Under “Physical” he added items about ranginess, reach, strength of arms and shoulders, size of chest, resistance to panic. It was true Case had said mountain climbers come “in all shapes and sizes,” but he had qualified that later, and Delaney was willing to go with the percentages.
Under “Psychological” he had a lot to write: love of the outdoors, risk as an addiction, a disciplined mind, no obvious suicide compulsion, total egotism, pushing to-what was it Case had said? — the “edge of life,” with nothing between you and death but your own strength and wit. Then, finally, a deeply religious feeling, becoming one with the universe-“one with everything.” And compared to that, everything else was “just mush.”
Under “Additional Notes” he listed “Probably moderate drinker” and “No drugs” and “Sex relations probably after murder but not before.”
He read and reread the list, looking for something he might have forgotten. He couldn’t find anything. “The Suspect” was coming out of the gloom, looming. Delaney was beginning to get a handle on the man, grabbing what he was, what he wanted, why he had to do what he did. He was still a shadow, smoke, but there was an outline to him now. He began to exist, on paper and in Delaney’s mind. The Captain had a rough mental image of the man’s physical appearance, and he was just beginning to guess what was going on in the fool’s mind. “The poor, sad shit,” Delaney said aloud, then shook his head angrily, wondering why he should feel any sympathy at all for this villain.
He was still at it, close to 1:00 a.m., when the desk phone rang. He let it ring three times, knowing-knowing-what the call was, and dreading it. Finally he picked up the receiver.
“Yes?” he asked cautiously.
“Captain Delaney?”
“Yes.”
“Dorfman. Another one.”
Delaney took a deep breath, then opened his mouth wide, tilted his head back, stared at the ceiling, took another deep breath.
“Captain? Are you there?”
“Yes. Where was it?”
“On Seventy-fifth Street. Between Second and Third.”
“Dead?”
“Yes.”
“Identified?”
“Yes. His shield was missing but he still had his service revolver.”
“What?”
“He was one of Broughton’s decoys.”
Part VI
1
“I didn’t want him to suffer,” he said earnestly, showing her Bernard Gilbert’s ID card. “Really I didn’t.”
“He didn’t suffer, dear,” she murmured, stroking his cheek. “He was unconscious, in a coma.”
“But I wanted him to be happy!” Daniel Blank cried.
“Of course,” she soothed. “I understand.”
He had waited for Gilbert’s death before he had run to Celia, just as he had run to her after Lombard’s death. But this time was different. He felt a sense of estrangement, withdrawal. It seemed to him that he no longer needed her, her advice, her lectures. He wanted to savor in solitude what he had done. She said she understood, but of course she didn’t. How could she?
They were naked in the dreadful room, dust everywhere, the silent house hovering about them. He thought he might be potent with her, wasn’t sure, didn’t care. It was of no importance.
“The mistake was in coming from in front,” he said thoughtfully. “Perhaps the skull is stronger there, or the brain not as frail, but he fell back, and he lived for four days. I won’t do that again. I don’t want anyone to suffer.”
“But you saw his eyes?” she asked softly.
“Oh yes.”
“What did you see?”
“Surprise. Shock. Recognition. Realization. And then, at the final moment, something else…”
“What?”
“I don’t know. I’m not sure. Acceptance, I think. And a kind of knowing calm. It’s hard to explain.”
“Oh!” she said. “Oh yes! Finitude. That’s what we’re all looking for, isn’t it? The last word. Completion. Catholicism or Zen or Communism or Meaninglessness. Whatever. But Dan, isn’t it true we need it? We all need it, and will abase ourselves or enslave others to find it. But is it one for all of us, or one for each of us? Isn’t that the question? I think it’s one absolute for all, but I think the paths differ, and each must find his own way. Did I ever tell you what a beautiful body you have, darling?”
As she spoke she had been touching him softly, arousing him slowly.
“Have you shaved a little here? And here?”
“What?” he asked vaguely, drugged by her caresses. “I don’t remember. I may have.”
“Here you’re silk, oiled silk. I love the way your ribs and hip bones press through your skin, the deep curve from chest to waist, and then the flare of your hips. You’re so strong and hard, so soft and yielding. Look how long your arms are, and how wide your shoulders. And still, nipples like buds and your sweet, smooth ass. How dear your flesh is to me. Oh!”
She murmured, still touching him, and almost against his will he responded and moved against her. Then he lay on his back, pulled her over atop him, spread his legs, raised his knees.
“How lovely if you could come into me,” he whispered and, knowing, she made the movements he desired. “If you had a penis, too…Or better yet, if we both had both penis and vagina. What an improvement on God’s design! So that we both might be inside each other, simultaneously, penetrating. Wouldn’t that be wonderful?”
“Oh yes,” she breathed. “Wonderful.”
He held her weight down onto him, calling her “Darling” and “Honey” and saying, “Oh love, you feel so good,” and it seemed to him the fabric of his life, like a linen handkerchief laundered too often, was simply shredding apart. Not rotting, but pulling into individual threads; light was coming through.
In her exertions, sweat dripped from her unshaven armpits onto his shoulders; he turned his head to lick it up, tasting salty life.
“Will you kill someone for me?” she gasped.
He pulled her down tighter, elevating his hips, linking his ankles around her slender back.
“Of course not,” he told her. “That would spoil everything.”
2
He grew up in that silent, loveless, white-tiled house and, an only child, had no sun to turn to and so turned inward, becoming contemplative, secretive even. Almost all he thought and all he felt concerned himself, his wants, fears, hates, hopes, despairs. Strangely, for a young boy, he was aware of this intense egoism and wondered if everyone else was as self-centered. It didn’t seem possible; there were boys his age who were jolly and out-going, who made friends quickly and easily, who could tease girls and laugh. But still…
“Sometimes it seemed I might be two persons: the one I presented to my parents and the world, and the one I was, whirling in my own orbit. The outward me was the orderly, organized boy who was a good student, who collected rocks and stowed them away in compartmented trays, each specimen neatly labeled: ‘Blank, Danieclass="underline" Good boy.’
“But from my earliest boyhood-from my infancy, even-I have dreamed in my sleep, almost every night: wild, disjointed dreams of no particular meaning: silly things, happenings, people all mixed up, costumes, crazy faces, my parents and kids in school and historical and literary characters-all in a churn.
“Then-oh, perhaps at the age of eight, but it may have been later-I began to lose myself in daytime fantasies, as turbulent and incredible as my nighttime dreams. This daydreaming had no effect on my outward life, on the image I presented to the world. I could do homework efficiently, answer up in class, label the stones I collected, kiss my parents’ cold cheeks dutifully…and be a million miles away. No, not away, but down inside myself, dreaming.
“Gradually, almost without my being aware of it, daytime fantasies merged with nighttime dreams. How this developed, or exactly when, I cannot say. But daytime fantasies became extensions of nighttime dreams, and it happened that I would imagine a ‘plot’ that continued, day and night, for perhaps a week. And then, having been rejected in favor of a new ‘plot,’ I might come back to the old one for a day or two, simply recalling it or perhaps embellishing it with fanciful details.