“Dulcie the sheep,” I said through my teeth.
His eyes showed maybe the first glimmer of something more than funhouse feat.
“Say it,” I said.
He said it.
“Your steadfast companion,” came his voice out of the memory. “Her life was tragically cut short. The murder remains unsolved.”
“That’s a lie,” I said. “Orton Angwine was pinned with the sheep’s killing.”
Testafer looked extremely uncomfortable. The hand that held the mike was shaking. “Angwine was convicted of killing Maynard only,” he said.
“Who killed the sheep?” I said.
His eyes closed.
“Who killed the sheep?” I said again.
He leaned over and pursed his Lips into the microphone.
With his eyes closed he looked like he was praying into the device. “Who killed the sheep?” he repeated.
“The murder remains unsolved,” said the memory.
“The murder remains unsolved,” he said to me, but he didn’t open his eyes.
“I solved it, Grover. Open your eyes and tell me who killed the sheep.” I reached down and gripped his hand hard until he dropped the mike. This time he opened his eyes, but he didn’t speak.
“You don’t need this,” I said, showing him the memory. “You had me going for a minute there, but you blew it when you closed your eyes. Who killed the sheep?” I dropped the box and the microphone on the floor and crushed them under my shoe. It was all plastic and wire and chips, and it crumbled pretty easily even on the soft pile of the carpet. I kicked it, spread it with my toe, until it was mixed with the first mess I’d made there. Testafer got redder and spilled his drink trying to put it down, and I think his eyes were getting wet around the edges before he caught himself and reeled it all back in.
“I killed her,” he said when he could without choking. “Tell me how you knew.”
“That wasn’t hard,” I said. “I ruled you out at first because you hit the intestine. You didn’t need to; to kill her, and someone who knew enough would avoid making such a mess. But you’re no surgeon, and you’re certainly no veterinarian. If hitting it was clever, it almost worked, and if it was stupid, you almost got lucky. Almost.”
He didn’t tell me which it was. I guessed stupid and lucky.
“Dulcie knew things that could have broken the case open,” I said. “I didn’t get them out of her, but you didn’t know that. I left you there feeling violent and frustrated and panicked. Even at the time I wondered if you would hit her. It wasn’t too big a jump to pin you with the killing.”
I watched Testafer crumble and age on the couch in front of me. For six years he’d kept these memories from himself. It was obvious he’d been using the Forgettol and the memory device as a public front. But it was equally obvious, from the way he was deflating, that he was living through the visceral part of the memory now for the first time.
“For God’s sake,” he said through his hands. “Don’t dig it all up again.” He sounded as if he were being confronted with the carcass, literally.
“Relax,” I said. “I’m not such a stickler for animal rights. You can buy me off with the answers to a couple of questions.”
I meant it. Not that I thought he’d suffered enough—I wouldn’t presume to weigh suffering against sins. But from here on I was in this game for my own satisfaction, and as far as Testafer was concerned, I was satisfied.
I gave him a minute to dry himself up.
“Celeste didn’t go out of town eight years ago,” I said. “She came here to stay with you. You were the family doctor. You delivered Barry, and she trusted you. Phoneblum was getting abusive and she needed out.”
He nodded confirmation.
“Phoneblum didn’t introduce Maynard to Celeste—you did. You were training him into your practice, and they met and the sparks flew, despite your warnings.”
“That’s pretty much right,” he said.
“Celeste and the sheep were pals from when they lived up here together, during Celeste’s hideaway. Dulcie knew all about Phoneblum, and you thought I’d squeezed it out of her. You didn’t believe it when she said she’d kept her little black lips zippered, and you were angry at both of us, and you took it out on her.”
He only nodded.
“She did all right by you, Grover. She didn’t squeal. Maybe you would have preferred it if she never let me in the door, but she didn’t volunteer anything important.”
He was quiet. He’d sobbed once and he wasn’t going to sob again. He was going to put up a good front and answer my questions. Except I was done. That was the last piece of the puzzle. I didn’t need any more information out of Testafer, and I didn’t need to sit there looking at his fat red face while he sorted out his misery. I needed to move on, to finish the job—and I needed make, badly. I was out of my seat and about to leave, when I suddenly had an idea. The idea went like this: Testafer was a doctor and Testafer was a rich man and Testafer was a man who liked to snort something better than Office make, or had, six years ago.
“You don’t have any old make sitting around, do you?” I asked. “Something just a little less crude than the standard issue? Something without so much Forgettol in it?”
He smiled.
“I was about to ask you the same thing,” he said.
CHAPTER 5
I SAT IN MY CAR WITH THE DOOR OPEN, PUT MY HANDS ON the wheel, and watched them tremble. It wasn’t stopping. I needed addictol and I needed it soon.
I drove to the makery. The lights were on, and some tainted analog of hope stirred dimly in my heart. It didn’t seem too far-fetched that the maker might have a few old ingredients sitting around that he could cobble together into some semblance of my blend. If not, I’d be happy enough to take some addictol straight, nothing on the side, thanks, see you later. When I went in, the hope faded like it was bleached. A guy was feeding his card into a vending machine on the far wall. There was no counter, no wall of little white bottles, no friendly old maker. Nothing. The machines covered the walls like urinals in a train station bathroom, and I didn’t have to watch him get a packet to know what they were for.
I went out, feeling sick. The complimentary packet of make was burning a hole in my pocket, but it wasn’t a commodity. I could obviously help myself to as much as I liked, anytime I liked. I had a funny idea about only snorting a little, but I knew that was a joke. If I got started, I wouldn’t stop for a while.
I drove up into the hills towards Phoneblum’s old place. Night was falling over the trees and rooftops, and I tried to let it ease me out of my funk, but it was no go. My gut was clenched with need. I pulled the car over to the side of the road and tossed the packet of make into the woods so I wouldn’t be tempted. If I wanted it later, the stuff was available, but I had work to do now. And I had more than my own memory to worry about. It was obvious I was going to have to do a lot of other people’s remembering for them.
At first I didn’t recognize Phoneblum’s place. The big fake house was gone, leaving the stairwell naked on the crest of the hill. I parked anyway, feeling pretty sure I had business at this address no matter what it looked like on top. It wasn’t the kind of property that changed hands too often.
The difference no doubt mirrored the transfer of power that had obviously taken place while I was away, from Phoneblum to the kangaroo. Phoneblum was the big fake house projected on the top of the hill, all bluff and ornament, concerned with cloaking his evil in style. And the kangaroo—when I realized I was comparing a kangaroo to a stairwell I had a laugh at myself, and let it go.
I wanted to draw a bead on the kangaroo, but I wasn’t ready to tangle with him, not yet. So I turned off the engine and the lights and watched the moon come up. My hands were in motion again, the thumbs twitching, but I was getting used to it.