silence for a while, Becker lost in his thoughts and Tee studying his friend with concern.

Becker finally broke the silence.

“We’re getting along fine,” he said.

“None of my business,” said Tee.

“She’s a nice woman… Too young for me.”

“I wasn’t prying…”

“She keeps me from dreaming.”

“Look, John…”

“Or at least from sleeping.” Becker smiled humorlessly before raising his hand slightly above his shoulder. Janie, the waitress, came to the table with a pot of coffee in hand.

“So what is it with you and Janie?” Becker asked after the waitress had withdrawn. “She ignores you because you made a pass at her, or because you didn’t make a pass at her?”

“I remind you I’m a married man.”

“Oh. Pardon me.”

“Also a gentleman. Naturally I cannot discuss these things. My lips are sealed.”

“In other words, you made a pass at her, she refused you, you made an ass of yourself, and she hasn’t spoken to you since.”

“Not quite. She wanted to play with my gun.”

Becker laughed. “A consummation devoutly to be wished, I would have thought.”

Tee leaned forward and spoke in a whisper. “I’m serious. She wanted to fondle the goddamn. 38.”

“Confusing symbol with substance.”

“Whatever that means. Stop grinning. She wanted to stroke it. Weird.”

Becker laughed, glancing at Janie.

“Don’t look at her, for Christ’s sake. And stop laughing. I’m not sure it’s funny. You shouldn’t laugh at her.”

“I’m laughing at you,” said Becker. “The horny chief finally gets the girl in his cruiser and all she wants is his hardware.”

“She’s looking at us,” Tee hissed. “Stop it. Act natural.”

Becker tossed his head back and laughed aloud.

“Ah, Tee,” he said. “If I could act natural… If I knew what the hell that was.” Becker stuffed a napkin in his mouth and shook with laughter. At least it sounded like laughter, but Tee thought his eyes looked enormously sad.

Becker found Cindi in her basement, hanging from the ceiling like a three-toed sloth pondering its next move.

“Comfortable?” he asked.

She was dangling from a horizontal I beam running across the ceiling joists, clinging to the half-inch flange of the beam with the heels of each boot and the first knuckle of her fingers. Becker had seen her work out on the beam before, and also on the exposed pipes which she had reinforced with U-bolts and wire, converting her cellar to a kind of adult jungle gym.

She tipped her head all the way backward to see him as he came down the stairs, making her look a bit like a slain deer being carted away on shoulder poles.

“Hello, Becker,” she said coolly.

Becker removed his jacket and sat on one of the old packing mats that Cindi had lifted somehow from a moving van. They were not there for padding in case she ever fell-as far as he could tell, she never fell- but for insulation against the cold cement of the floor when she did her loosening exercises. The basement was totally unfinished; except for the beam and the pipe reinforcements, it was unimproved in any way.

“There’s something oriental about this room,” Becker said. “You know, spare and clean, but somehow evocative of-of-what would you call the essence of this room? Indoor plumbing?”

Cindi released the beam with her feet and swung down to hang by her fingertips. Her feet were a foot off the floor. She walked hand over hand to one end of the beam, then worked her way backwards. After repeating this procession three times, she swung one foot onto the beam again and let go with one hand so she hung by one heel and the opposite hand. She let the free arm and leg dangle as she stared at Becker.

He had removed his shoes and was slowly stretching his thigh muscles on the mats.

“Keep your clothes on,” she said.

Becker looked up at her and grinned. “That sounds like a promising invitation.”

“You’ve got the wrong day,” she said. Cindi switched arms and heels and let the others dangle, still staring at Becker.

“It’s like having a conversation with a gibbon,” he said. “ ‘Course, I’ve always liked doing that.”

“You’re thinking it’s Thursday,” she said. “You’re confused. It’s Saturday. Our date was for last Thursday.”

“I was in Washington. Talking to my shrink again.”

“What about?”

“Partly about why I wasn’t with you.”

“I hope he offered a better explanation than you have.”

“He doesn’t explain things. He asks questions.”

“Did he ask you why you didn’t call me to tell me you weren’t going to show up? Did he ask you why you’ve been avoiding me generally?”

“He didn’t have to.”

“I don’t want to be an imposition on you, Becker. I don’t want to make you do anything you don’t want to do. But I don’t like being used like a port of convenience, either.”

“I understand.”

“If you don’t want to come around, don’t come around. But don’t come around at all.”

Becker looked at his feet. Cindi began a series of pull-ups on her heels and the fingers of one hand. She’s stronger than I am, Becker thought. And wiser.

“You going to say anything?” she asked finally. Becker wished that she would give some sign of exertion, at least. She didn’t appear to be even breathing hard.

“I’ve never been any good talking to angry women,” he said.

“If you always act the way you do with me, you must have had lots of practice.”

“I told you I was no good for you.”

“No, you didn’t.”

“I didn’t?”

“Of course not,” she said. “You wanted to sleep with me.”

“I still do.”

“Look, Becker, I like you, you’re an interesting man, but basically I don’t like the way you want to treat me. I’ve got better things to do. So do you, apparently.”

Becker sighed. “I don’t have anything better to do than you.”

“Well, you’re right about that,” she said. She dropped to the floor and began doing push-ups on her fingertips, her spine rigid as a plank. Becker watched the muscles in her shoulders work under the spandex. He resisted an urge to grab her buttocks.

“I mean to say I’m worth something, you understand?” she continued. “You’ve got nothing better going in your life than me. You just happen to be too stupid to appreciate it.”

“I do appreciate it,” Becker said. “I already said so. You’re the best thing I’ve got going.”

“I’m young and I’m smart and I’ve got a good heart.”

She rolled onto her back and lifted first one leg and then the other and hooked them behind her neck. Sweat finally broke forth, bursting like a sudden freshet on her skin.

“In fact, I’ve got a great heart,” she said. “I’m a damned nice person. Better than you are.”

“A lot better,” Becker agreed.

“A lot better,” she said. Her voice finally showed some sign of her exertions. “Plus you’re too old for me.”

“I warned you about that, too,” he said.

“No, you didn’t. I didn’t need you to tell me. All I have to do is look at you. You’re too old for me, Becker. And you’re not nice enough, and generally you’re not worthy.”

“I wish you’d call me John,” he said.

“What I’m saying is, I think you’d better take a hike.”

“The reason I go to the shrink is-I’m a mess.”

“I could have told you that.”

“You might have saved me a few trips to Washington.”

“You’re closed up like a tin can. I can’t get close to you, I doubt if anybody ever has. I don’t know if you’re worth the effort. You may be hollow for all I can tell.”

“I’m not hollow,” he said.

“How would you know?”

“Because if I were hollow, I wouldn’t hurt.”

For the first time she stopped exercising and looked directly at him. Becker felt suddenly overcome by shyness and could not hold her gaze.

“Why do you hurt, John?” she said finally.

Becker pulled his knees up to his chest. “I don’t know,” he said in a small voice. “But I don’t want to take a hike,” he said.

“No.”

“I want to move m,” he said.

Cindi paused for a long moment, looking at him. She lifted his face so he could not avoid her eyes. Becker tried to grin but could not sustain it.

“Well, okay,” she said finally.