Lullaby

Chapter 41

This is after the police read me my rights. After they cuff my hands behind my back and drive me to the precinct. This is after the first patrolman arrived at the scene, looked at the dead bodies, and said, «Sweet, suffering Christ.» After the paramedics rolled the dead cook off the grill, took one look at his fried face, and puked in their own cupped hands. This is after the police gave me my one phone call, and I called Helen and said I was sorry, but this was it. I was arrested. And Helen said, «Don't worry. I'll save you.» After they fingerprinted me and took a mug shot. After they confiscated my wallet and keys and watch. They put my clothes, my brown sport coat and blue tie, in a plastic bag tagged with my new criminal number. After the police walked me down a cold, cinder-block hallway, naked into a cold concrete room. After they leave me alone with a beefy, buzz-cut old officer with hands the size of a catcher's mitt. Alone in a room with nothing but a desk, my bag of clothes, and a jar of petroleum jelly.

After I'm alone with this grizzled old ox, he pulls on a latex glove and says, «Please turn to the wall, bend over, and use your hands to spread your ass cheeks.»

And I say, what?

And this big frowning giant wipes two gloved fingers around in the jar of petroleum jelly and says, «Body cavity search.» He says, «Now turn around.»

And I'm counting 1, counting 2, counting 3 …

And I turn around. I bend over. One hand gripping each half of my ass, I pull them apart.

Counting 4, counting 5, counting 6 …

Me and my failed Ethics. The same as Waltraud Wagner and Jeffrey Dahmer and Ted Bundy, I'm a serial killer and this is how my punishment starts. Proof of my free will. This is my path to salvation.

And the cop's voice, all rough with the smell of cigarettes, he says, «Standard procedure for all detainees considered dangerous.»

I'm counting 7, counting 8, counting 9 …

And the cop growls, «You're going to feel a slight pressure so just relax.»

And I'm counting 10, counting 11, counting …

And damn.

Damn!

«Relax,» the cop says.

Damn. Damn. Damn. Damn. Damn. Damn!

The pain, it's worse than Mona poking me with her red-hot tweezers. It's worse than the rubbing alcohol washing away my blood. I grip the two handfuls of my ass and grit my teeth, the sweat running down my legs. Sweat from my forehead drips off my nose. My breathing stops. The drips fall straight down and splash between my bare feet, my feet planted wide apart.

Something huge and hard twists deeper into me, and the cop's horrible voice says, «Yeah, relax, buddy.»

And I'm counting 12, counting 13 …

The twisting stops. The huge, hard thing backs off, slow, almost all the way. Then it twists in deep again. Slow as the hour hand on a clock, then faster, the cop's greased fingers prod into me, retreat, prod in, retreat.

And close to my ear, the cop's gravel and ashtray old voice says, «Hey, buddy, you got time for a quickie?»

And my whole body does a spasm.

And the cop says, «Boy howdy, somebody just got tight.»

I say, Officer. Please. You have no idea. I could kill you. Please don't do this.

And the cop says, «Let go of me so I can unlock your handcuffs. It's me, Helen.»

Helen?

«Helen Hoover Boyle? Remember?» the cop says. «Two nights ago, you were doing almost this exact same thing to me inside a chandelier?»

Helen?

The huge hard something still twisted deep inside me.

The cop says, «This is called an occupation spell. I translated it just a couple hours ago. I've got Officer whoever here crammed down into his subconscious right now. I'm running his show.»

The hard cold sole of the officer's shoe shoves against my ass, and the huge hard fingers yank themselves out. Between my feet is a puddle of sweat. Still gritting my teeth, I stand up, fast.

The officer looks at his fingers and says, «I thought I was going to lose these.» He smells the fingers and makes a nasty face.

Great, I say, breathing deep, eyes closed. First she's controlling me, now I have to worry about Helen controlling everyone around me.

And the cop says, «I had control of Mona for the last couple of hours this afternoon. Just to give the spell a test run, and to get even with her for scaring you, I gave her a little makeover.»

The cop grabs his crotch. «This is amazing. Being with you like this, you're giving me an erection.» He says, «This sounds sexist, but I've always wanted a penis.»

I say, I don't want to hear this.

And Helen says, through the cop's mouth, she says, «I think as soon as I put you into a taxi, maybe I'll hang around in this guy and beat off. Just for the experience.»

And I say, if you think this will make me love you, think again.

A tear runs down the cop's cheek.

Standing here naked, I say, I don't want you. I can't trust you.

«You can't love me,» the cop says, Helen says in the cop's grizzled voice, «because I'm a woman and I have more power than you.»

And I say, just go, Helen. Get the fuck out of here. I don't need you. I want to pay for my crimes. I'm tired of making the world wrong to justify my own bad behavior.

And the cop's crying hard now, and another cop walks in. It's a young cop, and he looks from the old cop, crying, to me, naked. The young cop says, «Everything A-okay in here, Sarge?»

«It's just delightful,» the old cop says, wiping his eyes. «We're having a wonderful time.» He sees he's wiped his eyes with his gloved hand, the fingers out my ass, and he tears off the glove with a little scream. His whole body does a big shudder, and he throws the greasy glove across the room.

I tell the young cop, we were just having a little talk.

And the young cop puts a fist in my face and says, «You just shut the fuck up.»

The old cop, Sarge, sits down on the edge of the desk and crosses his legs at the knee. He sniffs back tears and tosses his head as if tossing back hair and says, «Now, if you don't mind, we'd very much like to be alone.»

I just look at the ceiling.

The young cop says, «Sure thing, Sarge.»

And Sarge grabs a tissue and dabs his eyes.

Then the young cop turns fast, grabbing me under the jaw and jamming me up against the wall. My back and legs against the cold concrete. With my head pushed up and back, the young cop's hand squeezing my throat, the cop says, «You don't give the Sarge a hard time!» He shouts, «Got that?»

And the Sarge looks up with a weak smile and says, «Yeah. You heard him.» And sniffs.

And the young cop lets loose of my throat. He steps back toward the door, saying, «I'll be out front if you need … well, anything.»

«Thank you,» the Sarge says. He clutches the young cop's hand, squeezing it, saying, «You're too sweet.»

And the young cop jerks his hand away and leaves the room.

Helen's inside this man, the way a television plants its seed in you. The way cheatgrass takes over a landscape. The way a song stays in your head. The way ghosts haunt houses. The way a germ infects you. The way Big Brother occupies your attention.

The Sarge, Helen, gets to his feet. He fiddles with his holster and pulls out his gun. Holding the pistol in both hands, he points it at me and says, «Now get your clothes out of the bag and put them on.» The Sarge sniffs back tears and kicks the garbage bag full of clothes at me and says, «Get dressed, damn it.» He says, «I came here to save you.»

The pistol trembling, the Sarge says, «I want you out of here so I can beat off.»