Bad Love

32

He said, "Don't move or speak, pardon the cliché."

The pressure on my temple was intense. Strong fingers dug into my cheek.

"Good," he said. "Obedient. You must have been a good student."

Dig.

"Were you?"

"I was okay."

"Such modesty- you were a lot better than okay. Your fourth-grade teacher, Mrs. Lyndon, said you were one of the best students she ever had- do you remember Mrs. Lyndon?"

Squeeze and shake.

"Yes."

"She remembers you… such a good little boy… keep being good: hands on head."

As my fingers touched my hair, the lights went on.

One of the couches was out of place, pushed closer to the coffee table. There were drinks and plates on the coffee table. A glass of something brown. The bag of taco chips Robin had bought a couple of days ago was open, crumbs scattered on the table.

Making himself comfortable.

Knowing we'd be gone for a while but would come back, nowhere else to go.

Because he'd used the fire to flush me out. Used the time to prepare the scene.

The ritual.

Choreographing death.

Firesetters and felons…

I considered how to get at him. Felt the pressure, saw only dark sleeve. Where was Robin?

"Forward march," he said, but he continued to hold me still.

Footsteps on marble. Someone walked into my line of sight, holding Robin the same way.

Tall. Bulky black sweater. Baggy black slacks. Black ski mask with eye holes. Shiny eyes, the color indeterminate at this distance. He towered over Robin, gripping her face and forcing her eyes up at the ceiling. Her neck was stretched, exposed.

I gave an involuntary start, and the hand gripped my head harder.

Imprisoning it.

I knew where they'd learned that.

Bumping and scratching from the back of the house. The dog tied out there, behind drapes that had been drawn over the French doors.

Something else at Robin's head besides a hand. Automatic pistol, small, chrome plated.

Bump, scratch.

The voice behind me laughed.

"Great attack dog… some tight security you've got here. Alarm system with an obvious home run, one snip and bye-bye. Fancy electric gate a dwarf could climb over, and a cute little closed-circuit TV to announce your arrival."

More laughter. The tall man with Robin didn't move or make a sound.

Two types of killing. Two killers…

My captor said, "Okay, campers."

The tall man shifted his free hand from Robin's face to the small of her back and began propelling her down the hallway toward the bedrooms.

Swinging his hips. Effeminate.

Walking the way Robin walked.

A woman? A tall woman with strong shoulders…

I'd talked to a tall, angry woman this afternoon.

A Corrective School alumna with plenty of reason to hate.

I really don't like you.

I'd called Meredith out of the blue, yet she'd been willing to talk to me- too eager.

And she had a special reason to feel rage over the Western Peds symposium.

Thanks, Dad.

I'd just stare at them, want to kill them, keep my feelings all inside.

Alone with Robin, now. Her appetites and anger…

"Forward march, fool." The gun stayed in place as the hand moved from my face. No more pressure, but his touch lingered like phantom pain.

A sharp prod to my kidneys as he shoved me farther into the room. Onto a couch. As I bounced, my hands left my head.

His foot met my shin and pain burned through my leg.

"Back up- up, up, up!"

I complied, waiting to be tied or restrained.

But he let me stay there, hands on head, and sat down facing me, just out of reach.

I saw the gun first. Another automatic- bigger than Meredith's. Dull black, a dark wooden grip. Freshly oiled; I could smell it.

He looked tall too. Long waist, and long legs that he planted firmly on the marble. A little narrow in the shoulders. Arms a bit short. Navy blue sweatshirt with a designer logo. Black jeans, black leather, high-top athletic shoes that looked spanking new.

The chic thing to wear for homicide- the avenger reads GQ.

His mask had a mouth cutout. A sharklike smile filled the hole.

The dog scratched some more.

Under the mask, his forehead moved.

He crossed his legs, keeping the big black gun a couple of feet from the center of my chest. Breathing fast, but his arm was stable.

Using his free hand, he reached up and began rolling his mask up, doing it deftly, so that his eyes never moved from mine and his gun arm never faltered.

Doing it slowly.

The wool peeled away like a snake's molt, exposing a soft, unremarkable face with fine features.

Rosy cheeks. The hair brass colored, thinning, worn thicker at the sides, now matted by the mask.

Andrew Coburg.

The storefront lawyer's smile was wide, wet- impish.

A surprise-party smile.

He twirled the mask and tossed it over his shoulder. "VoilÀ."

I struggled to make sense of it- Coburg directing me to Gritz. Misdirecting me. Careful researcher… Mrs. Lyndon…

"I really like this place," he said. "Despite all the queer art. Nice, crisp, cruel, L.A. ambience. Much better than that little yuppie log cabin of yours. And cliffside- talk about perfect. Not to mention your little friend's truck-unbelievable. Couldn't have set it up better myself."

He winked. "Almost makes you believe in God, doesn't it? Fate, karma, predestination, collective unconscious- choose your dogma… do you have any idea what I'm talking about?"

"Delmar Parker," I said.

The dead boy's name blotted out his smile.

"I'm talking about consonance," he said. "Making it right."

"But Delmar has something to do with it, doesn't he? Something beyond bad love."

He uncrossed his legs. The gun made a small arc. "What do you know about bad love, you pretentious yuppie prick?"

The gun arm was board rigid. Then it began vibrating. He looked at it for just a second. Laughed, as if trying to erase his outburst.

Scratch, bump. The dog was throwing himself hard against the glass.

Coburg snickered. "Little pit puppy. Maybe after it's over I'll take him home with me."

Smiling but sweating. The rosy cheeks deep with color.

Trying to keep my face neutral, I strained to hear sounds from the bedrooms. Nothing.

"So you think you know about bad love," said Coburg.

"Meredith told me about it," I said.

His brow tightened and mottled.

The dog kept scraping. The old-man whining sound filtered through the glass. Coburg gave a disgusted look.

"You don't know anything," he said.

"So tell me."

"Shut your mouth." The gun arm shot forward again.

I didn't move.

He said, "You don't know a tenth of it. Don't flatter yourself with empathy, fuck your empathy."

The dog bumped some more. Coburg's eyes flattened.

"Maybe I'll just shoot it… skin it and gut it… how good can a shrink's dog be, anyway? How many shrinks does it take to change a lightbulb? None. They're all dead."

He laughed a bit more. Wiped sweat from his nose. I concentrated on the gun arm. It remained firmly in place, as if cut off from the rest of him.

"Do you know what my sin was?" he said. "The great transgression that bought me a ticket to hell?"

Ticket to hell. Meredith had called the school the same thing.

I shook my head. My armpits were aching, my fingers turning numb.

He said, "Enuresis. When I was a kid I used to piss my bed." He laughed.

"They treated me as if I liked it," he said. "Mumsy and Evil Stepdaddy. As if I liked clammy sheets and that litter-box smell. They were convinced I was doing it on purpose, so they beat me. So I got more nervous and pissed gallons. So then what did they do?"

Looking at me, waiting.

"They beat you some more."

"Bingo. And washed my dick with lye soap and all sorts of other wonderful stuff."

Still smiling, but his cheeks were scarlet. His hair was plastered to his forehead, his shoulders hunched under the designer sweatshirt.

My first thought, seeing those rosy cheeks, had been: a beautiful baby.

"So I started to do other things," he said. "Really naughty things. Could anyone blame me? Being tortured for something that I had no control over?"

I shook my head again. For a split second I felt my agreement meant something to him. Then a distracted look came into his eyes. The gun arm pushed forward and the black-metal barrel edged closer to my heart.

"What's the current lowdown on enuresis, anyway?" he said. "Do you pricks still tell parents it's a mental disease?"

"It's genetic," I said. "Related to sleep patterns. Generally it goes away by itself."

"You don't treat it anymore?"

"Sometimes behavior therapy is used."

"You ever treat kids for it?"

"When they want to be treated."

"Sure," he grinned. "You're a real humanitarian." The grin died. "So what were you doing making speeches- paying homage to Hitler?"

"I-"

"Shut up." The gun jabbed my chest. "That was rhetorical, don't speak unless you're spoken to… sleep patterns, huh? You quacks weren't saying that back when I was getting beaten with a strap. You had all sorts of other voodoo theories back then- one of your fellow quacks told Mumsy and Evil that I was screwed up sexually. Another said I was seriously depressed and needed to be hospitalized. And one genius told them I was doing it because I was angry about their marriage. Which was true. But I wasn't pissing because of it. That one they bought. Evil really got into expressing his anger. Big financial man, spiffy dresser- he had a whole collection of fancy belts. Lizard, alligator, calfskin, all with nice sharp buckles. One day I went to school with an especially nice collection of welts on my arm. A teacher started asking questions and the next thing I knew I was on a plane with dear old Mumsy to sunny California. Go west, little bad boy."

He let his free hand drop to his lap. His eyes looked tired and his shoulders rounded.

The dog was still throwing himself against the glass.

Coburg stared straight at me.

I said, "How old were you when they put you in the school?"

The gun jabbed again, forcing me backward against the couch. All at once his face was up against mine, breathing licorice. I could see dried mucus in his nostrils. He spat. His saliva was cold and thick as it oozed down the side of my face.

"I'm not there, yet," he said, between barely moving lips. "Why don't you shut up and let me tell it?"

Breathing hard and fast. I made myself look into his eyes, feeling the gun without seeing it. My pulse thundered in my ears. The spit continued its downward trail. Reaching my chin. Dripping onto my shirt.

He looked repulsed, struck out, slapping me and wiping me simultaneously. Wiped his hand on the seat cushion.

"They didn't put me there right away. They put me in another dungeon first. Right across the street- can you believe that, two hellholes on the same street- what was it, zoned H1 for hell? A real shithole run by a nincompoop alkie, but expensive as hell, so, of course, Mumsy thought it was good, the woman was always such an arriviste."

I tried to look like a fascinated student… still no sounds from the bedrooms.

Coburg said, "A nincompoop. Not even a challenge. A book of matches and some notebook paper." Smile.

Firesetters and truants… Bancroft hadn't said the fire was at his school.

"Poor Mumsy was stymied, out on the next plane, the poor thing. This wonderful look of hopelessness on her face- and she such an educated woman. Crying as we waited for our taxi- I thought I'd finally scored a point. Then he walked over. From across the street. This goatish thing in a black suit and cheap shoes. Taking Mummy's hand, telling her he'd heard what had happened, tsk-tsking and letting her cry some more about her bad little boy. Then telling her his school could handle those kinds of things. Guaranteed. All the while tousling my hair- twelve years old and he was tousling my fucking hair. His hand stank of cabbage and bay rum."

The gun hand wavered a bit… not enough.

Scratch, bump.

"Mummy was thrilled-she knew him from his magazine articles. A famous man willing to tame her wild child." His free hand fluttered. "The cab came and she sent it off empty."

The gun withdrew far enough for me to see its black snout, dark against his white knuckles.

Two hellholes on the same street. De Bosch exploiting Bancroft's failures. An alumnus of both schools, coming back years later, a tramp… the clean-cut face in front of me bore no street scars. But sometimes the wounds that healed weren't the important ones.

"Across the street I went. Mummy signed some papers and left me alone with Hitler. He smiled at me and said, "Andrew, little Andrew. We have the same name, let's be friends.' Me saying, "Fuck you, old goat.' He smiled again and patted my head. Took me down a long dark hall, shoved me into a cell, and locked it. I cried all night. When they let me out for lunch, I snuck into the kitchen and found matches."

A wistful look came into his eyes.

"How thorough was I tonight? Did I leave anything standing at Casa del Shrinko?"

I remained silent.

The gun poked me. "Did I?"

"Not much."

"Good. It's a shoddy world, thoroughness is so rare a quality. You personify shoddiness. You were as easy to get to as a sardine in a can. All of you were- tell me, why are psychotherapists such a passive, helpless bunch? Why are you all such absolute wimps- talking about life rather than doing anything?"

I didn't answer.

He said, "You really are, you know. Such an unimpressive group. Stripped of your jargon, you're noth- if that dog of yours doesn't shut up, I'm going to kill him- better yet, I'll make you kill him. Make you eat him- we can grill him on that barbecue you've got out back. A nice little hot dog- that would be justice, wouldn't it- making you confront your own cruelty? Give you a taste of empathy?"

"Why don't we just let him go?" I said. "He's not mine, just a stray I took in."

"How kind of you." Jab. My breastbone felt inflamed.

I said, "Why don't we let my friend go, too? She hasn't seen your faces."

He smiled and settled back a bit.

"Shoddiness," he said. "That's the big problem. Phony science, false premises, false promises. You pretend to help people but you just mind-fuck them."

He leaned forward. "How do you manage to live with yourself, knowing you're a phony?"

Jab. "Answer me."

"I've helped people."

"How? With voodoo? With bad love?"

Trying to keep the whine out of my voice, I said, "I had nothing to do with de Bosch except for that symposium."

"Except for? Except for! That's like Eichmann saying he had nothing to do with Hitler except for getting those trains to the camps. That symposium was a public love fest, you asshole! You stood up there and canonized him! He tortured children and you canonized him!"

"I didn't know."

"Yeah, you and all the other good Germans."

He spat at me again. The knuckles of his gun hand were tiny cauliflowers. Sweat popped at his hairline.

"That's it?" he said. "That's your excuse-"I didn't know'? Pathetic. Just like all the others. For a bunch of supposedly educated people, you can't even plead for yourselves effectively. No class. Delmar had more class in his little finger than the lot of you put together, and he was retarded. Not that it stopped them from bad-loving him day in and day out."

He shook his head and flung sweat. I saw his index finger move up and down the trigger. The painful, hungry look on his face made my bowels churn. But then it was gone and he was smiling again.

"Retarded," he said, as if enjoying the word. "Fourteen, but he was more like a seven-year-old. I was twelve, but I ended up being his big brother. He was the only one in the place who'd talk to me- beware the dangerous pyromaniac- Hitler warned them all against having anything to do with me. I was completely shunned except by Delmar. He couldn't think clearly, but he had a heart of gold. Hitler took him in for the publicity- poor little Negro retardo helped by the great white doctor. When visitors came, he always had his hand on Delmar's woolly little head. But Delmar was no great success. Delmar couldn't remember rules or learn how to read and write. So when there were no visitors around, he kept bad-loving him, over and over. And when that didn't work, they sent in the she-beast."

"Myra Evans?"

"No, not her, you idiot. She was the bitch, I'm talking about the beast-Dr. Daughter. Kill-Me Kate-thank you, I already have."

High-pitched laughter. The gun moved back some more and I stared into its single, black eye.

The dog began scratching again, but Coburg didn't notice.

"When the beast finished with Delmar, he was drooling and crapping his pants and banging his head against the wall."

"What did she do to him?"

"What did she do? She did a number on his head. And other parts of his body."

"She molested him?"

His free hand touched his cheek and he arched his eyebrows.

"Such shock, the poor man is shocked! Yeah, she molested him, you idiot. In ways that hurt. He'd come back from sessions with her crying and holding himself. Crawl into bed, weeping. I had the room next door. I'd pick the lock and sneak him something to drink. When I asked him what the matter was, he wouldn't tell me. Not for weeks. Then he finally did. I didn't know much about sex, period, let alone ugly things. He pulled down his pants and showed me the marks. Dried blood all over his shorts. That was my introduction to the birds and the bees. It altered me, it altered me."

His lips vibrated and he swallowed hard a couple of times. The gun arm like steel.

The glass door vibrated.

"So he took the truck," I said. "To escape what she was doing to him."

"We took it. I knew how to drive because Evil had a farm in Connecti- a summer place, lots of trucks and tractors. One of the farmhands taught me. Planning the break was hard because Delmar had trouble remembering details. We had a bunch of false starts. Finally we made it out, late at night, everyone asleep. Delmar was scared. I had to drag him."

The gun barrel made tiny arcs.

"I had no idea which way to go, so I just drove. The roads kept getting curvier. Delmar was scared out of his mind, crying for his mama. I'm telling him everything's okay- but some idiot left sawhorses in the middle of the road- a ditch, no warning lights. We skidded… off the road… I yelled for Delmar to jump free, tried to pull him out, but he was too heavy- then my door flipped open and I was thrown out. Delmar…"

He licked his lips and breathed with forced deliberation. His finger tapped the trigger.

"Boom. Kaboom," he said. "Life is so tenuous, isn't it?"

He looked winded, dripping perspiration. The big smile on his face was forced.

"He… it took me two hours to walk back to hell. My clothes were torn and I'd twisted my ankle. It was a miracle- I was alive. Meant for something. I managed to crawl into bed… my teeth were chattering so loud I was sure everyone would wake up. It took a while till the commotion began. Talking, footsteps, lights going on. Then Hitler came stomping into my room, tore the covers off me, and stared at me- foaming at the mouth. I looked right back at him. This crazy look came into his eyes and he lifted his hands- like he was ready to claw me. I stared right back at him and pulled my pud. And he just let his arms drop. Walked out. Never spoke to me again. I was locked in my room for three days. On the fourth day, Mummy came and picked me up. Go east, young victor."

"So you won," I said.

"Oh, yeah," he said. "I was the conquering hero." Jab. "My victory bought me more dungeons. More sadists, pills, and needles. That's what your places are about, whether you call them hospitals or jails or schools. Killing the spirit."

I remembered the flash of anger he'd shown in his office, when we'd talked about Dorsey Hewitt.

He should have been taken care of…

Institutionalized?

Taken care of. Not jailed- oh, hell, even jail wouldn't have been bad if that would have meant treatment. But it never does.

"But you got past that," I said. "You made it through law school, you're helping other people."

He laughed and the gun retreated an inch or two.

"Don't patronize me, you fuck. Yeah, let's hear it for higher education. You know where I learned my torts and jurisprudence? The library at Rahway State Prison. Filing appeals for myself and the other wretches. That's where I learned the law was written by the oppressors to benefit the oppressors. But like fire, you could learn to use it. Make it work for you."

He laughed again and wiped his forehead. "The only bars I ever passed, were the ones on my cell. For five years, I've been going up against yuppie careerist assholes from Harvard and Stanford and kicking their asses in court. I've had judges compliment my work."

"Five years," I said. "Right after Myra."

"Right before." He grinned. "The bitch was a gift to myself. I'd just gotten the gig at the center. Gave myself two gifts. The bitch and a new guitar- black Les Paul Special. You remember my guitar, don't you? All that rapport-building crap you slung at me in my office?"

The guitar-pick tiepin…

What do you do mostly, electric or acoustic?

Lately I've been getting into electric.

Special effects, too. Phase shifters…

He grinned and raised his free hand as if for a high-five. "Hey, bro, let's jam and cut a record."

"Is that the offer you gave Lyle Gritz?"

The grin shrank.

"A human decoy," I said. "To throw me off the track?"

He jabbed me hard with the gun and slapped my face with his free hand. "Shut up and stop controlling, or I'll do you right here and make your little friend in there clean it up. Keep those fucking hands up- up!"

I felt spit hit my cheek again and roll over my lips. Silence from the bedroom. The dog's struggles had become background noise.

"Say you're sorry," he said, "for trying to control."

"I'm sorry."

He reached over and patted my cheek. Almost tenderly.

"The bitch," he said wistfully. "She was given to me. Served on a plate with parsley and new potatoes."

The gun wavered, then straightened. He crossed his legs. The soles of his shoes were unmarked except for a few bits of gravel stuck in the treads.

"Karma," he said. "I was living out in the valley, nice little bachelor pad in Van Nuys. Driving home on a Sunday. These flags out at the curb. Open house for sale. When I was a kid, I liked other people's houses- anything better than my own. I got good at getting into other people's houses. This one looked like it might have a few souvenirs, so I stopped to check it out. I ring the bell. The real estate agent comes to the door and right away she's giving me her pitch. Da da, da da, da da, da da.

"But I'm not hearing a word she's saying. I'm looking at her face and it's the bitch. Some wrinkles, her boobs are sagging, but there's no doubt about it. She's shaking my hand, talking about pride of ownership, owner will carry. And it hits me: this is no accident. This is karma. All these years I'd been thinking about justice. All those nights I lay in bed thinking about getting Hitler, but the fuck beat me to it."

He grimaced, as if stung. "I thought I'd put that behind me, then I looked into the bitch's eyes and realized I hadn't. And she made it so easy- playing her part. Turning her back and walking right in front of me. Open invitation."

He coughed. Cleared his throat. The gun bumped against my sternum.

"Everything was perfect- no one around. I locked all the doors without her noticing, she's too busy giving me her spiel. When we reached an inner bathroom with no windows, I hit her. And did her. She fell apart as if she was made of nothing. At first it was messy. Then it got easier. Like a good riff, the rhythm."

He talked on for a long while, slipping into a drone, like a surgeon dictating operating-room notes. Giving me details I didn't want to hear. I tuned out, listening to the dog thump and bark, listening for sounds from the bedrooms that never came.

Silence. Sighing. He said, "I found my life's work."

"Rodney Shipler," I said. "He didn't work at the school, did he? Was he a relative of Delmar's?"

"Father. In name only."

"What was his crime?"

"Complicity. Delmar's mom was dead, Shipler was the only member of Delmar's family I could find. Delmar told me his dad was named Rodney and he worked for the L.A. schools- I thought he was a teacher. Finally I located him over in South Central. A janitor. This tired old asshole, big and fat, living by himself, drinking whiskey out of a Dixie cup. I told him I was a lawyer and I knew what really happened to his son. Said we could sue, class action- even after the bitch, I was still trying to work within the system. He sat there drinking and listening, then asked me could I guarantee him a lot of money in his pocket. I told him no, money wasn't the issue. The publicity would expose Hitler for what he'd really been. Delmar would be a hero."

Jab. "Shipler poured himself another cup and told me he didn't give a shit about that. Said Delmar's mom had been some whore he'd met in Manila who wasn't worth the time of day. Said Delmar had been a fool and a troublemaker from day one. I tried to reason with him- show him the importance of exposing Hitler. He told me to get the hell out. Tried to push me out."

Coburg's eyes flared. The gun seemed fused to his hand.

"Another good German. He tried to push me out- real bully, but I taught him about justice. After that, I knew the only way was swift punishment- the system wasn't set up to do the job."

I said, "One form of punishment for the underlings, another for the high command."

"Exactly. Fair is fair." He smiled. "Finally someone catches on. Mrs. Lyndon was right, you are a clever piece of work. I told her I was a reporter, doing a story on you. She was so happy to help… her little A student." The gun tickled my ribs. "You deserve something for paying attention- maybe I'll knock you unconscious before I roll you over the cliff outside. Such a perfect setup…" Head cock toward the front door. "Would you like that?"

Before I could answer: "Just kidding! Your eyes will be taped open, you'll experience every second of hell, just like I did."

He laughed. Droned some more, describing how he'd beaten Rodney Shipler to death, blow by blow.

When he was through, I said, "Katarina was high command also. Why'd you wait so long for her?"

Trying to buy time with questions- but to what end? A longer ordeal for Robin- why was it so quiet in there?

My eyes shifted downward. The damn gun arm wasn't moving.

He said, "Why do you think, clever boy? Saving the best for last- and you messed me up royal. You were supposed to go before her, but then you started snooping around, sending your queer police buddy snooping, so I had to do her out of sequence… I'm pissed at you for that. Maybe I'll put your girlfriend on the barbecue. Make you watch that with your eyelids taped open."

Smiling. Sighing. "Still, she-beast got done, and what's done is done… do you know how she handled her fate? Total passivity. Just like the rest of you." Jab. "What kind of person would want to spend his life just sitting there listening- not doing anything?"

He laughed.

"She got down on her knees and begged. Her she-beast throat got all clogged up like a toilet full of shit… She was eating breakfast, I just strolled in, put this gun to her head, said "bad love, she-beast.' And she just fell apart."

Shaking his head, as if still not believing. Slight shift of the gun.

"Not an ounce of fight. No fun. I had to stand her up and order her to make a run for it. Kicked her butt to get her to move. Even with that, all she could do was stumble into the garage and get down on her knees again. Then she snapped out of her trance. Then she started begging. Crying, pointing to her stomach, telling me she's pregnant, please have pity on my baby. Like she had pity… then she pulled a card out of her pocket, trying to prove it to me. A sperm bank. Which makes sense, who would have done her?" Laughter. "Like that was a reason. Saving her beastly fetus. Au contraire, that was the best reason of all to do her. Kill Hitler's seed."

Another shake of the head. "Unbelievable. She bloodies Delmar's shorts and thinks that's a good reason… She started to tell me she was on my side, she'd helped me, killing him."

"She killed her father?"

"She claimed she OD'ed him on pills. Like she'd gotten some insight. But I knew she did it as a favor to him. Putting him out of his misery. Making sure I'd never get to him. Giving me another reason to do her hard and long, she's blabbing and just digging herself deeper." Smile. "I made sure to do the baby first. Pulled it out, still attached to her, showed it to her and put it back in her."

The dog's struggles seemed to be weakening; I thought I heard him whimper.

Coburg said, "You messed up my order, but that's okay, I'll get creative. You and your little friend will be an adequate final act."

"What about the others?" I said, fighting to keep my voice even. Fighting to focus my own rage. "Why'd you choose the order you did?"

"I keep telling you, I didn't choose anything. The pattern constructed itself. I put your names into a hat and drew them out, eeny-meeny- all the meanies."

"The names of the people who spoke at the symposium."

Nod. "All you good Germans. I'd been thinking about all of you for years- even before doing the bitch."

"You were there," I said. "Listening to us."

"Sitting in a back row, taking it all in."

"You were a kid. How'd you come to be there?"

"More karma. I was nineteen, living in Hollywood and crashing at a halfway house on Serrano."

Just a few blocks from Western Peds.

"… taking a walk on Sunset and I saw this program board out in front. Psychiatric symposium, tomorrow morning."

Tensing up, he waved the gun, arm dipping for just one second, then snapping back into place, the barrel touching my shirt.

"His name… I went in and picked up a brochure at the information desk. Shaved and showered and put on my best clothes and just walked in. And watched all you hypocritical bastards get up there and say what a pioneer he'd been. Child advocate. Gifted teacher. The she-beast and her home movies. Everyone smiling and applauding- I could barely sit there without screaming- I should have screamed. Should have gotten up and told all of you what you really were. But I was young, no confidence. So instead, I went out that night and hurt myself. Which bought me another dungeon. Lots of time to think and get my focus. I'd cut out your pictures. Pasted them on a piece of paper. Kept the paper in a box. Along with other important things. I've lived with you assholes longer than most people stay married."

"Why was Dr. Harrison spared?"

He stared at me, as if I'd said something stupid. "Because he listened. Right after the Hitler canonization, I called him and told him it had bothered me. And he listened. I could tell he was taking me seriously. He made an appointment to speak to me. I was going to show up, but something came up- another dungeon."

"Why'd you tell him your name was Merino? Why'd you tell me you were Mr. Silk?"

Wrinkled forehead. "You spoke to Harrison? Maybe I'll visit him after all."

A sick feeling flooded me. "He doesn't know anyth-"

"Don't fret, fool, I'm fair, always have been. I gave all of you the same chance I gave Harrison. But the rest of you flunked."

"You never called me," I said.

Smile. "November thirtieth, nineteen seventy-nine. Two p.m. I have a written record of it. Your snotty secretary insisted you only treated children and couldn't see me."

"She wasn't supposed to screen- I never knew."

"That's an excuse? When the troops fuck up, the general's culpable. And it was a chance you didn't even deserve- a lot more than I got, or Delmar, or any of the other loved ones. You muffed it, bro."

"But Rosenblatt," I said. "He did see you."

"He was the biggest hypocrite. Pretending to understand- the soft voice, the phony empathy. Then he revealed his true colors. Quizzing me, trying to get into my head." Coburg put on an unctuous look: " 'I'm hearing a lot of pain… one thing you might consider is talking about this more.' " Fury compressed the light brown eyes. "The phony bastard wanted to give me psychoanalysis to deal with my conflicts. Hundred-buck-an-hour couch work as a cure for political oppression because he couldn't accept the fact that he'd worshiped Hitler. He sat there and pretended to hear, but he didn't believe me. Just wanted to mess with my head- the worst one of all, bye-bye birdie."

He made a shoving motion with his free hand and smiled.

I said, "How'd you get him to see you outside his office?"

"I told him I was bedridden. Crippled by something Hitler had done. That piqued his interest, he came right over that evening, with his kind looks and his beard and his bad tweed suit- it was hot but he needed his little shrink costume. The whole time he was there, I stayed in bed. The second time, also. I had him bring me a drink… serving me. It was a really muggy day, the window was wide open for air. Tissue box on the ledge- karma. I pretended to sneeze and asked him to get me a tissue." Shove. "Fly away, hypocrite bird."

Other people's houses. A financial man… A farm in Connecticut. Did that mean an apartment in New York City? And her such an educated woman.

She a lawyer, he a banker.

I said, "The apartment belonged to your mother and stepfather."

He shook his head joyfully. "Clever little Alex. Mrs. Lyndon would be so proud… Mummy and Evil were in Europe, so I decided to crash at the old homestead. Rosenblatt's office two blocks away… karma. Eight floors up, have a nice flight."

Mr. and Mrs. Malcolm J. Rulerad. Cold people, Shirley Rosenblatt had said. Unwilling to let a private investigator search their place. Guarding more than privacy? How much had they known?

"You left burglar tools behind," I said. "Did you need them to get in, or were you just setting it up as another East Side burglary?"

He tried to mask his surprise with a slow, languid smile. "My, my, we have been busy. No, I had a key. One keeps looking for home sweet home. The big Brady Bunch in the sky…"

"Stoumen and Lerner," I said. "Did they meet with you?"

"No," he said, suddenly angry again. "Stoumen's excuse was that he was retired. Another flunky shutting me out, did I want to speak to the doctor on call- you people really don't know how to delegate authority properly. And Lerner made an appointment but didn't show up, the rude bastard."

The unreliability Harrison had spoken of: it had affected his work- missed appointments.

"So you tracked them down at conferences- how'd you get hold of the membership lists?"

"Some of us are thorough- Mrs. Lyndon would have liked me, too- what a kindly old bag, all that midwestern salt-of-the-earth friendliness. Research is such fun, maybe I'll visit her in person someday."

"Did Meredith help you get the lists?" I said. "Was she doing publicity for the conventions?"

Pursed lips. Tense brow. The hand wavered. "Meredith… ah, yes, dear Meredith. She's been a great help- now, stop asking stupid questions and get down on your knees- keep those hands up- keep them up!"

Moving as slowly as I could, I got off the couch and kneeled, trying to keep a fix on the gun.

Silence, then another impact that shook the glass.

"The dog's definitely chops and steaks," he said.

The gun touched the crown of my head. He ruffled my hair with the barrel and I knew he was remembering.

The weapon pressed down on me, harder, as if boring into my skull. All I could see were his shoes, the bottoms of his jeans. A grout seam between two marble tiles.

"Say you're sorry," he said.

"Sorry."

"Louder."

"Sorry."

"Personalize it-"I'm sorry, Andrew.' "

"I'm sorry, Andrew."

"More sincerity."

"I'm sorry, Andrew."

He made me repeat it six times, then he sighed. "I guess that's as good as it's going to get. How are you feeling right now?"

"I've been better."

Chuckle. "I'll bet you have- stand up slowly- slowly. Slo-o-o-wly. Keep those hands up- hands on head- Simon says."

He stepped back, the gun trained on my head. Behind me was the couch. Chairs all around. An upholstered prison, nowhere to go… a run for it would be suicide, leaving Robin to deal with his frustration…

The dog throwing himself, harder…

I was upright now. He stepped closer. We came face-to-face. Licorice and rage, lowering the gun and pushing it against my navel. Then up at my throat. Then down again.

Playing.

Choreography.

"I see it," he said. "Behind your eyes- the fear- you know where you're going, don't you?"

I said nothing.

"Don't you?"

"Where am I going?"

"Straight to hell. One-way ticket."

The gun nudged my groin. Moved up to my throat again. Pressed against my heart. Back down to my crotch.

Taking on a rhythm- the musician in him… moving his hips.

I was altered…

Groin. Heart. Groin.

He poked my crotch and laughed. When he raised the gun again, I exploded, chopping the gun wrist with my right hand as I stabbed at his eye with the stiffened fingertips of my left.

The gun fired as he lost balance.

He landed on his side, the gun still laced between his fingers. I stomped on his wrist. His free hand was clamped over his face. When he pulled it free and grabbed at my leg, his eye was shut, bleeding.

I stomped again and again. He roared with pain. The gun hand was limp, but the weapon remained entangled. He struggled to lift it and aim. I dropped my knee full force on his arm, got hold of the hand, tugging, twisting, finally freeing the automatic.

My turn to aim. My hands were numb. I had trouble bending my fingers around the trigger. He slid across the carpet on his back, kicking out randomly, holding his eye. Blood ran over his hand. His escape was blocked by a sofa. Flailing and kicking- he looked at me.

No- behind me.

He screamed, "Do it!" as I ducked and wheeled, facing the hallway.

The smaller gun in my face. A woman's hand behind it. Red nails. Coburg shouting, "Do it! Do it! Do it!" Starting to get up.

I dropped to the floor just as the little gun went off.

More gunshots. Hollow pops, softer than the black pistol's thunder.

Coburg on me. We rolled. I struck out with the black gun and caught the side of his head. He fell back, soundlessly, landed on his back. Not moving.

Where was the silver gun? Arcing toward me again from across the room. Two red-nailed hands starting to squeeze.

I dove behind the couch.

Pop! The fabric puckered and gobbets of stuffing flew inches from my face.

I pressed myself flush to the marble.

Pop! Pop, pop!

Heavy breathing- gasping- but whose I couldn't tell.

Pop!

A dull noise from my back, then the windchime song of shattered glass. Scampering feet.

A small, black blur raced past me toward Meredith.

Hooking my arm around the couch, I fired the big black automatic blindly, trying to aim well above dog level. The recoil drove me backward. Something crashed.

Barks and growls and female screams.

I scuttled to the opposite side of the couch, squeezed the trigger, waited for return fire.

More screams. Footsteps. Human. Getting distant.

I hazarded a look around the couch, saw her heading for the front door, silver gun dangling like a purse.

Coburg still down.

Where was the dog?

Meredith was almost at the door now. The bolt was thrown- she was having trouble with it.

I rushed her, pointing the black gun, feeling the trigger's heavy action start to give.

Swift justice.

Screaming "Stop!" I fired into a wall.

She obeyed. Held onto the silver gun.

"Drop it, drop it!"

The gun fell to the floor and skidded away.

She said, "I'm sorry, I didn't want to- he made me."

"Turn around."

She did. I yanked off her mask.

Her face was trembling, but she tossed her hair in a gesture more suited for a teenager.

Blond hair.

My hand was still compressing the trigger. I forced myself not to move.

Jean Jeffers said, "He made me," and glanced at Coburg. He remained openmouthed and inert, and her eyes died. She tried tears.

"You rescued me," she said. "Thanks."

"What'd you do with Robin?"

"She's fine- I promise. She's in there- go see."

"Step out in front of me."

"Sure, but this is silly, Alex. He made me- he's crazy- we're on the same side, Alex."

Another look at Coburg.

His chest wasn't moving.

Keeping the black gun on Jeffers, I stooped and pocketed the silver one. Maintaining a clear view of her, I managed to pull a large, upholstered chair over the bottom half of Coburg's body. Not worth much, but it would have to do for the moment.

I walked Jeffers back to the bedroom. The door was closed. The dog stood on his hind legs, scratching at it, gouging the paint. An acetone stink came from the other side. Familiar…

"Open it," I said.

She did.

Robin was spreadeagled on the bed, hands and feet tied to the posts with nylon fishing line, duct tape over her mouth, a bandana over her eyes. On the nightstand were the spool of line, scissors, nail polish, a box of tissues, and Robin's manicure set.

Nail polish remover- the acetone.

A used emery board. Jeffers had passed the time by doing her nails.

She said, "Let me free her, right now."

I pocketed the scissors and let her, using her hands. She worked clumsily, the dog up on the bed, growling at her, circling Robin, licking Robin's face. Specks of blood dappled his fur. Diamond glints of broken glass… Robin sat up and rubbed her wrists and looked at me, stunned.

I motioned her off the bed and gave her the silver gun. Shoved Jeffers down on it, belly down, hands behind her back.

"Did she hurt you?" I said.

Jeffers said, "Of course I didn't."

Robin shook her head.

Jeffers' red nails were so fresh they still looked wet.

She said, "Can we please-"

Robin tied her up quickly. Then we returned to the living room. Coburg's head where I'd hit him was huge, soft, eggplant-purple. He was starting to move a bit but hadn't regained consciousness.

Robin trussed him expertly, those good, strong hands.

The dog was at my feet, panting. I got down and inspected him. He licked my hands. Licked the gun.

Superficial cuts, no sign he was suffering. Robin picked the glass out of his fur and lifted him, kissing him, cradling him like a baby.

I picked up the phone.