To be honest, the group never really went anywhere. Claire seemed to be... observing them more than training. The group only met seven times before she was
..." Shaking her head. Stroking the bun. "Sometimes it just hits me. What actually happened to her."
"Do you have any background information on the men? What they did to get here?"
"Let's see... there's Ezzard Jackson-skinny black guy. He killed his wife. Tied her up in their house and burned it down. Same with Holtzmann-the old man you'd never think could do anything criminal. He cut his wife up, stored the pieces in the freezer, marked them the way a butcher would- flank, loin. Randall shot his parents-he was into some Nazi stuff, had some delusion they were part of a Zionist plot.... Who else... The other black guy. Pretty. That's his name- Monroe Pretty.
Killed his kids, four of them, little ones. Drowned them in the bathtub, one by one.
Sam Paz-the Mexican guy-went bonkers at his brother's wedding. Shot his brother and his mother and a bunch of bystanders. All told, I think six people died. The giant,
Chet Bodine, was living like a hermit. Killed some hikers."
So many madmen, so little time...
I said, "All except Chet victimized family members."
"Actually, Chet wasn't picked for the group," she said. "He found out about it, asked Claire if he could join. He was so verbal, she thought it might stimulate the others, so she agreed. Yeah, you're right. I never thought about it, but she must've been interested in family killers."
Milo said, "Any idea why?"
She pulled a bobby pin from the bun, slipped it back in. "To be honest, it probably doesn't mean that much. Lots of the guys in here have murdered family members. Isn't that what crazy people usually do when they freak? Like Peake, he started with his mother, right? At least, that's what Claire told me."
"What else did she tell you about Peake's crimes?"
She touched the tip of her nose. "Just what he did. His mom and an entire family.
What does any of that have to do with Claire being killed?"
"Maybe nothing," said Milo. "So are you gonna keep working with Peake?"
"I guess. If you want me to. Not that I'm accomplishing much."
"Don't get yourself in trouble, Heidi. I appreciate whatever you do."
"Sure," she said, gnawing her lip.
"Is there a problem?"
"Like I told you before, I was figuring it was time to move on. Was kind of waiting until you got to the bottom of Claire's murder."
"Wish I could tell you it would be soon, Heidi," he said. "Meanwhile, as long as Dr.
Delaware's here, he might as well give Peake a try."
"Oh, sure," she said. "Whatever."
The door closed after me with a pneumatic hiss.
I stood halfway between the door and the bed, watching Peake. If he was aware of my presence, he didn't show it.
I watched. He did tongue calisthenics. Rocked, rolled, fluttered his eyes.
Standing there immobile, suspended in gray light, I began to feel formless, weightless. My nose habituated to the stink. Keeping my eyes on Peake's hands, I edged closer. A few more minutes of observation and I thought I'd detected a cadence to his movements.
Tongue-thrust, curl and hover, lingual retreat, neck roll clockwise, then counterclockwise.
Approximately ten-second sequences, six repetitions per minute, played out against the constant rocking of his torso.
I took in other details.
His bed wasn't made. Looked as if it was never made. The hands rested on rumpled, sweat-stained covers. The fingers of the left hand were hooked in the sheeting, half-hidden.
Hands that had wreaked so much ruin... I moved to within inches of the bed, standing over him for a while.
No change in the routine. I kneeled. Bringing myself down to Peake's eye level. His eyes were glued shut. Strain-marks at the corners said he was pressing the lids together tightly. A few moments ago, with Heidi, they'd been half-open. Responding to that bit of stimulation? Withdrawing further, once returned to isolation?
I heard, a tapping from below. Looked down. His feet. Bare-the paper slippers had come off without my noticing.
Two thin white feet. Oversized feet. Unnaturally long toes. Drumming the floor, faster than the upper-body movements, out of rhythm with the tardive dance.
So much motion, but no flavor of intent-the inanimate dangle of a puppet.
All through it, his eyes remained sealed. This close I could see dry, greenish crust flecking the lashes.
"Ardis,"Isaid.
The beat went on.
I tried again. Nothing.
A few minutes later: "Ardis, this is Dr. Delaware. I want to talk to you about Dr.
Argent."
Nothing.
"Claire Argent."
No response. I repeated myself. Peake's eyelids remained shut, but started to tic-lids contracting and releasing, lateral movement visible under the skin. A few green specks dropped onto his lap.
Reaction? Or random movement?
I sidled closer. Had he wanted to kiss me or claw out my eyes, he could've.
"Ardis, I'm here about Dr. Argent."
Another eyelid tic-a jerky wave traveling beneath the papery skin.
Definite response. On some level, he was able to focus.
I said, "You were important to Dr. Argent."
Tic tic tic.
"She was important to you, Ardis. Tell me why."
His eyelids quivered like a frog in a galvanic experiment. I counted the time in tardive sequences: One T.D., two T.D.'s...tenT.D.'s.
Twelve. Two minutes. He stopped.
Subjectively, it seemed longer than a hundred and twenty seconds. I was far from bored, but time was dragging. I started wondering how many minutes Peake's rampage had consumed. Had the Ardullos been fully awake or asleep? Or somewhere in between-a murky semiconsciousness as they died, thinking it was all a bad dream?
I mentioned Claire's name again. Peake's eyes ticced. But nothing more.
I thought back to his arrest photo, the look of terror in his eyes. It reminded me of something-a vicious dog from my boyhood. It had drawn lots of blood but, when finally cornered by the dogcatcher, had curled up and whimpered like a starving pup.
...
How much violence was fear catapulted back at the world? Was all viciousness cowardice at the root?
No, I didn't think so, was still convinced Claire's murderer had acted from a position of power and dominance.
Fun.
Had Peake enjoyed his blood walk? Looking at him now, I found it hard to imagine him extracting enjoyment out of anything.
As I watched at him now, the notion of this husk decapitating his own mother, stalking up the stairs, bloody knife in hand, running from room to room inflicting agony and death, seemed impossibly remote....
As unlikely as kindly Mr. Holtzmann sectioning and freezing his wife.
In this place, logic meant nothing.
I said, "Bad eyes in a box."
No flutter beneath the lids.
"Choo choo bang bang."
Nothing.
I tried it again. Same lack of response.
Back to basics. Claire's name.
"Dr. Argent," I said.
Nothing. Had I turned him off?
"Dr. Argent cared about you, Ardis."
Five T.D.'s, six... the eyes ticced.
"Why did Dr. Argent die, Ardis?"
Eleven, twelve... tic, tic, tic.
"What about Wark?" Fourteen... "Griffith D. Wark."
Sixteen, seventeen. Nothing.
"Blood Walk."
Static eyelids.
Maybe the tics meant nothing, and I'd fooled myself into allowing a random neurological spark to take on meaning.
Delusions were everywhere....
Knowing this might be my last shot with Peake, I decided to keep going. Keep it simple.
Moving close enough to whisper in his ear. "Dr. Argent. Claire Argent."
The eyelids jumped spasmodically and I retreated with a pounding heart.
He froze. No more T.D. for several seconds.
The eyes opened, revealing a sliver of gray white.
Looking at me. Seeing me? I wasn't sure.
They closed.
"Dr. Argent cared," I said.
No eye movement-but the cords of his neck tightened; he craned toward me. Again, I drew back involuntarily.
Unable to see me but turning toward me, and I couldn't help feeling he was... engaging me. His mouth gaped wider. No tongue visible, and now he was making a gagging sound, as if choking on it. Suddenly, his head thrust forward, a snake darting, the eyelids fluttering once again, wildly.
I stared in fascinated horror as he tilted his head upward, neck stretched so tight it seemed to elongate impossibly. What little mandible he had pointed up at the ceiling.
I took another step backward. His arms began climbing. Slowly. Painfully.
His eyes opened. Remained open. Wide, very wide. Fixed on the ceiling.
As if heaven resided in the plaster... as if he were praying to something.
He gurgled, gagged some more. How far had he retracted the slug of muscle into his gullet?
His arms rose higher. Supplication...
He coughed, made no sound. The neck rolls resumed, more frantic than ever, epileptically rapid. More gagging. His sunken chest heaved. I thought of Denton
Argent, dead in his cell, brain burned out from seizing, and wondered if I should do something.
But Peake seemed to be breathing fine. Not a seizure. New pattern of movement.
He began rocking faster. His scrawny buttocks lifted from the mattress as he thrust his chest upward.
Offering himself.
His right hand sank to his mouth. Four fingers jammed inside.
He withdrew them and the tongue appeared-yanked free-flapped like a fish on deck, curled, hovered....
Return of the initial T.D. sequence: thrust, curl, hover, retract. But his rear remained inches above the bed, feet barely touching the ground. Unnatural-it had to strain-did he even feel pain?
Then, suddenly, it was over, and his head had lowered to its usual slump, his arms were back in the bedcovers, and the beat went on....
OneT.D.,twoT.D.'s...
I sat there with him for five more minutes, whispering, coaxing, to no effect.
Now Claire's name left him silent as paint. Maybe a new approach would startle him into another outburst.
"The Beatty brothers," I said. "Ellroy. Leroy."
Zero.
"Choo choo bang bang."
Nothing.
"One with a gun, one run over by a train."
Deaf, blind, mute.
Still, Claire's name had stimulated him. I needed more time with him, knew I wouldn't get much.
Keep going.
OneT.D.,two...
I whispered: "The Ardullos."
No change.
"The Ardullos-Scott Ardullo, Terri-"Yes, yes, yes there it was: the eyelid tic, faster than before, much faster, a churning of the lids as if the eyeballs were rotating at jet speed.
"Terri and Scott Ardullo," I said.
The eyes opened. Alive now.
Fixed on mine.
Awake.
Clear intent. To do what?
He stared at me. Didn't move at all.
Paying close attention? To me.
Success, but I felt as if a scorpion were cakewalking along my spine.
I checked his hands. Those hands. Both knotted in the sheets.
Keep a look out for sudden movement.
"Scott and Terri Ardullo," I said.
The stare.
"Scott and Terri. Brittany and Justin."
The stare.
"Brittany and Justin."
He blinked. Once, twice, six times, twenty, forty-eyelid convulsions, which wouldn't-or couldn't-cease.
Metronomic, hypnotic. I felt myself being drawn in. Avoid that, watch his hands....