Thinner

'I am down to a hundred and seventy,' Billy said. 'That's a net loss of eighty-three pounds, and I call that pretty extreme.'

Silence from the other end. Except for that sound that might be Heidi crying.

'Will you talk to him? Will you try?'

'If his doctors allow him to take a call, and if he'll talk to me, yes. But, Billy this hallucination of yours-'

IT IS NO FUCKING HALLUCINATION!' Don't shout, God, don't do that.

Billy closed his eyes.

'All right, all right,' Houston soothed. 'This idea. Is that a better word? All I wanted to say is that this idea is not going to help you get better. In fact, it may be the root cause of this psycho-anorexia, if that's really what you're suffering from, as Dr Yount believes. You -'

'Hopley,' Billy said. Sweat had broken out on his face. He mopped his brow with his handkerchief. He had a flicker-flash of Hopley, that face that really wasn't a face anymore but a relief map of hell. Crazy inflammations, trickling wetness, and the sound, the unspeakable sound when he raked his nails down his cheek.

There was a long silence from Houston's end.

'Talk to Duncan Hopley. He'll confirm -'

'I can't, Billy. Duncan Hopley committed suicide two days ago. He did it while you were in the Glassman Clinic. Shot himself with his service pistol.'

Halleck closed his eyes tightly and swayed on his feet. He felt as he had when he tried to smoke. He pinched his cheek savagely to keep from fainting dead away.

'Then you know,' he said with his eyes still closed. 'You know, or someone knows – someone saw him.'

'Grand Lawlor saw him,' Houston said. 'I called him just a few minutes ago.'

Grand Lawlor. For a moment Billy's confused, frightened mind didn't understand – he believed that Houston had uttered a garbled version of the phrase grand jury. Then it clicked home. Grand Lawlor was the county coroner. And now that he thought of it, yes, Grand Lawlor had testified before a grand jury or two in his time.

This thought brought on an irrational giggling fit. Billy pressed his palm over the phone's mouth piece and hoped Houston wouldn't hear the giggles; if he did, Houston would think he was crazy for sure.

And you'd really like to believe I'm crazy, wouldn't you, Mike? Because if I was crazy and I decided to start babbling about the little bottle and the little ivory spoon, why, no one would believe me anyway, would they? Goodness, no.

And that did it; the giggles passed.

'You asked him -'

'For a few details concerning the death? After the horror story your wife told me, you're damned right I asked him.' Houston's voice grew momentarily prim. 'You just ought to be damned glad that when he asked me why I wanted to know, I hung tough.'

'What did he say?'

'That Hopley's complexion was a mess, but nothing like the horror show you described to Heidi. Grand's description leads me to believe that it was a nasty outbreak of the adult acne I'd treated Duncan for off and on ever since I first examined him back in 1974. The outbreaks depressed him quite badly, and that came as no surprise to me – I'd have to say that adult acne, when it's severe, is one of the most psychologically bruising nonlethal ailments I know of.'

'You think he got depressed over the way he looked and killed himself.'

'In essence, yes.'

'Let me get this straight,' Billy said. 'You believe this was a more or less ordinary outbreak of the adult acne he'd had for years … but at the same time you believe he killed himself because of what he was seeing in the mirror. That's a weird diagnosis, Mike.'

'I never said it was the skin outbreak alone,' Houston said. He sounded annoyed. 'The worst thing about problems is the way they seem to come in pairs and trios and whole gangs, never one by one. Psychiatrists have the most suicides per ten thousand members of the profession, Billy, but cops aren't far behind. Probably there was a combination of factors – this latest outbreak could have just been the straw that broke the camel's back.'

'You should have seen him,' Billy said grimly. 'That wasn't a straw, that was the fucking World Trade Center.'

'He didn't leave a note, so I guess we'll never know, will we?'

'Christ,' Billy said, and ran a hand through his hair. 'Jesus Christ.'

'And the reasons for Duncan Hopley's suicide are almost beside the point, aren't they?'

'Not to me,' Billy said. 'Not at all.'

'It seems to me that the real point is that your mind played you a nasty trick, Billy. It guilt-tripped you. You had this … this bee in your bonnet about Gypsy curses … and when you went over to Duncan Hopley's that -night, you simply saw something that wasn't there.' Now Houston's voice took on a cozy, you-can-tell-me tone. 'Did you happen to drop into Andy's Pub for a couple before you went over to Duncan's house? Just to, you know, get yourself up for the encounter a little?'

'No.'

'You sure? Heidi says you've been spending quite a bit of time in Andy's.'

'If I had,' Billy said, 'your wife would have seen me there, don't you think?'

There was a long period of silence. Then Houston said colorlessly: 'That was a damned low blow, Billy. But it's also exactly the sort of comment I'd expect from a man who is under severe mental stress.'

'Severe mental stress. Psychological anorexia. You guys have got a name for everything, I guess. But you should have seen him. You should have. . .'Billy paused, thinking of the flaming pimples on Duncan Hopley's cheeks, the oozing whiteheads, the nose that had become almost insignificant in the gruesome, erupting landscape of that haunted face.

'Billy, can't you see that your mind is hunting a logical explanation for what's happening to you? It feels guilt about the Gypsy woman, and so -'

'The curse ended when he shot himself,' Billy heard himself saying. 'Maybe that's why it didn't look so bad. It's like in the werewolf movies we saw when we were kids, Mike. When the werewolf finally gets killed, it turns back into a man again!'

Excitement replaced the confusion he had felt at the news of Hopley's suicide and Hopley's more or less ordinary skin ailment. His mind began to race down this new path, exploring it quickly, ticking off the possibilities and probabilities.

Where does a curse go when the cursee finally kicks it? Shit, might as well ask where a dying man's last breath goes.

Or his soul. Away. It goes away. Away, away, away. Is there maybe a way to drive it away?

Rossington – that was the first thing. Rossington, out there at the Mayo Clinic, clinging desperately to the idea that he had skin cancer, because the alternative was so much worse. When Rossington died, would he change back to … ?

He became aware that Houston had fallen silent. And there was a noise in the background, unpleasant but familiar … Sobbing? Was that Heidi, sobbing?

'Why's she crying?' Billy rasped.

'Billy -'

'Put her on!'

'Billy, if you could hear yourself

'Goddammit, put her on!'

'No. I won't. Not while you're like this.'

'Why, you cheap coke-sniffing little

'Billy, quit it!'

Houston's roar was loud enough to make Billy hold the phone away from his ear for a moment. When he put it back, the sobbing had stopped.

'Now, listen,' Houston said. 'There are no such things as werewolves and Gypsy curses. I feel foolish even telling you that.'

'Man, don't you see that's part of the problem?' Billy asked softly. 'Don't you understand that's how these guys have been able to get away with this stuff for the last twenty centuries or so?'

'Billy, if there's a curse on you, it's been laid by your own subconscious mind. Old Gypsies can't lay curses. But your own mind, masquerading as an old Gypsy, can.'

'Me, Hopley, and Rossington,' Halleck said dully, 'all at the same time. You're the one who's blind, Mike. Add it up. '

'It adds up to coincidence, and nothing more. How many times do we have to go around the mulberry bush, Billy? Go back to the Glassman. Let them help you. Stop driving your wife crazy.'