A body was curled on the floor. He looked to his fight: A blackclothed virago with shaven skull rushed at him out of the gloom. At the very instant in his dream when he felt the ice pick slice into his flesh and hit his bone, he was possessed by the feeling that he had entered into something more than a stranger's bedroom, that he had entered into a secret chamber inside a madwoman's mind.
When he awoke from the dream, his thought was always the same: It was Beverly Archer's madness, not Diana Proctor's, that had been displayed.
He had other visitors over his two weeks in the hospital and his week of recuperation in his apartment. Laura and Stanton, attentive and concerned, arrived with two magnificent bouquets. Later Stanton came alone to tell him in a bitter whisper that he was glad Janek had killed the girl.
"A trial would have been awful, Frank. All that stuff about Jess-we don't even like to think about it." Stanton paused. "You gave us closure. We'll always be grateful for that. If you ever need anything, any kind of help, I want you to think of us and call."
After Stanton left, Janek had a feeling that he probably wouldn't be seeing much of the Dorances anymore. The three of them had shared Jess, but now that she was gone, there was nothing to bring them together again except the all-too-painful memory of her promise.
Sullivan also paid him a visit. He brought no flowers but was respectful and solicitous. If he was envious of Janek's resolution of his case, he succeeded in conceal ing it.
When Janek asked if anyone on his team harbored doubts that Diana Proctor had been the HF killer, Sullivan gazed at him mystified.
"Gee, Frank, why do you ask that?"
"No particular reason," Janek said.
"You think we're the kind of people who'd resist a case solution because an outsider got to it first? I'm offended. Whatever you may think of us, I promise you we're not that small."
Janek let it go. Sullivan, like any good FBI man, was interested in forensic evidence, not psychological speculation. But then Janek became aware that Sullivan was not visiting him merely to wish him well.
He had his own agenda, which, after the pleasantries, he wasted no time bringing up.
"I was talking last night to Grey Scopetta, my film director friend."
"Yeah, I remember you mentioning him," Janek said. "We both feel there could be a terrific miniseries here. What we're hoping is you'll give us a release so we can pitch the idea to a network."
Janek smiled graciously. "You don't need a release from me, Harry.
Just don't use my name, okay?" "But we have to use your name, Frank.
You'll be the star." Sullivan stood and began to pace the little room., 'Think of it. Two miniseries! You'll be the most famous detective in the country!"
"I've tasted fame, Harry, and as they say, it's vastly overrated.
"You're not serious." Sullivan paused. "Are you, Frank?"
Janek nodded. "I don't want to be portrayed in any more movies. But that shouldn't stop you guys. The case is in the public record. We all know police work isn't about stars; it's about teamwork. As team leader you can rightfully think of yourself as the leading man,"
As Sullivan shook his head, Janek noticed something desperate in his eyes. "What's the matter?"
The inspector sat, then twisted in his seat. "Tell you the truth, now that it's wrapped up, HF, or Wallflower I uess we should call it now, isn't all that dramatic from a story point of view. As Grey says, who cares about some nutty, bald girl who killed people because she was hung up on her shrink? But he feels there could be a very strong story if we structured the whole thing around you. Put you right in the center of it. Your character arc could make it work."
"Character arc?"
"You know what I mean."
"No," said Janek, "I don't think I do."
"The way you change as the case develops. You go in one sort of guy and come out another."
Janek was quiet. He didn't like the sound of that. It was too close to the truth. The notion of having his soul exposed to millions of people filled him with a special kind of dread.
Sullivan was still pitching. "Try this. Cynical worldweary NYPD detective gets personally involved when his goddaughter's murdered.
Grief-stricken, he goes after the killer with a vengeance, cuts through all the bureaucratic horseshit, finds the murderess, and shoots her dead. I mean, that's a real story, one a network will buy."
Janek looked at Sullivan sharply. "For me it wasn't a story, Harry.
It was a murder case just like all the others. "
"Yeah, sure, I know you say that. But-"
"Forget it."
Sullivan lowered his head. When he spoke again, his tone was meek.
"I hope you'll reconsider, Frank. Maybe later, when you're feeling your old self again Janek waited until Sullivan raised his head and then met his eyes straight on. "Don't hope for that, Harry. It's not going to happen."
At first when he looked at the crayons Monika bought him, thirty pristine pastel crayons neatly organized by color in an elegant compartmentalized wooden box, he felt loath to touch them lest he violate their perfect order. But after he sat down on the chaise, propped the large spiral-bound pad of paper against his knees, and ran his fingers across the surface of a sheet, it seemed to cry out for color. His first sketches were tentative and sloppy. But still there was a satisfaction in using his hands to try to reproduce the purity of the terrace view. And the longer he drew, the more he enjoyed it. It was a technique worthy of being mastered. He thought of the combination of intensity and patience exhibited by his father when he sat at his bench working on broken accordions in the little repair shop he'd operated on Carrnine Street. Perhaps, he thought, if I imitate the way Dad used to squint at the exposed insides of old accordions, I'll manage to get the swing of it.
Monika, careful not to disturb him, busied herself inside the house, preparing food she'd bought in town. Then she went out to swim and jog along the beach. When she returned two hours later, he showed her his latest sketch of the view. The sea and sky, divided horizontally by the horizon, were a simple study in blues. She liked it, and so did he.
"I'm pleased," she said. "You're enjoying yourself."
"Yeah, I am," he admitted.
She kissed his shoulder and went back inside the house. At midday she brought out a tray of tortillas, guacamole, and beer. they ate and laughed, then retired to their bedroom to make love and then to nap.
At three, well oiled with sunscreen, he returned to the terrace for another round of drawing. But this time, instead of portraying the view, he tried to sketch his dream.
He tore off several sheets before he was satisfied with the general design. When he finally felt he'd gotten it right, he began to fill it in.
"It really does look like a nightmare," Monika said when she came out onto the terrace with her book.
Janek stopped drawing. "I don't have the hand for this."
"No one expects you to draw like an artist, Frank. Just try to make it schematic."
"This is pretty much it," he said. He pointed to a small table set before the portrait. "I think the objects were here." "Well, that's something, isn't it?" "What do you mean?"
"You never mentioned a table before."
Janek nodded. She was right; he hadn't mentioned it because be hadn't remembered it.
"Well, they had to be set out on something, didn't they?"
Monika smiled. "Keep drawing, Frank. Sooner or later you'll work it out."
By the end of the afternoon he had not resolved the objects in terms of their shapes, but he had positioned them, indicated by X's, in a straight line on the table.
He showed the sketch to Monika. She studied it. "The arrangement's strange," she said. "Maybe that's important."