Poisonous Kiss (11 page)

     After a few blocks he sees the place with the bike on its sign. A nice smile, a generous mouth. A slim, young body. A simple relationship, no complications. Firstrate sex, second-rate clubs, boring talks. Two weeks rest …he doesn't owe allegiance to Celia. She has her husband. She runs back to him like a spoiled child to her rich family after tasting the wilder side of life. She didn't promise him anything.

     He lifts his foot off the gas for a moment, then the sign with the bike disappears from his mirror. Why did he come to this place at all?

BOSON BOOKS
-53

At four in the afternoon I couldn't take it anymore. When my hand started to reach toward the phone, for the twentieth time in five minutes, I stopped fighting.

     My fingers shook as I carefully punched the buttons. What had happened to me? What bound me to this woman? Our talks? Her shots? Or the way she entwined me like a snake while her hushed, rasping voice told me what she liked. I needed to hear that voice again!

     I only had to wait one ring to get my wish. She picked up the receiver quickly, as if expecting this call. Her tone was different now, politely official, but I heard a veiled whisper underneath it, and I felt like I would remember that sound forever.

     "It's me."

     A soft laugh. Her words were gentle, enticing.

     "I thought it might be."

     I imagined her sitting behind her desk. The patient in the armchair in front of her would try to look like they're not listening.

     "Can I see you?"

     A moment's silence. I could almost hear the words I've been dreading, could almost imagine her saying: "John, it was so good, but …I love my husband and …" it was fear of words like that that kept had me from calling. Now I was so afraid of what she might say that I didn't let her speak at all.

     "I need you." It just burst out.

     "Another attack?" She asked quickly. The patient in her office must be disappointed, because that's not the sort of remark Dr. Allesandro would make in a personal conversation.

     "No." I said after a moment's hesitation. If being sick was the price of seeing her, I was ready to feel ill all the time.

     "Did something happen?"

     I thought of the man I left behind with a broken jaw and a concussion. I thought of his wife, the way the sound of her weeping penetrated the elevator door. I realized that none of that bothered me.

     "Yes."

     She didn't ask what happened. She didn't turn the pages of her calendar.

     "Come here, right away!" I heard fear in her voice, a strange unreasonable fear. Why was she so anxious?

     I put down the receiver slowly, with almost as much uncertainty as I had when I picked it up. I was on the afternoon shift. I had to stay there till 10 p.m., doing a desk job where I wasn't exposed to danger, on the advice of the department's consulting psychologist.

     What should I say, what business would I have that's so important that I have to leave the safety of the office. I was so disgusted with the whole situation that I pounded the desk with my fist. I was alone in the room, so no one could see the outburst, and the noise and pain that follow helped calm me down.

     Somebody stuck his head in the door: "What happened?"

     I didn't know the guy, maybe he was new. I just smiled at him: "What happened where?"

     What did she think? Did she think I could come and go as I pleased? I suppose that's how it was for her husband, the famous researcher. I should have felt smug: I was the young lover and he's the old guy she cheats on. Instead I felt jealous.

     I stood up. Without even thinking about it, I grabbed my gun—a move that was becoming as mechanical as tying my shoes—and I started toward Ericsson's office. He had told me I could get anything I needed. A warrant, backup, technical assistance. I only wanted a few hours of time this afternoon.

     And what could I give him in exchange? I thought of the bouncer with his tortured hand, and the name I had no time to learn from him. I thought of Frost's beautiful blonde girlfriend. I spent the morning visiting modeling agencies, trying to find her.

     I thought of Frost. I knew I'd catch him eventually. The only question was: What would I do then?

     In a half hour I was at Celia's office. She opened the door. She stood there silently, smiling at me and looking a little uncertain, a little shy and very bewitching.

     I was silent too. I found it hard to speak. I couldn't even say hello. I felt like words would sound false, forced. I slowly reached my hand toward her. Celia's eyes grew enormous, her lips parted slightly. Her face was like a mysterious, erotic mask. I was almost afraid to touch it, but I did. Her skin was soft, the mask full of life. I couldn't tell if I was caressing her, or if she was rubbing against my hand with her cheek.

     There was the sound of footsteps in the corridor. Celia's eyes were still veiled as she closed the door, smiling.

     "Come inside!" she said. That was the voice! The voice of a lover, the soft, throaty whisper. I shook like a teenage boy. I'd been hearing this voice since yesterday, it had been driving me crazy, making me forget everything else. The voice she used when she told me what to do, ordered me shamelessly, calling everything by its name, making me blush when I thought about it again.

     I followed her to the office. The waiting room was empty. There were butts in the ashtray, magazines tossed onto the table, as if there were patients waiting here just a few minutes ago. Celia must have sent them away.

     We made love on the narrow, hard divan. It was the first time I'd been here since she stopped giving me the shots. I lay there, sighing happily, my eyes closed, while Celia kissed my naked body. Her soft lips traveled slowly down from my neck. An image flashed into my mind: I thought of the other patients she has lying here, and I imagined her doing the same things with them that she does to me. I was wracked with jealousy. I opened my eyes and look down at her. I want to see her face. She felt my stare, and smiled up at me.

     Then we made love in the armchair, where I used to sit and talk about myself. Her marvelous legs straddled the arms of the chair, her head was bent back, her long neck stretched all the way out. And I knelt in front of her, as if she were a goddess I was worshipping. I did worship her.

     She couldn't stop. She wanted everything. She wanted to feel me from every direction she wanted me to have her in every possible way and position. I saw different parts of her from each position—her thighs, her cute butt, her breasts. We made love all over the room. She leaned on her desk, and looked back at me, mischievously. She made me sit on the chair and she sat on my lap. Then I stood up, holding her, while she clung to me with both arms and legs and buried her face in my shoulder.

     The room was filling up with souvenirs. I'll never come back here again without feeling their touch. Maybe she felt the same. Maybe she was so active because she wants to leave memories all over the room.

     I was the one who finally gave up, but I didn't feel guilty. She must've had half a dozen orgasms. The woman was insatiate, but she reached climax easily. When it ended, I was on top of her, my face in the carpet.

     I rose quickly and stretched myself, enjoying the feeling of my back cracking. There was a pain in my shoulder. I fingered a bruise there, trying to figure out what it was. Then I realized it was made by the punch I ducked this morning. I probably wouldn't be at this office if that blow had hit my head.

     Celia smiled at me in a strange, motherly way. Her eyes were still veiled, and she was more beautiful, more feminine than ever. But she pushed me away and showed me where the bathroom was.

     I watched as she began to turn into a psychologist again, a professional. She put some coffee on, made small talk about a book. She wanted to ease the transition between her two personalities, giving my mind time to adjust to the change. I understood why she did it, but I felt cheated.

     Then a smile, a little kiss and a caress of my cheek let me know that I didn't have to worry: The other Celia was the real one. She had me fooled for a second, I felt like a sucker but I didn't care. She could make me believe anything she wanted.

     But she did want to get down to business—the business of helping me. She sat behind her desk slowly drinking her coffee. Her nice eyes became sad.

     "Something happened, didn't it?"

     I shrugged my shoulders.

     "I fell in love with you."

     She reddened. It was hard to keep from jumping up and holding her, kissing her face and saying gentle things.

     But I stood still. I knew, I could feel, that she didn't want me to hug her now. She didn't answer, just looked down, and I saw the fine china trembling in her hand. What did I expect? That she would declare her love, too?

     I started to tell her, feeling a little embarrassed and a little angry:

     "This morning I visited the bouncer from the Rumball …"

     She didn't interrupt, just looked at me with big, innocent eyes. She didn't take notes, she could tell I wouldn't like it. She just listened to me, absent-mindedly turning the pencil with her slim fingers. I let the whole pitiful story pour out of me, including my running away, the injured man I left behind and the girl I had considered picking up. I shook my head as I finish.

     "I really don't know why I trouble you with this."

     She broke her silence at last.

     "You're not troubling me." She leaned toward me across the table, and her voice is serious. "Did you feel sick?"

     "No."

     "Sweaty, shaking …?"

     "Nothing."

     "Fear?"

     I thought a moment. It had flashed into my mind once or twice that this whole episode might have a tragic ending, but these thoughts had disappeared as quickly as they came, without leaving any real impression.

     "No," I answered, feeling certain.

     "Anger?"

     I didn't answer. I stood up, went round the desk and grabbed her shoulders. She stared up at me with a frightened look. She was afraid of me. I hear my voice cracking.

     "What happened to me?" I asked her, or maybe myself. "I was never like this. What about the neighbor who attacked me? He had no way of knowing I'm a cop …I can still remember the sound of his wife crying, and it doesn't bother me. I have no real qualms about any of it. I don't like it, but I'm not really upset either." I realized I was squeezing Celia's shoulders, but I couldn't seem to loosen my grip. I held on to her, I needed her. "What happened to me, Celia? You ought to know. You know something. You're very anxious about me. I can see it. That was the reason you sent your patients away and told me to come at once. Not because you wanted to make love."

     She took my hand gently and I felt my fingers slowly relaxing. She stood up too, and embraced me. But this time all I wanted was an answer. I pushed her away. I paced the room, full of nerves, and—maybe by pure chance—she began to speak just when I stepped on the exact spot where I had reached the peak of pleasure only thirty minutes before. I stopped short and stood with my back to her as I listened.

     "I believe your problem may involve a split personality."

     My stomach was in a knot. It was the kind of feeling a person gets when they're told they're incurable. But I was healthy.

     "It must be a result of the shock," she explained behind my back. "Your partner's death was a terrible trauma. You blamed yourself. You were eaten up by guilt. You naturally have more empathy than most people. You're full of love and compassion toward the world. Then comes a tragedy like this. The more you thought about it the more it hurt. So time couldn't heal your mental wound, it only made it worse. Your mind was caught in a downward spiral that would have destroyed you if you didn't stop it."

     "What stopped it?" I turned back and looked at her, full of doubt.

     "Your mind found a way out. It's a disease but it's also a way out. The instinct of self-preservation awakened your latent anger and aggressiveness. Instead of thinking about how terrible Carl's death was, the anger makes you feel that it was no big deal, that anybody can die. That life is a violent struggle, in which you must kill or be killed. And you act aggressively, as if to prove that this is true. You threw your energy into a quest for revenge. But finding your partner's murderer was only part of the reason for this investigation. You feel the need to court danger over and over again. You want to prove that what happened to Carl can happen to you, anytime. His death was just bad luck, part of the game, and not your fault."

     I stood silent, letting my head hang.

     "Don't be ashamed. It's natural. Our system does dramatic things to defend itself."

     I couldn't say anything. My mouth was dry, my feet trembled. I staggered, uncertain, toward the coffee maker in the corner. There was a small refrigerator under the cupboard. I took out a can of beer and snapped it open, then took two hard gulps before turning to Celia.

     "So what's the problem?"

     "That your original self protests." Celia took out a club soda and a glass from the cupboard. She sat down again looking at her drink. I had the feeling she wanted to buy some time. I waited in silence. I knew she would have to continue.