Ra Mahleiné’s words were balm to him: he didn’t want to believe that he was Death.
63
He came up to her from behind and put his hands in her hair.
“I’ll braid it for you, Little Manul. Would you like that?”
She didn’t answer but moved her head to a more comfortable position.
“Lorraine,” he said, turning. “Bring me a comb, but a clean one, not mucked up with anything.”
Lorraine didn’t move.
“Forgive me,” he said, embarrassed by his tone. “I didn’t mean to speak to you like a servant…”
“That’s all right,” Lorraine said. She got up and went in the house.
But she returned immediately, in tears. “The comb’s on the dresser under the mirror, Dave, but Mama’s lying on the floor and watching me. I can’t—” She wailed.
On the first floor he found furniture thrown over, broken stools, bloodstains everywhere. Edda was on the floor, brain showing in her split skull, eyes open, the fingers of her left hand crushed. Her outstretched right hand held a strip of cloth.
Massmoudieh lay on the kitchen sofa surrounded by dark blood. In the corners of his mouth was pink foam that had dried. His chest was a bloody, shredded mess; he must have been bayoneted a dozen times. The sofa had holes in many places, where the killer missed. Fatima sat in the armchair, her head to one side. A deep brownish red gash went from her right shoulder blade to her left hip, like the ribbon of some ghastly decoration for valor. Bullet holes riddled the armchair, and they seeped blood.
Gavein went upstairs. The door was open. Myrna lay on the floor. She had been shot eight times. Her dull eyes were fixed on the ceiling, her mouth open as if to scream. He walked around her carefully, not wanting to step in her blood. The mirror had been broken, but the dresser was in one piece. He took the comb from one of the shelves and put it in his pocket.
In the Wilcoxes’ room, there were empty vodka bottles. Brenda lay on the couch, curled into a ball. She had been shot repeatedly. The place reeked of alcohol.
Maybe that’s a good thing, he thought. She was probably unconscious when it happened. And they hadn’t raped her, either. In her sweaty, filthy clothes, stinking of alcohol, she had held no attraction for them.
The door to his apartment had been broken open. Anabel lay on the mattress, her legs apart, her head tilted back. He couldn’t see her face, only her nostrils. Her body was like a child’s, white and undamaged. He took a step closer. Around her neck was the belt from her housecoat.
Her face was terrifying: the eyes frozen and bloodshot, the skin blue-gray and swollen. Her tongue hung from her mouth. Under her left breast he saw the small oval wound of a bayonet thrust. One of her tormentors had cut short her suffering. The blow had been powerful, the blade passing through both her and the mattress.
Gavein went downstairs, turned on the television. On the screen was Thompson. He looked older; the light had gone out of his eyes, and the skin of his face hung from the cheekbones like wet laundry on a line.
He would make a good Death, Gavein thought. No, he is a good Death.
The commission appointed by me has taken the measures that needed to be taken to free Davabel from the horror that was David Death. I can guarantee you that this man no longer lives. We believe that, therefore, the epidemic will run its course. We do not know how many more will die, how many more came into contact with David Death. I also came into contact with the man. But I am confident now that this effect will not spread to anyone new. We have preserved our children. We have saved Davabel. Unfortunately the price that had to be paid was high. The Division of Science was completely demolished. Central Davabel is like a wasteland, uninhabited. We cannot blame any person who, wishing to save himself, left his place of residence. No such person will be prosecuted. But now that the danger has passed, our citizens will be assisted in the return to their homes. At the same time we ask everyone for patience and understanding, because the repopulation of these sections of the city will be possible only after all abandoned property has been secured by the Army and the National Guard. We must forestall incidents of looting. I would like to convey my special thanks to the leaders of the Guard and the soldiers of our Civil Defense forces: they played a major role in assuring the safety of our people during the evacuation as well as during the solution of the problem that was David Death…
This last statement infuriated Gavein. Thompson had gone too far. Gavein took out his handkerchief and picked up the blood-covered phone. He remembered the number. On the other end was someone with a throaty voice.
“I want to speak with Colonel Medved. This is important.”
“The colonel’s not here. He’s at the ministry. If you tell me what this concerns, I can relay your message to him when he returns. I am Lieutenant Adams.”
“Listen, Adams”—Gavein had learned how to speak to bureaucrats—”if you want to be sitting at your pitiful little desk tomorrow, you get Medved on the line now. Now. This is David Death speaking.”
There was silence at the other end, probably from a hand held over the receiver. Then the click, barely audible, of a recording device being turned on.
“Could you repeat that?” said Adams.
“You heard me. I’m waiting.”
The silence continued for a moment, a contest.
“Medved’s not here. He’ll be back in an hour.”
“Give me the number where I can reach him.” Gavein tried to say as little as possible, thinking that when he didn’t speak, they could not track the call. But he was probably wrong.
“I’m afraid that isn’t possible. The numbers at the ministry are all classified. Let me have your number. Colonel Medved will call you as soon as he returns.”
“No more games,” said Gavein. “I want to hear from Medved within ten minutes.” And he hung up.
64
After almost ten minutes passed, Adams called and put Gavein through to Medved. There was crackling.
“Yes?” It was Medved’s voice.
“Gavein Throzz here. Do I need to add that I’m not calling from the other world?”
“It’s you.”
“Innocent people have been murdered. I demand that the killers be brought to justice. I’m speaking of the patrol of Sergeant Kurys and every single person who was behind what they did, even if that includes Thompson. Your job, if I’m not mistaken, is to uphold the law.”
“This conversation is being recorded. It will be played at the next session of the Defense Commission.”
“Excellent. I remind you that a policeman’s job is to apprehend criminals.” Gavein’s voice rose. “And the decisions of this commission of yours have been criminal, violating both law and justice. I don’t dispute the government’s fear of me, since strange and disturbing things have indeed been happening. But nothing can excuse the murder of civilians for the sole reason that they lived in the same house with me. The perpetrators, returning from that action, killed Dr. Yullius Saalstein. I’m sure you know him. I demand the punishment of the people responsible for that crime.”
On the other end of the line, silence.
“I demand that the crimes of General Thompson’s commission, all of them, be exposed on television. I demand that my wife receive medical care and that we have food, heat, all the necessities. Yes, I see the threat that my existence poses for Davabel. I see the connection between the epidemic of death and my person. Obviously it is impossible for me to leave for Ayrrah before the required time. Therefore, if my wife is completely cured, if she is provided for… with a good pension… then I am prepared, for the public good, to consider… in short, I will do away with myself,” he added in a lower voice, so that Ra Mahleiné wouldn’t overhear. “Are you there, Medved?”