A murder wasn't surprising?
They moved into the entrance foyer, a charming nook. The soft Victor, struggling for control of the body he shared with his iron counterpart, suddenly felt a deep self-loathing as he tried to imagine the kind of man with this sort of taste, the kind of man he had murdered. The carpet was green, dark and rich like oak leaves. The walls were buff, with a dark wood closet on one side and an original Spanish oil on the other.
This murder wasn't surprising. Harold Jacobi lived here in Oak Grove, but made his living off some crooked little sidelines in Harrisburg.
Oh? Iron Victor was getting the upper hand again.
Yes, Harrisburg is big enough for small time crooks. Three hundred thousand with suburbs is big enough to breed high priced call girls, numbers, some discreet big money card games. Nothing to get the Federal Government on dear Harold's tail, but sufficient to make enemies among the competition.
They walked into the living room, which was every bit as tasteful as the foyer. Again, guilt unbalanced his mind enough to allow soft Victor a moment in control. He must have been a sensitive man, though.
Harold Jacobi was about as sensitive as a cow flop!
With his programmed self momentarily repressed, he was able to laugh. I take it he made a pass at you.
No. Not overtly. He was my uncle, you see. It's embarrassing to have such an uncle. He was always trying to do things for me. All the passes were covert. Just Dear Uncle Harold wanting to help his niece. Except that his hand was always straying to my knee. Things like that.
Anyway, he left this house to me, so I should show some respect. If he just hadn't been such a bore of a man!
But the decorations are so well done.
She grinned as if at a private joke. He had the Fabulous Bureau do it.
Fabulous Bureau?
You should have heard of them. They're from Harrisburg. A new interior decorating firm. Two nice young boys. Very dear boys, if you know what I mean. They came out here in a mauve Cadillac and spent a month of eight-hour days, flitting about like birds. They ate most of their lunches in the restaurant where I eat That's how I came to know them, though it wasn't my feminine charm that won them. Just a mutual interest in art. Despite what you might think of their sort, you'll have to admit the Fabulous Bureau fellows did a fabulous job, eh?
The unprogrammed Victor could not resist telling her, as the computer had informed him, that he was an artist. She was impressed, as he had hoped. He was afraid she would ask him to draw something on the spot, the cliché request made of all artists. Somehow, he felt that if he tried to draw a person, it would look like a tree. A tree would look vaguely like a person; a house like a barn, a barn like an automobile, and automobile like God-knew-what.
Then, as his guilt lessened over the murder of Harold Jacobi, he felt the steely, cool alter-ego surging upward. Everything shimmered. He moved, again, like a robot.
They toured the house with little conversation, though she tried to initiate some several times and seemed puzzled that, when he was so close to coming out of his shell, he had suddenly drawn back into it. The drive back to town, to arrange financing terms, was stilted and uncomfortable as far as Lynda was concerned. Iron Victor Salsbury only stared straight ahead.
The vice-president of the major local bank was hesitant about giving a mortgage to an artist without a full-time job. He softened considerably when Salsbury produced thirty thousand in cash, proceeded to pay twenty thousand on the house, and deposited five thousand in savings and four thousand in checking. His gold-plated, silver-dollar heart thumped almost audibly at the sight of so much money, and he concluded their conference with a lecture on the dangers of carrying so much money around on one's person.
At his request, Lynda helped him buy a car, a slightly used MGB-GT, bright yellow with a black top. The programmed Victor Salsbury did not care what sort of vehicle he had; the other part of him liked the honeybee bug. He wrote out a check for the full amount, waited while the suspicious salesman checked it with the bank, came back all smiles and closed out the deal.
After that, Lynda returned to her agency, and he went to buy groceries. A complete, standard list of purchases was programmed into his mind, and he chose the articles like an automaton, moving mechanically up and down the aisles. It was a quarter until six in the evening when he reached the Jacobi house, now the Salsbury residence. He put the groceries away, made a supper of eggs, ham and toast. He opened a cold beer automatically, as if this was the thing to do, part of the front he had to put up. The average man would sit down on his porch with a beer of a spring evening. To preserve the illusion of naturalness, so did he. The view from the stoop was a breath-taking panorama of green Pennsylvanian hills. Deep inside his mind, the soft Victor appreciated that scene and said, softly to himself, Well, let's see what happens next.
CHAPTER 4
What happened next was that he acquired the quickest drunk in the history of beer drinking. As he watched the sun disappear and leave bloody streaks behind it in the sky, his eyes began to feel funny, as if they were coated with fuzz. His head was doing an apache dance with the rest of his body for a partner. Warily, he rose, staggered inside, up the steps, which were ridiculously difficult to negotiate. He started for the master bedroom, but the soft Victor had visions of a head whose two halves were out of kilter, and he meandered back towards the hall to a guest room. The bed had a cover, but no sheets. He found sheets in a linen closet, brought them back, but could not manage to get them on the mattress. The damn thing kept changing size and jumping around. Finally he gave it up and crawled under the spread. He remembered that he had his clothes on, then decided that would make up for having no sheets. In the back of his mind, he made a note to try to discover the reason for his high susceptibility to alcohol. Then he passed out.
He had a nice dream that got bad. Very bad.
He was standing in a field of clover. The sun was streaming through trees at the side of the field and throwing shadows and strips of brilliance across him. It was late afternoon, and already the cooler air of evening had drifted in. A darkly tanned blonde with thick, long hair was walking across the field toward him. Her eyes were clover green and transparent so that he seemed to be looking through them, miles and miles and miles into some other worldly landscape. She held out her arms to him. As he took her into his embrace, she grew suddenly stiff and began talking in an even voice, cool, dispassionate, the voice of iron Victor.
He woke, smacking his lips and wondering what had died inside his mouth. He tried to spit the little animal out, found it was his tongue, decided to save it. His ears were ringing. He yawned, trying to pop them. But the ringing continued. The phone would not be hooked up until tomorrow, and he had set no alarm. Yet the longer he listened the more certain he was that the whining sound was real, not imagined. He pushed to the side of the bed and looked down at his feet, a little surprised that he had not even taken off his shoes, but not too concerned about it.
He stood up and immediately wished he hadn't. He was apparently some creature God had designed for horizontal existence. As soon as he was vertical, his eyes bugged out a foot, his head swelled to four times its normal size, and his stomach turned inside out and died. He decided that the worst that could happen had already happened. With that in mind he went through the door into the hallway, leaned against the wall and listened to the noise.
It was coming from the lower part of the house. He went down the steps, wondering why, if they were going to put an escalator in, they didn't make it a good one. The steps went back and forth as well as up and down, and it took one a long time to reach the living room floor. When he got there, he found the noise was coming from a lower point yet. He found the cellar door, opened it. The ringing sound washed over him, twice as loud now, the sound of heavy machinery masked by the electronic hum. He burped, squinted into the gloom, flicked on the lights, and carefully descended the cellar stairs.