The seventh commandment

Chapter 41

Numbers had always fascinated Turner Pierce. He even gave them characteristics: 1 was stalwart, 3 was sensual, 7 was stern, 8 was lascivious. But even without this fanciful imaging, numbers had the power to move the world. Once you understood them and how they worked, you could exploit their power for your own benefit.

But now, in his elegant, number-ordered universe, a totally irrational factor had been introduced. The presence of Felicia Starrett was like the "cracking" of a functioning computer by the invasion of a virus. The software he had designed to program his life was being disrupted by this demented woman.

He was quite aware of what was happening to him. It was as if he had caught Felicia's unreason. His linear logicality was constantly being ruptured by her drug-induced madness, and his reactions were becoming as disordered as her hallucinations and paranoia. He knew his physical appearance was deteriorating and his work for Ramon Schnabl suffering from neglect.

Her speech was becoming increasingly incoherent. She had lost the ability to control her bladder and bowels. Her rages had become more violent. She had lost so much weight that her dry, hot skin was stretched tightly over white knobs of bones. Turner was chained to a convulsive skeleton whose paroxysms became so extreme that he was forced to restrain her with bands of cloth. But even when fettered to the bed, her thrashings were so furious he feared her thin bones might snap.

It was only when she smoked a pipe of ice that these frightening displays of dementia were mollified. But then her body temperature rose so high, her breathing became so labored, her heartbeat so erratic, that he panicked at the thought she might expire in his bed, in his apartment. His life had not been programmed to handle that eventuality.

He phoned Ramon Schnabl, twice, intending to ask if an antidote existed that might return Felicia to normality. His calls were not returned. He then phoned Helene and, trying not to sound hysterical, asked her to come over and baby-sit "the patient" so he could get out of that smashed and fetid apartment for a while, have a decent dinner, and try to jump-start his brain in the cold night air.

Helene, not questioning, said she'd be there as soon as possible.

"Thank you," Turner Pierce said, not recognizing his own piteous voice.

Felicia Starrett dwelt in a world she did not recognize. It was all new, all different: colors more intense, sounds foreign, smells strange and erotic. She heard herself babbling but could not understand the words. She wasn't aware of who she was or where she was. Her new world was primeval. She remembered a few things in brief moments of lucidity: an aching past and a glorious future when she would marry Turner Pierce and everything would be all right. Forever and ever. She stared about with naked eyes.

Once, in Kansas City, when she had repulsed Sid Loftus, he had said to her, "You're not deep, you're shallow." Then he had added, "But wide." Helene Pierce had never understood what he meant by that. If he was implying that she was incapable of reflecting on the Meaning of Life, he was totally wrong; Helene often had deep thoughts. She was not, after all, a ninny.

Experience had taught her that life was dichotomous. People were either staunch individuals, motivated solely by self-interest, or they were what might be termed communicants who devoted their lives to interactions with families, spouses, friends, lovers, neighborhoods, cities.

It seemed to Helene the choice was easy. Being a communicant demanded sacrifice of time and energy-and life was too brief for that. Being a self-centered separate demanded less sacrifice but more risk. You were on your own, completely. So she began to equate the communicant with timidity and the individual with courage. She had, she told herself, the balls to go it alone. Gamble all, lose all or win all.

Then Turner phoned and asked her to come to his apartment and watch over nutty Felicia while he took a break. Hearing the panic in his voice-she was sensitive to overtones when men spoke-Helene immediately agreed. She recognized at once that it was an opportunity that might not soon occur again.

As she prepared to leave, she reviewed the scenario she had devised. It had the virtue of simplicity. It was direct, stark, and she figured it had a fifty-percent chance of success. But her entire life had been a fifty-fifty proposition; she was not daunted by a coin flip.

And so she started out, excited, almost sexually, by what she was about to do.

Turner had the apartment door locked, bolted, chained; it took him a moment to get it open.

"My God," he said in a splintered voice, "am I ever glad to see you, babe. Come on in."

Helene tried not to reveal her shock at his appearance: haunted eyes, sunken cheeks, unshaven jaw, uncombed hair. Even his once meticulously groomed mustache had become a scraggly blur. His clothes were soiled and shapeless.

She said nothing about the way he looked but glanced about the disordered apartment with dismay.

"Turner," she said, "you're living in a swamp."

"Tell me about it," he said bitterly. "I've tried to clean up, but then she goes on a rampage again. And I obviously can't hire someone to come in with a raving lunatic in the next room."

"She's in the bedroom?"

He nodded. "I've had to tie her to the bed. It's for her own safety," he added defensively. "And mine."

"How's she doing?"

"At the moment she's sleeping. Or unconscious; I don't know which. She had a pipe this afternoon. If she comes out of it tonight she'll be groggy for a few hours before she crashes. Think you can handle it?"

"Of course," Helene said. "Get yourself cleaned up, go have a good dinner. I'll be here when you get back."

"Thanks, babe," he said throatily. "I don't know what I'd do without you. What's it like out?"

"Absolutely miserable. Snow, sleet, freezing rain. Cold as hell and a wind that just won't quit."

"Maybe I'll run over to Vito's and grab a veal chop and a couple of stiff belts. Make me a new man."

"Sure it will," Helene said.

He went into the bathroom, and a moment later she heard the sound of his electric shaver. She didn't go into the bedroom but made a small effort to straighten up the living room, picking books and magazines from the floor, setting chairs upright, carrying used glasses and plates back to the kitchen. She took a look in the refrigerator. Nothing much in there: two oranges, a package of sliced ham, some cheese going green. There was a bottle of Absolut in the cupboard under the sink, but she didn't touch it. She didn't need Dutch courage.

Turner appeared looking a little better. He had shaved, washed up, put on a fresh shirt, brushed his hair and mustache.

"Two things," he said. "Keep the front door locked and don't, under any circumstances, untie her. She may beg you to turn her loose, but don't do it. You just don't know what she'll do. I'll be back in an hour."

"Take your time," Helene said.

After he left, she bolted the front door and glanced at her watch. Then she went into the bedroom. It was a malodorous place, furry with dust, and overheated. Illumination came from a dim bulb in the dresser lamp. The rug was littered with scraps of torn cloth, newspapers, a few shards of broken glass. And there were great, ugly stains. Felicia Starrett, eyes closed, lay under a thin cotton sheet despoiled with blotches of yellow and brown. Her breathing was shallow and irregular; occasionally little whimpers escaped from her opened mouth, no louder than a kitten's mewls. Her wrists were bound together with a strip of sheeting. Her ankles were similarly shackled, and a long, wide band of cloth had been run under the bed, the two ends knotted across her waist.

Helene thought she looked in extremis, that her next small breath might be the last. She pulled a straightback chair to the bedside, touched one of those bound claws lightly.

"Felicia," she said softly. No response.

"Felicia," she repeated and stroked a blemished, shrunken arm. "Felicia, dear, can you hear me?"

Eyelids rose, not slowly but suddenly; her eyes just popped open. Helene leaned closer.

"Felicia," she said gently, "it's Helene. Do you recognize me, darling?"

Eyes swung to her, but the focus was somewhere else. "Water," Felicia said, trying to lick dry lips. Helene went back to the kitchen, found a plastic cup, filled it with tap water, brought it to the bedroom. She held it to those parched lips while the fettered woman gulped greedily. She finished it all, turned her head aside and spewed it all over the pillow, bed, floor.

"Never mind," Helene said, controlling her own nausea at the sight, "we'll try again a little later. Is there anything you want, Felicia?"

Rheumy eyes turned to her. "Helene?" the woman asked.

"Of course! I'm Helene, dear, here to help you. How do you feel?"

"I'm sick."

"I know, Felicia, but you're going to be better real soon."

"Where's Turner?"

"He had to go out for a little while, but he'll be back before you know it."

Felicia looked down at her bound hands lying atop the soiled sheet. "Untie me," she said in a scratchy voice.

"Not right now, dear. Maybe when Turner gets back. Would you like to try a little more water now? Maybe an orange would taste good. There's a nice cold orange in the fridge. I'll get it and peel it for you."

She returned to the kitchen again, and, after searching a few moments, found where Turner had hidden the knives: on the top shelf of the cupboard over the range. Helene selected the long, pointed carving knife, the one Felicia had used to slash the furniture. She brought the knife and orange back to the bedroom.

She sat calmly, slowly slicing rind from the orange with the sharp blade, letting the peelings drop to the floor. She was aware that Felicia was watching her every move.

"There we are!" Helene said brightly, holding up the naked orange. "Doesn't that look nice? Would you like a piece right now?"

"Where's Turner?" Felicia repeated.

"He had to go out for a little while," Helene said again, "but he'll be back soon. You love Turner, don't you, darling."

Felicia blinked her eyes, tried to moisten her cracked lips. She attempted to speak, once, twice, and finally croaked, "We're going to get married." "That's what I wanted to talk to you about," Helene said, hunching closer. "Now listen to me, dear, and try to understand what I'm saying."

She spoke slowly, distinctly, for almost ten minutes, repeating everything until she was satisfied the other woman had heard and comprehended, even dimly. There was no reaction, no objection. But Felicia's mouth sagged open again, eyelids shut as suddenly as they had opened.

"I'm going now, dear," Helene said. "Turner will be back soon. But let me untie you first."

Rather than attempt to loosen the tight knots, Helene used the carving knife to slice them through. Felicia lay motionless. Helene left the peeled orange and knife on the sheet alongside that flaccid body in its mummy posture.

"I hope you're feeling better real soon, darling," she said lightly. "Do take care of yourself."

Then she went swiftly into the living room, grabbed up hat, coat, purse, and left the apartment. Outside, she bent forward against the wind, the gusts of stinging hail, and walked westward as rapidly as she could.

He had unbelted his trench coat to get at his keys.

When he entered the apartment, it was almost completely dark.

The only illumination was a weak light coming from the bedroom.

He turned to flip on the wall switch.

His coat swung open.

"Helene!" he called. "I'm home!"

The knife went in just below his sternum.

The force of the blow slammed him back against the closed door.

The blade was withdrawn and shoved in again.

Again. Again.

In shock, body burning, he looked down at the blood blooming from his wounds.

He looked at the naked wraith crouched in front of him. Dimly he saw her lips drawn tight in a tortured grin. He glimpsed a matchstick arm working like a piston. He felt the blade penetrate. Scorching.

He tried to reach out to stop that fire, but his knees buckled.

He slid slowly downward until he was sitting, legs thrust out, hands clamped across his belly, trying to dam the flood.

She would not stop, but bent over him, stabbing, stabbing.

Even after he was dead, she continued to poke with the knife, in all parts of his body, until she was certain he had ceased to exist.