‘Fine ass,’ said Richmond. ‘But no tits. Ain’t none of ‘em got tits like ol’ Audrey.’
‘Gentlemen!’ Magnusson’s lips pursed spasmodically as if he were trying to kiss his nose. ‘I’ve given up attempting to enlist your support, but I’ve made a decision of which you should be aware.’ He glared at them, squeezing the arms of his chair: a feeble old king judging his unworthy subjects. ‘May the third, gentlemen. I want you to mark that date.’
‘Why’s that, Doc?’ asked Richmond. ‘You havin’ a party?’
‘In a manner of speaking, yes. Mr Harrison! I’m determined you’ll listen to me this time.’
Donnell avoided the old man’s eyes. His nervous reaction was becoming more pronounced, and as often happened around Magnusson, his vision was playing tricks, shifting involuntarily.
‘As I told you last week, it’s obvious to me that the life span of the bacteria within the host should be on the order of a day or thereabouts. No more. Well, I believe I’ve deduced the reason for our longevity, though to be sure I’d have to take a look inside an infested brain.’
Richmond’s back humped with silent laughter.
‘Your brain would do nicely, Mr Richmond. Dissection may well prove its optimal employment.’ Magnusson cackled. ‘Initially, they wouldn’t give me brain data. Said all the patients had recovered, and there was no such data. But I succeeded in convincing Brauer to assist me. Surely, I said, there must have been early failures, animal experiments. If I could see those files, I told him, no telling what insights they might elicit.’
Out of the corner of his eye, Donnell saw Magnusson embedded in a veil of red light, an aural color so deep that the old man’s head showed as featureless and distorted as the darkness at the heart of a flawed ruby.
‘There’s too much data to relate it all,’ said Magnusson, ‘so let me take a tuck in my argument. Each of us has experienced perceptual abnormalities, abilities the uninformed would categorize as “psychic.” It’s clear that some feature of our brain allied with these abilities is retarding the bacterial process. Three of the case studies Brauer loaned me revealed extensive infestation of the dopamine and no repenephrine systems. I didn’t dare ask him about them, but I believe they were like us, and that the seat of the retarding factor, and therefore of “psychic” potential…’
‘Doc, you borin’ the shit outta me!’ Richmond stood, only a little awkwardly, and Donnell envied his ease of mobility.
‘You won’t have to put up with me much longer, Mr Richmond.’ A loose cough racked Magnusson’s chest. ‘I’m being discharged on May the fourth. Ezawa himself will be on hand to oversee my… my liberation.’ He sucked at his teeth, ‘Mr Harrison. I want you to promise me that on May the third you’ll look closely at your bedroom walls. A simple duty, but your assumption of it will both guarantee my peace of mind and substantially prove my point.’
Donnell nodded, wishing Magnusson away.
‘Your nod’s your bond, I suppose. Very well. Look closely, Mr Harrison. As closely as only you can look.’ He wheeled off, calling for his therapist.
‘Senile old bastard,’ said Richmond.
‘Every time he’s around,’ said Donnell, ‘it’s like something’s crawling up my spine. But he doesn’t sound senile to me.’
‘So what. I get weird vibes off you, and you ain’t senile,’ said Richmond with his usual eccentric logic. ‘Just ‘cause you get weird vibes off a dude don’t mean they gotta be one way or another…’ He lost the flow of his argument. “Course maybe I’m just used to weirdness,’ he continued moodily. ‘Where I grew up there was a cemetery right across the street, and all kinds of weird shit was goin’ on. Funerals and shit. Especially on Thursdays. How come you think Thursdays is such a big day for funerals, man?’
‘Probably a slow business day.’ Donnell picked up his cane.
‘I’m gonna head on back with the cooze. Who knows!’ Richmond waggled his tongue in a parody of lust. ‘Tonight might be the night me and ol’ Audrey get down and do the low yo-yo!’
As Richmond sauntered off, his limp barely evident, Donnell levered himself up with his cane. His first step sent pains shooting from his feet into his knees.
‘Hi.’ Jocundra came up beside him. ‘Should I bring the chair?’
‘I can deal with it.’ He linked arms with her, and they walked toward the house at a ceremonial pace. His skin was irritated to a glow each time her hip brushed him.
‘Was Dr Magnusson bothering you again?’
‘Yeah. He says he’s being discharged May the fourth.’
‘That’s right.’
Donnell stepped on a pebble, teetered, but she steadied him. ‘Where’s he going to end up?’ he asked. ‘He can’t take care of himself.’
‘A home for the elderly, I suppose,’ she said. ‘I’ll find out from Laura if you like.’
Her smile was sweet, open, and he smiled back. ‘It doesn’t matter.’ He started to tell her of his promise to Magnusson, but thought better of it, and told her instead about Richmond having to kill a cop.
Toward the end of April, Jocundra dreamed that Donnell came into her room one night while she was asleep. Within the logic of the dream, a very vivid dream, she was not surprised to see him because she knew - just as in reality - that he often waked before her and would sometimes become lonely and ask her to fix breakfast. This time, however, he did not wake her, merely sat beside the bed. The moon was down, and he was visible by the flickers in his eyes: jagged bursts of green lightning sharply incised upon the darkness, yet so tiny and short lived they seemed far away, as if she were watching a storm at the extreme edge of her horizon. After a minute he reached out and rested his fingers briefly on the inside of her elbow, jerking them back when a static charge crackled between them. He sat motionless for a few seconds, and she thought he was holding his breath, expecting her to wake; at last he stretched out his hand again and brushed his fingertips across the nipple of her left breast, teasing it erect beneath her nightgown, sending shivery electricities down into the flesh as if he were conducting the charges within his eyes. Then he cupped her breast, a treasuring touch, and the weight of his hand set a pulse throbbing between her legs.
She had another dream immediately afterward, something about clowns and chasing around a subdivision, but she most remembered the one about Donnell. It disturbed her because she was not certain it had been a dream, and because it brought to mind a talk she had had with Laura Petit several days before. Donnell had requested a morning alone to begin a new project - a story, he said -and so Jocundra had picked out a magazine and gone onto the grounds. Laura had accosted her in the parking lot, saying she needed a friendly ear, and they had walked down to the stone bench near the gatehouse.
‘I’m losin’ touch with Hilmer,’ said Laura. ‘He wants to be alone all the time.’ Strands of hair escaped from her barrette, there were shadows around her eyes, and her lipstick was smeary.
Jocundra was inclined to sympathy, but she couldn’t help being somewhat pleased to learn that Laura was not impervious to human affliction. ‘He’s just involved with his work,’ she advised. ‘At this stage you have to expect it.’ ‘
‘He’s not workin’,’ said Laura bitterly. ‘He wanders! All day long. I can’t keep track of him. Edman says to let him have the run of the house, but I just don’t feel right about it, especially with the cameras breakin’ down so much.’ She gave Jocundra a dewy, piteous look and said, ‘I should be with him! He’s only got a week, and I know there’s somethin’ he’s hidin’.’