Absolute Instinct

SIX

With Darwin using her restroom to throw water on his face and freshen up, Jessica sat on the terrace under light flooding from the room. It was nearing one in the morning. She'd been poring over her copy of Asa Holcraft's If Christ Came to New York and the Ensuing Autopsy, part coroner's memoir, part handy, compact compendium of information on all facets of the human body and body parts, from organs to eyes and back again to see what her old mentor had to say about the spinal column.

After dining, they'd ordered up drinks, and after a couple of beers and whiskey sours, Darwin had become somewhat drowsy and was now working toward getting his second wind. Jessica called to him from the terrace, asking if he were all right and getting no answer, she stepped back into the room.

Darwin had removed his shirt and his rippling muscles shone in the half light of the bathroom. He came nearer, toweling off his hair, replying, “Must be getting old. Past my bedtime.” Darwin spoke through the towel.

She stared for a moment at his enormous pectorals and felt a momentary attraction she quickly put in check. I'm old enough to be his mother, she thought, lifting his shirt off the back of a chair and throwing it at him. “Get dressed. We've got a lot of work yet to do.”

“Sure… sure,” he replied, working the buttoned shirt over his head and slipping into the sleeves. What would I do with a twenty-six-year-old Sidney Poitier-Vin Diesel look-a-like? Jessica wondered.

She rushed back out to the terrace, a safer place. There she sat at the table and opened Asa Holcraft's book again. She'd been going from it to the murder books and back again, looking for answers.

“Maybe the sick motherfuckingsonofabitch has begun his own stem cell research in an effort to find a cure for whatever ails him,” she half joked.

“That may not be so far-fetched,” he replied, stepping out onto the balcony.

Jessica sipped at her whiskey sour as she continued to read.

“Asa was a genius, a somewhat obsessive one, to have put together so much arcane and scatological and lost-to-time information between the covers of a single volume.”

“Never heard of his book,” admitted Darwin.

“Unfortunately, the thriving publisher that Asa earned a great deal of money for, Pendant, allowed its Pax Books division to go under as a write-off, and Holcraft's invaluable work, along with countless others, has joined the innocent yet somehow disdained horde of out-of-print titles left to die on the vine.” This had happened the year before Asa's death. It had hurt the old man deeply to think that his years of backbreaking toil to bring this information to light, to put it into perspective, and to place it into every forensic student's hand had ended in such ignominy. The publisher, of course, had as much as told Asa it was somehow his fault as it must have been with all the authors in the Pax division who'd been used as tax write-offs.

“That's too bad. Guess every horror story you ever hear between writer and publisher is true, huh?”

“That's right. But I've got a contact who's very interested in reprinting Asa's work. She is as determined to see it back in print as I am.”

She located the section that discussed the human spinal column, and next scanned down the page looking for what information she could find on the vertebral column in man. There were sections under S for spine and V for vertebrae and B for backbone. She hefted the book and stood, pacing to the terrace railing, reading aloud to Darwin. “ 'Made up of thirty-three segments, the spinal column breaks down into five groups. One, cervical, the seven vertebrae making up the bones of the neck; called the first cervical vertebra and appropriately the atlas-' “

Rubbing the back of his neck as if in sympathy pain with the victims, Darwin interrupted, “ 'Atlas'? Why 'atlas'?”

“Because it supports the universe, the known world-the head.”

“Got it.” Darwin stood and stretched, groaning with the effort.

Jessica read on. “ Two, thoracic, or dorsal, twelve bones attached to the ribs, completing the rib cage and making up the trunk bones.'“

She moved one hand to her own rib cage.

“And three?”

“'Lumbar, five bones in the small of the back or loins; four, sacral, five bones in the rump, lying between the two haunch bones, and forming the back wall of the pelvis; in the adult these are fused together into a triangular bone called the sacrum.

“All right, so what's the fifth section of the spine?” he asked.

“ 'Coccygeal, four small bones forming the coccyx which is Greek for cuckoo-'“

“It's all Greek to me.”

“'-so named from its supposed resemblance to the shape of a cuckoo's bill. The coccygeal vertebrae correspond to the root of the tail in animals.' “

“All of this scientific mumbo jumbo gobbledygook is only putting me to sleep,” complained Darwin. “It isn't going to catch a killer, Dr. Coran.”

“I happen to find it fascinating,” she countered, waving the book at him. “Look, we all know that the vertebral column encloses the spinal cord, a basic part of the nervous system without which a person can't function, cannot even… ahhh… slither in snake fashion as our limbs would be paralyzed without it. Hell, if the spinal column and cord had not evolved as it has, we'd be big-headed slugs incarcerated in our reptilian beginnings, likely still in the sea using a dorsal fin to guide us and a series of clicks to communicate.”

Darwin put up his hands in mock surrender. “All right, all right. I know it's all important. I just want to get something on this guy, and I don't think we're going to find it in any books other than the case files.”

“You may be right, but listen to this.” She again read from Holcraft's book. “ 'The spinal cord and vertebrae hold endless fascination for early mankind and the shaman in particular who rattles the bones of fallen warriors overhead. It was both symbolic and concrete proof of deboning a man, rendering his flesh and his spirit helpless to ever harm his enemies ever again. The backbone was revered by ancient peoples-our cannibalistic ancestors cleaned the bones with their teeth and saliva.' “

“They used the bones of their fallen enemies to summon the gods or something, right?” Darwin asked.

“Or something. Holcraft talks about looking past the mere function of an organ or a set of bones or nerves and muscle to understand the value and symbolism a people placed on say the eyes, the heart, the brain, and in this case the backbone.”

“All right, so you think our killer might place some kind of crazoid notion of importance on the spinal cord, so he has to have it-repeatedly. But it has to be plucked from a living human being. No five-and-dime knockoffs, no substitute for the real thing.”

“Maybe… perhaps he has some notion of it carrying magical powers, that it can bring him powers. There is that possibility.”

“I can just see some old crazy shaman shaking 'dem bones overhead at the sky, railing at the gods and rattling his rattles.”

“A rattle of vertebral bones,” she replied. “Indo-Europeans believed that the soul of man, like a fire or flame, fed on the cerebrospinal marrow.”

“Is that what this monster is doing?” he shouted, his grimace and shake of the head telegraphing his disbelief turning to belief. They remained silent for some time, contemplating the horrid possibilities. She returned to sit at the table and poured from an open bottle of wine now. The wine, a rich burgundy, in this light, held a kind of purple hue. She poured him a glass as well, and she raised hers for a toast. “To feeding on the cerebrospinal bone marrow of his victims.”

She downed a large gulp, but Darwin stared at the dark liquid. “Cannibalizing the marrow… maybe the spinal fluid… in some sick belief that maybe both can provide him with life-giving, power-granting strength and renewal?”

“Whatever he's doing with the spines, we are dealing with a sick, twisted mind that likely has cultivated an equally twisted fantasy and a liking for it.”

Jessica read on as Darwin set aside his wine. “ 'An injury to the spinal cord between the first and second vertebrae causes instantaneous death; between the third and fourth vertebrae produces an arrest of breathing; below the sixth vertebra, an injury gives rise to paralysis of the chest muscles; injury lower down causes paralysis of the lower limbs, bladder and intestines.'“

“And, as we know, removing the entire damn thing causes death!” he scoldingly added. “Come on, Dr. Coran. We don't have time for a science lesson.”

Jessica ignored his tirade and sipped more wine between revelations found in Holcraft's account of the ancient religious symbolism of the backbone. “ 'The spine has been called a road, a ladder, a serpent, a rod, a tree. The spine is for many millions on the globe a replica in the human body of the primal cosmic tree, and the brain, as its efflorescence, corresponds to the expanse of heaven.'“

She had to stop to take all this in, and she tried to imagine some maniac who may or may not have read a similar description of the spinal cord in some arcane book on early rituals and beliefs of mankind.

“Can you imagine that,” Darwin commented, leaning now over the edge of the terrace railing, staring down at various late night crawlers on the street below.

She found her place and continued to scan Holcraft's words, reading aloud, “ 'In ancient Thrace and Macedonia, people thought that the backbone of a dead person in time turned into a snake. The Egyptians believed that the sperm came from the spine, and the hieroglyph “ded” stood, among other things, for the spinal column or the sacrum of the god Osiris. In the mystery cult of Abydos, the sacral bone was set up on a pillar, and upon this the head of Osiris was placed, after which the god declared, “I have made myself whole and complete.”'“

Darwin wheeled, his face a mask of anger. “Is 'at what this guy goes home and does? Lifts the bones over his head and chants, 'I am whole and fucking complete now'? Bastard. We gotta catch this guy, Doctor!”

“It's possible, and it's just as possible that he feeds on his victim's vertebral marrow. I get an image of a beast gnawing on a bone.”

He gritted his teeth, the image coming full in his own mind. She lifted his wineglass back to his hand. “Drink up. Become him, Detective, and you may just have a chance at catching him. Cerebral pursuit, I call it. For this kind of monster, I know of no other way.”

Darwin grasped the glass and downed the remainder of the dark burgundy in one fell swoop as if to take her challenge.

She gave him a look of approval. “But beware the journey into the inferno. Put on all your armor and arm yourself with every weapon at your disposal.”

“You're talking about emotional armor.”

“Body armor and emotional armor.”

“Teach me, Dr. Coran.”

“You're sure?”

“I'm putting myself in your hands.”

“You're talking about going into an abyss like none you've ever seen before, Darwin.”

“I have my reasons.”

“I'm sure you must.”

Giles slept soundly and deeply now that he believed a showing of his work was inevitable, that Lucinda's money could and would make it happen. But Lucinda lay awake, making plans for exactly how they must proceed. She didn't want a repeat of the Orion disaster. She pulled herself from Giles's embracing arm and stood. Naked, she slipped out into the studio and returned to the sculptures, admiring them from every angle. Beside the tub with the incredible likeness of a human backbone lying in it, sat a jar of red paint. She reached down and stared at the jar. It had a strange label, simply marked JO. He'd said he made his own paint.

Perhaps the paint could be merchandized, she thought. Curiosity told her to test it out. She found one of his brushes sitting in a can of linseed oil. Wiping it clean, Lucinda returned to the bloodred paint and opened the jar. She was immediately struck by the odor, and it lay thick on the brush. She tried to place the odor. The slightly metallic smell brought back a memory of a childhood injury. Then it hit her full force. Blood. It was blood. Blood labeled JO with which he meant to color the spinal cord lying in the solution.

She set the jar aside with the brush in it just as a shiver rippled over her skin. All the same, she crept on hand and knee nearer the spinal column in the wash tub. Reaching out to touch it, she realized her hand was trembling as it went into the solution.

Her fingers lightly touched bone. She immediately realized that the backbone, like the blood, was real.

“Don't touch it!” he shouted from behind her.

She pulled back, the words It's real… the damned thing is real repeating in her head. Hadn't she overheard someone at the gallery say a woman had been murdered in Midtown? Hadn't something been said about missing bones? At the time, she hadn't paid attention.

Naked and vulnerable, her back to him, she replied, “Giles, you startled me.”

“Couldn't sleep?”

“Just so excited about our collaborating. Your work is so… so beautiful, so unique.” She then slowly rose and turned. Giles stood naked as well, leaning against the door-jamb twirling her panties. Lucinda glanced at the hallway door and quickly back at him, wondering if he had followed her gaze.

I'm closer to the door than him, but can I get past the lock before he grabs me? she wondered.

Giles Gahran had struck her as peculiar from the day she'd met him. Now her brain put him together with a mutilation killing, robbing someone of her spine-three spines, in fact-and creating some kind of sick, twisted evil thing he called art, and she had for a time swallowed it as art. His so-called art was actually murder, and he had the positive arrogance to want to display it in a public gallery.

His eyes widened with a congenial smile. “I'm excited, too, Lucinda, but it's three in the morning.” Shit, she's ruined everything. First Cameron in Millbrook, and now her. Fucking art dealers. How many of them do I have to kill to get my showing? “Are you coming back to bed?” He must calmly entice her back into that sense of security she'd felt with him before now, but how?

“This thing in the tub, it just looks so real…. I can't get over it, baby. What an artist you are! It's so lifelike, so real,” she repeated. “You really must consider leaving it un-painted. At least on one of your sculptures.” Sculpture hell. This is a damn nightmare.

He stepped deeper into the room, his arms welcoming her back. She watched his gaze go past her for a brief second. She knew that he'd seen the blood jar, and that she'd tampered with it. Again, she glanced at the exit door.

He dropped one arm and extended the other out to her. “Come on, Lucinda, I see you opened a jar of paint. Now you know one of my secrets, that there's ox blood mixed in the paint. You know, blood, sweat, and tears.”

“Giles, I'm sorry for snooping, but… but you gotta know this… well, it's all so-”

“In fact, you're finding out all my secrets tonight. The bones in the solution are real. I'm sure that's fueled your imagination.”

“I'm sure there's a perfectly good… ahhh… explanation for… I mean a reason for…”

“Exactly, let me explain. People never understand artistic creation that is in the least foreign to their parochial thinking.”

“I know… I know… like the guy that did the Pieta in elephant dung. Talk about thinking outside the box!”

He glanced back into the bedroom to make certain she'd not also tampered with the box he kept secure below his bed. Untouched. “Ahhh… good, exactly,” he said. “The true artist does not have to explain himself, not to anyone. I'm glad you understand that.”

“I do… I wouldn't be in this business if I didn't understand the… the artistic mind. Hell, I'm the only one I know that got Being John Malkovich, you know? The movie… about the artistic mind?”

“Good, that tells me you do understand what I'm doing here. You know, scatological art, art with a grounding in the arcane, down to earth, gritty, real. You knew from the moment you looked at the sculptures that my work stands out… stands above… that it's important.”

“Yes, Giles, I do understand, and… and I want to help you succeed on…' on every level you wish, to overcome all obstacles and to reach your ultimate goals.”

“I'm glad we're able to talk… about this, Lucinda. I've kept this secret for a long time. Never had anyone I could really open up to and just talk about my work. Not even Mother, I guess especially not Mother.”

“It's a new vision, Giles. I see that. A new way of portraying the mother and child. I can see that clearly now.”

“You have to know that acquiring the bones is difficult and time-consuming…”

“How… how do you acquire them?”

“Allow me to keep at least one secret for now. Look, Loose… Can I call you Loose for short?”

“Of course, yes. Cute the way it… rolls off your lips, sweetie.”

He sensed she hated being called Loose or Lucy or anything short of Lucinda, but that she'd tolerate it for the moment. “What matters most in the world to me, Loose, is the gallery showing that will lead to a museum showing and maybe Chicago.”

“Me, too. Me, too.”

“Great, then we're on the same wavelength.” He watched her every movement.

“Giles, honey, if we're to get a showing like we want- and I don't mean some raunchy little neighborhood cafe on Chicago's northside-we'll need more to exhibit.”

“More?”

“I'll need far more to work with. More spinal sculptures. I just know they'll be so outrageously popular. The way you've got them floating there like dragons.”

“You want to exhibit my work badly, don't you?”

“Yes, I want that Giles, so let me help you. The bones must be extremely expensive. I can help with that. It's some sort of black-market thing, isn't it?”

She sounds so sincere, he thought. For a moment he almost believed her. It would be wonderful to share my art with her. But he knew better.

“Yeah, you could call it a black-market thing, and you can help, of course.” He stood rigid, pacing about her now, going from side to side. She realized his zigzag steps had shortened the space between them. The exit looked farther away than before. “After all, anything in the name of art,” she added, forcing as normal a smile as ever she'd faked.

She backed farther from him. “You could have told me the truth from the start, Giles. I got a little sophistication, even though I am just a Milwaukee kinda girl, you know? Gave me a little shock sure… when I learned the truth, that's all, Giles.”

“Sorry I frightened you, Loose.” Her words sounded one bell, but her body language another. “Why do you keep moving away, sweetheart? I want to hold you, touch you, make love again.”

“I… I need to find the bathroom, Giles. You go back to bed, and I'll join you in a few moments.” She continued backpedaling until she slipped on the blood jar, spilling it over the hardwood floor, doing a dance in the blood and paint mixture, pirouetting to stay afoot as he watched and laughed. Her attempt to recover sent her falling and grasping the lip of the wash tub, spilling its contents, sending the spine slithering toward Giles.

Giles swore and attempted to catch the slithering spine but instead, he slipped on the water soft crunch as one or more of the vertebrae snapped to the pain in his now-bleeding back.

Lucinda got up and raced for the door, while he got to his knees and held up the one end of the violated cord. He lunged at Lucinda with it, swinging it like a club, striking her in the back of the head.

Lucinda had managed to unlatch the door, but just as she'd opened it, she felt the body-numbing blow to her head. She slid down the door, her weight shutting it tight. As she fell into unconsciousness, she heard him say, “You wanted to be a part of my success story, Lucky Lucy…. Well now you can be. How's the old proverb fit here, Loose? Success is getting what you want… but happiness, ah, happiness is wanting what you get. I hope you like statuary immortality.”