CHAPTER 19
Living with death was an intriguing experience. Dr. Elias found that the ordinary facets of his life had taken on an immense importance. The very act of taking a shower was revealing. The tingle of hot water against his skin was a confirmation of life. His nerve endings were still alive and functioning. The steam that rolled up to cloud the bathroom mirror was a kindness that hid his wasted body from view. The soft texture of a freshly washed towel seemed to absorb his pain as well as the moisture. Life was filled with small miracles if it was viewed from this perspective. He did not know which particular shower would be his last and he intended to enjoy each one to the fullest.
Dr. Elias stepped on the scale. Recording his weight was critical. He had dropped another three pounds last week. It was not surprising. Actually his weight was holding well. The body could function quite adequately at a fifteen percent reduction of normal weight. Laboratory rats were kept at that level as standard procedure in reinforcement studies. He had a comfortable cushion of eight pounds before he would experience any ill effects.
Shaving only took a moment with the electric razor. Dr. Elias remembered how fascinated he had been as a boy when his father had stropped his straightedge. He had watched as his father whipped up the lather in the shaving mug and brushed it on his face to soften the whiskers. And then came the part he had loved best, when the razor flashed expertly in his father's hand. It'd made a sound like crunching snow underfoot as it scraped off the stubble. Dr. Elias remembered how he had held his breath, afraid that his father would cut himself. But that had never happened. The hand that was so brilliant with the scalpel had never faltered.
Perhaps he should try it once before he died. Straightedge razors and leather strops must still be obtainable somewhere. He'd heard that barbers learned their craft by shaving lather off balloons. The technique would be difficult to master. He could cut himself quite badly if he slipped.
Dr. Elias chuckled as he recognized the irony. It was ridiculous to worry about injuring himself when he was dying anyway. In any event, the straight razor could wait. He had much higher priorities.
He had already selected his clothes for the day, and Dr. Elias dressed as quickly as he could. His right arm hurt, but the pain was a reminder that he had accomplished his duty last night. It had taken all his strength to wield the knife, but he had ensured that Father Marx would die instantaneously.
Dr. Elias sighed as he massaged the stiff muscles in his arm. It would have been much easier to use the gun, but the risk was too great. Then there would be an obvious connection between the murders. He had calculated that Mac would not tell the police about the group. After four years of therapy, he knew that Mac was unlikely to breach a confidence.
Father Marx's death would bring the group together again, but panic would cloud their thinking. Mac would urge them to ask for police protection, but they would refuse. Kay was too fearful of jeopardizing Charles's career, and the others had their own good reasons. They would decide to handle things on their own.
Dr. Elias knew that no one in the group would suspect him. It was psychologically impossible for them to doubt the psychiatrist they had trusted for years. They'd been too dependent on him, and they were too unsure of themselves to ask the right questions. They might try to contact him to ask for his help, but they would be told that he had left town. Naturally they'd conclude that he was dead or close to it.
It was all working out precisely as he had planned. His only uncertainty was Mac. It would be simpler to kill him now, but the police would go into high gear if one of their own was murdered. Another detective might recognize the ultimate link between the murders. Dr. Elias was counting on the trust that existed between patient and psychiatrist to blind Mac to the obvious conclusion. It was a calculated risk.
Dr. Elias smiled as he slipped into his jacket. He looked quite dashing for a dying man. Dressing in a suit every day was an important psychological ritual. If he stayed in his robe and slippers he would feel like an invalid. He had made only one concession to his illness. He no longer wore a tie.
His breakfast was waiting for him. Dr. Elias had increased his order in spite of his failing appetite. It was imperative to try something new every morning, in addition to his usual croissant. So little time remained, and there were many new things left to sample. He could not eat all that he ordered, but Dr. Elias found it gratifying to taste a bit of each.
A sticky bun was his treat for this morning. The top of the roll was covered with a brown gluelike substance and the waxed paper stuck to the bun as he lifted it from the box. Dr. Elias frowned. As a rule, he did not care for confections, but sticky buns were a Minnesota tradition and he felt he should try one before he died.
The bakery had included a little plastic fork. Dr. Elias pulled the paper away from the bun and cut off a small piece. The taste was pleasant enough, but it was much too sweet. The caramel stuck to his teeth and his fingers were tacky. He wrapped the roll back in its paper and went to wash his hands.
It was an experience he did not care to repeat. Dr. Elias dried his hands and went back to his chair. A real sugar addict might overlook the mess, but sticky buns were not to his liking. Perhaps it was too late in his life for innovations.
A sip of espresso helped to cut the sweetness. Dr. Elias settled down again and opened his morning paper. Father Marx had made the first page. VANDALS SUSPECTED IN PRIEST'S MURDER. Dr. Elias smiled as he bit into his plain croissant and began to read.
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The window was fogged and Kay wiped a place clear with the kitchen towel. Mac and Debra were outside, talking to Charles in the driveway. Charles had a very serious expression on his face.
Even though she knew Mac was right, Kay still felt guilty for calling Charles home from the office. He had canceled his speech. The League of Women Voters would be upset.
Mac was opening his car door now. He reached inside and pulled out a plastic scraper. He was still talking to Charles as he lifted the wipers and scraped the ice off the windshield.
Charles did not smile as he shook Mac's hand. Kay knew he was upset. Handshakes were always paired with smiles in politics.
They were leaving now. Debra gave a little wave toward the house and got into the passenger seat. Mac backed his Toyota out of the driveway and turned onto the street. Charles stood there watching until they were gone. Then he hurried toward the house. Kay drew a deep breath and got ready for the argument that would be sure to come when he got inside.
Charles didn't say a word as he came into the kitchen. He just hugged her hard. He held her so long that the snow from his boots began to melt and drip in a puddle on the spotless kitchen floor. Kay felt safe with Charles's arms around her. It was the first time she'd felt safe in days.
“You should have told me, honey.” Charles brushed back her hair. “You must have been terrified.”
Kay nodded. She didn't trust herself to speak. It was such a relief, she felt like crying. Now she wished she'd confided in Charles in the first place.
“We'll get some protection.” Charles sat down at the table and slipped off his boots. “I'll call Captain Meyers and he'll assign the best men on the force to guard you.”
Kay drew a deep breath. She had to be firm now. She knew she was right.
“It'll leak out, Charles.” Kay faced him squarely. “You know it will. I refuse to let you ruin your career for me!”
“My career doesn't mean a damn without you, Kay!” Charles reached out to take her hand. “Look, honey, Lieutenant Macklin seems to be a pretty levelheaded guy. If he says your life is in danger, I'm not taking any chances.”
“No!” Kay stood firm. “There's got to be another way, Charles. Isn't there anything else we could do?”
Charles sighed deeply and rubbed his forehead. He looked tired and defeated. Kay knew what was running through his mind. They had talked about it before.
As the only son of a black judge, Charles had grown up with politics. There'd been no question about his major in college. He had a BA in political science from the University of Minnesota and a law degree from William Mitchell. His ultimate goal was Washington and a position of power in the federal government. What would Charles do if his political career collapsed?
Kay knew there would be plenty of job offers from industry, but Charles would be miserable in a corporate atmosphere. He could teach, but the academic life would be stifling for him. Charles was born to be a politician.
Charles sighed and squeezed Kay's hand. He still looked worried, but the defeat was gone from his eyes.
“Well . . . I suppose we could just leave town until they catch him. Everyone expects us to be here over the holidays, and we could sneak away before they got wise. It's only a ten-hour drive to your mother's. What do you think?”
“Perfect!” Kay smiled gratefully. They'd load up the kids and go to her mother's for Christmas.
There was a whimper from the corner of the kitchen. Ralph was trying to get her attention by pushing his food bowl across the floor. It was empty.
“I think he's trying to tell you something, Kay.”
“All right, Ralph. I get the message.” Kay took out a sack of kibble and gave him a generous scoop. His water bowl was empty, too. Ralph preferred spring water and Kay filled the bottle with Glenwood. Ralph went through one five-gallon bottle every two weeks. He really had a cushy life.
“Let's take Ralph along.” Charles managed a smile. “He could chase your mother's cats.”
Kay grinned. A cat would probably scare Ralph to death, but it might do him some good to see how the other half lived. There was no Glenwood dispenser or sack of kibble under the sink at the farm. Her mother's cats ran wild, existing on whatever they could catch.
The kids would grumble a bit about leaving the city. James had tickets for the big hockey game next week and Trish was looking forward to a New Year's Eve dance at the Capp Towers, but the prospect of doing some cross-country skiing would appease them. Going to her mother's was the perfect solution, and best of all, no one would think to look for them there.
“I love you, Charles.” Kay kissed the top of his head where his hair was beginning to thin. She felt much better now and her energy had returned. She'd wrap the gifts tonight and pack them in the trunk of the car. And somehow she'd find the time to bake Charles's favorite pecan cookies to eat on the trip.
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“I'm insensitive?” Nora picked up the cut-glass decanter and poured iced tea into a whiskey glass. She made sure the liquid spilled out in a visible splash. Then she crossed to the wing chair, stopped halfway, and took a drink before she sat down.
“Listen to me, Robert! I was sensitive long before . . .”
Nora stopped and blinked. She trembled in the glare from the baby spot.
What was the rest of the speech? Her mind was blank.
“Long before you could spell . . .” Elena's voice prompted gently.
“I was sensitive long before you could spell the damn word! Your father came to me one day in . . .”
Nora faltered again. The spot was so bright it blinded her. She couldn't see Elena in the middle of the house and the wings were filled with deep moving shadows. Someone could be hiding there, waiting for her exit.
The familiar theater seemed suddenly threatening. Nora was alone and vulnerable, caught in the spotlight. She felt like a deer, targeted in a hunter's scope. The killer could see her, but she couldn't see him. He could be watching her now and she'd never know it.
Elena was there to protect her, but she couldn't be everywhere at once. Elena wouldn't see the killer if he waited backstage. He could be crouching behind the piles of flats or lurking in back of the second-act scenery. There were too many shadows, too many places to hide, too many ways to kill her.
“I can't!” Nora's cry was panic-stricken.
“It's all right, Nora.” Elena ran for the stage. “Hold on! I'm coming!”
There was no point in continuing. Elena could see that Nora was too frightened to rehearse. Nora clung to her like a frightened child as she led her from the theater. The only thing that seemed to ease her panic was the physical contact of her fingers on Elena's arm.
“Please tell me I'm paranoid, Elena!”
“No. I think you're right.” Elena started the car and drove from the lot. “Just let me figure out what to do.”
It was only a few blocks from the Guthrie to their loft apartment. They covered the distance in silence. Shivering, Nora stared out the window at the snowbanks that lined the street. The trees were stark and bare. The ground was covered with icy snow. How would they dig Father Marx's grave if the ground was frozen? She really didn't want to know.
“We've got to get you out of town.” Elena pulled into the alley behind their studio and parked. “Forget the play, Nora. April can take your part. That's what understudies are for. Nothing's as important as your life.”
Nora nodded. Elena was right. There was no way she could go on tonight. Even if she remembered her lines, her performance would be ruined by fear.
“It's been twenty-five years and I've never missed an opening before.” Nora sighed deeply as she followed Elena up the stairs. She held her breath until they were inside the loft with the doors double locked behind them. Then she sank down on the couch and gave a pale imitation of her famous laugh.
“Maybe the killer'll get April instead of me. She always says she's dying to take my part.”