Prayer for the Dead (20 page)

“Of course I could
do
it.”

“Sounds pretty complicated.”

“Oh, please. I could get this done in a couple of days.”

“How about by tonight?”

Chaney hesitated, his eyes scanning the busy room as if counting up the hours he would need.

“I can bring some agency experts in to help,” said Becker innocently.

“I doubt they’d really understand it all, don’t you? No offense.”

“You don’t offend me,” said Becker. “
I
don’t understand any of it. Computers are a complete mystery to me, not to mention actuarial science. That’s why I rely on someone with your expertise. I suppose there is someone else around here I could ask if you’re too busy.”

“No one who can do it the way I can.”

“By tonight?”

Chaney sniffed and squared his shoulders under the cardigan.

“Check back by eight,” he said. “I’ll be able to tell you what Dyce ate for breakfast.”

“I know what he ate,” said Becker. “I want you to tell me why.”

They pulled off the thruway exit ramp as the sun was setting behind the snaggle-toothed silhouette of the Bridgeport skyline. Dyce talked calmly but incessantly as he directed Helen toward the water, seeking by instinct the poor and then poorer sections of the battered city. When he had her pull into the empty lot of a warehouse, the sun was creeping into the greasy waters of Long Island Sound.

Helen seemed to have slipped into a kind of trance induced by terror and Dyce’s chatter, and he continued to drone on to sustain it.

“That’s very good, Helen, very good. This is not a bad place, is it? A little paint, a little elbow grease, but you know what neighborhoods like this are like. It’s hard to find anyone who cares anymore; people will live just anywhere. Now, Helen, I have a plan. What we’re going to do is protect you from the police.”

He gripped her right arm and she jerked involuntarily, then calmed. Through the windshield she could count the windows on the warehouse. They were cast high up under the eaves, serving for light and ventilation, not vision. Helen counted the windows, then the number of panes in each window, then the number of panes on the whole building, then the number of broken panes. On the highway she had done it with cars, cars passed, cars passing. It seemed to stretch the time; with each car counted, she was alive that much longer.

Dyce ran his fingers up and down the underside of her exposed arm. “This is not my idea,” he said. “They’re making me do it. That man who was at your house, it’s his idea. I mean, he’s responsible for this. I want you to know this; this is definitely not my idea.” He sounded disgusted.

A pigeon fluttered through one of the broken panes and entered the warehouse, safely home for the evening. Helen wondered if the birds ever cut their wings on the broken glass. She felt the cold of Dyce’s knife against her arm; but she didn’t feel it. She saw him holding it there; but she didn’t see him. She heard him but only the tone, which was soft, almost a lullaby— the words made no sense. She clung to his voice, which had been nonstop for the last half hour. As long as she heard him, she was still alive.

“You might have certain legal problems, aiding and abetting, that sort of thing, I’m not sure what your legal position is, so this will help you. This will make it look as if you drove me here unwillingly, this will make it look as if I forced you to help me, it will look as if I tried to hurt you, but you know I would never hurt you. You know how I feel about you. I would never hurt you. This is just to help you, this will give you an alibi.”

He was pinching her arm slightly, gently, moving his fingers up and down the inside of her arm and pinching. It didn’t hurt, she didn’t mind it. She was alive after each pinch.

“It’s just a little sharpness, just momentary. You won’t even notice it. Do you see the sunset? Isn’t it beautiful, just look at that, Helen, so much beauty in such an ugly place.”

Helen felt the knife point as it entered her flesh, but the pinching had worked. It didn’t seem much worse than another squeeze, just another little stitch in the skin, and she didn’t feel the blade at all as it traveled down her arm from inside her elbow to her hand.

It was quite a good knife after all, Dyce thought. A bit unwieldy, but it took an edge like a fine razor. The blood welled up and oozed out of her arm. He held her hand down between the seats, slightly back so she couldn’t see it from the corner of her eye and pulled back on the skin so it would not close on itself.

“This part will be over in a second or two, Helen. Don’t even think about it, it will stop of its own accord. It’s not at all dangerous, but it will look good when they question you. You can tell them anything you want and they’ll believe you now. Do you see the swallows? That’s what they are. I love to watch them swooping along, don’t you? They’re so graceful and they only come out in the evening like this, did you know that?”

Helen watched the swallows darting after insects and remembered a score of a movie that set the motions of birds to music. The music sounded sweetly in her mind.

Dyce had trouble controlling his breath. He had not anticipated how good this would feel. He had never killed before, not really, not for its own sake. The death of the men had been necessary to achieve the desired effect, merely a consequence of their preparation. This was different. This was exciting in itself She looked so pretty now. He had never thought of her as pretty before, but now she was absolutely beautiful. Beautiful in death. Dyce thought maybe he loved her after all. Her fingers in his hand were growing cold, but he wished now that they wouldn’t go too fast; he wanted her dying to last.

His voice sounded harsh for the first time. “No, don’t move the arm, Helen, just let it hang down. If you move it now you’ll spoil everything.” She had only wanted to wipe away the tears that were running into the corner of her mouth. He gripped her fingers tightly and held her arm down and behind her. She heard the sound of something dripping into the back of the car. She knew what it was; she didn’t know what it was. As long as she heard the drips she was alive.

“That’s better, Helen. Now just relax. We’ve had a long drive, you’re probably feeling a little tired. If you feel drowsy, just shut your eyes. Go on, shut your eyes, Helen. Take a little nap if you want. Why don’t you take a little nap. I’ll be right here to watch over you. You know nothing can happen as long as I’m here. I’ll take good care of you.”

Her eyelids fluttered closed and she sighed as if grateful to give in to sleep at last.

“When we’ve finished here, I tell you what let’s do. Let’s find a nice hotel. I want to be with you, Helen. I want to spend the night with you. I want to make love with you. Do you remember that first night we were together? Do you have any money with you? I’ll have to borrow your money. You look so lovely now, Helen.” He wished she would turn toward him so she could see how he was smiling at her, how happy he was. She would want to know she had given him such happiness. She deserved to know that. She was his first. So much more important than sex; she had introduced him to a pleasure that touched his soul.

At the end, when Dyce thought she was gone and finally released her hand, she tried to fight, startling him with the suddenness and ferocity of her attack, flailing her arms, clawing at his face and hitting again and again at the knife that he held up to protect himself. She had little real strength left, of course, but he was surprised that she had managed any at all. Even in the ferocity of her struggle she didn’t cry out, as if she wanted to keep the matter between the two of them right to the end.

Ultimately she fell back, sobbing silently, covering her eyes with hands deeply gashed by their foolish onslaughts against the knife. She died that way, her face covered, the last of her blood accelerated out of her body by her own flailing efforts.

Dyce could not help getting some of the blood on his clothing as he tossed her into the trunk. The car would be stolen by morning, he reasoned, and whoever did it would not be quick to notify the police about a body found with the spare tire. He wished she hadn’t fought at the end. It ruined the glow he was feeling.

After cleaning himself as best he could, Dyce walked toward the lights of the city. He was grateful for the falling darkness as it would help disguise his clothes and general condition—not that anyone would care very much in the sections he was heading for. But he was also glad he had the knife tucked into his belt. There were many scary people in this part of town.

“I understand you’ve joined up again,” said Gold. He was playing with a three-colored pen, switching the nib from red to green to blue.

“Temporarily,” said Becker.

“That’s a start.”

“That’s all there is. It’s a convenience; the badge opens doors.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I hate when you do that,” Becker said.

“Do what?”

“Grunt knowingly. It sounds like a parody of a shrink. You might as well say, I zee, very interessting.”

“You’re in a good mood.”

“I was supposed to have a date tonight,” said Becker. “I came to see you instead. She’s going to be pissed and all I have is you for consolation.”

“How is that going? That relationship.”

“I don’t know. I haven’t seen her enough to find out.”

“Evasive.”

“It’s none of your business. Sex is not my problem.”

“Did I mention sex? I asked about your relationship. Does that just mean sex to you?”

“I want to ask you some questions today.”

“That’s not the way it works.”

“Nothing personal.”

“That’s the only kind of question worth asking. How is the relationship?”

“Yours and mine? Fragile, I’d say.”

“The girl.” Gold glanced at his notes. “Cindi.”

“I remember her name. It’s fine. She’s too young for me. She probably has an Oedipal attraction to me, I probably have a dirty-old-man attraction to her. That sounds unhealthy but binding, wouldn’t you say?” Becker paused. “I like her,” he said.

“And how does that make you feel?”

“It scares me a little,” said Becker.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“Maybe later. I have other questions first.”

“What kind of questions?”

“About sexual perversion.”

“Um.”

“I thought you’d like that. Don’t worry, it’s official business.”

“We don’t call it perversion anymore. It’s paraphilia now. Whose paraphilia are we interested m?”

“My man. His name is Dyce.”

“Your man?”

“The man I’m after. Yeah, he’s my man. Or he will be. I almost have him already, and if you give me the right information, he’ll be all mine.”

Gold placed the pen on his desk and looked squarely at Becker. There was an intensity in Becker’s tone he had not heard before. Gone, for the moment at least, was the caustic, bantering note that let Gold know he was being tolerated even when Becker was cooperating. Usually Gold felt as if he were a priest debating religion with an atheist who went along with the discussion purely for the sake of an argument. Gold was himself a doubting priest at best. The miracle of psychotherapy had long since been replaced by a form of utilitarian respect for the rituals. Now, however, he sensed an opening into Becker’s carefully constructed armament.

“You’ll have him in what sense? You mean you’ll catch him?”

Becker paused. He picked up the pen from Gold’s desk and stared at it blankly for a moment.

“I mean I’ll have his secrets. No. I mean his secrets will be my secrets.”

“Is that what it feels like? As if you’re sharing secrets with someone you’re after?”

“Not sharing. We both possess them.” Becker jabbed at the pen, changing the color back and forth as Gold had done.

“You empathize with him,” Gold prompted.

Becker dropped the pen on the desk.

“No,” he said impatiently. “I become him.”

Gold held his breath. He was afraid to speak at all for fear he would say the wrong thing. He stifled the urge to grunt and slowly nodded his head.

“I feel what he feels and think what he thinks. And that’s how I find him. It’s as simple as that.” Becker laughed at himself a brief snort. “As simple as that.”

“How can you do that?”

“I start with a lot in common.”

Gold felt the goose flesh on his arms.

“Will you help me?”

“I want to,” said Gold.

“I mean with Dyce. I need to know about paraphilia.”

“I’ll help you. Will you help me to understand you?”

“They may be the same thing,” said Becker.

Chaney glanced impatiently at his watch as Becker entered the actuarial room. The agent was half an hour late and Chaney had thought several times of leaving, just to show his independence, but his pride in his accomplishments had kept him there.

“Sorry I’m late,” Becker said. “I know how important your time is. I had to see a shrink.”

“You’re in analysis?”

“Group therapy,” Becker said. “Dyce and I are taking it together.”

“If you have Dyce …”

“Joke,” said Becker. “Inside joke. How did it go? Did you find out anything for me?”

“Certainly. I’ve printed it out for you, but you might want to take a look on the screen here. This is Dyce’s private log. He had it pretty well camouflaged with codes and countercodes, but I got it out.”

“Didn’t take you long.”

“Well, it wasn’t easy, but I didn’t have any great trouble with it.”

“That’s why I asked an expert,” said Becker, smiling.

“Well, it was only Dyce’s mind I was up against,” said Chaney. He ran a hand down the back of his shaven skull. “He was devious, but not terribly clever, if you follow.”

“I’m trying to,” said Becker. “What is it, exactly?”

“Names. He got them from the raw solicitations of field agents. These aren’t necessarily customers, you understand, just people who have filled out questionnaires, or that agents filled them out for.”

Becker looked at the screen. Some of the names he recognized immediately. Nordholm, Dahl, Hedstrom, Nilsson.

“Is there a pattern?” he asked innocently.

“Of course. Don’t you see it?” Chaney paused to punctuate his moment of superiority. “It’s fairly obvious. They all have mothers with Scandinavian names.”