Fool, fool, fool- never underestimate the enemy- a cop like Baker would be a serious enemy- but, still, both he and Sturgis were pros, how could they have-
Hands guided him down the hill.
“Shhh,” a voice said into his ear, and he blotted out images of Luanne's reproving face.
Oh, honey.
Yeah, I screwed up, baby. Joining you soon.
59
My eyelids slammed as tight as metal shutters. My mouth tasted metallic. Breathing was difficult, each inhalation a rip in my lungs, and the pain in my head was a scarlet-orange-black thing.
Drowsy, but I hadn't lost consciousness. I tried to open my eyes. Too heavy. I could hear, smell- so much metal- feel, think- feel myself being lifted, pressure at wrists and ankles. Meaning at least two of them… bumpy ride.
Steps- the stairs down to the bedroom.
Lowered onto something soft. Perfumed.
Zena's perfume- Zena's bed.
New pressure bore down. Wrists, ankles, belly. Weight- dry, warm, crushing weight, like a big dog sitting on me.
The snap of clamps; now I couldn't move.
The back of my head was hot and caustic, as if something larval and fanged had hatched inside my skull and was chewing its way out… lesser pain in the crook of my right arm.
Cold sting- an injection.
I tried again to open my eyes. A sliver of light before they collapsed.
Everything okay, because Milo and Daniel knew. Daniel was listening.
Then I wondered: Not a sound had been made since I'd entered the house and said hi to Zena.
Were they assuming Zena'd made good on her promises, the lovemaking beginning spontaneously, silently?
Or were they unable to hear- an equipment malfunction? Those things happened. Space shuttles went down.
Waiting for some kind of signal from me?
My lips wouldn't function.
Rest up, stay calm, regain your strength.
The plan had been for me to open the living-room curtains. Did the fact that I hadn't alarm them?
Where were they?
I needed to say something for the parabolic mike.
Breathing was so hard, my throat a pinpoint- now I did black out.
Up again, no idea how long it had been. Eyes wide open, pupils aching as they expanded to take in the bright light of the bedroom.
The bedroom ceiling, I could see little else.
White ceiling, sparkle-sprayed.
The light from a cheap plastic fixture. White, circular, brass finial in the center, like the nipple of a big, white breast, Zena's breasts so small-
I pressed my head to my chest to see what was holding me down. Leather restraints. Thick, brown hospital restraints; as an intern on the psych wards, I'd wondered what they felt like…
Flashes of color off to the left. I struggled to get a better look, my neck tremoloed with pain that traveled down my spine, as if someone had run a filleting knife down my center.
Say something for the damned mike.
My tongue was a soft, useless pillow, taking up space in the garbage can claiming to be my mouth.
I strained some more, studying the color to my left.
Eyes. White eyes with flat black irises.
Dead eyes- plastic.
Stuffed animals, what seemed to be a mountain of them stacked against the left-hand wall. Behind them, another curtain. Behind it, no doubt, another glass slider.
Teddy bears, a gigantic panda with a lolling head. Disney characters, a killer whale that was probably a souvenir from Sea World, more kapok and felt that I couldn't make out clearly.
Zena's collection… that surprised look. I'd taken it for wide-eyed arousal-
The wire around her neck, gritted with blood, just a twist away from decapitation.
I moved and the restraints compressed my chest and my forearms and my shins.
But I was breathing better.
“Good,” I said.
It came out “Guh.”
Loud enough for the mike to pick up?
I tried to relax. Pace myself. Save the energy for talking.
As I worked myself up for another syllable, a face blocked out the light.
Fingers pinched my left eyelid, lifted it, let it snap as something tickled my nose- bristly, the face so close I couldn't focus.
Then it drew back.
Dirty-blond beard-hairs raking my chin on the way up.
Smelly beard- fermented-food stink- over red skin, dandruff flakes.
A hair-framed mouth breathed on me, hot and sour. A pus pimple nested in the fold between nostril and cheek.
More distance and I saw Wilson Tenney, dressed again in a sweatshirt, this one green and reading ILLINOIS ARTS FESTIVAL.
“He's up.”
“Nice recovery,” said another voice.
“Must be in good shape. The rewards of a virtuous life,” said Tenney. Then his face shifted to the right and vanished, as if moving offstage, and another one, freshly shaved, ruddy, sun-burnished, took its place.
Wes Baker folded his arms across his chest and studied me with mild interest. His eyeglass lenses glinted. He wore a pink button-down shirt, beautifully laundered, sleeves folded up crisply on thick bronze forearms. I couldn't see past the third button.
His right arm held a small hypodermic syringe filled with something clear.
“Potassium chloride?” I said, for the mike, but it didn't come out right.
“Speech will return in a few minutes,” said Baker. “Give yourself a little more time for your central nervous system to bounce back.”
I heard Tenney's hoarse laugh from behind me.
“Potassium chloride,” I tried again. Clearer, I thought.
Baker said, “You just won't relax, will you? Obviously a striver. From what I've been able to gather, pretty bright, too. It's a shame we never got a chance to discuss issues of substance.”
How about right now? I thought.
I tried to say it. The result was a series of mouse squeaks. Where were Daniel and Milo?
Taping, wanting evidence? But… they'd never let me down…
Baker said, “See how peaceful he looks, Willy? We've created another masterpiece.”
Tenney joined him. He looked angry but Baker was smiling.
I said, “Zena was… artistic.” Almost perfectly clear. “Goya…”
“Someone who appreciates,” said Baker.
“Posed…” Like Irit and Latvinia and-
Tenney said, “Her life was one big pose.”
“No gentle… strangulation?”
Tenney frowned and glanced at Baker.
“Why kill her?” I said. Good, the words were out; my tongue had shrunk to normal size.
Baker rubbed his chin and bent closer. “Why not kill her?”
“She was… a believer-”
He held up a silencing finger. Professorial. I remembered what Milo had said about how he loved to lecture. Keep him talking, get it all on tape.
“She was,” he said, “a receptacle. A condom with limbs.”
Tenney laughed and I saw him pick something out of the corner of his eye and flick it away.
“Zena,” he said, “exited this mortal coil with a bang.” One hand touched his fly.
Baker's expression was that of a weary but tolerant parent. “That was terrible, Willy.” He smiled at me. “This may batter your self-esteem, but she was as sexually discriminating as a fruit fly. Our little barnyard gimcrack.”
He turned to Tenney. “Tell him Zena's motto.”
“Cock-a-doodle-do,” said the bearded man. “Any cock will do.”
“She was a lure,” I said. “For Ponsico, me- others?”
“A lure,” said Baker. “Have you ever gone fly-fishing?”
“No.”
“It's a marvelous pastime. Fresh air, clear water, tying the lures. Unfortunately even the best ones unravel after too many bites.”
“Malcolm Ponsico,” I said. “He lost enthu-”
“He lacked commitment,” said Tenney. “A weak trout, if you will. It soon became clear something smelled fishy.”
“Willy,” said Baker, reprovingly, “as Dr. Alex here can tell you, inveterate and inappropriate punning is a symptom of mood disorder. Isn't that so?”