Across the table, Ramse cleared his throat.
"You're still here?" asked Kline.
"Shall I wait outside or would you rather I came back later?" asked Ramse.
"For the party?"
"You don't understand," claimed Ramse. "I'm supposed to take the tape back."
"But I haven't conducted any interviews yet."
"That's what the tape's for."
"Right," said Kline. "To tape the interviews."
"No," said Ramse. "To tape the questions."
"To tape the questions?"
Ramse nodded. "These people," he said. "They're all ten or above. You're a one. You can't see them in person."
"But I see Borchert."
"Borchert's the exception," said Ramse. "You see him when someone above a ten has to be seen. If you were a three or a four some might condescend to see you, but they won't see a one. Not even a self-cauterizer."
"Jesus," said Kline. "That's ridiculous."
"I've been instructed by Borchert not to listen to the questions," said Ramse. "I'm only an eight. I don't need to know everything. I'm to take the tape back to Borchert once you've finished recording. Would you like me to wait in the hall or would you prefer I come back later?"
He sat staring at the tape recorder. It was ridiculous, he knew. Perhaps Ramse was right, it was only a question of proper behavior, no ones among the tens, but why in that case even bring him in at all? Why not solve their murder on their own?
He went and opened the door. Ramse was there, waiting, leaning against the wall. Kline closed the door again.
What were his options? One: he could refuse to send the tape back. Borchert would hardly allow that. He would be punished in some way, he was certain. And it would only prolong the amount of time he would have to spend in the compound. Two: he could send back a blank tape. Same problem: it bought him a little time, but time for what? Three: he could send back a series of questions.That had the advantage of moving things forward, or at least of moving them in some direction.
He sighed. He went to the table and pressed the record button.
"One: State your name and your relation to the deceased.
"Two: Where were you on the night Aline was murdered?
"Three: Do you know of anyone who might want Aline dead for any reason?
"Four: Did you see the body? If so, please describe in detail what you saw.
"Five: Are you absolutely certain Aline's death wasn't a suicide?
"Six: Did you kill Aline?"
It was ridiculous, but at least it was a start. They would tell him nothing, he was almost sure. He turned the tape off.
Ramse showed up at eight o'clock sharp, wearing a tuxedo that had been modified to better reveal his amputations, no shoes, no socks. He had, slung over one arm, a plastic dry cleaner's bag containing another tuxedo, which he handed to Kline.
"Try this on," he said.
Kline did. It was a little loose but generally fit quite well, the right sleeve cut back slightly to reveal his stump.
They walked across the gravel lot in front of the house, following the road toward the gate, turning down a footpath after about a hundred meters. At the end was a gravel circle, a bar to the left, a neon one-legged woman on the sign. A well-lit lodge structure was to the right, which was where they went.
A one-handed man was standing at the open door, smiling. Kline could hear music blaring from the door behind him.
"Hello, Ramse," the man said affably. "This the guy?"
"This is him, John," said Ramse. "In the flesh."
They both laughed at that for some reason. The man held out his remaining hand, his right. "Put it there," he said, which Kline tried, left-handed and very awkwardly, to do.
"Self-cauterizer, huh?" asked John. "People have been talking. There's a buzz going."
"Don't embarrass him, John," said Ramse. Ushering Kline before him, he made his way in.
The room was filled with several dozen men in tuxedos, all amputees. Streamers descended without pattern from the ceiling, brushing against men's shoulders, dipping into their drinks. Ramse took him to the bar and Kline got a drink and stood next to Ramse nursing it, giving Ramse sips from time to time. The men were mostly ones or twos as far as Kline could tell in the dim light, though there were fours and fives as well and one person that Kline thought might be a seven or eight-the room was dark and in motion so it was hard to tell how many toes the man was actually missing. Then suddenly Gous was beside him, rubbing his shoulder with his stump.
"How nice of you to come," he said to Kline, smiling. He was dressed differently than the others. He was wearing a tuxedo, but one sleeve of it had been wrapped in plastic, and a line had been drawn in permanent marker between his middle and fourth finger, angling across his palm to terminate at the palm's edge just before the wrist. "Ramse didn't know if you'd come," he said, "but I was sure you would." He turned to Ramse. "Stretter didn't come, the bastard."
"I'm sure he meant to," said Ramse. "Something must have come up."
"No," said Gous. "He never meant to. I came for him three times, but now that he's a five, he's too good for me."
"Surely he can't mean it personally," said Ramse. "It's just some sort of mistake."
But Gous was already turning away, shaking his head. Kline watched Ramse go after him. He took a sip of his drink, looked around, then began to walk slowly around the room. There were no women, he quickly realized, nothing but men, everyone in their thirties and forties, nobody either very young or very old.
The back of the room wasn't a solid wall at all but a divider, a series of linked panels that, he saw, looking more closely, slid along a metal track in the floor. The two central panels each had a handle and a latch holding them together.
"Would you like to have a look?" asked a voice behind him.
"Where are all the women?" asked Kline, turning. Behind him was John.
"Aren't any here," said John, smiling. "There are a few over in the bar, but otherwise none. This is a brotherhood, after all."
Kline nodded, looked about him.
"So, you want a preview?" asked John.
Kline shrugged.
"I don't think anyone would mind," John said. "They've all seen it before anyway."
He put his drink down on the floor, used his hand to turn one of the latches. The panel disengaged and slid open an inch. He rolled it along the track until there was enough space for Kline to slide through.
"Go on," he said, stooping for his drink. "I'll wait out here."
Kline slid through, careful not to spill his drink. On the other side, the remainder of the hall was dark and bare and sober except for a rolling metal table draped in white cloth. A smaller square table, also draped in cloth, sat beside it. A large domed light was over them. It was the only light in the room, the dome functioning like a spotlight.
He smelled the smoke before he saw the man step out of the darkness and move toward him. The man was wearing scrubs, had his cloth surgical mask pulled down around his neck so he could smoke a cigarette. When he lifted the cigarette to his lips, Kline could see he was missing a finger.
"Is it time?" he asked. And then, seeing the drink in Kline's hand, "Are you bringing that for me?"
Kline handed him the drink, and without a word left.
"Well," said John. "What do you think? First-rate setup, no?"
"Where's Ramse?" asked Kline.
"Ramse?" said John. "I don't know," he said. "Maybe over there?"
Kline started across the hall, moving from cluster to cluster until he found Ramse speaking to a man in a chair whose legs had been cut off at the knee.
"I need to talk to you," he said.
"All right," said Ramse, excusing himself from the legless man. "What's the trouble?"
"Jesus," said Kline. "What kind of party is this?"
"It's Gous' party," said Ramse. "His three. Where's your drink? Do you need another drink?"
"What the hell does that mean?"
"Isn't it obvious?" said Ramse. He looked at Kline, eyes wide, then shook his head. "I forget you don't know us very well," he said. "It's an amputation party."
"An amputation party."
"Like a coming out," said Ramse. "Gous is giving up two fingers. He's gathered his friends around him for the occasion. He's going from a one to a three."
"Jesus," said Kline. "I have to leave."
Kline tried to make for the door but Ramse was pressing his forearm to Kline's chest. "You can't leave," hissed Ramse, "not now that you've come. It'd break Gous' heart."
"But," said Kline. "I don't believe in any of this. I can't stay here."
"It's not that you don't believe," said Ramse. "It's just that you don't have the call yet."
"No," said Kline. "It's that I don't believe."
"I don't care what you believe," said Ramse. "Just do this for Gous. He admires you. What has he ever done to you to deserve this?"
"What has he ever done to deserve losing his fingers?"
"He doesn't see it that way," said Ramse. "He's had the call. This for him is an act of faith. You don't have to believe in it, but you can still respect him."
"I have to go," said Kline, pushing against his arm.
"No," said Ramse. "Please, just for Gous. Have compassion. Please."