"I didn't do this," said Kline.
"You shouldn't be walking on it," he said. "Doesn't it hurt?"
"Of course it hurts."
Andreissen nodded. He knuckled his way back across the floor, clambered back into the chair. "As I told Borchert," he said, once properly situated, "I'm here to help. I'm all for law and order."
"Good for you," said Kline.
"But, honestly, I said all there was to say on the tape."
Kline nodded. He dragged his foot along the floor, watching the thin lines of blood run. "It's about the tape," he said. "That's what I came about."
"Oh?"
"There's something wrong with the tape," said Kline. "I need to figure out what."
"The tape didn't work?"
"Something like that," said Kline. "So I'm just going to ask the questions again, all right?"
"Why don't you talk to Borchert?" he asked. "Why don't you ask him?"
"First question," said Kline. "State your name and your relation to the deceased."
"Technically that's not a question."
"Please answer," said Kline.
"I believe you already know my name," he said. "It's Andreissen."
"Thank you," said Kline. "What was your relation to the deceased?"
"The deceased?" said Andreissen. "I thought you were sticking to the original questions."
"That is one of the original questions."
"No it isn't."
"It's not?" said Kline.
"What's this talk of the deceased? There is no deceased."
"Aline."
"What about Aline?"
"He's the deceased."
"Aline?" Andreissen shook his head, laughed. "You're pulling my leg."
"Aline's dead."
"It's impossible," said Andreissen.
"Why do you think I'm here?"
"I saw him just yesterday," said Andreissen. "He seemed very much alive to me."
"You're lying," said Kline.
"I swear to you," said Andreissen. "On my missing legs."
Kline stood, limped around the room.
"Can you stop that?" said Andreissen. "You're getting blood everywhere."
"What were the questions you were asked? On the tape, what were the questions?"
"Me? About the robbery of course."
"What robbery?"
Andreissen narrowed his eyes. "What is this all about? Do you think I did it? I didn't do it."
"Do what?"
"The robbery."
"What robbery?"
"Christ," said Andreissen. "What sort of game are you playing?"
"Where's Aline's room? Down the hall?"
"No," said Andreissen. "Up a level. Last door. Why?"
"I was told it was somewhere else."
"What is this?" asked Andreissen. He posted his palms against the chair's arms, pulled himself up to stand in the chair's seat on his stumps. "I didn't agree to this. Borchert didn't say anything about this. I want you to leave."
"Fine," said Kline. "I'm leaving."
He went out into the hall. The guard was gone. He went to the stairs but instead of going down went up and down to the end of the hall. A guard was standing in front of the last door. He watched Kline nervously.
"This is Aline's room?" Kline asked.
The guard made no gesture, said nothing.
"Mind if I see for myself?" asked Kline, and reached for the doorknob.
The guard struck him once with the edge of his palm, fast, in the throat. He couldn't breathe. He stumbled back, his hand to his throat, still unable to breathe, and then made a conscious decision to stumble forward instead, throwing himself against the door. The handle was locked. The guard hit him again, in the side of the temple, and he slid down along the door, and then the guard was pulling him back into the middle of the hall, massaging his throat, trying to help him to breathe again.
"Well," said Borchert. "Mr. Kline. Always a pleasant surprise. You should be more careful. You should have a little more respect."
"Aline's not dead," said Kline, still rubbing his throat.
"Of course he is," said Borchert. "Whatever gave you that idea?"
"Andreissen."
"Why would he say that?" asked Borchert.
"He said I was here to investigate a robbery."
"No, no," said Borchert. "Aline's dead. You're here for Aline."
"Who's dead?"
"It's that you're only a four," said Borchert. "He's not telling you the truth because of that."
"You're lying."
"Maybe we should remove another toe," said Borchert. "Or maybe two more. Then we'll see if Andreissen tells you the truth."
"No," said Kline. "No more toes."
"All right, then," said Borchert. "Perhaps one of the others will be a little more forthcoming."
"No more interviews."
"All right," said Borchert. "You're the investigator. You should do what feels right."
Using his remaining foot, Borchert pushed the chair slowly along the floor until he was back by the counter. Slowly he managed to open the cabinet above it and to tug down first one glass and then another. And then, more precariously, a bottle of Scotch. He took off the cap with his mouth. He moved the glasses to the edge of the counter and, pinning the bottle between his arm and his body, poured.
"Drink?" he asked.
"Absolutely not," said Kline.
"Oh come on," said Borchert. "It's Scotch, plain and simple. Nothing but Scotch."
"No," said Kline.
"Suit yourself," said Borchert. He pinched the glass' rim between his thumb and remaining half-finger, lifted it to his lips, drank. "So," he said. "Made any progress, have we?"
"On what?"
"On finding Aline's killer."
"My guess is that Aline is still very much alive."
"Please, Mr. Kline. Let's have no more such talk."
"Show me the body."
Borchert shook his head. "I can't allow you to see the body. At the very least you'd have to lose a few more toes."
"This is absurd."
"Be that as it may, Mr. Kline," said Borchert, taking a large swallow. "Be that as it may."
Later that evening he wandered out of his room and down the hall and into the gravel yard in front of the building. He stood looking up at the stars, his foot aching with pain, feeling slightly feverish. He did not understand what it was he had gotten himself into, nor for that matter how he had gotten himself into it. But the more important question was, now that he was in, how to get out.
He walked out to the main road, turned, limped toward the main gates. A man was dead, murdered, or perhaps very much alive. Borchert was playing with him, and perhaps the others were as well. The night was cool, cloudless. Where was this place? He turned and looked back, saw the building he was staying in, the only light being that of his own room. Why was nobody else in the building? Had there been anyone living in the building but him since his arrival? Where did Gous and Ramse sleep?
At the main gate at the edge of the compound, the guard stepped out of the shadows and flicked on his flashlight, shining the beam into Kline's eyes.
"What is wanted?" he asked.
"It's Kline," Kline said, squinting his eyes.
"Right," said the guard. "We met the first night. A one. Self-cauterizer. Right hand, right?"
"Yes," said Kline. "Now a four."
"A four?" said the guard. "That was quick. What else?"
"A few toes," he said. "Nothing much."
The guard moved the flashbeam down, shined it on Kline's feet. Kline could see the man now, a dim shape just behind the flashlight.
"I need to leave," said Kline. "Please open the gate."
"I'm sorry," said the guard. "I can't do that."
"My work here is finished," said Kline.
"I have my orders, I'm afraid," said the guard.