“It’s repression because you don’t have the courage to admit your own motives for doing it.”
“Oh, I see. I’m a lesbian but I’m just not admitting it.”
Ginny shook her head; she smiled dismally. “You really can be stupid when you try hard. Sex has nothing to do with any of this. Don’t you listen to anything Khoronos says?”
“What is he saying, Ginny? Since I’m so stupid, tell me.”
“He’s saying that we have to shed our repressions in order to maximize ourselves as artists. Not just sexual repressions, but every repression in regard to every aspect of our lives. To be everything we can be as artists, as creators, we must—”
“I know,” Veronica sniped. “We must delve into our passions.”
“Right. And it’s true. Because that’s all that creativity is founded in. Passion.”
Passion for everything, Veronica finished in thought. Her petty anger was gone, spirited away. She looked down at her shadow thrown across the floor. She thought of herself as two separate entities, one of flesh, the other of shadow, her id, perhaps. That was where her passions lay, in her shadows, and that’s what Khoronos meant yesterday when he’d spoken of her failures. She was keeping her passions in shadow. She must illuminate them to become real.
“Come back to bed,” Ginny said.
“I—” Veronica faltered. “I’m not tired.”
“Neither am I.”
Veronica let the robe slide off her shoulders. Then she was getting back into bed with her friend.
Jan Beck handed Jack a strip of multicolored paper — the source spectrum from a mass photospectrometer. Under it Jan had written:
3-[-3-(p-hydrophenyl)-4-chloroxyiphone]-3’-disodium-edetate.
“That’s the stuff,” Jan said. “The chemical designation.”
“And you found it in the bloodstreams of both girls?”
“Yep. Too bad it’s meaningless.”
It was 7 p.m. now; Jack and Faye stood in the TSD main lab, where they’d arranged to meet after Faye got out of the Library of Congress. Neither had mentioned Jack’s drunken foray of the night before.
“Meaningless?” Jack countered. “It’s our biggest lead. Once you identify it by name, we can nail down a geographic scheme. Whoever’s making it or selling it can lead us to the killer.”
“Killers,” Jan Beck reminded. “And that’s the problem. I don’t know if I can identify it by name.”
“You said it’s not in the CDS and pharmaceutical indexes, right?” Jack asked. “That knocks out about ten thousand possibilities.”
“So what? They’re U.S. indexes. It could be a foreign pharmaceutical. It could be homemade.”
These revelations did not enthuse Jack. He tried to sort his thoughts, smoking. “How much time, Jan?”
“Cold? Weeks.”
“I don’t have weeks.”
Jan Beck laughed. “Captain, unless you can give me something to go on, I’ll have to catalog every index one at a time.”
“Here’s something you might be able to use,” Faye Rowland interrupted. “I found a bunch of stuff today about drug use among the aorist sects.” She riffled through a sheaf of Xerox sheets. “They used lots of drugs during their rituals; one of them was an aphrodisiac called rootmash. They made it by distilling the pods of a plant called blackapple.” She scanned her underscores. “Taxodium lyrata is the botanical name. The book said it was a cantharadine, whatever that is.”
“Cantharadine,” Jan said to herself.
“Sounds like you’ve heard of it,” Jack said.
“It rings a bell. Give me that.” Jan took Faye’s papers and began to walk away toward her index library.
“Where are you going?”
“You gave me something to go on, so now I’m going to go on it.”
Jack got the message. “Let’s get out of here,” he said to Faye. “Jan likes to be left alone when she works.”
Faye followed him up the stairs of the county HQ. He seemed remote, or distracted. Then he said, “Sorry about last night.”
“You won’t last long, drinking like that,” Faye replied.
“I’m gonna quit.“ Jack smiled at the excuse. “I know, that’s what they all say. But I’m really going to do it.”
Faye kept quiet.
As they were about to exit, an ancient sergeant at the main desk stopped them. “Hey, Captain, you got a call from City District.”
“Thanks.” Jack took the phone. “Cordesman.”
“Jack, it’s Randy.”
“How you coming on the interviews?”
“It’s like what you predicted. Rebecca Black had as many pickups as Shanna Barrington. And we struck out on the ex-husband. He was verifiably out of state during the murder.”
“Just keep plugging.”
“Sure, but that’s not why I called. Some guy keeps calling your office, says he knows you. Sounds like a real prick.”
Stewie, Jack guessed.
“I’ve got him on the line right now,” Randy said. “How about taking it and getting the guy off my back.”
“Switch me over,” Jack said. The line transferred, hummed, and clicked. “What do you want, Stewie?”
“Jackie boy! How’s it going?”
“Fine until you called. What do you want?”
“I need to rap with you, paisan.”
“Well, I don’t want to rap with you, Stewie. I’ve had a taxing day, and talking to you would only make it more taxing.”
Stewie guffawed. “You never did like me, did you?”
“No, Stewie, I never did. And I still don’t.”
“I need to talk to you about Veronica.”
The name seemed to give Jack an abrupt shove. “What about her?”
“I think she’s in trouble.”
“What kind of trouble? I’m listening.”
“Better if we meet, you know, man-to-man.”
But what could he mean? What kind of trouble could Veronica be in? “All right, Stewie. Man-to-man.”
“Or, hell, let’s be honest. Libertine-to-drunk.”
“How about assailant-to-assault-victim?”
“Aw, Jackie, that’s so sad. Are you threatening a law-abiding citizen over a police line? Is that wise?”
“Where and when, Stewie?”
“How about the Undercroft? In your constant inebriation, it’s probably the only place in town you can find without a map.”
“I would really love to kick your ass, Stewie, and if this is a bunch of bullshit, I will.”
“Come on, Jack. An alcoholic wreck like you? You couldn’t even kick your own ass. Now, are we going to bicker like a pair of bête noires, or are we going to rap?”
“I’ll be there in a half hour.”
Jack hung up. He looked stolid, vexed.
“You’ll be where in a half hour?” Faye asked him.
“I—” Shit, he thought. “The bar.”
“That’s great, Jack. A minute ago you told me you were going to quit drinking. Now you’re going to the bar. Great.”
“I’m not going there to drink, Faye.”
“Of course not. You’re going there to play racquetball. Why else do people go to bars?”
“It’s something personal. I gotta talk to someone, that’s all. You can come too, if you don’t believe me.”
“I have better things to do than sit in bars, Jack.” She turned, was walking away. “I have a bunch of material to go over for your murder case, remember? Have fun at the bar.”
He trotted after her into the parking lot. “Why are you always pissed off at me? I won’t get drunk, I promise.”