At first he was intrigued by the unfolding of the gruesome story. As a psychiatrist he was interested in the speculations being made about the Wireman’s identity and personality. Rubens read on, his cigar chewed to a juicy pulp, his appointments forgotten.
Then the gong began to sound. Far off at first, almost unnoticed, deep in the recesses of his mind. It was the word “garrote” that struck the first quivering note. Rubens’s gaze locked on the word until it blurred. He began making the connection. A man sitting in his office, looking so young.
“I don’t know why I used that garrote,” Nick Ringer had said.
Then had come the sudden laughter and the word “beheading.” What else was it he had said? Oh yes, They didn’t go for the fact I took off their fucking heads.
Was it truly connected? It might he just a big coincidence. Sidney Rubens had never wanted to be wrong so badly.
If his suspicions were true, if Nick Ringer and the Wireman were the same… The thought refused to finish itself. He needed a drink—badly. Right now.
The distraught psychiatrist quickly returned to his office, poured three fingers of bourbon into a glass, and read the story over again. There was a policeman, a detective, the story said, well known but now retired, who was semi-officially involved in the case. He was quoted as saying the department had a lead on the killer, but as yet they had no suspect, and they needed all the help they could get.
Yeah, Rubens thought, you need a regular Noah’s ark of help, friend. But he was sealed by an oath of confidentiality. What would he do if Nick Ringer made further revelations that connected him even more to the murders? How could Rubens finger the suspect for the cops?
Rubens knew there were guidelines for professionals who found themselves in his predicament. Situations where their professional ethics of confidentiality conflicted with the safety of society at large. Possibly conflicted. It was just a word connection. Garrote.
The problem was that the guidelines themselves conflicted with each other. Federal agencies said one thing, state agencies said another. What one national organization advocated as a correct course of action was exactly what another national organization said should not be done.
Rubens emptied the glass and sloshed more bourbon into it. Whatever he decided to do, someone would say he was wrong. He gulped the whiskey. God, he hated making such decisions. Why was he getting all shook up? The whole thing was probably a big mistake. Nothing to worry about. Not really. Just a word connection.
But as he poured more bourbon into the glass, he knew better. Deep down inside Dr. Sidney Rubens agreed with Nick Ringer. It was a lousy life.
CHAPTER 19
THE MORNING BELONGED TO Daley Ringer. He felt as if he were sole proprietor of the world. The streets of the Montrose area of Houston were empty. The residents had gone to work for the day or to classes on the city’s campuses. Store windows reflected golden sunlight and the sidewalks gleamed with the fresh morning dew. If there was squalor on the side streets or black mud standing in the yards, Daley did not see it. His attention was on what was beautiful. He was going to see Madra, to surprise her and to convince her she had been wrong to leave.
Glancing up, Daley saw a man approaching along the sidewalk from the opposite direction. Daley smiled happily and nodded to him. The man was dressed in sloppy green fatigue pants and a black turtleneck sweater. The effeminate swing in the man’s walk suddenly registered on Daley. He had a brief mental image of Nick sprawled on his back beneath the willow tree so long ago. He could not tell why he had this particular impression, but he suddenly realized the approaching stranger was homosexual and cruising for companionship.
“Do you have a light?”
Daley was stopped by a small white hand on his arm. The man was much younger than Daley had originally thought. He was hardly out of his teens.
“No, I don’t,” Daley replied, and tried to move on.
The cigarette wavered in the other man’s fingers. He stared sadly into Daley’s eyes, searching for kinship.
“Would you like to breakfast with me?” the young man asked. “My treat?”
Disgust filled Daley. He loathed the pale bony hand that clutched his arm. He hated the lonesome, lost look in the man’s stare. Most of all he hated that his morning was ruined, utterly destroyed. The sun had lost its splendor. The freshness of the day was gone. Now it was sordid and ugly and crawling with disgusting things that lay just below the pallor of the sunlight.
“Let me go,” Daley growled, unconsciously showing his teeth in a grimace.
The man’s stare held, not picking up the clues. “Why don’t you spend the day with me? We’re both alone. I don’t live far from here. And I’m cheap, which is to say, I’m free of charge.”
Daley wrenched his arm free and struck the stranger across the face, spinning him around into the gutter.
“How dare you assume!” Daley shouted.
The man cowered back, his hand protecting the cheek that took the blow. He looked betrayed.
“Don’t you dare!” Daley repeated, advancing on the now-frightened young man.
The man fled and Daley watched him go, feeling like a dullard. The day was tarnished. He realized the truth. He was on a doomed mission and this was a sign. Madra would not wish to see him. She would say unkind things. He was a fool who chased after rainbows. No woman had ever truly wanted him.
At Madra’s door he paused to listen but could hear nothing from inside. He knew she was home. He had made countless reconnaissance sorties and every Monday she was home alone. He knocked, softly at first, then with more force. When Madra did not answer, he tried the door and found it unlocked. He stepped into the house and stood listening for some sound. In a few seconds he heard the musical splash and fall of water. Madra was in the shower.
Daley smiled, part of his earlier good humor returning. He would play a trick on her.
Cautiously he toured the house. In the roommate’s bedroom he found disarray; in Madra’s room, tidiness.
In the tiny kitchen he sampled a slice of stale German chocolate cake that sat uncovered on the counter. He licked his fingers as he plundered the drawers and cabinets. Had Madra discovered him then, he would not have been able to tell her what he was doing. He even was on the verge of forgetting why he had come to see her in the first place.
He left the kitchen and went to the partially opened door of the bathroom. On the lowered lid of the toilet was a folded towel. On the green carpet a pair of white slippers waited. He had seen Madra’s routine before. She showered, dried, and went to the bedroom to dress wearing only her slippers. He leaned against the sink edge to watch the shadow of her slight body behind the shower curtain. She was reciting a poem, her head beneath the streaming water of the shower. Daley cocked his head to listen. It had something to do with death. Madra was preoccupied with death. It was her favorite subject and ranked right up there with eighteenth-century history.
The shadow turned, the elbows at right angles. She performed a ballet with the water, lines of poetry trailing all around her. The shadow abruptly bent from the waist and twisted the faucets. The poem and her shower both ended. She drew back the curtain and faced Daley.
The startled, high-pitched scream wrenched Daley loose from his casual position against the sink. He saw her falling, crumpling as if in slow motion. He reached out for her and his hands slipped over wet rubbery skin. He heard her head thunk against the side of the tub and saw her eyes roll back into their sockets.
“Madra!”
In a panic Daley hauled her from the chilly tub and tried to stand her on her feet. Her head fell back limply.